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“They have,” Dexter continued in his softest voice,
“been sending more and more troops with their convoys, mostly
Gruithuisen pikemen, supported by a smattering of Bessarion
crossbowmen. Apparently they have been experiencing more raiding
and convoy ambushes in the past several weeks than they have in
decades.”
    “From what direction?”
    “North,” Sinistrum answered, the accusatory
tone in his voice unmistakable.
    The Judicar breathed deeply, a gloom setting
in under his weary eyes.
    “But,” Dexter interjected, “the fault may not
be entirely ours.”
    Sinistrum gave a condescending sneer to his
body-brother: “Except that all of these raids and ambushes have
been carried out by scattered bands of previously-pacifistic
Scaramouche.”
    The Judicar looked at the map, focusing on
the cartographer's skill and the fine scenes painted along its
edges, in order to squelch the pang of sadness that flushed in his
chest. He tapped the map, his finger landing on the precise spot of
his daughter's grave. Recognizing the place, he recoiled, as if
stung.
    Sinistrum continued: “Euler feels that our
battle against the Scaramouche has destabilized the region. They
fear for the shipment of goods across the northern trade
routes.”
    “Not that the Euler 'goods',” Dexter
reinforced the sarcasm in his voice by creating quotation marks in
the air with his upraised fingers, “aren't a destabilizing
influence in and of themselves.”
    The heads began to bicker between them, but
the Judicar slowly raised his hand and his voice to stop the
argument from developing further. Despite his frustration, he
couldn't help but think how ridiculous the climax of an argument
must be, should a two-headed being come to blows.
    “Heterodymus, Heterodymus,” the volume
increased, “Heterodymus!” he yelled, startling them into silent
attention. “You and I both know,” he paused for a moment, thinking
on the inadequacy of the word “both” to the situation, then
continued, “what the records demand of us regarding the
Scaramouche.”
    “Aye, M'lord,” the heads replied in
unison.
    “Every eighth month, without fail or
reprieve,” said Sinistrum. The Judicar looked pained, his leg
throbbing.
    “At midnight,” added Dexter.
    “And you know,” the ruler continued, “of our
commitment to Euler, our eternal compact.”
    “Aye, M'lord,” they both foresaw trouble.
    “Then what is the problem? I mean to carry
out our side of the old agreements, to the letter.”
    “To the letter, our Judicar,” they resigned
themselves to whatever might come to pass.
    “Now, Dexter, recite again to me the doom of
change. We will soon be drawing near to our destination.”
    The words clicked on in their mystical
rhythms, a metronomic mnemon of ancient date, in lockstep with the
slap of thick-skinned pygmy feet against hard-packed moon dust.
     

Chapter 6
     
    The sun was setting over the lunar horizon as
they neared the borders of the Barony of Euler. For a few more
moments it would shine like fire in the distance, then disappear in
a wink, plunging the world into utter darkness, save where the blue
planet lent its sun-borrowed glow.
    Straddling the road that led from the
south-western most inlet of Mare Imbrium was an immense archway
built of light gray stones, each taller than a man standing on
another man's shoulders. The arch itself was shallow, perhaps only
forty feet at its highest point. And, if one dared challenge the
guards who kept watch over the checkpoint that it marked, one could
almost walk or ride a horse atop its two-hundred foot width as if
it were a bridge. “Almost” because the structure was encrusted with
tens of thousands of candles, of all different shapes and sizes,
which melded into one gigantic flickering layer of flame. The
archway, seen from a distance at night, mirrored the shape, if not
the character, of the setting sun. This beacon, which served as the
gateway to the Barony of Euler, could be seen for miles