What follows is my submission for this year`s Iron Writer Competition.   My only goal here was to submit something a hair or so more complete than what I offered last time.   I hope I`ve achieved that.

Best,
Nick

1.   [Ebliu] Roots of the Impoverished

       The scene stretched out before Ebliu D`amares like it had previous seven nights: empty seats, faked interest followed by a modicum of applause, and a stale lethargy that hung around them like a cloak.   Not even Gelgeis, bare-chested, amber-maned, bobbing back and forth to Danzig`s heavy thudding beat, could fully escape the scent of failure.
       It was all Ebliu could do to finish the show.
       But finish she did, fighting back the urge to call off the last song, Alsandair`s fast-paced Windrunner, pumping from the deepest recesses of her will what energy she could into the last chorus:
       Beside the wind we run...
       Three hours earlier, Ebliu had felt good about this show.   It was their last in Esper, and if the fates had any justice to them it also should have been the most successful.   The headlining Esperian quartet Ravantage had been slowly gaining popularity around Albrook... all signs seemed to point towards a larger crowd than they had before.
       All signs... Ebliu managed to keep the bitterness away as she belted the last line of the chorus: Racing past the setting sun.
       It was her own line.   Alsandair would be pissed; fuck Alsandair.   He liked his line; insisted on it, in fact, but when you got right down to the meat of the thing it was through Ebliu`s red-painted lips that the words had to pass.   That was all there was to it.  
       Instead of coming to a smashing pinpoint halt, the song drifted away with a few lost notes from the Twins and Gelgeis`s guitar.   Ebliu muffled a sigh.   A fitting ending to this, a sad chapter for the band.   For her.
       "Thank you," she murmured into the mic, and took a small bow to acknowledge the ten sets of hands issuing polite applause.   She had come to expect the polite applause as part of the awkward give and take between the band and a miniscule audience of strangers.   It never ceased to feel strange.   Like she was taking something from them that she didn`t truly deserve.
       "Smoke," Gelgeis commanded of Danzig as the drummer toweled his head and left his perch behind the others.   He handed Gelgeis his pack without comment.   Standing next to Gelgeis, the drummer looked as if he had some dwarf blood in him, even though Ebliu knew this to be false.   He was greasy with sweat and smoke and effort in black shorts and a tank top.
       "You sure do smell like a dwarf, though," she said aloud to Danzig, flashing the two a toothy grin.
       "The sweet musk of love, honey," Danzig beamed.
       "Guys-"
       Ebliu grimaced.   Fuck.   It was Wilkes.
       "-we need to get off the stage.   The Ravs have a lot of gear to load."   Ephram Wilkes thin and bent man--Ebliu had always reckoned him resembling a ferret.   A ferret with a tendency for buzzkill.   "Quickly," Wilkes said, rushing to stow away Gelgeis`s axe.
       Elbiu grimaced.   There was no buzz to kill... and there hadn`t been since they had started this tour.
       She tugged at her top--a thin sheen of nicely hugging black with long sleeves (she abhorred the sleeveless look that was making popular strides around feminine fashion)--and began wrapping up her mic.   Behind her, she felt--rather than saw--Alsandair scowl.
       "You messed up the line."
       The black cord orbited the mic shaft about a dozen times.   "Yeah."
       Again, she felt his displeasure.   It made her shiver.   Several loud clicks sounded behind her--he was opening the Twins` cases.   His precious babies.   "Look, no one was into it."   The audience nor the band, and from his grimace Ebliu knew that Alsandair knew it.   "Just let it go."
       "Are you always going to make things up as you go along?"
       "Al."
       He paused and looked up.   His bare forehead shone with sweat, drenched wisps of black hair framing his boyish face.   These digs, like all the others, had not the class of air conditioning.
       "So what if I do?"
       "Faster," Wilkes quailed at all of them, fiddling with Danzig`s rig.
       Alsandair flinched "Ebby-"
       "Don`t call me that."
       He nodded.   "It throws me off, is all.   We need to be tighter.   Timing is a problem."   Here he gave an implied nod in Danzig`s direction.   "I`m following along, expecting you to hit certain notes at certain times, like we practiced--like I wrote the damn thing!   And when you don`t... I feel like we`ve lost faith in each other.   Lost trust, or something close to it.   We need to be able to trust each other."
       Ebliu stole a quick glance over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone else was close enough to hear this bullshit.   Only Stahl was, sitting mutely at the edge of the stage in front of her, shiny black bass guitar strapped to his back.   "It`s about energy Al," she said, putting the mic away and looking him the eye.   Ebliu didn`t enjoy doing it, but she knew he would back down.   He always did.   "We don`t have it.   We need it.   And it`s transparent--we`re as see-through as a Tasnican sale-pitch when we`re just up here screwing around.   Spontaneity.   Energy.   That`s what it`s about."   She was speaking from her genuine concerns--their stage lacked energy, and every honest viewer could see it.   Alsandair was rooted to his square between the Twins, Danzig strapped into the percussionist`s prison.   Stahl never bothered to lift a foot to move.   Only herself and Gelgeis expended any effort to try and connect.
       His chuckle sounded more than a bit forced.   "Right.   How`s this for spontaneity: let`s catch some food afterwards, just you and I.   There`s a diner I saw on the way in that may still be open."
       "Not tonight," Ebliu said, turning her back to him.   She had ceased putting effort into the act of letting Alsandair down gently.   "I`m spent.   Maybe some other time."
       "Just let me know when, Eb."
       He sounded so confidant.   Ebliu wanted to vomit.
       She helped Danzig pack the rest of his rig and found Ephram Wilkes smoking the Gelgeis on the steps outdoors.   Stahl was gone; nowhere to be found.  
       Ebliu mutely accepted an offered cigarette from Gelgeis and inhaled deeply.   It was cinnamon flavored--like nothing she could have gotten at home.   The smoke billowed from her painted mouth.   Her mind, brimming still with jumbled lyrics and Alsandair`s time changes, relaxed in an instant.   Small pleasures.
       "Al may to want to stay and look for more gigs," she said to Wilkes.   It was not a warning.
       He nodded wordlessly.
       "Tell him you couldn`t book us another flight home."   She took another drag.   "We`ve got to get out of this place."
       "I kind of like it here," Gelgeis said, his arm encompassing the whole of the deserted streets.   "Busy.   Charming."
       She treated him with a smile.   "I need home.   Gate.   This-" she waved her arm over her head- "is not home."
       Wilkes snuffed out his light and tugged his jacket closer about his shoulders.   Inside, the first moaning notes of Ravantage were met with a few cheers.   Ebliu peeked inside the window and was pleased to see that the crowd for the main event had only grown by a few head.
       "My ship leaves in two," Wilkes said.   His arms were moving, jerky and agitated.
       "Find us some better digs," Ebliu ordered.
       "Take it easy," Gelgeis commanded, pumping a bare fist at his friend.
       Wilkes left, his stride jerky.
       "How`s Al?" Gelgeis asked after Wilkes was out of sight.
       Ebliu almost spat, but stopped herself.   It was not within her parameters of `woman` to behave in such a way.   "Moody."   Almost like a woman, she thought, even as she realized the thought itself was unladylike.   "Like a kid," she said instead.
       "He`ll adjust."
       Just that.   Calm.   Two words.   Ebliu ignored the gritty half-melody from the inside.
       This moment, she realized, half in shock and half in sadness, was her best since coming to Esper.   The walls and closed doors shut out the music, the people, the awkward applause, Alsandair`s grimaces, Danzig`s shaky beats... the sound of her own voice.  
       She sighed.   This was the best moment.
       Gelgeis sat three feet away, silent and smoking, and Ebliu could only guess--hope?--that he was thinking the same.

2.   [Wilkes] The Road Stretches Before Him

       No rest for Ephram.
       "Sir?"
       Wilkes sighed.   "Are there sleeping quarters on this vessel?"
       The attendant stared for a moment, then realized that the wiry man before him was serious.   "Ah, no sir.   I can fetch you a pillow, if you wish?"
       "Nevermind."
       The show had been a disaster.   No worse than any of the others, but still lacking in a thousand tiny was that only Ephram Wilkes, from his vantage point behind the ancient soundboard, could see.   Gelgeis was on, of course--like always.   Rock solid.   Almost show-stealing, if Ebliu weren`t so damned alluring in her black sleeves.   Stahl was decent, too... Danzig rough around the edges... and Alsandair... Al was Al.  
       Wilkes got angry just thinking about Alsandair.   The classical genius!   If there was a more colossal waste of talent in any of the Web, Wilkes hadn`t seen it.   But it irked him--using Alsandair`s notoriety as a crutch.
       "What`s the name?" the bartender, the owner, the event scheduler would invariably ask after Wilkes gave his initial pitch.
       "Fate`s Apostate.   Abbreviated FA sometimes, especially in Gate.   You ever heard of F - A?"   It was plainly obvious that he hadn`t.   "They`re Guardian you know; very big in Guardia, and all over Gate--even Medina."   Realizing that he had been rambling, Wilkes stopped and waited while he was eyed over, most times, suspiciously.
       "What`re you, their manager?"
       "Agent and manager," Wilkes said.   And bloody low-paid sound tech and mistreated saleman, but he didn`t bother to mention that.   Sometimes he wished the band gave him a better product to hawk to each and every dig across the Web.  
       But Ephram Wilkes was no fairweather friend.   Wilkes would never say exactly how much he had invested in the band--time or money--but it was a significant amount.   Gelgeis deserved no less.
       And then, the inevitable let down: "We`re not really looking for another act.   Give me your name and I`ll let you know when--"
       Which lead, equally inevitably, to Wilkes` surefire pitch.   "You`ve heard of Alsandair Montressori?"   It was at about this time when Wilkes` arms would start to twitch involuntarily, and, no matter the temperature, his head of curly black hair would start, ever so gradually, to itch.   The itch migrated to the front, resting eventually just above his eyebrows, where sweat began to bead.   Wilkes knew himself to be a poor poker player, and perhaps a poorer salesman--part of the reason he hated using Alsandair`s name.
       "The Classicist?"
       "The musical redeemer of Guardia`s Royal Orchestra," Wilkes said, pumping what he hoped was pomp and flourish into his voice.   "He`s taking a break from the GRO, on the road with his band for a Webwide tour for only the next three weeks."
       "Well..." the manager--the bartender, the owner, the sucker--was teetering at this point.   He couldn`t turn down a possible draw.   New customers, local media blitzing for a Webwide name.   It was a win-win.   "Can we bill the act as Montressori and friends?"
       "Of course, of course," Wilkes said, cringing inwardly as he considered what Ebliu would think of such a bill.   "I`ll make up the flyers myself.   Fate`s Apostate featuring Alsandair Montressori."
       The deal was struck.
       The scene was replayed, with minor but inconsequential variations, nearly fifty times all over Esper.
       The first show had the largest crowd--decent folk of the middle-aged persuasion doddering into what was normally a nest of rebellious youth.   It was an odd contrast.   And when the middle-agers heard what Alsandair was writing now... when they heard Windrunner instead of Segueway to F#, Homeland Apostate instead of The Red Scar, they waited mutely for the end of the song, then stood briskly and donned their jackets before leaving.   Whatever fans Alsandair Montressori may have had on Esper left the shows grumbling, and they spread the word.   His faithful left, leaving him and his confused and beleaguered band with an audience that even a jazz quartet would scoff at.
       Worse than the shows themselves was Alsandair`s classical reaction:
       "I wasn`t loud enough."
       Wilkes checked the soundboard.   "You was plenty loud, Al."
       A shake of the head.   "No.   I could barely hear myself; you have Gelgeis blasting everyone out.   Even my mic was down.   Let me check that board."
       Alsandair`s accusation may have been true.   Wilkes favored Gelgeis`s soulful tones and the guitar strings to Alsandair`s pompous keyboard bombast--a preference that was oft reflected in how he mixed each song.   As long as Ebliu could be heard over all the cruddy music, Wilkes figured, it didn`t much matter.
       Wilkes snapped his thoughts back to present as the transport roared to life, and cabin walls shook violently and clanged against makeshift soldered patches in the hull.   Ephram Wilkes decided not to busy his mind considering if the vessel was fit for space travel, and instead leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
       In Gate, things would be better.   Back home... it would be different.   Different people, better crowds.   Guardian soil would give them back the energy they had lost on Esper.   At least, Ephram Wilkes hoped, it would give him the hope he had felt that day on the mountain with Gelgeis.
       If the fates were kind, at least that.
       And he had no reason to expect that they would be.

3.   [Alsandair] The Red Forelock

       Fate`s Apostate was born with a fiery lock of hair.
       For Alsandair Montressori, the band had been conceived long before, in every smoldering glare from the Lord Monstressori, but it wasn`t until he first saw Ebliu`s dyed crimson strands of hair that the band`s name took on full meaning for him.
       Three hours before that first show in Trann with Ebliu, Alsandair knew she was what the band needed.   He knew before, of course--they had interviewed her weeks before, and each of them was instantly smitten.   Even the normally taciturn Stahl smiled openly at the girl`s smoldering demeanor and her deeply luscious voice.  
       Back then--those scant few weeks--they did everything together.   Ebliu spent the afternoon in the Trann Mall beauty parlor, and when she came out, Alsandair bit back a gasp.   Her hair, radiant before, had been neatly trimmed, and arranged to frame her ovoid face with curled brown locks.   Falling over her forehead--added with a touch of whimsy, Alsandair suspected--was the fiery red lock.   He couldn`t immediately explain why the crimson strands of hair were so captivating.
       He knew, then more than ever, that he needed impressive words to show her what he was about, to electrify her.   Strangely, this time, he failed. and failed miserably: "You... look... good."
       "You`re not bad yourself, piano man."   She grinned.
       He was forced to admit that was true.   He was wearing his afternoon outing finest--neatly pressed black trousers, silk-blend button shirt, two-day stubble that so many females seemed to find incredibly attractive on a well-dressed man.  
       But as good as he did look, Ebliu had something more--something more than simply a dyed forelock.   It wasn`t that the lock stood out among the brown waves of hair.   It "stood in," rather, giving off a subtle warmth and brilliance to her neatly arranged brown curls.   It was as if a mediocre art gallery had been graced with a masterpiece, and by virtue of the location alone the masterpiece brought new meaning, new layers of interpretation, and new mystery to the other works.
       Pleased with the thought, Alsandair told her as much.
       "That`s some nonsense, Al."   She chuckled and playfully nudged him.   "Why don`t you write a song about it?"
       He laughed at that.   "I just may.   But you`ll have to let me sing it.   It would be more than a bit odd for you to be singing the allure of your own hair."
       "It could be an ode to narcissism.   Tongue in cheek, y`know."
       Alsandair shook his head.   "We already have a song about narcissism.   Climb on."   He winked at her.   "Gelgeis wrote it; it`s incredibly narcissistic, he just doesn`t realize it yet."
       The mall was crowded.   Trann was starting to experience a small backlash of disgruntled immigrants from Medina.   Creatures without homes.   Alsandair noticed them only long enough to avoid them.   Above the girded-glass ceiling, the sun shone without a hint of remorse.
       Alsandair took Ebliu`s arm in his, and felt more than a twinge of pleasure when she did not remove it.
       "You shouldn`t speak of your friends like that."
       Gelgeis isn`t really a friend, Alsandair thought, and almost said.   But he recognized a rebuke when he heard one, even one so gentle and coming from the beauty attached to his arm.   "It`s a fine song, in it`s own way," Alsandair hedged, trying to sound defensive.   "Gelgeis just doesn`t know how to turn a phrase..." he waited a beat before adding, "musically or lyrically."
       Ebliu did not respond, but her arm was no longer in his.   Alsandair realized how wonderful he had felt with her so close, with everyone they passed seeing the red forelock, and seeing the him attached to this woman.   Like her brown hair, Alsandair felt himself gently reflecting the soft radiance of the forelock with Ebliu so close,   He felt... improved, somehow.
       That was when he knew the band was going to be a success--it had to be.   With Ebliu in the front, the fiery forelock dancing over her brow, her voice pealing, with his hands resting over the Twins--how could it be anything but wild success?
       There, in the mall, the name came to him--something his countrymen could relate to; a throwback of Guardian lore, inspired by Elbiu stark red lock and the invincibility that was welling in Alsandair`s breast.   Fate`s Apostate.   The stage was set, the songs were ready; Alsandair was prepared to receive a new brand of accolades.   With Ebliu nearby, everything seemed possible.
       But Esper had proven him wrong on that score.
       Small, polite but apathetic crowds.   Poor timing.   Ebliu sulky, moody, angry, demanding.   It was almost enough to drive Alsandair back to the GRO.   But he stuck it out, used his dwindling supply of money to bail out the band when the ancient Atreus-built land transport broke down.        
       And the dye faded; the forelock lost its flame.
       Throughout the days in Esper, Alsandair kept the memory of that day in the mall shining in his memory, as an standard of how things should always be.   And he swore to himself, on the shiny metal skin of the Twins, that he would have those things again--that he had, really, never even lost them.
       Fate`s Apostate was alive, if floundering, and Alsandair Montressori would be damned if he allowed it to die.

4.   [Wilkes] The Mouth-harp

       What would become Fate`s Apostate began with the mouth-harp.
       Gelgeis was a moody and rebellious fourteen--best friend Wilkes half a year younger.   Strangely, though, neither boy was dominant--neither was the alpha, as zoologists in the Truce Zoo had a habit of classifying their male winged apes.  
       Gelgeis, being the larger, and fairer of hair and face, was often mistaken as the leader of the duo, but this was a misconception.   Ephram Wilkes, small, dark-haired, and shy, was the perfect picture of a toady, but when Gelgeis was around each boy deferred not to each other, but to some mutual unseen spirit of sloth (or perhaps better termed "youthful restfulness").
       So it was only at the suggestion--and later insistence--of Gelgeis`s father that the two found themselves on the JetTrain from Truce to Leene Square for the Festival of the Sun.   The ride was an hour long, and even as the scenery shot past the bowed windows Wilkes found it strange that Gelgeis`s father had been so adamant that they attend the Festival--even supplied them with a day`s worth of money, which seemed an odd thing to do.
       It was the first time that young Wilkes had been this far north.   The Festival of the Sun had been founded by a small hippie-cult that detested the organized church and found solace in a passive form of nature worship that centered on the sun as the live-giving `source` of their dimension.
       The shelf life of such holidays is invariably short, except for those rare instances when they are snatched up in the jaws of corporate profit-hounds.   Within a few years the Festival of Sun became a full-fledged marketing event--bands, booths, overpriced food, entertainment.   The sun cultists didn`t mind--they operated most of the booths selling their sun-inspired wares and other `paraphernalia`.   Profits were had, and the Festival of the Sun took on the happy role of a watered down semi-annual Festival.   It gave the Guardians an excuse to have a festival more than once a millennium.
       And it was in the midst of this Festival atmosphere that Wilkes saw Gelgeis fall in love.   The look bloomed so quickly over the tall boy`s face that Wilkes would never forget it--the scrunching of the brow, the widening of the eyelids, the lips opened slightly.   The look, Wilkes would later consider, was the sign of a boy realizing there is more to the world than he ever expected--and perhaps, just maybe, realizing that the world is a much more wonderful place than he had ever expected.
       Wilkes would later be jealous of that look.
       But during that cloudy day at Leene`s Square, the item that inspired the look on Gelgeis`s plain features was a simple piece of crafted metal in the hands of a grizzled, rust-colored Priman.   A mouth-harp.
       It glittered in the Priman`s hands even without the assistance of the sun.   Wilkes suspected it an expensive piece--silver plated perhaps.   The Priman was seated on a small stage off the main Festival drag, and, despite being unaccompanied, he had managed to attract a considerable crowd.
       "Let`s stay a while and watch," Gelgeis murmured to Wilkes.
       The other boy shrugged.   The look was heavy on Gelgeis`s face, and despite his own longing, Wilkes would do nothing to interrupt that.   It wasn`t the Priman--well, maybe it was; the sight of such a lilting melody coming from the mouth of creature so gnarled and strange seemed a contrast born of myth.   The boy Wilkes decided that the entire package was what enraptured his friend: the glittery harp with it`s full, haunting notes, and gently swaying Priman seated on his barrel, the untouched mug of ale at his webbed-feet, the silent crowd.
       The Priman murmured, "Gratz" by way of acknowledging the pleased applause that greeted the end of his tune.   Wilkes approached the old fish unabashedly.   Gelgeis waited   moment and then followed.   The fish stank--Wilkes wrinkled his nose in disgust at the mixed odors of stale fish, beer, and sweat, but still asked, in a small voice,
       "What is that?"
       The Priman drained his mug with a single gulp and turned to the human boy.   He passed the mouth-harp to Ephram Wilkes and said, "A mouth-harp.   Her name is Lily."   The Priman was solemn, like introducing an old friend.   Wilkes`s arm extended before he knew what he was doing , reaching out to touch the silvery little instrument.   He stopped himself short and pulled his hand back abashedly.
       The Priman chortled and tossed Wilkes his empty mug.   The fish-man winked at him.   "Why don`t you run and find old Steelhead a refill?"
       Wilkes caught the cup deftly and narrowed his eyes.   "Will you play another song?"   He nodded in Gelgeis`s direction.   "My friend seems to enjoy them a lot."
       "A song for a mug of ale?" Steelhead rumbled in his jowls, and paused, as if considering the proposal.   "Well, seems fair to me."   Suddenly the Priman`s eyes took on a sly look.   He leaned forward.   "Can I trust you, boy?"
       "Yes."
       "Well.   A mug of ale for a song`s the best deal anyone`s ever offered me for mah music.   But don`t go telling anyone else, y`hear?"
       "I won`t," Wilkes said, turning the empty mug over in his hands.
       "Good.   Now run.   My thirst comes up a`powerful fast."
       Wilkes trotted back to Gelgeis and swept the other up in his mission for the Steelhead.
       "It`s called Lily," Wilkes told Gelgeis as they waited in line for a refill.
       "I know, I heard."
       Above them, the clouds seemed to open.   A soft rain began to fall.   All along the main drag, a collective groan went up from the masses at the Festival of the Sun.   At the counter, Wilkes shoved some money forward while the mug was being refilled.
       Behind him, he heard Gelgeis sneeze and murmur, "Storm`s coming"
       As if in response to his premonition a genuinely cold breeze charged down through the tents, blowing open flats and lifting all manner of paper products from their unguarded perches.
       "We`d better bring Steelhead his beer, quick," Gelgeis said.
       The wind howled.   The boys ran, Wilkes falling behind for fear that his sacred charge might spill in his hasty fight.
       They found the Priman where they had left him, but was wearing a heavy cloak to guard against the wind, rain and cold.   Strangely, the fish-man didn`t seem to appreciate getting wet.
       "Ah, there`s my errand runner," Steelhead, sweeping up the mug in the webbed fist.
       Wilkes noticed an ornate green case about the length of his forearm resting on the stage.   Embroidered in faint teal letters across the top was the word `Lily.`  
       "You owes us a song," Wilkes said, a bit defiantly.
       "Sure enough I do," the Priman said calculatingly.   "But it will have to wait for tomorrow.   You boys will be here tomorrow, right?"
       "No," Gelgeis said, speaking to the Priman for the first time.   "We`re taking the JetTrain south tonight."
       The rain was coming down harder now.   The Priman shook in agitation.   "I`m sorry boys.   The song will have to wait for another day.   But old Steelhead won`t forget you."
       The rust-colored fish-man was turned towards Gelgeis, hunched over to prevent rain from dripping into his beer.   The green case sat on the stage, a mere arm`s reach from where Wilkes was standing.
       What he did next, Ephram Wilkes would question for years.   The Priman had given up on his promise of a song, at least for the moment, and Gelgeis was frantically looking for shelter as the rain came down like needles and in heavy sheets.   Wilkes traced the raised lines of the word `Lily` on the green case, and in that moment his own joy at seeing Gelgeis`s joy, and his anger and disappointment towards the Priman for failing to return that joy to his friend joined together in a sudden inexplicable urge.   Wilkes stuffed the green case under his shirt and hunched over.
       "Let`s go," he said, moving past the Priman and taking Gelgeis by the hand.
       The other boy didn`t complain.   They broke out into a frantic run at the first hint of hail.   Wilkes didn`t turn, for fear that Steelhead had discovered the theft.   He felt remorse instantly, and ran faster.   But why shouldn`t he have taken the mouth-harp?   Didn`t the Priman promise them one?   Hadn`t he said it was the best deal he`d ever been offered?   Who was he to break their verbal contract?
       Gradually, Wilkes drowned his remorse.
       And the boys climbed--they didn`t even realize, at first, that they were moving upward.   But the rain kept coming, and there were no trees to take shelter under, so they kept climbing.   Wilkes had completely forgotten about the train they were supposed to catch--he climbed forward with fearfully, and Gelgeis followed.   Below them Leene Square and the Festival of the Sun spread out like a child`s playset that had been left out in the rain.   Ahead they could see the a tree line, though the distance was impossible to judge.
       "Hurry," Wilkes said.   The green case was rubbing against his bare skin under his shirt.   It wasn`t a pleasant feeling.   But Steelhead had promised.   Wilkes glanced behind at Gelgeis`s face, hoping to catch a hint of what he had seen before, even though, given present circumstances, he had no reason to expect it.
       Indeed, Gelgeis`s face was blank and unreadable.   Bitter, Wilkes picked up the pace.   When they reached shelter of the trees, the wind unleashed it`s full fury on the desolate mountaintop.   The rain was coming so fast and so heavy that Wilkes could no longer look down on Festival of the Sun: his eyes were stinging.
       "What are we doing here?" Gelgeis said, more out of frustration than anger, it seemed.
       "Looking for shelter," Wilkes said.   And hiding, he thought.
       Gelgeis pointed.   "I see something over there."
       The `something` was the remains of what looked like a cabin.   All of the walls were collapsed but one, and a small parcel of ceiling leaned down from the one remaining wall at a narrow angle, resting on the ground.
       Without hesitation, Gelgeis removed the broken boards from the sheltered spot and propped up a the portion of the sagging roof.   Wilkes and Gelgeis huddled beneath, sitting shoulder to shoulder.
       No storm Wilkes had ever seen had last this long, and all conventional wisdom told him that it should be breaking soon... but the wind picked up again with a fierce fury, denying Wilkes all of his conventional wisdom.
       "A strange day," Gelgeis murmured.
       Wilkes didn`t respond, but instead fumbled with the green case under his shirt.   Together, the boys watched the rain rage across the mountaintop for a half hour.   Wilkes began yawning--the trek up the mountainside, the flight from Steelhead, the hours of walking around the Festival booths--he realized suddenly that he was exhausted, in both body and mind.   Beside him Gelgeis was unmoving, and looked completely disinterested.   Their train, Wilkes thought suddenly, must have already departed,
       Wilkes leaned back and slowly took the green case from under his shirt.   He rested on his side, keeping the case between the lone wall and his stomach, where Gelgeis wouldn`t see it.   And he slept.
       When Wilkes woke hours later, night had fallen and the storm was gone.   He sat up.   Gelgeis was gone, as well.   The sky has grown a bleak purple, dark with occasional clearing patches that revealed a patch of stars.
       Wilkes stood.   "Gelgeis?"
       The only response was a low, steady, almost brassy note.   Wilkes suddenly remembered the green case.   He searched the corner of the cabin and found nothing.   Worst case scenarios leapt unbidden to the forefront of his mind--Steelhead had been furious about the theft of his Lily, he tracked the boys up the mountainside, he took Gelgeis...
       Wilkes felt the near drip of tears forming in his eyes.   Then he heard it again: a low, steady note.   Was it Steelhead?   What if he had Gelgeis?   The low note melted into a higher one, and gradually a small melody took up residence in the humid night air like static.   The melody came slowly, like it was being formed by the careful mind of a focused child, but surely and without any foul notes.
       Wilkes swallowed his fear and crept around the side of the cabin.
       "You shouldn`t have done this, Ephram."
       Gelgeis was sitting at the edge of what may have once been a porch.   The green case was beside him, opened.   The mouth-harp was in his hands.   Wilkes sat next to his friend.   Lily reflected the dull purple night sky in her silver plates.   She looked almost too large for Gelgeis`s hands.   Wilkes searched his face for the sign, the look, but in the darkness he couldn`t tell what his friend`s face read.
       "You`ll take this back to Steelhead tomorrow."
       Wilkes nodded, a bolt of fearing swelling in his stomach.   But he quenched it... that was tomorrow.   As for tonight... "You sounded good.   Play us a song."
       Gelgeis shook his head.   "No more songs tonight.   Go back to sleep, Ephram."
       As he strode back to where he had been sleeping, Wilkes felt as though something had shifted... Gelgeis never told him what to do, and even if he had, Wilkes doubted that he`d ever take orders from his friend.
       But now... Wilkes couldn`t think of any command from Gelgeis that he wouldn`t obey, just to see the look cross his face again.  
       The stolen mouth-harp did not sound a note further that night.   In the morning, they came down from the mountain; Wilkes glanced back over his shoulder often, back towards the desolate mountaintop that he had shared with his only friend.
       Ephram Wilkes would never get his promised song.

5.   [Alsandair] The Twins

       Before there was Ebliu, Alsandair`s first love was the Twins.   Like most (or all) loves, however, it was a love rife with flaws from the very beginning.
       The embryonic seeds of Fate`s Apostate were planted that first day when Optira and Ondiolinne first crossed the threshold of the Montressori estate in southern Bangor.   The jet-black 81-key grand became an orphan that day, and the classical sounds that emanated from it`s ivories would never again grace the marbled halls.
       The journey from the manufacturer`s showroom in Trann past the threshold into Alsandair`s ownership, however, from start to finish, took an arduous three years.
       "Play for your supper," Lord Montressori liked to say, and on all but the rarest of occasions he was deadly serious about it.   Seven hours a day during the young Alsandair`s childhood: lessons, instructors, aural training.
       From the first hint of tonal talent in his son, the Lord of the House fostered the talent not like a gardener--taking care to water and nurture--but like a metal smith, beating out the imperfections with the steady stroke of a hammer, tempering the skill into something useful.
       But, like all blades, Alsandair`s blossoming skill proved to be two edged.   A year and a half at the prestigious Truce Academy of Classical Music found the twenty-year old dropped out in favor of concert performances, a gig he had landed at the invitation of a certain professor.   His name was being circulated among the more affluent and influential of circles, and his recitals were well-received.
       The Lord Montressori was not furious, so to speak, though he was cautiously angry at his impudent sun.   Alsandair`s steady income from recitals, Lord Monstressori feared, was not sustainable.   Besides which, the Lord had already invested a incredible amount of capital in his son`s abilities--to see his investment dry up so close to fruition tried his patience especially.
       What the Lord Montressori had not counted on was his only son`s cleverness--nor did the respected and well-to-do Lord suspect the rebellion that had been gaining hold in Alsandair`s soul.
       So when the twenty year old Alsandair found a way to bend all of his considerable music talent towards the ends of upsetting his father`s plans for him, he leapt at the chance.
       The blossoming plan, however, required a second means of income.   By this point the Lord of the Manor had swept his protective--and financial--umbrella out from over his son`s head, letting whatever may fall uninhibited.
       "He`ll be stronger for it," the Lord commented to the boy`s concerned host of aunts and uncles.   Tempered like steel, as Alsandair knew his father liked to say.
       As for the second means of income--before the need for this was the love at first sight.   Alsandair was traveling south with Dr. Mallory, Professor Emiritus of Classical Piano at Truce, for a recital in New Dorino.   Alsandair, in fact, was to be the headlining event.
       Mallory, like Montressori, was exceedingly wealthy through his own noble family, and offered Alsandair the use of his own custom Blackbird wings.   Unlike Montressori, Mallory treated the talented boy with more than a modicum of respect.   As a result, Alsandair took anything the professor said or did to heart.
       And what he took to heart on the short flight south was the result of the merest of chances, almost what he would term a cosmic mistake, if he`d been inclined to philosophize about it, or if he believed in such an absract thing as fate.
       It was Mallory`s music.   His choice of music, to be more exact.   The speakers on the sides of the Blackbird`s cockpit was quiet, but Alsandair focused intently on the sounds at take-off: the song had an unquestionably popular edge, but there were shifting times, cascading stops and pick-ups, and a guitar and keyboard that followed each other through every lick and riff before diverting into their own separate--yet somehow connected melodies--before recombining into a note for note spastic blast at breakneck speed.
       "What is this?" Alsandair asked.
       Mallory shrugged.   "I forget the band name.   I think they call the style Fronchrite."   He smiled apologetically.   "I listen every now and then to help me stop thinking."
       Alsandair returned the smile, but he was thinking furiously.   Stuffed in dusty basements with baby grands as his only company during his time at Truce, Alsandair had not heard a remotely popular tune for years.   But this...Fronchrite... he thought he recognized the etymology of the word, something he pieced together from a tutor from long ago.   Fronch, fornke, gradually increasing... rite... or richtte, more likely.. a duo in concert.   Both were derived from a dialect of ancient Zeal, the word had probably passed through a dozen or so different languages... Alsandair stopped.
       Etymology didn`t matter.   He had found his means of escape.   He had never played in the style of the tones he was hearing, but years of praise had built his confidence to pinnacles normally uncharted by men his age. He could do it.  
       No, he must do it.   The Lord Montressori wold never have the luxury of seeing the vaunted family name in a classical bill.   Alsandair would take the path through lonely genre and drag his name with him.
       Even at the recital, where Mallory sat and listened to the young virtuoso with a crowd of soft-handed Dorinos and academics, the idea was spinning in his head.   Even as his hands danced over the keys, Alsandair was considering... he would need a band.   Finding a guitarist to match his own talent would be well-nigh impossible... but surely he could find someone passable... he had no leads on any of the people he would need, but his swelling confidence left no room for doubt.
       Alsandair almost broke a smile in the middle of a piece.   His own name would attract the talent he needed... he could steal anyone away from any failing venture, any under-appreciated band, with the promise of being able to play with Alsandair Montressori.
       But first... first he needed to master the style himself.   And to master the style, he would need the proper tools.   So it was those small rebellious seeds that swelled enough to grip Alsandair that he strode immediately from the recital at the New Dorino academy to the main market square, to find what he needed.
       Fate, Alsandair had always believed, was a false assumption.   Some unseen cosmic force did not--and could not--guide the lives and actions of living beings.   It would be a cosmic joke if it were so, an affront to the progress of civilization.   But even Alsandair had to grudgingly wonder if some manner of Fate had led him to the Dorino Tone-Tavern and Ephram Wilkes.
       The young Wilkes was a wiry lad, small of stature and unquestionably dark in complexion, with a nervous twitch.   Normally, Alsandair would have been annoyed with the young salesman almost immediately, but on this day his mind was so full of fledgling possibilities that he barely noticed Wilkes for anything more than a means to those desires.
       "Show me the best you have," Alsandair had instructed the salesman upon entering.
       Wilkes led him to a small back room, closed off from the main showroom.   Inside, all manner of keyboards were mounted on the walls.   They came large and small, in varying key-numbers and different colors.
       Alsandair, temporarily hindered by his lack of practical knowledge about what he sought, told Wilkes about the song he had heard on Mallory`s vessel and asked for a recommendation.
       "You`re going to need an incredible range of tones to play like that," Wilkes said, moving past the more modestly priced models to the far wall.   Alsandair noted with a hint of grim resignation that these models suffered from a significant price jump.
       And then he saw them.   They were positioned side by side at a ninety degree angle, and each fit the other so well that Alsandair was convinced that person who had arranged them had felt the two deserved to be together also.
       Alsandair gingerly placed his left hand on smaller one, a silver sided fifty-two key.   It was highlighted with hints of neon blue at the sides.   His right hand found a home on the smaller instrument`s larger relative.   It too was highlighted with the same neon blue and boasted the same silver siding, but had smaller keys and bulkier depth.
       Wilkes was smiling with obvious anticipation of a hefty sale and commission.   "Those are the latest in SonicKeys duo line.   Very limited.   I heard they only made a couple dozen of each.   We were quite lucky to get the pair, actually--up in Guardia proper they split most of the models apart."
       Alsandair did not say anything.   The price tags of both instruments were clearly marked, and they were clearly much more than he could hope to have anytime soon.   But buying only one without the other was out of the question--they two fit together.   They belonged only in the presence of each other.   Fate be damned, but Alsandair felt that it was so.
       "The smaller one, the Optira, has an unlimited tonal range.   It`s completely programmable.   It`s the one you would use to make your own tones and custom sounds.   The larger one--" here Wilkes twitched violently before planting both hands down on the instrument--"is called the Ondiolinne.   The Optira is the workhorse of the two, but the obvious function of having two is for the option of playing in two different tones at the same time."
       Alsandair was nearly speechless.   The instruments were so sleek, so refined... so much more visually appealing to the dull matte black of the grand pianos that he knew all too well.
       "Do you play with a band?" Wilkes asked, interruption Alsandair`s thoughts.
       Alsandair shook his head.   "I`ll get some people together soon."
       Before leaving Alsandair put all the money he had on him down for the Twins, as he was already calling them in his mind.   He would not leave the store until he had watched Wilkes place both instruments in a back holding area.   Satisfied, Alsandair returned to Truce and committed himself towards the goal of eventual ownership.
       The paths he had to travel to achieve that goal were numerous.   Recitals, of course, landed him the largest percentage of his needed capital--but he was by no means wealthy.   He had his small residence near the Truce Academy to maintain, he had to eat, and his money was slowly dribbling away with album purchases of the style that he had willfully chosen as his own.   He supplemented his performance income with a stint as a unskilled lackey at the Truce Zoological Preserve for Interdimensional Species.   The menial tasks in the presence of animals that were cared for better than he himself was bred patience, or so he told himself.
       And so it was nearly a year later that he phoned Ephram Wilkes at the Dorino Tone-Tavern and told him he was coming to pick up the twins.   When he got there, Wilkes was waiting for him.
       "They`ve missed you," the salesman joked.   Optira and Ondiolinne were set up, in the ninety-degree angle formation, near a wall of guitars and various other stringed instruments.
       Alsandair was furious.   "How long have they been out here?"   The prospect of other people--Dorinos, no less--running their grubby hands over his Twins was almost enough for him to consider canceling the sale, even after his long toil.  
       "Just since I`ve known you were coming," Wilkes said quickly, trying to divert the other`s anger.   "We wanted to get some pictures of them while they`re still here.   And while you`re here..." Wilkes took on a hushed town, leading Alsandair back a few steps.   "I was wondering, have you formed your band yet?"
       "No.   I`m getting to it."
       "I was just thinking... you`ll need to find a pretty considerable guitarist to match these babies."
       Alsandair leveled a stare at Wilkes.   He wasn`t impressed with the salesman`s slight to his new Twins; they most assuredly were not "babies."
       "Hey.   I know a fellow who gives out lessons here, I reckon he`s about your age.   Suppose you give him a tryout?"   Wilkes turned, and, as if on cue, a tall brown-maned young man emerged from a back hallway.   He was handsome in his own right--due mainly to his height and sturdy bearing--and even though he was whip-lean he was not as painfully thin as the salesman at Alsandair`s side.
       Indeed, as soon as the tall man, who Wilkes introduced only as `Gelgeis,` plucked a guitar from the wall and picked his way up and down a few minor scales, he proved himself as quite a considerable guitarist.   Alsandair saw through their game: the underhand pitch by Wilkes, the staged impromptu performance.   Alsandair was skeptical...   this Gelgeis was skilled, to be sure, and Alsandair had not yet taken the time to hone his skill to the new style.
       But Alsandair`s patience, already worn painfully thin by the year of mindless labor and constant recitals, broke down.   Two months later, Gelgeis had left his job in Dorino and was moving in to Truce to play with Alsandair.   The tall guitarist brought his longtime friend, the salesman Wilkes, with him to run the soundboards and to serve as acting manager and promoter.
       Lord Monstressori, when he heard of these goings-on, treated his son to an angry visit and near-endless platitudes about the virtues of the classical genre Alsandair was abandoning.   Montressori was largely ignored.
       Fate, it seemed, had gained two more apostates.

6.   [Wilkes] A New Reception  

       The transport`s stabilizing wings folded back as the vessel entered Gatespace.
       Ephram Wilkes awoke with a headache.   It was a small thing, really, but facing what he knew he would have to face on in the taverns and tiny performance halls in and around Guardia, the pain seemed amplified.
       Wilkes swore.   The techie and roadie roles that he served for band suited him well, but in the role of manager and promoter and salesman Wilkes feared failure.   It reminded him too much of his time in Dorino, living off skimmed commissions trying to convince Gelgeis to become a performer.
       The planet grew in his window, and once the transport landed and Wilkes took his first breath of Guardian air, he swiftly admitted to himself that it was good to be home.   Once past that, he steeled himself for the day ahead--already his scalp was beginning to itch.
       When success found Wilkes on his first try, the headache noticeably dulled.
       It was a smallish dive on the north side of Arris, with an outdoor pavilion tucked neatly away in a section of dense woods.
       "I represent a band called Fate`s Apostate, and--"
       "Yeah, yeah, I`ve heard it," the owner said, shaking Wilkes`s hand quickly.   "Not bad.   What`s your schedule like?"
       Wilkes was dumbfounded.   Someone had heard of the band?   But then he reminded himself that he was back on Guardia, where they had briefly toured before leaving for greener-looking pastures.   But those shows were short, near-disasters...   Wilkes found the itch leaving his head, and his arms became calm.
       "The band is back in the system in tomorrow night."
       "Any set dates?"
       Wilkes shook his head.
       The owner said, "I`ve got two other outfits playing that night.   Your girl can headline."
       Girl?   Wilkes had always considered Fate`s Apostate to be only Gelgeis and Alsandair`s venture...
       The owner was looking at him.   "We square?"
       Seal the deal, you fool! he told himself.   Without a hint of trembling, he did that and left immediately for a spot of coffee.   In the relative solitude of an Arris diner, Wilkes considered his luck.   To find a man who knew something about them, and on the first try!   It was unparalleled.   And headlining!   Gelgeis would be so happy... they would all be happy; though tired from the travel.   He would have to let them know soon, but first he was eager to try out his newfound luck.
       Wilkes had little money left, but he that he did have he used to get a hitch back into the city proper.   The Arris public transportation system ran regular massive people-haulers from the inner city to the populous country side all day long, but the one Wilkes found himself on was barely full at all.   He took a seat near the back.   He was weary, but too found himself too excited, his mind too bustling to sleep.
       But doze he did, because he almost didn`t notice the song that the hauler was piping though it`s tinny speakers into the main cabin.   It was barely audible over the growl of the hauler`s main engine.
       ...what we need is what we find...
       Wilkes opened his eyes.   He had heard the lyric so often over the past few months that it barely seemed out of place.
       ...through the rain and fog we can only...
       Wilkes sat up.
       ...climb on.
       He nearly bit his tongue.   Gelgeis`s Climb On.   On a Gatian network.   Simultaneously Wilkes was elated that one of their songs made the airwaves--one of Gelgeis`s songs, no less!--and crestfallen that the ease of his previous sale was attributable totally to that lone fact and not to his abilities as a salesman.
       Always been a shitty salesmen, he thought.
       His twisting emotions finally settled closer to elated than crestfallen, and strode to the front of the hauler to ask the driver the quickest way to get to Leene Square.   Nearly broke, he conceded to himself that he`d have to make the trip on credit; but after all he`d been through he figured, what the hell.  
       Fate, or whatever cosmic mockery made up the damn thing, was in a good mood today.

7.   [Ebliu] Just Rewards

       The argument mirrored each of the arguments the past three nights.
       "It can`t go last, everyone will leave before we get to it," Gelgeis said.
       "But those who stay will leave happy," Alsandair retorted.   It was a condescension for him.   The previous night Al had hinted that, just maybe, they shouldn`t play Climb On at all, in favor trying to generate another hit.
       What a jealous prick, Ebliu thought.
       Arranging her hair in the mirror, Ebliu did her best to ignore them.   Like the previous arguments, she knew that this would end in uneasy compromise--they would place their fledgling new hit somewhere in the middle of the set.  
       Ebliu found at least somewhat strange that Alsandair seemed particularly upset with their current circumstances.   They way she saw the hit was that their newly gained modicum of success allowed them to play more songs, bigger venues, to more people.   And, though she would never say this to Gelgeis or Alsandair, she knew it was her voice that was responsible for their good fortune.
       Ebliu reached for the blush.  
       "Aw, you`re beautiful already, honey," Danzig shot in her direction, idly juggling a set of drum sticks in his hands.
       She had to admit that that was true.   "I have to be especially alluring now--so that no one has any desire to look back at your lump of a nose."
       Danzig laughed and instinctively reached up to rub his broken nose.   He was a decent fellow, Ebliu had to admit, though his timing still sucked shit.
       Her face properly made up, Ebliu leaned back in the chair and stretched her arms behind her head in satisfaction.   A proper dressing room.   But it was only a step, she knew.   Larger venues would bequeath her a personal dressing room, one she wouldn`t have to share with all these sweaty men.   The successive steps of incrementally increasing fame spread out before Ebliu in her mind so convincingly that the miniscule audiences in Esper were forgotten.
       "I`ve written a few new songs," Alsandair said, coming up behind her, his boyish face appearing in the mirror.
       Not forgotten, though, was the virtuoso`s unwanted advances.   "That`s nice."
       Undeterred, he handed her three sheets of handwritten lyrics and a tone-disc.   "Take a listen, when you get the chance."
       Twisting in the chair, Ebliu looked him in the eye.   "Al, just when, do you think, will we have time to practice these?"
       "There will be time," a defiant light shining in his eye.
       She shook her head, throwing the lyrics on the make-up station.   "We have our songs.   We`ve been booked.   What else do you want?"
       He looked away.   "It`s almost time for us to go on..."
       It was true.   The cacophonous disharmony of whatever hacks had been playing had mercifully died.   Ebliu no longer bothered concerning herself with the names.   In her own scenario she didn`t need to... she saw, in her mind, the near-meteoric rise of Fate`s Apostate in Guardia, mirrored exactly with her own increasing celebrity, and then, inevitably, a fallout.
       She might take Danzig with her to drum when she went solo, Elbiu considered.
       "Time to turn on the sexy," Gelgeis said to her with a slight grin.
       She sighed theatrically, and then batted her eye lashed as him.   "It`s on."
       They followed Al, Stahl, and Danzig towards the stage entrance.   Maybe Danzig, she considered, but definitely not Gelgeis.   He was too damned handsome.   Without Gelgeis, Wilkes wouldn`t give her the word of day, so he was out--a terrible promoter, anyway.   And not Stahl, either.   The freaky lump barely said a word to anyone--she couldn`t abide a person like that.
       Beside her, Danzig was grinning like a fool as the band was introduced.  
       Ebliu looked away.   Maybe she wouldn`t keep Danzig after all.
       Better to make it a clean cut.

8.   [Alsandair] The Bitter Sting

       The JetTrain sped north.
       "Next stop is Proto Dome," a metallic voice announced over the loudspeaker.   "Proto Dome in little under two hours."   The train was nearly empty, most of the patrons having exited near the stop for Leene Square where the week-long Quartannual Fair was just starting.
       Alsandair sat in the crowded party car, his shoulders pressed between the window and Stahl`s dense frame.   Beside him Gelgeis, Wilkes, Ebliu, and Danzig were playing at cards and obsessing about how they would spend their cuts from the touring deal they had signed a day earlier.
       Alsandair`s face was unreadable, but inwardly he was fuming.  
       "... one of those new spanking JetBikes, one with the break away pod-seats on either side, one that goes on water..." Danzig was saying.
       Alsandair bit off the angry words rising in his throat.   Fools.
       "We should have held out for a better deal," Alsandair whispered to Stahl, hoping to recruit an ally, or at least someone to be in a sour mood with.
       The bass player was frustratingly quiet, as always.   He only shrugged.
       Alsandair stared at Stahl`s thick head for a further minute, hoping to draw out some manner of verbal response.   When he got none, he turned back towards the window.
       "The Quartannual Festival," Ebliu said., suddenly meeting Alsandair`s eyes.   "Cheer up, Al.   Good times are here."
       Not quite good enough, he almost said, but instead gave what he hoped was a weary smile.   "I`m just tired, Eb."
       She shrugged, but returned his smile.   She was in a good mood, he saw.   They were all in an especially good mood.
       "Did you ever think that one of Gelgeis`s songs would get us a break like this?"   Alsandair said so only Stahl could hear.   "No disrespect, but the man only know three or four chords."   Even as he said the words, Alsandair knew that the statement wasn`t exactly true, but he was too worked up to stop now.   "His timing is nearly always off, and he hogs the stage like dandified winged-ape."
       Stahl looked at him curiously.   "A what?"
       Alsandair ignored that and pressed on.   "His songs are formulaic; his lyrics trite and common.   He panders, that`s what Gelgeis does; he conforms to whatever`s popular at the time."
       Stahl, infuriatingly, shrugged again.   "He plays well enough."
       Alsandair lowered his voice another decibel and leaned even closer the bass player.   "Doesn`t it bother you?   How he plays the crowd right in front of you every show?"
       Silence.
       Alsandair nearly spat.   "It would bother me."
       "...usually have a mansion," Wilkes was going on loudly, "but since I`m not exactly rich yet, I`ve decided to start building my estate from the ground up.   A plot of land, then a modest dwelling, then another story, and another, and another..."
       A certain part of Alsandair told himself that it was only normal that the others act this way in the face of what they thought was success.   This was the part of Alsandair that had been reared in the best schools, been granted to time with the best tutors and instructors, and had never wanted for any of life`s necessities.   This part of him had forged an uneasy alliance with the part that bitterly detested the Lord Monstressori`s firm unyielding hand.
       Stahl turned to Al