No audience watches on this atypically closed session of the High Council, but every seat on the dais save that of Mind is filled. Dean Viscoi stalks across the central floor between the seats of his fellows, his brown and cream robes flapping around his hooves. "Allow me to recap, then," he states, voice cool, controlled. "The Sphere of Dreams has, for five years, been rendered unusable and hazardous by, as we have recently and finally discovered, certain mages practicing in Babel. And the sum of our response to this unsanctioned, dangerous, and aggressive ritual has been to send a single letter to Babel."

"Now, Dean, you're being a tad unfair," Yffryn protests, shifting her body in the temporary divan provided her as the acting Dean of Dreams. "The High Princess took prompt action on that letter and said she'd put a stop to it. And all our comatose dream mages did wake up, after all."

"This is true," Viscoi allows, pausing before the circle of Dreams and focusing his attention on the fox'taur. "She said she put a stop to it." He places his hands on Yffryn's desk, leaning over it. "And a Sphere later we find that same ritual still ongoing, this time involving half our own Embassy, and inducing a coma in yet another mage." He inhales, eyes narrowing. "And wasn't it at your suggestion that Mage Cyprian was recalled to Babel to begin with?"

The gray fox'taur blinks, bewildered. "Surely you're not suggesting that I… " The other council members sit straighter in their chairs, some casting skeptical glances towards the Cervani mage. Except for the Dean of Chaos, who lays crosswise in her seat, grooming her toenails and seeming indifferent to the spectacle.

"No," the buck answers after a long moment, pushing away from the desk and turning from her with a sweep of his robe. "Although between maliciousness and incompetence, there's not much to decide."

"Dean Viscoi!" Yffryn gasps, then leans forward, slapping her palm onto her desk. "You go too far."

The Cervani whirls and glared at the Fnerf. "Or perhaps I have not gone far enough! We had one of the fruits of the Babelite ritual in our hands in the form of the possessed Mage Envoy, and not only did you somehow convince this body that we ought to leave her that way, but then you sent her off into Ashdod!

"You've spent two Spheres "researching" the situation, yet all you can tell us for your time is that the ritual hasn't stopped – a conclusion the lowest riff-raff in Rephidim could have formed based on the news from Babel alone. Then you offer the lovely hypothesis that the Eeee's search for Rockmore was the culmination of the ritual – never mind that there must be far easier not to mention less dangerous ways to find a single man, or minor details, like that the ritual plainly began before the boomer was dropped on Babel. It would still be a nice thought – if Lt. de Bellefeuille hadn't come to us the next day with more reports of the dream ritual still going on." The mind mage folds his arms across his chest, his gaze still fixed on the acting dean. "So what exactly are you trying to accomplish, Mage Yffryn? Hoping that if you say 'Everything is all right' enough times, that alone will make it true?"

Nostrils flared, Yffryn rises on the divan, forelegs splayed before her, bringing her head above the antlered rack of the other mage. "I am doing the best that I can, Dean Viscoi, under what you must realize are very trying circumstances," she says, an admirable steadiness in her voice despite the veiled accusations. "If you'll recall, I didn't ask for this job, and I'm quite willing to step down if the High Council sees fit to appoint someone else. I am trying to help my fellow dream mages, and to my mind that doesn't mean crashing around ripping apart every clue I might lay my hands on. And as for that dream of Lt. de Bellefeuille's last night – under my care, she and Mage Envoy managed to defeat the representation of Gorphat. Two of the Seven Sisters from the Dream Realm have been destroyed, and two of the others are no longer under the Royal Babelite Mages' control. We are taking this spell apart from the inside, Dean Viscoi. Rash action could undo all the progress we've made."

"You think you've made. Two spheres ago, you and Mage Envoy testified that 'completing' these trials would somehow destroy the ritual. Now you tell us that destroying the spirits is the way to go. So which is it, Mage Yffryn?" Viscoi asks, voice cold.

"I've had two months to consider the question, and my research points to a new conclusion… "

"Meaning you still have not a clue," the Dean of Mind snaps. "And all the hand-wringing and 'research' we care to do on Caroban is not providing us with anything more than suppositions and unsupported hypotheses." He pivots on one hoof, stalking back down the dais, before the seats of the other deans. Most watch him attentively: the Dean of Water with a vague air of disapproval, Spirit with sympathetic concern, and others with expressions ranging from guarded to alarmed and disturbed. Only the Dean of Chaos doesn't watch him; she slumps sideways with her elbow against the desk, head propped against her left hand, eyes half-closed and focused on the rune-like carvings she etches into the surface with the index claw of her right hand.

"The College has an obligation – to our charter, to our members, to Sinai itself – to see that magic is used responsibly. The ritual these Babelite mages are performing flouts every law the College has. Every day we let slip past without action is another day they laugh at our impotence, another day that mocks every thing we claim to represent. If we cannot find the answers we seek on Caroban – and it is plain to me we cannot – then we must look for them elsewhere," Viscoi states emphatically. "We have ample evidence that the root of the trouble lies in Babel. We must send a team of mages – Scryers, Shadow, Dream, and Chaos – there to investigate firsthand."

A sable-furred Eeee in the runic circle for Fire rises to his feet. "Dean Viscoi, you must know how ill-advised that is," he squeaks, wrapping his wings around his body. "You know my mind on this – literally," he adds, with dark emphasis. "I bear no special love for my former countrymen, but sending a massive magical force to Babel, without so much as a by-your-leave from the Princess… " He shakes his head. "I know my people. She will not see that we are there to bring renegades to justice – she will think us spies or assassins. The Eeee are not a trusting race."

After a pause, Viscoi turns from the Dean of Fire. "Trust or not, it must be done." His eyes fall on Dean Fyiara, whose head rests against her arm, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. His gaze narrows, and his hooves click against the tiled floor as he strides across it, jaw set. "We cannot allow these mages, or any others, to defy Guild law."

"True," Dean Hio, a water-Naga, answers ponderously, the tendrils on either side of his mouth waving like a mustache with the words. "Nonetheless, rash acts ill-suit this body. We should first send a message to the High Princess, and inform her that our needs, contrary to her statement, have not been met. Then, see what she has to say."

"We have waited long enough to act already! How long will we let that woman stall us?" Viscoi snaps in return, fixing his eyes for a moment on the Dean of Water. "When she tells us, 'Oh, I'll take care of it!' are we to believe her blithely a second time? If she denies our right to fix the problem ourselves, will we stay our hand, and cede command over affairs of magic to a mundane?" He resumes his stalking to the circle of Chaos.

"Do not borrow trouble, Dean Viscoi. When she has made her answer, we will act upon it. We are not ceding anything yet," Hio continues, placating.

"Yet." The buck snorts. He stops before the desk of the feline Dean of Chaos. She makes a sleepy mew sound and circles her hand over her head. "I am not 'borrowing' anything. We already have trouble. Time grows short. This ritual has drawn on five years – how much longer will we have to thwart whatever climax it builds to?"

"It's been five years, Dean Viscoi. It can keep another few days, for us to go through the proper channels," the Dean of Spirit says, his voice low and gentle.

"Can it? Do you know that? Like you knew leaving Mage Envoy possessed was the correct course of action?" the buck counters, though he does not turn his gaze from the sleeping feline to watch him. Eyes narrowed, he raises his fist deliberately, then slams it against the desk top.

The other Deans flinch as the surface rocks beneath the blow, and Dean Fyiara jerks upright, ears flattened against her head, blinking. "Mrew? 're we votin'?" she mews, whiskers twitching nervously from the sudden shock of waking.

"No, we are not voting. We are debating. While I sincerely doubt that you have anything of merit to add to the debate, Dean Fyiara," and he stresses the title in a tone laced with anger and sarcasm, "you can do us all the courtesy of at least feigning attention to it."

The feline bites her lip, rubbing one eye. "Sorry, sugar."

"'Sorry,'" the Cervani mimics, sneering. "Dammit, woman! You are not a kitten and this is not your nursery, so stop acting like a mewling child. You are a Dean of the College and a member of the High Council." He turns from her, surveying the body of mages gathered with a skeptical eye. "It is no wonder the world has so little respect for us."

Fyiara sinks deeper into her chair, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "But I'm on your side, Rageson," she whispers.

"Do you even know what my side is, Dean Fyiara, or why you're on it? Or are you just trying to make up for past failings?" Without turning to look at her, Dean Viscoi walks back to his chair. "Enough. I yield the floor."

An almost palpable wave of relief moves through the deans, but as Hio raps the desk with his gavel to call for the next speaker, a Korv in journeyman's robes bursts in through one of doors near the top of the chamber. He hops down a few steps, calling, "Sirs! Sorry to interrupt, but I've urgent news!"

The watersnake turns to regard the interloper, frowning. "What is it?"

Breathless, the avian flutters to the edge of the dais, and bobs through a quick bow. "Sir! The Wandering Sylph has been intercepted by Eeee pirates – and priestesses of Inala were among them! Mage Koley was alerted by his scryball … Sirs, that was Mage Envoy's ship. Koley says that … she's dead."