Gleb stared at him. He was like a man possessed by something. His very stance was exhausted, but his face was a textbook example of calm, mellow determination. The looseness he held himself with was a style Gleb had never seen, had never fought. He didn't know whether it would be better or worse than most fared against his knife.

But he knew that the man wouldn't live to tell about it.

Gleb forced the panic from his heart. Panic killed men against the wild cats of Indalla. He'd seen it happen. Only the calm, cold, decisive swipes of a knife successfully killed anything. Panic only occasionally got lucky.

And his opponenet was tired, but definitely not panicked.

He lunged forwards, knife blade shining in the sun. The man's sword was there, suddenly, blocking his advance with a backwards grip that swung up with a strength Gleb could not have guessed. And the man's face was still unchanging, his mouth a neutral line, neither angered nor pleased nor ill.

Gleb was forced back to prowl and circle again. The man's guard fell to pieces immediately, but he wasn't certain if this was a feint again.

"Who are you?" he snarled.

"I should ask the same of you," the man answered evenly, openly.

"I'd say you're a dead man." He lunged forwards again, towards the man's back, but he side-stepped with a languid grace that Gleb could not, did not foresee. He was not to be put off, however, and he drove into the fray, too close for the man to use his sword.

Instead, in such close quarters, the man's body jerked sharply from one side to the other in ways that made Gleb certain that his spine was not attached to the rest of him. Even when he was nearing the edge of the roof he redirected in a way that would not end his life.

But still he did not raise his sword except to parry blows, each with a blow stronger than the last. Until finally Gleb was wearing himself out on his attacks.

It was then that the man's sword lifted in aggression. And then it was Gleb's turn to outrun this manic, serpentine style of assault. The man was everywhere at once, spinning and driving and lunging in ways that did not seem conducive to the art of swordplay, yet here they were, threatening his life.

He fought similarly to the warriors of Indalla in that his form was wild, unpredictable, but much more artistic and flourished, at the same time. The economy of movements had been robbed completely, but everything seemed a continuous thought from the previous blow. The stance was frankly startling, frightening, and aimed directly at him, so he did not have much time to assess it before he found himself slipping on the roof and lying flat on his back, a sword pointed at his throat.

But the man hesitated.

"Go on, then. Y've been besterin' me. Slit me gizzard and be all done yer work, ye lout."

The man smiled, though, for the first time since he'd started trailing after him. "My Lady, deaf and dark and silent, wishes audience with you. I did not appreciate it very much when you and Templeton went separate ways and I had to find you both. Good of her, though, to return you to me, so I could more properly fulfill my duties."

Gleb stared up at him. "Templeton ... The storyteller?" he demanded.

The man inclined his head amicably and sheathed his sword. "Now comes only the trouble of getting down. I'm not much the climber, you see. I don't appreciate her sending me up here very much, but her will is my will," he said with an exasperated tone. "Though if she really listened to everything I say, I'm sure she'd just fling me off the roof as a ways to get down."

Gleb stared at him for a long time. "Look, I've gladness in me heart for the life y've been chooserin' t' spare, but who by the devils of the deep blue sea are ye?!"

The man smiled with such disarming charm at Gleb that he immediately sensed a fellow con. That didn't stop him from feeling the charm, though, and he felt an immediate liking for the man and his crazed rambles. "Call me Gershwin," he said, offering a hand up.

Gleb took it and hauled himself up. "Gleb," he answered. "Where be the good man Tem Raithcliff o' Midgradia?"

"Clearly not here on the roof," Gershwin answered brightly. "How do we get down?"

Gleb surveyed their options. "Well, that be one question I cannae be answerin' too right."

"Well, then there's only one thing for it," Gershwin said brightly. "We'll have to go down the way we came up." And he dropped to dangle from the roof before grabbing hold of the wooden trellis.

"Be ye mad?" Gleb demanded. "Ye jus' got done with explainin' how y' t'ain't no good a' climbin'!"

Gerswhin grinned up at him. "Have a little faith, Gleb. She'll care for me, or she'll let me fall, and whichever is will have been fated to be."

And he started climbing down.

Gleb had no choice but to follow.

Marley was peeling potatoes in her kitchen, letting her girls run the surgery while she worked on dinner. She heard the door open, shut, and words exchanged. Sarabi came bustling in and took the potato knife from her and elbowed her away from the sink.

"He's here," she said with a furious look.

Marley raised her eyebrows at the girl but shrugged and washed her hands before drying them on her apron, which she tossed on a hook by the door.

Bother it all. What could he possibly want now?

"General!" she exclaimed brightly as she came to greet him. She let him kiss her on the cheek, and she fluttered her eyelashes fawningly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Faline thought it was going to be like pulling teeth to get Camphor to open up about anything. But in reality, he was quite willing to talk. All she had to do all this time was ask questions. Who knew?

The way he went on, he must not have had anyone to talk to for quite some time, and while Quetz was perpetually annoyed and off hunting for something, Faline was more than willing to spread her attention between the two of them. They both needed her, after all, as a friend and a companion.

But tonight, Camphor was quiet, staring up at the stars in the pitch-black sky, arms folded behind his head as he lay in the soft field grass that would be their bed. They had cleared enough of the grasses to have a fire, but it was really too wet to worry about the grasses catching flame.

And if they even started to, Faline knew that Quetz would be more than willing to point out the painfully obvious - that there was no way in hell he was going to let such an opportunity slip away without completely living up the idea of an inferno.

She lay on her bedroll, poking a stick into the dirt, feeling Quetz's claws on the earth as he paced across the fields. This far away from everything, she knew he was safe. But a couple more days, and she wagered they'd be in view of civilization again. And she didn't want a repeat of last time they came within stone's throw of civilization.

"Why'd you become a Casketmaker, Camphor?" she asked quietly.

"I've told you this three times," he said, a warm laugh in his voice.

"Tell me again."

He shrugged. "Alright."