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was old age, I was to learn later that it was due to an over-familiarity with drink and lecher. Needless to say, the priest—having been newly transferred in from Meddelburg—was kept just as ignorant of this circumstance as was the civil magistrate.
    After the prescribed mourning period, Timond Sartonné’s body was taken to the chapel for funerary administrations. My family sat in the front pew, though from our position I could not see my grandfather’s body. The service proceeded in much formality, from the lighting of candles as witnesses to the guardians of the abode of the blessed that the departed had not perished in sin—poor guardians they would be indeed if mere candles could shuttle my scoundrel grandfather past their gaze without question!—to the haunting benedictory dirge led by the priest.
    As with all ceremonies of the Global Church, it was conducted in High Corastic rather than the “vulgar” tongue of Heilicon. My father, having taken to the classics in his university years, understood snatches of the ritual; these he noted to me in answer to my frequent questions. There was a sort of invocation, as I recall, directed toward the sanctified dead, to watch over the soul of the departed and ensure his safe entry into heaven. I also remember much chanting, though I am sure that few, if even the priest, understood their droning petitions word-for-word. All in all, an overwhelming spectacle, as I am sure it was intended to be. It would be no mean pauper’s grave for Timond Sartonné, who—though he did not merit the service rendered—was certainly not the most depraved individual to receive prayers at Saint Maunde’s.
    Occasionally an aunt, cousin or business partner of my father’s would pass on, though I cannot say that their funerals had much of the same effect on me. From my perspective, all these were but marginal players in the great comedy of my life; one which would surely shuffle forward, act by act, until it had reached its joyous, laudable finale. Even my own mother, who departed this world far before great time, did so with such suddenness that I could hardly realize the import of her death until much later.
    That is, until all of it came crashing down. I cannot say that I was ever particularly fascinated with death before that day, given how few my experiences had been, but I honestly could not avoid it. I recognized her face, pale and frozen as it was. I knew they were her clothes, despite the blood and torn fabric. I knew it was her body for all its appearance as a rag doll tossed carelessly down an abandoned flight of stairs. It was her, my Beate, and yet somehow my curiosity at her lifeless frame managed to overcome the soul-wrenching grief I felt; grief that is only known to those whose respective worlds have been destroyed.
     
    - Words of the Emperor in Qepperdan, Matthieu Sartonné, as narrated to his page, Jarun Hichame
     
    Matthieu had fallen asleep curled up inside the wine barrel. How many hours had past, he was not sure; however, he noted that everything outside was quiet once again. It took a moment for the remembrance of last night's events to return in full, but return they did. His mind was filled with screaming, the intruders in the cellar, and then an even more unnerving period of silence.
    His legs were stiff when he stretched them across the length of the barrel. Reaching up, he pushed against the hatch on the top, only to find it just as securely closed as he had feared. Banging on it did no use and only hurt his fist. Looking down to the little spigot on the front, he thought to kick it. He could not stand inside, but instead he laid down with his feet against the end. Kicking both feet forward, he felt the moist wood budge slightly. If this barrel was as old as he believed it to be, then the wood must have been soaking in this wine for at least a century.
    The second kick made a noticeable dent in the boards; one or two more, perhaps, and he would be free. A small