The late fall afternoon keeps the air of the apartment warm enough that no fire is necessary as a chameleon settles into a bedroll to read through some papers written in a rather crabbed style. The rent has been settled and things have been quiet in Darkside lately, so there should be no difficulty with unwelcome intrusions… At least unless that S'Lezan is starting to get impatient. There's time yet.

The Wooden Shekel sits cross-legged on his bedroll, with some sort of multi-legged fried sandwich from Little Babel in his left paw, and a charcoal pencil for recording notes in his right. He squints at the handwriting while munching thoughtfully, attempting to get used to the odd style.

The pages look as if they had been taken from a diary, with holes marking where they would have been bound together by a ribbon. The first page has been dated to sometime near the end of last year. The writing begins, "If you are reading this, I am probably dead at the hands of some of my enemies, or else locked up somewhere. May they all contract immortal fleas, the fools, and spend eternity scratching – how dare they trifle with one of my magnificence and intelligence? Destroy me and all Rephidim, I vow, from the greatest to the lowest, shall fall with me as well… And you reading this, you will be the instrument of my vengeance. You will be rewarded richly for carrying out my plans."

Bambridge raises an eyeridge, pausing to pick a wing-case out of his teeth. ( Destroy Rephidim? Not much point to being richly rewarded if one hasn't anyplace to spend it. ) He reads on.

The text continues, "They are everywhere, you know, my enemies. They fear what I will become. They do not understand that I only want what is best for everyone. They must be trained… But until then, you must not trust any of them – not the Temple, prissy, pompous, bureaucratic fools that they are, nor Darkside, the fatuous upstarts who would create a court from idiots and misfits. For me, they are tools to use as precisely as one would shape metal, beating some, tempering others in the crucible, whittling away at yet others. For you, they are deadly giants. But giants nevertheless, who can be made to fall, so that others will rise in their places… And you who read this, you may be one of those new stars."

"Fatuous upstart" gets circled several times, the lizard scribbles a note in the margin. "Upstarts? Court? The ravings of a lunatic, assuredly." Nevertheless, the bits about giants toppling and new stars is lightly underlined.

"Rephidim, my doubtful friend, is an island rudderless, and that fool, Cerbancos the Third, he is as bad as no captain at all. Can they not see that without strong guidance – capable leadership, a hand that is used to strength and the law – Rephidim's rule will crumble away? Already I have seen signs that those foolish bats will soon contend with us for mastery of the skies. And do they talk of sending forces to cow them? No! They speak of diplomatic missions, ambassadors who will form new treaties. These are the actions of weaklings. And so I have determined that things shall change here." The text takes on an almost confidential whisper. "And you, my friend, you will carry on the great mission. See that my spirit lives beyond the grave."

"Beware those who claim to agree with my aims. I am sure they are only doing so to advance their own aims. In the chaos that a transition will create, their own stars can rise. You are the steel that I will use to forge my blade. I chose you specially, because out of all the candidates I interviewed, I sense in you most a kinship of soul… " An odd blotch looks like some sort of defect in the papermaking process.

The text digresses. "The drugs that I purchased from that K'hu'an are less and less effective every day. I suspect that he waters them down to weaken my vitality. He may be in their pay. I must seek out a new source."

Bambridge rubs his chin with the end of his pencil, unable to avoid feeling a little apprehension. His sandwich lies forgotten on a plate. "Note to me:," he writes. "Priority: Find out who writer was. Find out who recipient was. Knew about war with Babel in advance, might mean something." A doodle gets placed farther down in the margin, depicting a flying rock and multitudes of stickmen plummeting from it. An arrow labelled "Unprofitable" points toward the scene.

The writer of the diary continues, "Your status in the Temple is low, but not so low that you cannot yet rise unimagined heights in a short time. To gain the power that you must have to see my vision through, it will become necessary to betray the interests I have cultivated in Darkside. When you have used your power to dispose of them, you can gain greatly by fostering the rise of new lords of the underside… " One can almost imagine a cloaked figure leaning forward to whisper secrets into the ears of a brash young upstart.

"From there, you can then proceed to locate the rest of my cache of secrets. Other powers in the Temple undoubtedly believe that they are secure now that I am gone. It will be your task to prove them wrong… And ultimately, my friend, we shall rule Rephidim with an iron glove, and the world by fire from the sky! Remember me well, your mentor, when you come into your own, when you have been forged as I was, through a process of trust and betrayal, the slow growth of power… When you have taken corruption into your heart and made it your strength."

"Remember me, Caesar Moffat, once and future Arch-Inquisitor of the Temple."

"K'hu'an" gets circled, the words, "What is this?" scratched in above it. The chameleon frowns, turning a dark shade of blue. ( An internal Temple affair, and with an Arch-Inquisitor to boot. It's been many months since Cerbancos III's passing… I wonder how much of this has already come to pass? )

The remainder of the papers – this set looks incomplete – seems to concern the sales of secrets and favors to a certain S'Lezan, whom the writer says is "An untrustworthy fool dressed in the trappings of nobility but entirely undeserving of any such claims. He believes that I am convinced by his shows of obedience, but I know well that he serves only one true master: shekels. Nevertheless, it is with his master, F, that you must be concerned. S'Lezan is only a means to an end."

Some of the secrets concern the movement of guards through the Temple, and military patrols; others such as the location of ruins identified and logged for future exploration, but never taken advantage of, are identified as having been bought from 'N of the Bridge'. "A fellow manipulator," Caesar Moffat enthuses. "I know that I will have to bring him down in the end, or he shall destroy me. But our alliance still serves me. You may find working with him to be profitable, but be careful that you do not find yourself ensnared in his net."

Bambridge is unable to keep from grinning. ( Ohhh… this is a pretty turn of events, isn't it? ) muses the reptile, pausing to dog-ear a few interesting pages. ( S'Lezan is a slave to shekels, eh? I wonder if he'd serve a wooden one? ) Bambridge circles the letter 'F', writing "Keep an eye out" by it. He traces a few of the routes and maps with an index finger, resolving to learn them later, leafing back and forth in the incomplete stack for more information.

The papers end on the discussion of a third potential rival that Caesar Moffat's protege would have had to face… "Beware Arch-Inquisitor Melchizedek. He appears incorruptible, and as he is an Aeonian, I am certain that you will have to face him sooner or later. I am taking steps to reduce his influence in the Temple, but in the end, you will have to step over his smoking body to ascend to the ultimate height… "

It appears there would be more… But the pages are missing, leaving so many unanswered questions.

A third doodle is added, a crudely drawn Skreek-like stick figure, cross-eyed and holding a bottle denoted as 'Black Turkey'. Numerous 'stink lines' hover above the rat's head.

Bambridge leans back against a wall, the weight of this new-found knowledge heavy upon him. ( So much to do… so much to find out about… like it or not, with S'Lezan pressuring me I'm going to be involved. But how /best/ to be involved… )

It took nearly twenty minutes to finally roll the large dead Jupani out of it, but the corner booth has always been a favorite of Bambridge's, so it was worth the effort. He sits there now, swathed in shadow and watching the door, his back comfortably guarded by an ale-stained wall.

A few minutes later, an entourage filters into the already crowded bar, a fancily-dressed rat followed by a black mare and a thin-eyed caracal Khatta, and a host of drunk-looking ne'er-do-wells behind him, spreading out to put new demands on the waitresses. The rat strolls casually to take a seat opposite the Wooden Shekel, his two guards stopping just outside it.

"Ahh! You have saved me a great deal of effort to find you," S'Lezan says to the chameleon in an avuncular way. "I had begun to worry about you. Waitress! A bottle of Wild Turkey Black and two mugs."

"Good evening, Uncle," hisses the Wooden Shekel, secretly pleased that S'Lezan didn't try to get him into the center of the room again. "You had nothing to worry about. I'd be be appalled at the thought of letting down my brethren."

The Skeek waitress yelps as her tail gets tugged. She looks new to the job, judging from her new clothes, already somewhat torn by pointy things jutting from people's belts; some nearby Skreeks snicker between themselves, taking bets as to how long she'll last on the job.

"Right away, sir," she says and dashes through the crowd.

"So what did you want to talk about, nephew? An extension perhaps?" S'lezan smiles, showing off some missing teeth.

The waitress darts back with a bottle of something oozy and black, and two stone mugs. Presumably the mugs keep the contents from eating through the tables.

The clunk of a small, yet weighty pouch landing on the table before S'Lezan is his reply. "That won't be necessary, Uncle," hisses the lizard. "Time /is/ money, after all. Now then… about that meeting with the family you were going to arrange… "

S'Lezan blinks. "Well… well. It seems our new nephew is a prodigy." He takes the pouch and opens it, checking the glint of coins inside. "Isn't that right, boys? Hah! Drink a toast to your new cousin, the Wooden Shekel!" He takes a copper-shining coin and tosses it to the yelping Skeek waitress. "Ales all around, m'lass!"

The Missing Shekel soon fills with the sounds of thieves singing, "Here's to a jolly good fellow… " S'Lezan's eyes squint as he tosses off a shot of Wild Turkey Black, making sure to pour another one for Bambridge.

"Welcome to the family," the rat says, handing the mug to the chameleon.

Bambridge's mouth quirks just a touch as the pit gets rowdy. "Luck will touch even a second-rate amateur such as myself, on occasion," he rasps, accepting his mug. He pauses to take a sip from it, his nose not scrunching as much as the last time he'd tried the stuff. "It's good to know I can count on a little familial support, now. But now, you've got so much to tell your new adopted nephew, haven't you?"

S'Lezan grins. "I suppose so, boy, but it's good t'see some honest-to-Dagh talent around here. There's work just cryin' out fer a skilled light-hand." He mulls. "All righty, give me your hand." He holds his out.

The lizard hesitates a moment. "I get to keep it, right?"

The copper shekel looks like it will buy a few rounds of more raucously off-key singing, as the thieves slap each other on the back, some of the more fastidious patronage keeping to themselves rather than be made out to be spoil-sports.

The rat grins broadly, showing off poor dentition. "Don't be silly, of course you do, nephew."

Bambridge extends his paw to S'Lezan, palm up.

S'Lezan takes it and shows Bambridge the secret thief-handshake, then the secret thief-signs one makes when seeing a fellow family member, particularly those to alert one to impending trouble, and point out good places to go to ground, and of course, the secret thief oath, which binds all thieves to come to the aid of each other when in trouble, and to share the take with one's agreed-upon partners lest the great god Dagh come and strike them down on the spot. This last, S'Lezan insists be commemorated by a bowl being passed around into which each participant cuts a finger and drips a little blood, the bowl stopping before the Wooden Shekel. "Last step, son," the rat says in an almost paternal way.

The other thieves press close around the booth. "Gush 'em, scaley!" "Yeah, we wanna see the blood!" "Show us the red!"

The hooded reptile grimaces in his cowl, but holds up one hand anyway. His other produces a stout chitin utility knife from nowhere, which he holds to the pad of a spidery index finger. A little pressure is all that's needed. The point of the knife lifts a scale and slips underneath. Bambridge holds his fist over the bowl and squeezes, and a rivulet of dark scarlet slides from between clenched fingers. Three drops add themselves to the pool in the bowl, the pact sealed.

The thieves look a bit disappointed. "No gush today," one mutters. Still, they clank mugs with each other, and toast to Bambridge's future as a thief, as S'Lezan adds a good measure of Wild Turkey Black, then tosses a lit match into it. *Fwump!* The blood-alcohol mix begins sizzling, the flame a nauseous-looking green.

"Dagh witnesses our agreement," S'lezan says with a fierce grin. "Now you really are one of us. I'll present you to Grandfather in a few days, when he can make some time to see you, Wooden Shekel. Think you can stay healthy until then?"

"With my brothers and sisters watching my back, my chances are better than ever," replies the chameleon. "To fellowship!" He raises his mug of extinguished bloody swill, and steels himself into taking a gulp.

"To fellowship!" other thieves yell, though one quips "To robbery!"

Hands lift mugs and pale amber liquid pours out of mugs and into uplifted muzzles.

The roar drowns out Bambridge's coughing and sputtering. ( Whoever made up the toast 'To your health' never drank here… ) With his token gulp out of the way, the Wooden Shekel resigns himself to joining the festivities. ( I just hope Grandfather has better taste… )