**Sunday 1st of May 2005**
London CBD
 _The METRO's internal files indicate that over 250,000 copies in print have left the press. By my crow's calculation, 200,000 copies of the Metro have inundated the tube and rail system._

**Monday 2nd of May 2005**
London CBD
 _The second edition of the METRO is now in distribution. The Count of Monte Cristo is currently at Chapter Eight. The comics attached to the NoM section depicting milord and other members of the nobility are proving popular. The free paper is now endemic in central London. My murders have observed the homeless using the METRO as blankets. MD-6221.62.139._

**Thursday 5th of May 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse.
_The subject has convened with Gracie Hillbrook, Magister Brown and Wen to re-attempt Sympathetic Life-Link. Submissions by Magister Brown indicate the success of the rudimentary Essence Sorcery. See RP.550.31.2_

**Monday 9th of May 2005**
London CBD
 _The third edition of the METRO is now in distribution. Circulation has reached 300,000. The murders observed NoMs from Wembley to Stratford to Dulwich speaking of little else but the METRO's contents, particularly the novel. The free paper's rivals are beginning to take note. The Herald Sun appears particularly hostile to the METRO's success._

 **Tuesday 10th of May 2005**
London, Westminster
_Milord. A dubious report has arrived from the South China Sea, which I included for your consideration. In recent months, two supertankers carrying trade goods from North America have been raided by Mermen pirates. Survivors from the ships' crew reported that the Mermen were lead by a High Priest of immense power worshipping a being of the deep with the moniker "The Pale Priestess". The Captain reports that the raiders' leader was reportedly wielding a Faith Relic consisting of SPAM cans. This entry has been submitted as the word "The Devourer of Shenyang" has appeared once and "Gwen Song" sixteen times in the interview transcript. See file FP.3190.312.21.1 for additional details._

Once Ravenport finished the final report on Gwen Song, he pinched the ridge between his eyes.

The witching hour was nigh, and Mycroft grew weary of the dangers of over-imagination caused by a sleep-deprived mind. Different to the Lords-in-name-only, London's Lord Marshall possessed actual duties beyond his function as a chief courtier, one with hours so long, he oft wondered if the lack of long-lived Ravenports was less because of Affinity and more so exhaustion.

As for the point of interest raised by Morrigan— Ravenport tapped into his mental filing system, searching for a relevant entry. It was an exercise he often employed when faced with potential threats to the Empire, for a man in his position had to possess a healthy dose of paranoia and suspicion, even for the smallest detail.

One by one, he had Morrigan summon said details and the associated segments.

SPAM,
Mermen Priest,
Pale Priestess,
The Yellow Sea,
Monsters of the Deep,
Biplipodoofu and Blightreef,
Missing supertankers,
and the golden trade-triangle between China, South Korean, and Japan.

And somewhere in that mess, Gwen Song had her fingers in the pie.
Other than the girl's love of SPAM, he couldn't see any links. The creatures from the Deep were innumerable and unpredictable, too alien to garner human sympathy.

Were the Mermen readying for another invasion?
And this Pale Priestess— what could it be? There had been many such beings in history, though only one that's contemporary. In the past, he had more than once heard the moniker circulate in conjunction with Kilroy's pale-skinned, red-lipped Void wife. And after Sydney, all knew the woman was a known associate of the Mermen Kingdoms.

"Morrigan, bring me everything on the South China Sea from the last month. Everything recent on Spectre as well."

Morrigan sunk into the shadows.
When she returned, the secretary Sprite materialised the data with the aid of Mage Hands, setting those with the highest relevance indices to hover. Mycroft scanned the files one by one, willing his mind to dive into the abyssal depth of cross-analysis.

"I hypothesise that Sobel is evangelising Mermen in the Yellow Sea," he said to the Sprite.

"The likelihood is great if we take precedence into account," Morrigan agreed. "Sydney serves as a significant example."

"Send a Message to Secretary-General Miao. Call it a favour," Ravenport gave the order. "If the Mermen do invade their coast, they can't say we didn't warn them. Tell them to keep a close eye on their coastal batteries as well. Let Sydney be a stern lesson."

Morrigan's eyes grew briefly dark. "It's done."

The Duke of Norfolk rose from his seat. "Well then, goodnight, Morrigan."

"Goodnight, my Duke."

The double doors clicked shut, returning the suite to the shadows.

**Monday 16th of May 2005**
London CBD
 _The fourth edition of the METRO is now in distribution. The subject has warned her staff about intrusive crows, not that it matters. The NoMs are well aware that when a crow knocks on their window or door, its best to let it in— especially when they scratch out "Oi, Tower Business" on the window._

**Wednesday 18th of May 2005**
Cambridge, Emmanuel College.
_Memo DD-3221.32.129. The observer would like to note that the subject has scant observable examples of human friendship. As per your command, a compiled list of the subject's most frequent contacts, sans family, employees, and instructors, appears as follows:_
 _Ollie Edwards — Less than a friend or a mate, the subject appears to treat her Praelector as a personal secretary._
 _Gracie Hillbrook — the subject feels sympathy for the Void Illusionist._
 _Jean-Paul Bekker — the subject has been using him to ward away unwanted interests._
 _Elvia Lindholm — Miss Lindholm remains an intimate companion, though the pair rarely convene due to their positions._
 _The closest companion to the subject remains Dede. It is strongly recommended that the duck be recruited into the murder._

**Saturday 21st of May 2005**
London, Heathrow
_Customs have intercepted a package for the subject, sent from Yangon. From exterior spectrometric readings, the item appears to be densely enchanted with Divination. Customs has passed the package onward without tampering with the Glyph Seal. CR.2240.938.21.6_

**Sunday 22nd of May 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
 _The subject is touring the underground construction taking place beneath the isle of dogs. The overland extension Tramline and the refurbishment of the wharf at Millwall are progressing without incident. The municipality of Millwall and Cubitt has reported a population increase to 11,239 registered residents. The average land price of the county has increased by 146% since January._

**Monday 23rd of May 2005**
London, Westminster
 _The fifth edition of the METRO is now in distribution._ _Memo DD-3221.32.129. The observer would like to note that Dominic Lorenzo was visited by Magus Sebastian Cribbage, Editor-in-chief of the Herald Sun. From internal files extracted from our sources in the Herald, their backers appear to feel threatened. The unannounced visitation from Cribbage and his subsequent, dissatisfaction indicate future complications to come._

**Wednesday, 25th of May 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse
 _The subject is now nineteen years of age. Richard Huang, Petra Kuznetsova, Jean-Paul Bekker, Gracie Hillbrook have prepared a surprise celebration for the subject at Peterhouse's Old Court. Some of the subject's Housemates and Tutors elected to participate as well. A cake prepared for the subject was devoured by Dede prior to the reveal. The Dragon Ruxin has gifted an unusual present (See RP.2240.938.21.6). I've obtained a similar object with the closest attribute. Please note that the subject's article has a Jadeite Pixiu Core._

**Omni-Directional Orb**
 _A crystal orb bestowed with highly advanced navigation magic, usually used in seafaring. The Orb is capable of guiding the user toward their desired direction regardless of obfuscation both magical and mundane. It may be used in conjunction with Find Person, Locate Object, and Dowsing. The accuracy of this item varies based on its materials._
Tier 9 "Jadeite Pixiu Core", Black Zone, Tibetan China.
Crafter - Unknown.
Estimated worth, 12,000 HDM Crystals

_Pixiu?_ Ravenport masticated the word with his mind. "Morrigan, can you clarify?"

Morrigan's pupils grew dark.

"The white jade Pixiu is a Draconic chimeric Draconoid found in Chinese-ruled Tibet, an auspicious creature tied to wealth and prosperity, said to harness the Essence of "Fortune". From the Analects of the Mountains and the Sea, the Pixiu was the well-behaved scion of the heavenly Asiatic Metallic Dragons. A gifted but spoiled child, it joined forces with monsters for whom it felt sympathy and rose against the Jade Emperor during the Great Sealing. To spare the Pixiu's life, the Yinglong transformed the prideful creature into an animal without a rectum, constraining the creature's diet to gold, silver, gems and crystals so that it may never consume human flesh again."

"… it has no rectum?" Ravenport raised a brow. Never in his ancestor's wildest dreams would they have imagined that one day, a descendent would be demanding if Oriental Dragon-Lions possessed assholes.

"I believe." Morrigan scanned the records for lions sans shit sheaths. "This particular chimaeric Draconid is a higher-order elemental who consumes Crystals and do not need defecation due to their extraordinary absorption rates."

"Right."

He knew from reports that the girl had a fatal, "directionally challenged" weakness. Logically speaking, this palm-sized item would resolve that problem. However, that such a thing arrived from a Thunder Dragon made Ravenport think.

The Asiatic Dragons were inferior to the Western Chromatic Dragon's physical prowess, but they did possess feats of Divination their western counterparts could not match. Was there a more profound implication to such a useless, albeit unique item?

Ravenport chose to wait and see.

**Thursday 26th of May 2005**
London, Westminster
 _The subject has spent 370 CCs out of 1780 CCs to purchase the following spell._

**Bilby's Blade Barrier**
Evocation-Conjuration
Casting Time: 401 Major 328 Minor
Range: Close
Components: Verbal, Somatic
Duration: Channelled
_The caster creates a wall of whirling, razor-sharp blades of force. The baseline spell creates a barrier up to thirty meters long and half-a-metre wide, two-meters high in a line or as a ring. As with a Wall of Force, only a Greater Dispel, Spell Disjunction, or Disintegrate may impact the spell's manifestation so long as the caster is alive. When an enemy enters into the space of Blade Barrier, it immediately begins to take damage and becomes ensnared. Bilby's improved Morden's Blade Barrier allows for complex manifestations utilising meta-magic spellshaping, including Elemental Shift. Likewise, a comprehensive range of expressions is available to the caster, including as a horizontal plane, a dome, a wedge, or as a piece-meal manifestation of singular blades in predetermined patterns. For Elemental variations, see appendix 1B. Note: The mana consumption of this spell's channelled effect is exceptionally intensive._

Ravenport couldn't help but imagine what the staple offensive spell could do in the hands of a Void Sorceress. A combination of both Void and Force Magic was already lethal against grounded enemies. With Bilby's variation, a skilled caster could even anchor the spell in mid-air, using it as a means to trap flying enemies like Rocs and Drakes.

"Morrigan, are there any ongoing conflicts suitable for our sorceress to gain practical experience?" Ravenport asked of his Sprite.

"The Fomorians will be entering their active season in August," the Spirit replied. "Six Flights have been committed to the Purge, including two Mechanised Units and their support auxiliaries."

"Hmm... Giants." Ravenport took a sip of his piping Earl Grey. A keen blade needed whetting from both stone and flesh, and a Combat Mage was no different. "Make a Memo. We'll consider it. No point letting a War Mage get rusty."

Not to mention Tryfan had wanted to deepen their ties to the girl. Ravenport mulled in silence. Three months wasn't much time in the eyes of the Elves, but by now Vulmari and Eldrin are wondering where their sorceress had gone. The girl had been given express consent to visit Trawsfynydd; only Gwen grew so wrapped up in her media hype, she must have forgotten about the Hvítálfar.

To make the High Elves feel impatience! Ravenport smiled in the privacy of his secluded abode. The girl had good points after all.

**Monday 30th of May 2005**
London CBD
 _The sixth instalment of the METRO has entered London's transportation network._ _Circulation of the paper has reached 340,000 to 360,000._ _In busier stations like Waterloo, Victoria, Liverpool and Bridge, the subject has placed a dozen NoMs throughout every entry and exit, equipped with Dwarf-forged pulley carts, each a quasi-magical storage device with a capacity of ten-thousand or more copies of the METRO. My crows have reported several incidences of robbery. The incident has caused a stir in Scotland Yard as Master Yossari on the Isle of Dogs registered herself as the complainant. A record of the arrest can be MPS.2331.424.33.1._

**Monday 6th of June 2005**
London CBD
 _The METRO's seventh edition has included a piece on the recovery of the stolen Dwarven Storage "Pulley". The METRO has commended the Metropolitan Police London for its service. The Chief Superintendent has publically assured our allies from the Red Citadel that their business will not be impeded by "The rare scoundrel". Dominic Lorenzo penned the praise piece. My crows indicate the attacks on the NoMs were orchestrated by associates of the Herald Sun. The METRO has chosen not to pursue._

**Saturday, 11th of June 2005**
London, Westminster.
_The Dwarves under the subject's command are nearing completion of the tube substation underneath the Isle of Dogs previously commended by your lordship. Together with the overland rail system, Millwall Docks is now the lastest location in London accessible by ferry, tube and overground trams. The locales' unique accessibility has not gone unnoticed. The owners of Canary Wharf, the Barlow Consortium, has expressed concern and lodged complaints against the development of Millwall and Cubitt Town. See RP.560.32.5_

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

**Sunday 19th of June 2005**
London, Westminster.

Of all the nobility in London, scant individuals stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Lord Marshall of the Empire.

There were those like the Exeters, who were his contemporaries, but whose excess choler and extreme views made them poor politicians. Then there were ones like Lucy Astor, who had money and weight but lacked the history to curry favour with the older families. Some he admired, like the Rothwells, who stuck to their obligation of keeping their noble noses out of politics and instead focus on improving the Mageocracy. Others, like Lady Maxine Loftus, were both his childhood companion and a friend.

And it was by her behest that they now gathered here in the mud-strewn hills of Mudchute Farm, awkwardly engaged in an alfresco function.

The purpose of the gathering, one in which notable names were invited, was to celebrate the completion of the first stage of the Isle of Dog's redevelopment project. Under the auspice of fast-tracked council approvals and Lady Grey calling in favours: the Millwall Ferry, Millwall Tube Station, and Millwall overland Tram Exchange were now in service.

Since mid-day, flocks of cocktail dresses and tuxedos enchanted to resist crinkle and stain had meandered from one transport interchange to another, smiling rigidly at the Lumen-recorders from the Telegraph, the Herald Sun, the Guardian and now the METRO.

At the overland, Magister Eric Walken of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment committee gave a stump speech about bringing employment and opportunities for the local population, with particular attention given to how many NoM families would soon find gainful employment in the construction projects slated to flood the peninsular.

At the newly constructed tube station, under the curved facade of trigonometric Dwarf-cut glass in the art-deco style, Lady Loftus spoke proudly about offering the Mages of London a second business centre with unparalleled access. There, she unveiled the next expansion project of the Millwall-Canary interchange— an ISTC junction connected to the Tower's network, allowing relatively cheap teleporting into and out of the Isle of Dogs. The announcement was met with a shower of flashing strobes, followed by public transit to the finale at Mudchute Farm.

Before the girl's investments, the farm served as Maxine Loftus' kennel.

Now, a not-insignificant amount of landscaping had gone into the enormous English garden that sprawled over its locale, joined on the right by Maxine's character-mansion and on the left by a Union Jack themed three-storey pavilion.

Here and there, London's elite exchanged gossip and clinked glasses, their eyes lingering over the distant lights that hid the Isle of Dogs' newest economics zone.

As a guest, Ravenport attired himself in unassuming grey. Prior to his attendance, he had Seville triple-check the guest list to ensure no undue complications awaited him. It was a necessary caution, as he had pushed back many requests seeking to stifle the Isle of Dog's progress as a kindness to Maxine. Moreover, politically speaking, he had stepped on a few toes in the process, considering that the Labour Party and the Middle Faction were the ones pushing for development. In opposition, the Tories and the Militants had opposed it as a matter of principle.

That was why presently, the Duke of Norfolk stood with his "Allies" on the matter of the Isle of Dogs. Each to each, he and his companions exchanged notes to fathom the depth of Gwen Song's ability to bring about a six-month metamorphosis to a region that had remained unchanged since the Victorian Era.

"... And on top of all that, she wants to link the underground to North Greenwich, up to Westham and loop through Stratford..." Lady Rothwell sipped on her flute of overpriced French bubbly wine.

"And add a route to the Docklands Light Rail," Lady Grey explained patiently. "From Canary to Mudchute, to Island Garden and finally to Greenwich."

"How is 'she' paying for all of this?" Lady Astor marvelled.

"The Dwarves have saved us a lot of crystals." Maxine Loftus smiled secretively. "We're only providing the raw materials and the liquid HDMs. In six months, the Dwarven Masters will come to retrieve their Fabricators. After that, most of them will be returning to their Citadel."

"Still, a Wharf, a Printing Press, three DLR stations and a new underground complex for the tube?" The new voice belonged to Emilia Callaghan, Chief Whip of the United Kingdoms Labour Party. "Is she secretly a Dragon? The cost of all this must be a whole hoard's worth, especially if Waterloo Station's refurbishment contract has anything to say."

Ravenport hid his secret smile, though not too well.

"Milord Mycroft, do you know something we don't?" The Chief Whip was onto him in a split-second. "Do the Greys have anything to do with this?"

Ravenport shrugged; it was fun watching his opponents puzzle over Gwen for once.

"She submitted the Isle of Dog's audit report months ago." Lady Grey held back a smile. "Fret not, Minister Callaghan, our bookkeeping should satisfy the Interior Department's deepest scrutiny."

"Indeed, both Lady Grey and I have placed much faith on this project," the wily Lady Astor spoke, her American accent drawing eyes a usual. "And the IoD Restoration Corporation is majority-owned by members belonging to the Mageocracy."

The women's candidness suggested to Ravenport that something was afoot. For a while now, Gwen's investments had remained so secretive that Morrigan had to tap into the Municipal land-records filed by Magister Walken.

With casual ease, he slipped away from the group, allowing the women to talk among themselves. He disliked Labour's newest whip. She was a lass with an unshakable bias, believing that no project ever occurred without the Tories lining their pockets with the public purse.

Naturally, she was right— but such costs were merely a fact of business.

All around the garden and the pavilion, the guests spread themselves thin between the open bar, displaced by its train of servants swaying with floating rounds of colourful alcohol. After a thirsty afternoon loitering from photo-op to photo-op, careless laughter gradually turned to casual innuendo. It was to be expected— for all of the attendees knew one another from a thousand past soirées.

Not wanting to be accosted, the Duke of Norfolk invoked subtle motes of Dust to blend into the background, enacting a reputation for being an excellent listener.

Across the garden, the four-string orchestra Lady Grey had requested from the Conservatory took up their instruments, playing a key higher now to make the conversation easier. Ravenport retired beside a pillar, cloaked in Glamour, watching the groups ebb and flow, filling with new arrivals, dissolving when their conversation dried up.

After a scan around the newly-grown garden, his eyes left the chittering cliques to land near the rose circle, where flashes of Lumen-strobes proclaimed the sorceress of the hour.

The pale-complexioned girl stood with a group of Dwarves in formal tunics, wearing a risquè, one-of-a-kind Elven apparel with a corset in royal-blue, trailing a shimmering train of spectral daffodils petals.

Also with the group were her Familiars: a Kirin about the size of a Great Dane wearing a bowtie; a snake as large as a Burmese Python, also wearing a bowtie, and a duck— likewise wearing a bowtie.

So that's Dede. Ravenport recognised the beast at once from Morrigan's incessant reports. He couldn't help but notice that indeed, the duck was monstrously large, with its head height as tall as the Kirin. If the damned thing reached its peak, it may start giving Royal Griffins a run for their crystals.

Among the crowd, the girl moved confidently, heedless of the Elven fabric barely covering her very alluring shoulders, amusing Ravenport whenever the men stiffened and the women upturned their noses. Her confidence surprised him once more, for she meandered here and there among the noble, the rich and the powerful, alternatively sliding between groups with the ease of fruity liqueur sliding down parched throats.

When finally the girl retreated to a corner to rest her tongue, Ravenport saw a mouse-faced scoundrel break away from a circle close to the Militants.

Sebastian Cribbage was the man's name; an infamous wordsmith and the Herald Sun's alpha attack dog strongly tied to the Militant Faction.

The two met in shadow, where the Daylight Globes began to fade.

Invoking a higher tier spell, Ravenport edged closer.

"… Dominic's loyalties are misplaced, as are yours, Magus Song." Though the two spoke in "private", Ravenport could see the Militants with their ears to the wind, while on Gwen's side, her two cousins stood distractedly. "A Newspaper isn't all it seems, you understand. There are certain positions one must take, stakeholders one must respect. We had offered you an olive branch, not out of weakness but respect; if you continued on your path of self-delusion…"

In Ravenport's eyes, Cribbage was, as his name suggested, a low-life polymorphed cabbage. More than once, the Duke had wondered if his Barlow Consortium backers would dare file a suit against his position if a pair of crows happened to peck out the cabbage's eyes. To his knowledge, it was Cribbage who pushed the story about Gwen "bastard Ravenport" Song. No one worthy believed the tale, of course, but his children had complained, and he had lost face. Nonetheless, it was refreshing to see Cribbage's slithering villainy levelled against someone else.

How would the girl react? Ravenport wondered. Overhead, he could sense Morrigan's crows watching with equal interest.

The girl stared at Cribbage, her face still pleasant. With every syllable leaving Cribbage's lips, however, her expression grew gradually cold, bleeding the effervescence from her nubile body.

When Cribbage finally finished, the Lightning Evoker had become the Void Conjurer. Against his expectations, the girl did not act out. Rather, the girl's lips grew cruel like that of a predatory feline.

"...Therefore, Miss Song, I would not seek to upset anyone else."

"Oh dear, Mister Cribbage, I simply didn't know the Herald Sun held sovereignty over our citizens' right to know." With poignant sarcasm, the girl studied the Herald Sun's Editor-in-chief. "Rest assured, I'll shut down my paper first thing tomorrow."

Cribbage frowned, clearly unused to resistive, sarcastic young women. "I am warning you, lass. We've been diplomatic for Lady Grey's sake. If you dare challenge us, don't blame me for the headlines tomorrow. We know of your sinful relationship with the Knight-Initiate from the Order of the Bath. We've also obtained records that you Consumed prisoners while in Shanghai to fuel your magic. You're a mad, deviant stray, Magus Song, and that's all there is to it. No amount of free newspapers is going to keep the truth from the people of London!"

Ravenport suppressed a sudden thrill. Cribbage told the truth— but like his newspaper, it was a half-truth.

So long as Gwen played her part as the suppressant keeping the Mageocracy's enemies on their heels, those in power could turn a blind eye, be it trade, transaction or propagation with Dragons, Dwarves or Elves. To his knowledge, the Mageocracy was no stranger to turning the other cheek when the benefits outweighed the costs. In that sense, Cribbage did well in flinging mud to see what stuck.

Conversely, for Elvia Lindholm, accusations of moral deviancy at a sufficient volume could prove fatal for an untitled supplicant, for even within Battle Abbey's hallowed halls, politics thrived.

How would the girl react? Ravenport wished he had a bucket of the exploded corn that the lower-classes loved so much.

Once more, Gwen Song's reaction proved a delightful surprise.

The girl sighed, appearing demure and disappointed.

"If you're willing to go that far, Mister Cribbage." She gave the look of a disapproving governess. "Then are you prepared to pay the price?"

Cribbage's complexion grew two shades darker. "Miss Song, do you believe my warning to be a joke?"

"Sir, you're asking me to shut down a business worth hundreds of thousands of HDMs," Gwen said. "Are you not serious?"

"You—"

"Then let's get serious." Gwen's tone changed at once. She struck out her naked shoulders, took a deep breath so that for a moment, Cribbage's eyes drifted downward, then—

_SLAP!_

The slap didn't have much force in it, but it was loud.
The strike came so suddenly that Mycroft almost jumped. When next he looked at Cribbage, he near burst a snort because the Editor-in-chief looked as though his world had just exploded.

"How dare you, Mister Cribbage!" Gwen's voice pierced through Mudchute via her Clarion Call. "For shame!"

Like flies to carrion, the guests flocked to the drama.
Subtly, Ravenport slipped into the crowd.

Cribbage shook off the slap with surprising candour. There was no rage, no outburst, just a cold, calculating coolness.

Opposite, the girl was a picture of pity, instantly turning the young stags among the party to her cause. From their stance and eagerness, Ravenport could see that several were near-ready to duel Cribbage to the death.

"You don't think we know your whorish tricks?" Cribbage sneered, checking his cheek for blood from Gwen's rings. "You don't think my crew is recording? The Herald Sun is a paper of integrity and truth, Miss Song, unlike your NoM-cheering, cantankerous METRO! The truth will be known!"

Ravenport nodded with satisfaction. Now there's the thick-skinned Cribbage he knew. It was with good reason the man still retained both eyeballs.

Now the rest of the crowd was looking to chew the proverbial exploded corn.

"Oh, that wasn't for your benefit, Mister Cribbage." The girl huffed, flicking away a strand of impertinent hair. "I just felt like slapping some sense into a fool. Tricks? Falsehoods? We don't need that here on the Isle of Dogs. What makes you think YOU can threaten ME, Mister Cribbage?"

"Threaten?" Ravenport could see that Cribbage was now aware that many of London's upper class were watching. "You're very good at misconstruing other's words, Miss Song. How is a friendly reminder now a threat? I am thinking of tomorrow's headline— 'Man-Eating Void Sorceress menaces the Herald', 'A Bully and a Bitch', What do you make of that?"

"I think— 'Infamous Editor Propositions Young Sorceress' would be a nice one," the girl replied with both hands on her hips. "Driven by arrogance, entitlement and appetite, Editor-in-Chief of the Herald Sun demands intimate favour from Gwen Song lest he publishes untoward articles ruining her vestal reputation."

"You think anyone would believe that?"

"Wouldn't you know better?" Gwen laughed. "Is your written truth better certified than mine? I have Marchioness of Ely, Duchess Rothwell, and Lady Astor of Cliveden to vouch for me, and…"

Slapped by yet another bout of the girl's impertinence, Cribbage's patience had burnt its last wick.

"Keep that up, Miss Song, and 'Fatal Fire at West Ferry Press" may just adorn every headline in London," Cribbage whispered harshly. "You think a printing press doesn't have accidents? There are always problems with the machines. It would be a shame if—"

The man's next words caught in his throat.

There was a visible ripple of mana, then the Void Sorceress' pupils transformed into twin-points of depthless darkness. From the girl's torso, Ravenport could sense twin, concentric circles of Illusory mana permeate the space around her.

_Desolation Aura!_ Ravenport recognised the spell. So the girl succeeded in another Signature spell. How did Morrigan not know this?

"Before you froth and bite." Gwen raised her voice so that all present could hear. "Let me tell you something worthy of publishing— the names of the major stakeholders of the Isle of Dogs Reconstruction Project, of which the METRO press belongs to."

"First and foremost, there's my House Mistress, Lady Maxine Loftus."

Lady Loftus smiled in her usual serene manner.

"Then there's our angel investors, Lady Astor and Lady Rothwell."

The two ladies gave elegant nods.

"There is also milord Ruxin, Master of Nagaland, Kachin and Manipur, True Dragon and scion to the Yinglong," Gwen continued. "And over there are our friends from Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, who have a twenty per cent take in the press and its proceeds. The Shard also owes a stake in the press, such as the patent to our printing presses and its associated systems. We only own the ink."

It took Mycroft only a few seconds to process the girl's words, after which he had to suppress the urge to clap. He had seen the report months earlier and had been puzzled by her generosity. Now he knew, for though the patent for the press was given freely to the Mageocracy, the design had to use ink made by the Alchemist! If Gwen's press sold the ink, then the patent was itself a lure to consolidate buyers! She had a monopoly!

"And this is only the beginning." The smiling Void Sorceress patted the stunned Chief Editor on the shoulder as she passed, then opened her arms as if to envelop the crowd, her dark pupils returning to their usual clarity. "All are welcome to invest in suites, apartments, offices and condos on the Isle of Dogs. And the earlier you buy, the more profitable your venture shall be. By October, we will release Phase I's allotment, and you may purchase suites off-the-plan at an unmissable, competitive rate in the second heart of London."

Stricken by the depth of the girl's greed, Ravenport felt his thumbs prickle. The IoD group was gathering funds by selling off-the-plan! What a dastardly filthy idea. With Lady Grey, Astor and Rothwell's skin in the game, there was no way the scheme could be a scam. If so, then the early crow gets the latest chapter of the Count of Montecristo!

Gwen turned to Cribbage once more.

"You see? I do not need tricks." Gwen gave the shivering man a look of unadulterated wickedness. "Let us make something very, very clear, Mister Cribbage. You sell your paper, and I'll sell mine. You can put any old pile of horse shit into your paper, and I'll put the truth, or its nearest, verifiable facsimile. I don't need threats to evolve past your outdated business model, and I certainly don't need you or your backer's permission to operate. Come at me again with anything less than complete courtesy, and a raging Thunder Wyvern or a berserk Construction Golem will be the least of your worries, capeesh?"

Somewhere, a Dwarven Alchemist burst into rip-roaring laughter.

As for Ravenport, the final, non-sensical Italian was too much for the Duke of Norfolk, and he had to turn his head to hide his delight even as Cribbage stuttered and mumbled.

His mirth aside, however, what worried him was that despite everything, extrinsic details had slipped through the cracks. He knew almost too much about the METRO, the printing press and their beef with the Herald Sun. He even knew what volume two of the Count of Monte Cristo entailed well ahead of the public.

But he had heard nothing of note about the ink, and little else in regards to the property development on the Isle of Dogs.

Maybe, Ravenport looked around the garden; strangely, both of Gwen's Familiars, as well as the duck, were missing.
What if Morrigan's hunch was right? He wondered.
What if, indeed, the duck was a way of breaking through to the girl's inner circle?

**4th July 2005**
London, Westminster.
 _From the subject's internal filing, the circulation of the METRO is currently distributing between 450,000 to 500,000 copies per week._


_Caw—_
 _Caw— Caw—_
 _Caw— Caw— Caw!_

The ubiquitous crooning of Corvids at dusk was such an emblematic feature of London that it possessed the same ambience as vomiting drunks on Friday night.

With the sun fled and the lightless sky overcast with impending showers, the Tower's infamous murders flocked overhead, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, observing a swaggering trio of Magical Beasts sauntering away from Mudchute Farm.

Under normal circumstances, the farm's fences, not to mention its small battalion of Wolfhounds, would have prevented the entry or exit of magical fauna. These, however, were no mortal monsters.

One was a Pseudo Kirin fed on the Essence of a True Dragon and a primordial Tree Serpent, made mobile aerially by blessings no terrestrial mongoose could match.

Another was a Void beast, a thing of bottomless hunger that Consumed its way into possessing both form and ego, a deathless fiend even the Hvítálfar would think thrice about accosting.

The final member of the swag-posse was a duck that drank the milk of paradise and was now near-escaping the mortal coil, a mathematician and a lord of larceny cowing the students on Emmanuel's campus.

It was with great interest then that Morrigan divided her murder so that a flock of Corvids observed the Familiars, while the rest kept their eyes on Mudchute, where her principal observation subject was in the midst of orally flagellating the Editor-in-chief of the Herald Sun.

What dastardly evils could the Familiars and the duck be dreaming? Morrigan burned with curiosity.

In a row, lead by Dede, the creatures strolled into Millwall.

"Quack!" Dede raised a wing when he passed the Soup Kitchen. As with the construction site not far from Millwall's inner dock, the suburb burned the midnight oil. The clinic's patron, Elvia Lindholm, had secured funding from her new masters at the Order of the Bath and had expanded operations of late. Subsequently, "Evee's Clinic" and the "Our Lady Elvia's Soup Kitchen and Shelter" now operated twenty-four hours, drawing vagrants from far and wide.

Outside the clinic, Morrigan observed Gwen's predatory recruiters loitering about with pamphlets printed by the press, ready to seduce the honest swagman into dishonest work.

"Oi there, lass. Had a good feed, 'ave we?" The rat-faced men dressed in the navy-blue uniforms of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment Project, or IoDRP, would burst into bouts of capitalist evangelism. "Would yer like a job, feller? Full-time and all yer got ter do's hand out papers, don't even have to sell em! You there, lad, you look like you could shoulder a barrel of ink no problem, how about some gainful employment?"

More often than not, the churning maw of the press lured men and women from the surrounding boroughs into its depth, emerging attired in blue, confused and weighed down with work.

"Dede Duck! Mister Cali and Ariel!" The cries of children echoed in the night before emerging into the floodlight like a swarm of moths. Morrigan marvelled as the children began to dance around the trio, with Ariel emerging the clear favourite. That these kids weren't afraid of the Familiars gave the Sprite food for thought as to whether Caliban thought of the children as food.

Several of the children climbed onto Caliban, who hissed at them, sending the laughing kids scattering into the clinic before they emerged again, challenging one another to climb the snake.

Dede stood regally, observing the children, possibly considering the consequences of swallowing one wholesale.

"Yer Snots! Buzz off!" came a cry from the rumbling dark as a pair of headlights approached. From the rolling dust emerged a Dwarven Apprentice astride a Work Golem. "Don't play ed de road, yer Gobs! Do you want ter be stepped-on? Oh—"

"Quack! Quack!"

"Alright, alright, I didn't see yer duckness there." the Golem took a detour, churning up blocks of dark mud and construction debris as its three-claw toes sunk into the soft earth.

The kids blew raspberries at the Dwarf as the Golem passed.
Morrigan was just about to croon about the audacity of these NoM Goblins when a heavy-set nurse built like a Dwarven matron burst from the clinic with a booming cry.

"WHY ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DORMS?!" the NoM woman's voice may or may not have been naturally empowered with Clarion Call. "BACK! BACK YA GET! I SAID NOW, BILLY!"

The kids fled.
The woman, Morrigan saw, was the mistress of the orphanage now operating behind the clinic. Despite the rising land price, the subject had gifted the lease to a block of land for her friend Elvia's charitable endeavours.

"Terribly sorry, yer Familiarships." The woman scraped and bowed.

"Quack!" Dede fossicked inside the feathered breast, then tossed an HDM at the woman. "Quack!"

The NoM caught the crystal, bowed again, then retreated.

"Shaa Shaa!"
"EE!" The Familiars approved of the duck's generosity.

"Quack!" Dede raised its head high.

"Shaa Shaa!"
"EE!"

After a round of self-congratulations, the trio continued on their way. Puzzled as to their destination, Morrigan set a crow overhead.

Billingsgate Market! She realised at once when the crow cleared the dock's warehouses. At night was when the fishing fleet arrived at Canary to offload the fresh produce. Were these creatures on their way to pilfer the fishermen's hard-won labours?

Just as she wondered how the trio hoped to reach the market, Dede took flight, its wing-span almost two meters in length, dwarfing that of her Corvid spies. Ariel took to the air by stepping on invisible steps, allowing its sibling to coil around its torso to catch a ride.

Near the lower dock at Billingsgate, Blackwall, the scent of fish guts churning the Thames polluted the atmosphere with the stench of bacteria busy at decomposition. There, the Familiars landed, much to the shock of the fishermen and the workmen busy cleaning the night's catch.

"Quack!" Dede informed them that there was no cause for alarm, then took his companions toward the fishery.

"Your lordships!" The shopkeep, who must have recognised who these creatures belonged to, hailed them. "Are ya here to purchase fish for her Ladyship?"

"Quack!" Dede waddled closer. "Quack! Quack!"

"One moment." The man bowed. "Hey, you lot! Can anyone use Speak with Animals or Tongues?"

"I'll get me-Missus, she's a Diviner!" someone shouted from one of the bobbing ships swaying in the flickering dark.

Morrigan circled the docks as the men who were resting on their vessels disembarked to observe the spectacle of the "Familiars" running errands. This time of the night, the area churned with activity, with both Mages and NoMs swarming over the fresh catch. As for why they remained unfazed by the Familiars, Morrigan suspected it was because they were wearing bowties. Without doubt, these were educated Familiars.

A few minutes later, a young woman in rubber boots and a bloody apron rushed down from one of the larger ships.

"Your honours." The woman curtsied. "How can Fawsitt's be of service?"

"Quack! Quack!"

"Of course." The woman turned to her foreman. "Bring out the fresh catch from tonight."

The men soon produced several carts laden with fish.

"Quack! Quack!" Dede patrolled the produce. "Quack!"

"Six Sea Bass, Three Rainbow Bream and four kilos of the Ivory Scallops, de-shelled and cleaned!" the woman hollered.

While the men worked, there was an awkward silence. Once someone weighed the fishes, she demurely delivered the price.

"That's 17 HDMs and 11 LDMs, milords…"

"Quack!"

Caliban rose to its full height. Just before the seamen could holler blue murder, it coughed up a fistful of HDMs covered in grey goo.

"Quack!" Dede counted the crystals, then pushed them forward.

"… you want them bagged?" the Diviner chose not to question her good fortune.

Morrigan withdrew from her crows, feeling a little faint. There was the matter of training Spirit-Affinity through Humanisation, but what the hell was this? Why was a duck, a Void Fiend and a Kirin buying fish?

Also, how did Caliban cough up the right change?

In her mind's eye, across the docklands, the creatures' Master was now painting for the crowd a picture of a Millwall and Cubitt studded with skyscrapers and new residential apartments.

When her attention returned, the snake, duck and Kirin had finished eating.

The scallops were for Dede, while Ariel had the Bream. Caliban must have swallowed its meal wholesale, for there was nothing left but an empty cart.

Maybe they're returning to the Party now? Morrigan studied the fish carcasses. It was impossible for a duck to de-flesh a third-tier deep-sea fish with scales like steel plates, but Dede was able to peck part the fish with the ease of eating peas.

To her mortification, the trio's adventure continued. With Dede leading, the creatures continued to stroll toward Blackwall's night market, with the NoMs and the occasional late-working Mage sparing the trio a wide berth. Here and there, someone recognised the subject's Familiars, for the Void Sorceress' generosity on the Isle of Dogs ranged far, drawing labourers widely from London's Tower Hamlets.

Once inside the bustling night-market, the crows watched with fascination as Dede continued to dispense HDMs, trading with the locals for everything from hot plates of fish and chips to buckets of beer. From one seller, the duck bought the entire pot of spicy crawdads and gobbled the lot with Ariel. Afterwards, Caliban ingested the rest, stock-pot and all.

Then somewhere in the chaos, the duck and its gang of Familiars found something else of interest— a little girl in yellow Wellies and a pastel pink rain jacket. Morrigan had noted the girl earlier, who seemed to be lost or at least looking for someone. The market was bustling this time of night, with hundreds of fishmongers pushing the day's produce onto London's restauranteurs. The lass looked local, though it was without doubt that a little girl was out of place in a square stinking of decaying fish. The girl was cute, Morrigan decided, but exceptionally common.

"Quack?" Dede turned its head intelligently. The girl looked about nine or ten, barely as tall as the duck that now questioned her. "Quack?"

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"Ee!" Ariel swished its tail, patting the girl on the head as if to ask if she's alright. Beside it, Caliban drooled spicy hot sauce.

"Hello Mister Duck…" the girl looked up at the enormous duck with its rainbow-hued feathers. "And Mister Monsters."

"Quack!"
"Ee!"
"Shaa!"

"Oh, me? I am looking for my cat, Mittens" the girl explained. "She always runs away when fresh fish is arriving."

"Quack?"

"You want to help find Mittens?" The girl guessed at the duck's intent.

In contrary to the girl's belief, what Dede had said was "Get out of my way, peasant". It was a very duck thing to say, who were rude bastards compared to her Corvids.

"Thanks, Mister Duck!" the girl hugged the enormous waterfowl.

"Quack!" Dede replied the avian equivalent of, "Don't touch me, you Plebeian!"

"Okay, I think Mittens went this way!" the girl patted the duck on the snout. "Look for a Mittens this big. She's got short stumpy legs, a black patch on one eye, and a brown patch on her tail."

For a nervous second, Morrigan considered calling on Ravenport, for the duck looked as though it was seriously considering eating the NoM.

"Quack!
"EE!"
"Shaa!"

The other two reminded Dede that it was bad to harm humans.

"Quack…" Dede waddled after the girl as she skipped away. Up above, Morrigan furrowed her avian brows. Was this turning into a kidnapping incident? If Dede pulverised the ignorant girl by accident, who would take responsibility?

Her worries were for moot, for the foursome ran circles around the market until the NoM girl grew too tired to walk. Frustrated, she sat on the steps on a fishmonger's warehouse and began to sob, complaining that someone might have abducted her cat.

"EE!" Ariel was up in arms.
"Shaa!" Caliban likewise hollered.
"Quack!" Dede patted the NoM child on the head. "Quack!"

Seeing the trio so dejected, Morrigan decided she could perhaps do the duck a favour. After all, if she wanted Dede in her murder at a future date, it was good to establish diplomatic ties early on.

_Caw—_
 _Caw— Caw—_
 _Caw— Caw— Caw!_

A conflagration of dark feathers flocked overhead.

Ten minutes later, Morrigan found her mark.
There was a man putting cages into the back of a van not far from the market. She could sense that the man was a low-tier Evoker, one possessing just enough skill to be a pest-controller. Monster Catchers, the locals called them, a Mage variation of the traditional Rat-Catcher, a sort of bounty hunter who hunted small fauna that had grown used to the Tower's Shielding oscillation. Presently, the man had a dozen cages worth of wild beasts, both mundane and quasi-magical. Most places like Fish Market and the city's abattoirs hired such individuals, for the abundance of blood and offal attracted all kinds of nasties down in the sewers. Inside the van, near the outer row of cages, Morrigan spotted the girl's cat, meowing away.

Some distance away, a crow landed in front of the crying girl and her trio of frustrated animals.

"Caw! Caw!"

"Quack?"

"Caw!"

"Quack!" Dede pointed at the alleyway her crow had indicated. "Quack!"

"Shaa!"
"Ee!"
"Is that where Mitten's gone?" the girl ran after the hopping crow.

Morrigan suspected having the little girl confront a scallywag Evoker over the matter of a cat might not be the best idea— until she reminded herself this wasn't her rodeo, but Dede's. If Dede could swat down Elite Mages attending Cambridge, why would it fear a mere Monster Catcher? Likewise, it had a Void Fiend and a Kirin to back it up— both lacked the means to activate their Combat Forms, lest Gwen calls them back, but dealing with a mere goon was no object.

Just in case the man drove off without the girl finding him, she sent crows to harass the Evoker. As expected, the scoundrel was quick to pull a few Magic Missiles at her birds, resulting in her creature fleeing the scene imbued with her shadow magic.

"MITTENS!" the little girl cried out the moment she burst onto the scene of the swearing Monster Catcher. "Mittens is in that cage! The bad man has her!"

"Stand back!" the man growled, having just fought off a murder of crows— and everyone knew just how unlucky it was to be accosted by crows in London. "Nonsense, young lady, here is a... Sumerian Dagger-Toothed Tiger! Albeit a young one. It'll take off your hand in one bite!"

"No! That's Mittens!" the NoM lass insisted. "Give her back!"

The man glanced behind her, then gulped. "Jesus Christ, that's a fat duck."

From her rooftop vantage, Morrigan could see that Dede had arrived on the scene to act as the distraction while the other Familiars circled from behind.

Pack tactics! The Sprite marvelled. How did the duck learn this?

"Quack!" Dede demanded the return of the cat so he could get on with it. To lubricate the process, it rummaged in its chest feathers for another HDMs crystal and tossed it at the Evoker's feet.

The Monster Catcher picked up the HDM and took a bite with his good teeth, testing the hardness. When the crystal proved to be real, the man eyed the duck, then slowly wetted his parched lips.
Morrigan recognised the bloodshot look in the man's eyes.
Here was not a man marvelling at a duck tossing an HDM, but a man wondering if there were more HDMs inside the duck. Granted, a duck of Dede's size could probably hide a small fortune.

The little girl approached, heedless of the Evoker's expression, her small hands reaching for Mitten's cage, who was now meowing frantically.

"Is this your duck, lassie?" the man may as well have "villain" stamped on his forehead.

"Give Mittens back!" the girl demanded. "She's mine!"

Morrigan could see the hunter looking around. He and the girl were alone— not in the sense that no one was watching from the small townhouse windows surrounding the alley, but that there was no one to stop the man from taking what he wanted.

He glanced at the back of his van, only quarter-filled with dead and dying Monsters, then at the giant, HDM producing rainbow duck.

Life for a Monster Catcher was hard, this Morrigan knew. On a good day, there were enough Magical Creatures in the sewers to eat you alive. On a bad day, the monsters had their meal.

Unsurprisingly, the man chose to grasp this unlikely opportunity.

"Girl, tell your duck to get in the can, and I'll give you back your cat," the man promised.

The girl glanced at Dede, then back toward the Evoker. "No!"

The man materialised a catcher-pole from his Storage Ring. "Not your duck? I am afraid that duck is a public hazard. I'll have to take it into custody."

The little girl must have grown afraid, for she released her grip and began to shout that Dede needed to flee. Morrigan wondered why the man thought it was a good idea to catch a creature as conspicuous as Dede, but then again, human greed had lead to absurder and stranger acts by far.

"Come on, now.' The Evoker edged closer to Dede, its catcher-pole primed and ready to wrangle the duck by the neck. "Be a good duck now and— Whoa!"

_CLANG!_

With one swipe of its wing, Dede deformed the hollow pole with the attached claw. When the Evoker attempted to use the bent head to snag Dede's neck, it pecked at the mechanism, tearing apart the metal as though it were paper.

"Jesus Christ!" The Catcher allowed the pole to fall when Dede tore the thing from his grasp with force rivalling a CQB Mage imbued with Ogre's Strength.

_Crunch!_

With a stomp, the duck crushed the pole underfoot. "Quack!"

"Little ducker—!" The Catcher swore. Pulling back, he instantly erected a Mage Shield, then buffed himself. "Enhanced Strength!"

Perhaps it was dark, or maybe the man just wasn't that smart, but he did not notice as Morrigan did that the pavement under the drake's webbed feet fissured.

When Dede did not attack, the man raised a hand in warning. "You better come quietly, duck. Don't make this harder for either of us. I work for the Tower."

"Mittens! Mittens!" The little girl, perhaps realising she had one chance, frantically pulled at the cage piled on top of a row of other pens. Thanks to the Catcher's preoccupation with a colossal duck, she managed to climb up to the second row before her luck ran out.

With a sound of warping wires, the whole rack began to backslide, sending the animals inside tumbling toward her.

"Quack!" The Catcher didn't care, for the girl was neither his child nor his liability. The duck, however, did fancy itself responsible for the human it had inadvertently adopted.

"EE!" A flash of light, quick as a flaring lumen-bulb on a recorder, turned the alleyway momentarily quicksilver. When Morrigan's crows regained their sight, Ariel in its Ermine-Kirin form stood beside the van, the little girl half-caught in its mouth, while a small mountain of cages fell over its robust body.

The Catcher turned to look at the Kirin.

The man's eye lit up with undisguised eagerness. "Well, I'll be damned—What's a thing like you doing here in London? Do you have an owner?"

"EE!" Ariel shrieked in warning, sounding as cute as ever.

Morrigan seriously began to doubt the Catcher's survival rate. Was the idiot thinking of catching Ariel for a reward, perhaps selling it to one of the local syndicates who would inevitably present it for auction in the Grey Market? Still, even without having seen the IIUC, common sense dictates that this was a powerful Mage's Familiar. Can't the man see that here was a Kirin! A chimeric Draconic being! Did he have cabbage for brains? Did he write for the Herald Sun?

"EE!"

From his Storage Ring, the man produced yet another catcher-pole. This time, Morrigan could see that it was a magical device, one with a Glyph that caused paralysis and numbness when the barbed mouth closed. Against mundane Magical Creatures lucky enough to survive the resonance, it would work wonders.

"Quack!" Dede told Ariel to get back. The Familiar belonged to the subject and would get into trouble if it dismembered a human in the centre of London. As for Dede, he was a wild, proud and free-living Magical Creature, or so Morrigan discerned; that and there was no crime in acting in self-defence.

"Buzz Off!" The Evoker snapped at Dede, fearful that the cute dog-thing would escape while he fended off the overlarge duck.

When Dede aimed for his pole again, the man lost his temper.

"Magic Missile!" Three shrieks of unerring mana shot toward Dede's chest.

SPAK! SPAK! SPAK!

Dede swatted aside the missiles without blinking. "Quack!"

The Monster Catcher's eyes almost popped out of their swollen sockets. In his carelessness, his pole went wide, near grazing the little girl were it not for Ariel jousting the claws with its horns.

"EE!" Ariel grunted as the paralysis sorcery struck. Its fur bristled— Morrigan could imagine the Monster Catcher becoming a human pin-cushion in the next second.

"Shit!" The Catcher erected a Shield again, but this time, his Mage Shield failed to form a semi-dome.

Caw—!
Caw—! Caw—!

Morrigan crows hollered blue murder, flocking into the skies.

The Monster Catcher turned to examine what had blocked his Shield.

"SHAA—SHAA!" Morrigan felt every hair on her scalp stand on end as the monstrous Void Fiend exploded forth from the darkness, its segmented body tearing open to reveal a multitude of tentacles. With a splatter of grey saliva, Caliban smothered the man from head to toe with non-digestive juices.

"ARRRRGH—! ARRRRRGH—!" The man began to scream.

"AEEEEE!" The little girl screamed as well.

"MEORRRWL! WEEEEERARAGH!" Mittens fought the cage, determined to do or die in an attempt to escape. The other animals, from foxes to dogs to hedgehogs that wandered into the wrong borough, raged within the van's caged confines, fighting the barriers, fighting one another.

"Quack! Quack!" Dede added a much-needed percussion.

"EE! EE—! EE—!" And Ariel added the castrato vocals.

"SHAA— SHAA— SHAA—" Caliban began its aberrant serenade, joining the choir of madness.

"Caw! CAW—!" The sound of crooning crows added the final touch to the Magical Creature variation of Dante Alighieri's Virgil falling to hell, reified by a hundred frantic string-segments.

When finally Caliban's tendril forced open the man's clenched mouth for a sloppy, spicy-crawdad kiss, the Monster Catcher's sanity evaporated.

From above, Morrigan watched the man go limp.
Dede pecked open the cage as though it were paper. The cat was now catatonic, though that was beside the point. In the sobbing girl's arms, Dede deposited the limp feline.

In the distance, the sound of police sirens added to the chaos.

"Quack!" Dede pointed toward the Isle of Dogs, indicating that they should split post-haste. With practised expertise, Caliban mounted onto Ariel, then the trio made their escape into the night, trailed by a murder of curious crows.

Her remaining Corvid looked down at the foaming Catcher and the confused, crying girl. Feeling overwhelmed by inexplicable fatigue, Morrigan sighed. The Familiars were gone, but someone had to waffle-stomp the shit stain they left behind.

A split-second later, Morrigan assumed control of the crow.

"Hey you," she addressed the girl, who was on the verge of hysteria after her allies fled, leaving her with a van full of hooting animals and a nasty bloke that even now twitched involuntarily.

The girl looked up with large, liquid eyes. "Birdie?"

"Yes, tis I, birdie." Morrigan nodded her avian head intelligently.

"Where did Mister Duck go? I just wanted to find Mittens…"

The child's mental elasticity in facing otherworld horrors was nothing short of incredible. Hopping on to the girl's shoulder, she patted the girl on the head. "What's your name, child?"

"Sandy."

"Sandy, when the police get here, I want you to say nothing. I'll take care of it, and after that, the nice officers will take you home, okay?"

"Okay." Sandy nodded. "Is Mitten going to be okay?"

Morrigan examined the cat. Physically, the cat was okay. Mentally, the cat had screamed out all nine of its lives.

"I don't think Mittens will be running away again," she assured the girl.

It took only a few more minutes for two officers to alight from a squad car. Following protocol, the two advanced into the alleyway with wands raised, their off-hands operating hovering Light Globes.

"MPS! Hands and Wands on the floor!" the leading officer, a Senior Sergeant, flicked off the safety on his Baton-wand. "Move away from the body!"

Morrigan's crow watched while Sandy turned, the girl's face ashen from the sight of two armed officers.

"It's a little girl… with a cat," the Senior Sergeant identified their culprit. "I see the victim. I think it's the local Monster Catcher."

"Right." The second officer lowered his wand. "Little girl, did you do this?"

"Caw!" Morrigan flapped her wings to catch their attention. "No need for alarm, Officers. You're speaking to a Tower Crow, Officer Code: TC21319. Watchword 'Raven's Loft'. The girl's with me and the man's alive, just unconscious. He's a smuggler who has been kidnapping local pets. Just check his van and his home, and you'll find what you need."

"Sarge." The younger man gulped. "Is she one of them Tower Crow Mages?"

The older man packed away his Baton-Wand, then swatted the youngster on the helmet. "That's Magus to you, dimwit. Sorry, Ma'am, do you mind if we run your ID code?"

"Go ahead."

The Senior Sergeant took a moment to communicate with Scotland Yard. When the Message returned, he bowed, as did the younger man. "Lord Magister, how may we be of service?"

"Take this girl and her cat home," Morrigan commanded, indicating with her beak. "I have business elsewhere."

"Yes, Ma'am." The men bowed again.

"Sandy, go with them."

"Okay, birdie." The little girl quickly ran into the officer's open arms.

"Don't you worry, Miss Sandy, we'll see you home," the Seargent explained. "Have a good night, Ma'am."

Morrigan nodded her avian head at the officers. "Goodnight, officers."

The sergeant and the constable saluted.

Morrigan retracted her mind.

That wasn't at all how she had hoped to contact the duck, but what was done was done. If her Master would allow it, all that's left was to cement the bond of Corvid and Drake.


**Tuesday, 5th of July 2005**
London, Westminster.
 _Project Mockingbird is nearing completion, and Iris Robertson has delivered the manuscript to the subject. A copy of the document has been obtained for your pleasure._

"Dear Fifth Cabal," read the page inside the manuscript's jacket. "I have made this copy available for the birdies always watching outside.

— From your friends at Westferry METRO Printing Press."

Ravenport snorted.
The girl had quite the imagination.
Nonetheless, despite this latest elucidation, the moniker of "Mockingbird" still made Ravenport wary. That was why, when his real work was finished, the Duke materialised the manuscript to check for insurgent details.

If need be, members of Westminster's Parliament may move motions to ban books. Any such action, however, was sure to raise hell among The Commons. Even her Majesty who rarely took a stance frowned on the notion of book burning, for during the Great War, a great many pigeon-winged grimoires penned by Necromancy partisans were destroyed to satisfy the Accord.

Still, the more Ravenport masticated the prose within this "To Kill a Mockingbird", the more he felt the suspicion of something unspeakable coming to pass.

At the same time, he couldn't quite place his finger on the ley-line.

Running his thumb across the spine of the stapled manuscript, he flipped through the finger-thick novella once more. Within the ghostwriter's vision of the girl's avian tale, there were three Mages by the avian name Finch— the Father, Henrik; the son, James; and the youngest, a little girl called Allie living in post-Tide Sydney's regional Frontier. Henrik was an Arbiter, a Pan-European War veteran-widower who had immigrated to Sydney, only to catch the full brunt of the Tide. The story, strangely enough, was not told from the perspective of Henrik but narrated through the deceptively observant voice of Allie, a future Fire Transmuter with great potential. In the first section of the novel, the kids hunted Gobs and amused themselves with their friend's imaginary Quests, causing no end of trouble around the outback township. Their live-action roleplay, unfortunately, progressed into demeaning a half-dumb local veteran with crippling trauma from the war. When finally the Henrik caught wind of the kids' actions, he schooled his children with this to say:

"You'll never really understand a person, be they NoM or Mage 'til you consider things from their point of view— 'til you walk a mile in their shoes."

It was a good analogy, though Ravenport suspected that as the father possessed the might of a Magister, he could have meant Polymorph.

As the plot progressed, the kids went to Primary School and befriended NoMs for the first time. When James brought an NoM girl home for dinner, Allie insulted the girl, then bespoke that James' companion, "Isn't anything at all, she's just an NoM." To Ravenport's distaste, it was then the family's NoM nanny, Old Goolagong, who gave Allie a tongue-lashing with the full support of father Finch.

There were many such highlights in the novel, including one that stayed with Ravenport. It was an interlude incident involving a raving mad Abyssal Goose that roved into town, sending the guards to flee. In the end, it was Henrik who emerged from their house to wrangle the beast with his sorcery, teaching the kids that though violence is a solution to most problems— it should never be the only solution. There was a "spell" of the hand and a "spell" of the heart— and one must never lose sight of why God gave a Mage his or her "gift".

The primary plot then opened midway in the sense of an NoM labourer accused of attempted rape after she showed him kindness. At first, the kids were appalled, until their father revealed that he was the Arbiter defending said NoM. When the kids experienced the derogatory truncation of being "NoM-Lovers" at school, the father told them that "'NoM' is a foul and ugly label'" and that "NoM-Lover is a term used by ignorant, trashy people."

Once more, Ravenport felt that within the book's perfectly reasonable prose, there existed an air of sedition.

Eventually, after defending the NoM with his life and having James and Allie dissuade an angry mob of low-tier Mages from tearing the NoM limb-from-limb, the climax struck in the courtroom, and it was this particular segment that gave the Duke of Norfolk the heebie-jeebies.

In court, the father of the victim demanded nothing less than a live lynching of the "yonder NoM" who was "rutting my Mary." Yet, through Divination, hard evidence and tack-sharp cross-examination, Henrik managed to prove beyond doubt that it was the father himself that had caught Mary flirting with the man, and then in a fit of insane, petty rage, aberrantly abused his child.

Then, with the full and disgusting picture revealed, the case came down to a jury of Magic-wielding peers serving in the local militia. There, despite the impossibility of an NoM overpowering the teenage Transmuter and clear evidence of the father's sins, the Mages voted against the NoM. When the kids asked in the aftermath if dingoes had fled with the court's justice, the father had this to say.

"There's something in our society that makes the Magic-wielding folk lose their heads— and for that, they couldn't see past their noses if they tried. In our courts, when it's a Mage's word against a NoM's, the Mage always wins. It always takes a Mage to fight a Mage— a sad fact of life. The Empire's courthouse is a place were a Mage and a Non-Magical Human is equal, but a court is only as sound as its jury, and the jury is only as sound as the Mages who make it. I have already used every tool available to save Thomas, Allie— but in the secret courts of Mages' hearts, Thomas was dead the moment her father heard Mary hollering."

Curiously, that was not the end of the novel. During the case, Henrik publically made Bob into a pariah. In his rage, Bob sought revenge by attacking Jame and Allie. Though young, the just-Awakened James held off the foul-mouthed Evoker just enough for a saviour to arrive, preventing Allie from her first live-burning. As to that saviour, it was the veteran who the kids earlier mocked.

In the aftermath, there was one more poignant allegory for the kids to learn.

"It's a sin to kill a mockingbird. They don't do one thing except for miming our voice and singing their hearts out. That's why its a sin to kill a mockingbird."

Finally, in the epilogue, Henrik went on to become a Tower Master, James became his Paladin, and Allie took up a life of service fighting against exploitive and malignant Mages exploiting NoMs as a firebrand sorceress.

As a bystander reading between the fictive lines, Ravenport felt an indescribable sense of passive oppression. One for the plot's heartrending description of the quality of life NoMs experienced after the Tide, and two for the fact that the book was a blatant attempt at altering Kilroy's legacy.

But more than that, what Ravenport mulled over was what the story represented of the girl's innate views on the Mageocracy.

For someone like Ravenport, the Non-Magical Human population was a fact of life in the same manner serfdom was a fact of the medieval Empire. All around Terra, the Hvítálfar had the Träälvor; the Deepdowners had the Murk Dwellers; the Trolls ruled the Hobs, and the Hob ate the Gobs who ate the Snots. Therefore, it was well-within the Chain of Being that Mages were superior to NoMs, despite NoMs giving birth to Mages.

As to who gets chosen, who awakens and what wild magic emerges, the "gift" of arcanistry was a force majeure in the same manner as the Beast Tides. Of course, Humanity had since gained some control over incidence and occurrence of such things, but the fact remained that a dual-element Lightning-Void Sorceress could be born from a renowned Salt Mage and a low tier Evoker.

Was this why religion remained so entrenched? Ravenport mused himself.

Nonetheless, the girl's propensity for NoM welfare fed the Duke of Norfolk food for thought.

As a subject who was shaping up as the Mageocracy's "Vorpal Sword", it only made sense that the Mageocracy sheathed her in a jewelled scabbard. A naked blade was, after all, a danger to oneself, no matter how skilled the wielder.

Politically speaking, the girl's actions aligned strongly with the socialist members of the Labour Party. She appeared to believe that indeed, NoMs were "Equal" both abstractly, socially and economically to the Mage.

Yet unlike the inward-turning Leftists, she was a right-winged economist. Within the Mageocracy's political spectrum, only the Grey Faction's most ardent members believed in total economic integration on a global scale with Demi-humans. Of which Gwen had already demonstrated by using a Chinese-Burmese True Dragon's hoard as her piggy bank, as well as integrating Dwarven technology into her and the Tower's businesses.

How could the silly girl hope to reconcile these two extremes when arguably, for most Demi-humans, Mages were a food that fought back and therefore demanded recognition, while NoMs were food, full-stop? What would happen when she forges a blood-bound alliance with a Clan of Draconoids who hunted Humans for sport? What if she had to choose between all-out war with a Vampire Count leaving or leaving the NoMs as dumb, bipedal blood-cattle?

For that, not even the Duke of Norfolk had answers, though he did look forward to the girls' inevitable consternation.

**Thursday, 7th July 2005**
London, Westminster.
 _A request has arrived from Trawsfynydd asking after the subject. I have forwarded the request to your official desk. RP.2143.323.00.1_

 **Monday, 11th July 2005**
London, Westminster.
 _The subject has returned from visiting Knight-Initiate Lindholm in Battle. Between mid-July and October, Initiate Lindholm will be assigned to the 4th Expedition to Glenveagh, Northern Island, as a part of the Order's annual duties against Fomorian aggression. Her Knight, Sir Mathias Rothwell, will be attending; together they make one of ten Ordo-attendants assigned to Lord Glenwell's Forward Operating Base at Lough Beagh. Lady Grey has expressly warned the subject not to travel to Glenveagh lest she amplified Ireland's problems._

**Friday, 15th July 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse.
 _With the aid of Magister Brown and Major Kott, the following spells have been provisionally made available to the subject. The Shard has approved of the following variations._

**Lesser Sanguine Mantle**
Abjuration-Transmutation
Casting Time: 81 Major
Range: Self
Components: Blood, Somatic
Duration: Channelled
_For the original conversion by Henry Kilroy, see Sanguine Mantle. This unique variation of Sanguine Mantle only works with Demi-human and Magical Creatures. Derived from True Vampiric Thaumaturgy, the spell requires blood-letting as a part of its initial-invocation, either from the user or the caster's opponent. Once manifested, the Mantle serves as a fully articulated heavy-tier armour, with a potency that increases with the caster's Affinity in Abjuration. When in use, the armour remains in a semi-gel-like state as per the original, reacting instantly to incoming attacks, offering significant boosts to physical and elemental resistance, as well as spell-resistance. Users should beware that damage to the armour exhausts the plasma fed into the spell. Without means to replenish one's vitality, self-inflicted exhaustion from blood loss will occur._

**Reactive Bone Shield**
Conjuration-Evocation
Casting Time: 81 Major
Range: Self
Components: Creature Core, Somatic
Duration: Until Dismissed
 _For the original conversion, see Necromantic Archives for Bone Shield. This unique variation of Bone Shield is a modified alternative that cannot be fuelled by Human remains. Instead, it utilises etched Creature Cores to mimic the original invocation, allowing the caster to conjure forth articulated barriers formed of Elements unique to the material consumed. Once active, the reactive shield manifests a number of times approximately equating the caster's tier of Affinity in Abjuration._

_Note: Of the two spells, Reactive Bone Shield was put into circulation in the Shard's Grimoire, while Lesser Sanguine Mantle has made its mark as the subject's Signature Spell._

**Sunday, 17th July 2005**
London, Westminster.
 _The subject's contingent of NoM accountants from Shanghai has arrived at Heathrow. Following quarantine procedures, the men and women received their visitation permits and relocated to the Isle of Dogs._

"Morrigan." Ravenport briefly glanced at the dossier on each of the tier 1 city clerks. Like most Westerners, he was prone to Asian face-blindness, and so chose to rely on the judgement of his mistress of secrets. "Are there anything of note with these… workers?"

"They're from the group responsible for bringing down the Tonglv triumvirate," Morrigan explained. "As far as NoMs go, their backgrounds are clean. Their previous employee, Professor James Ma, is a squib with little dealings outside of tertiary education and his more recent role acting as CCDI's internal revenue auditor."

Ravenport eyed the report once more. "This is unprecedented."

"It is rather unusual," Morrigan agreed. "Forty-three expatriate NoMs moved from the Orient into the Empire in one week, and from a Communist nation no less."

"I meant the cost." Ravenport tapped his fingers on the table. "Gwen spent over fifty thousand HDMs moving nameless NoMs from Shanghai to London. What kind of NoMs are worth that kind of money?"

"They're experienced professionals in their field."

"We have analysts as well, here in the kingdom." Ravenport touched a finger to his temple to massage his throbbing head. "NoM auditors… is she going to replicate Tonglv in London?"

"That probability is high." Morrigan ran the numbers. "A reckoning of the Isle of Dog's internal accounts may be nigh; our Mages are no less immune to skimming funds than the Orientals."

Ravenport eyed another stack of reports he had yet to have time to decipher.

"The land sales began last week," Morrigan reminded him. "If you recall, there was a double-page advert in the Metro and the Telegraph. The IoDRP sold its first allotment within twenty-four hours."

"What's the isle's land value now?"

"Approximately 578% since January, and rising."

"Give me concrete numbers."

"The Isle of Dog is a small peninsula." Morrigan conjured up a shadowy, illusory map. "But it now has the transport infrastructure rivalling that of a major hub in London. If we discount the inner dock and the printing press…"

Morrigan pointed to the outer edges of Millwall, tracing her fingers along the seawall until she reached Cubitt Town. "… there's more than two decade's worth of developments to be made. The apartment towers she proposed are also highly unorthodox. The filter rooms and the parking is underground, as expected, but the ground floor and the second floor will not serve as a foyer, but as shopfronts, cafes and restaurants adjoined by waterfront parklands."

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"How much to purchase a two-bedroom suite overlooking the quay?" Ravenport furrowed his brows.

"Between 25,000 HDMs to 45,000 HDMs off-the-plan, milord." The Sprite was quick with the mathematics. "Many of the NoMs in the area are selling their leaseholds to the highest bidder for thousands of HDMs, then purchasing homes outright adjacently in Rotherhithe and Greenwich."

"… Preposterous!" Ravenport breathed through clenched teeth.
NoMs with HDM! What's next? Mermen wanting to buy studios adjoining the Thame?

To an NoM labourer who usually used the overinflated coin currency the state provided, a hundred HDMs were a veritable fortune, enough to keep a family of four fed for a year. Now, overnight, more than a hundred NoMs were moving out of Millwall with more HDMs than they would ever see in their lives. Was that a good thing, Ravenport wondered, or something that will bring the newly wealthy leasers untoward danger and misery? After all, it was one thing to possess so much HDMs, and another thing to be able to keep the proceeds.

"Did you obtain a copy of their intake?"

Morrigan made a strange face. "Milord…"

The Sprite materialised a richly produced pamphlet hard-covered with Wildland vellum. "I passed a Message through the duck. Subsequently, Magister Eric Walken gave my crows one of these."

Ravenport raised a critical brow, then ran his finger over the cover. There was an illusion-Glyph embedded into the vellum, one that activated once he sent a jolt of mana into the parchment.

Instantly, a scene of the Isle of Dogs choked full of gleaming skyscrapers, gardens, terraces and parks came into view. Doubtlessly, a master Illusion-artisan had meticulously crafted the faux-skyline.

"Interesting." He opened the first page.

A flood of information popped into existence, hovering over the inscribed vellum.

"The subject calls this an 'Infographic'," Morrigan explained. "It is a little amazing."

In the next moment, the illusory sorceress' sultry voice began her siren's song.

"The Isle of Dogs Restoration Projection Corporation presents its first integrated, Illusion-infused Quarterly Report to communicate how our business operates. Within this report, you will find fact-checked, internally-audited performance metrics, as well as an introduction to our prospects— know that always, transparency is the isle's watchword..."

The scene changed, switching to a headshot of the subject in a grided window, next to her, Ravenport recognised the faces of Maxine Loftus, Jane Rothwell, and Lucy Astor. In the fourth column, there was a handsome mien with a stag-horned head, who Ravenport could only assume to be Ruxin. The fifth column contained a fair of faces he recognised as the siblings from Yangon's royal household.

He turned the page.
The visage of the girl smiled at him alluringly.

"The Mageocracy in which we operate is rapidly changing. Many global trends, including urbanisation and magi-tech from both Dwarven and Elven sources, are reshaping the way Mages and our Non-Magical family across the Prime Material live their lives and build their homes..."

"How do I skip this?"

"Turn the page, milord."

Ravenport turned the page. There was a number that popped up in emerald green, under which there was a smaller font.

"… 16.3 Million?" The Duke of Norfolk almost dropped the hardcover pamphlet.

"That includes all forty units in the initial sale, including two discounted penthouse suites."

The subject's voice continued in the background. "To our esteemed investors, we would like to report that our profit after tax in the second quarter of 2005 is 9.5 Million HDMs…"

"...What's the girl's share?"

"Her consultancy rate is 1% of net." Morrigan's eyes appear to glow in the dark. "Her stake in the IoDRP is 34%, though near all of it is technically owed to the Dragon Ruxin. She likewise has proxy control over Mayuree and Marong's 4%."

"She has generated 165,000 HDMs in six months?"

"After Corporate and Individual Tax, milord, the subject has acquired between 100,000 to 110,000 HDMs."

"9.5 Million HDMs…" Ravenport felt his pulse quicken. Last financial year, the entirety of Norfolk Estate's income was a "mere" 4.75 Million HDMs, and most of it was spent on maintenance, reconstruction and public service. The amount that reached the estate's coffers was less than 500,000 HDMs.

Yet here, the untitled girl made in six months a quarter of the income of his entire estate! He was the Duke of Norfolk! He maintained properties from the edge of Hunstanton to the western reaches of Great Yarmouth! Of course, the estate wasn't his only revenue stream, there were also the Royal Docks, the Grey Markets, Sotheby's Auction House, proceeds from the Militant's wars, so on and so on, but this was one girl! In six months! With no peerage or land!

"Turn the page, milord." Morrigan appeared to be enjoying herself.

Ravenport wondered if he should turn the page at all lest his hypertension acted up again, but did so anyway with the mind of a martyr.

The girl's smiling face and striking eyes appeared once more.

"By 2010, we aim to generate a billion HDM in turnover…" her voice began.

Ravenport snapped the vellum shut.

One per cent of a billion crystals was ten million HDMs.

At the bare minimum, the girl would be worth a million HDMs a year by 2010?

If such a subject was to become the Master of a Crytal-forged Tower, what would her Majesty make of her? Ravenport felt his shirt grow clammy. A Tower Master with that kind of financial backing and that kind of personal income; had such a thing ever occurred in the history of the Mageocracy? How should his Faction react to such a being?

**Tuesday, 19th July 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
 _The subject has let it be known that "beta-testers" of the Dwarven Press will receive discounted ink and free mechanical service; late-comers will pay full fare. Together, including the Shard's Archive Division, a total of 128 units have been ordered, including a ten-year loan contract with the Guardian Newspaper._

**Thursday, 21st July 2005**
London, Westminster.
 _The Dwarven Captain, Hanmoul Bronzeborn, son of Dwomrul, kin to the Alchemist Yossari Vildrenbrandt, has arrived at the Isle of Dogs, bringing news of progress throughout the Murk. Though the tunnelling itself has progressed commendably, there were significant losses from both our Adventurers and the Dwarves' Iron Guards. The subject has promised to convene with Hilda, a Deepdowner at a later date when an opportunity arrives._

**Saturday, 23rd July 2005**
Cambridge, Emmanuel College
_I am pleased to report that the murder previously involved in the Monster Catcher incident have befriended Dede. The duck's greed has proven to be more acute than previously anticipated, which has made the creature susceptible to gastronomic and economic temptations. A suspicious Magister Brown has made enquiries through the Shard; though we have chosen not to disclose any unnecessary information._

**Monday, 25th July 2005**
London, Westminster.
 _The METRO has reached 700,000 in circulation and has begun delivery to outer suburbs and shires around London. The paper's continued publication of the Count of Monte Cristo has contributed significantly to the METRO's success. As of this time, the paperback edition of the novel's first volume has gone on sale together with "Mockingbird". Due to pressure from the Barlow Group, most of London's chain-bookstores have chosen not to carry books from the Metro Press. However, the subject has retaliated by allowing both books to be sold by the three thousand odd NoMs distributing the METRO. Significant friction has resulted throughout the industry as a result._

**Tuesday, 2nd of August 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse
 _Progress befriending the duck known as Dede continues. Though the creature's original home is the Duck Ponds at Emmanuel, it has grown accustomed to following the subject to the Isle of Dogs. There, it has gained a popular following among the children at the orphanage, where it now acts as a foster-patron. The children have begun to call themselves "Children of the Duck". Milord, as yourself have sponsored orphans of the military, I do believe "The Crow Children" make an excellent moniker._

On this day, Ravenport decided rewarding excess blood to Morrigan was a bad idea.

**Tuesday 9th of August 2005**
London, Westminster
_Milord, allow me to note that Trawsfynydd has continued to ask after the subject. Master Eldrin has enquired if he should send a contingent from the Diplomatic Corps. See MM 413.524.32.9_

**Thursday, 11th of August 2005**
London, Westminster
_Phase II of the Isle of Dogs Redevelopment has started in Cubitt Town. The second high rise block will consist of 55 units split between 20 studios, 20 two-bedroom apartments, 13 three-bedroom apartments, two penthouse suites and 3,700 square meters of commercial space overlooking the now pristine inner dockland. The projected cost of the design rests at 837,000 HDMs, with another 200,000 in liquid capital preserved from Phase I profits._

**Wednesday, 17th of August 2005**
London, Westminster
_The Earl of Huntingdon and the Viscount Torrington of her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition have issued an injunction on the floor of the Upper House against "To Kill a Mocking Bird" on the grounds of its seditious allegory. Fierce contest has arisen from Her Majesty's Government, lead by Dame Emilia Callaghan, Chief Whip, climaxing in a near-brawl on the parliament floor. The ghostwriter, Iris Robertson of Dublin, has refused all interviewers, leaving only the comment "Let the people judge." The Barlow Group's backers, together with London's major private publishers, are likely behind the move to shut down "The riotous press at Westferry"._

Ravenport rubbed his chin.
As if he hadn't got enough on his plate with the American upstarts in the Elemental Sea or the Lycanthropic tribes in the Niger Delta; now the House of Lords was pressuring his office to give up the dirt on Iris Robertson. Of course, he would if he could, but the NoM was a tool and not even the original wielder at that. What could the woman give up? Nothing but a waste of his time. Had the girl planned this, or was it a simple coincidence?

Conversely, this French fellow, Victor Verne, was receiving attention like no other. Though he confessed to having composed the text from a "discovered, partial manuscript" with elements of "realism and historical research", the man was fast becoming a trending celebrity in the English and French-speaking world.

"Morrigan, if any of the Militants do anything stupid to Iris Robertson, record everything, especially if Gwen gets involved."

"I wouldn't worry, milord, but I shall do as you ask."

"And why is that?"

"The writer currently resides on the Isle of Dogs," Morrigan replied. "A stone's throw away from the Printing Press, there's enough Mages and Dwarven Golems there to fend off one of your Queen's best Griffin Flights. Dominic Lorenzo has also put safety measures in place for the subject's pet author through the Cabals."

"… I see." Ravenport took a moment to gather his thoughts. Taking into account Eric Walken, Fabricator Golems, Lady Grey's Kennel Master, the Chinese Mages permanently stationed on the Isle of Dogs and the students working odd jobs on-site, he really couldn't imagine a scenario where a bully gang of sorcerous thugs broke down an author's door. "Well then, carry on."

**Tuesday 23rd of August 2005**
London, Isle of Dogs
 _The METRO has issued a double-page spread condemning the censuring of Mockingbird, together with signed petitions from the Labour protests. As a result of the parliament's censure appearing throughout the Telegraph, Herald Sun, the Guardian and the METRO, sales have increased fifteen-fold. Internal documents from the subject's press indicate that well over 64,000 copies have circulated._

Ravenport sighed deeply.
His political companions had truly raw-dogged the Cerberus by bringing this damn book of no-repute into public ill-repute. With "allies" like these, who needed enemies?

**Friday 26th of August 2005**
London, Westminster
 _The debate over the book's contents continued to rage, dividing opinions in both the Upper and Lower Houses. Chief Whip Callaghan has cited the impossibility of censoring a book now so widely in circulation and has invited her opposition to try and silence "the people"._

**Monday, 5th September 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse
 _Sales of "Mockingbird" has broken 100,000. Circulation of the Metro's latest edition has broken 1,000,000 with a special edition promoting the book. Concurrently, the IoDRP has taken out multiple double-page spreads in the paper lauding the prospects of the Isle of Dogs with a public announcement that they will support NoM and Mage developments on the isle equally._

**Wednesday, 7th September 2005**
London, The Ritz Carlton by the Thames
 _The subject has invited London's high society to attend a celebratory banquet for the press's recent achievements. Much of London's community and its business leaders have responded to the invitations sent by Lady Grey, Lady Rothwell and Lady Astor. Scenes from the banquet have dominated the back pages._

The Duke of Norfolk unfurled the Herald Sun, then sat back with a frown.

He raised his brow at the third Elven master-crafted evening dress Gwen had displayed since returning from Elfhome, a lilac-pink piece blooming above the waist like a flower, leaving her neck and shoulders a little too bare for English sensibilities. Below her tapered waist, the train was a flowing river of Moonmoth silk glamoured to resemble dew-laden wisteria.

He regarded the lacquer-panelled ceiling for a moment.

Ravenport knew for a fact that the Herald Sun considered the girl their top-ten public foe. Yet, its editors, like Void Fiends, were instinct-driven to chomp at the bit when presented with Lumen-pics of beauties and celebrities. That the publication freely publicised the girl and her activities with gusto was, Ravenport supposed with consternation, a form of masochistic professionalism.

**Friday, 9th September 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse
 _The Sixth Cabal continues to report troubles in the Yellow Sea, especially in the Kraken-infested Purple Zone between China, South Korea and Japan. The Mermen mentioned in the earlier report have become a significant menace. Preliminary findings by Tokyo's Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office has given us a name for their presumed leader— High Priest Lei-bup, a fact confirmed by the CCDI. By your will, I have cross-examined all reports concerning the subject and found the following receipt from before the commencement of the 2004 IIUC. It seemed she at one point ordered a container of rice for a Mermen tribe on "Turd Island", whose'chief goes by the name Lei-bup. There exist no other evidence of direct or indirect contact. Please note that "Lei-bup", pig-Mer for "the round-bellied one", is a prevalent Mermen name. The probability that a High Priest, a shallow-water powerhouse is the same plebian the subject has encountered is extremely low, though not impossible._

**Sunday, 11th of September 2005**
London, Westminster
_Trawsfynydd has asked after the subject's progress. I have sent Master Eldrin a comprehensive report. See MM 413.524.32.21_

**Monday, 12th September 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse
 _The subject has commenced her Michaelmas Admissions Examination._

**Friday, 30th September 2005**
Cambridge, Peterhouse
 _The results of the subject's secondary performance percentile bands for the 2005 final senior school intake are as follows:_

**Biometric Admissions Test (BAT) - S+**
 **Categorical Affinity -**
\- Evocation: 5.71 — 6.06
\- Conjuration: 6.27 — 6.35
\- Transmutation: 5.04 — 5.17
\- Abjuration: 4.18 — 4.44
\- Divination: 2.00 — 2.09
\- Illusion: 3.21— 3.78
\- Enchantment: 3.21 — 4.05
\- Other: 5.79
**Elemental Affinity -**
\- Lightning: 7.17 (7.84) - 7.23 (8.21)
\- Void: 5.42 (5.56) - 5.63 (6.12)
**Astral Volume -**
\- VMI: 352 — 374

**Higher Magical Learning Admissions Test (HMLAT) - A**
Spellshaping B
Magical Theory B
Sorcerous History A
Bestiary Knowledge A
Formations and Mandalas A

**Literature Admissions Test (LAT) - A+**
General Literacy - A
Classical Literature - A
Sociology and Politics - A

**General Knowledge Aptitude Test (GKAT) - A+**
Arithmetic - A
Economics - A+
Geography - A
History - B

"A straight-A student," Morrigan reported.

Ravenport was not surprised. After six-months observing the girl weekly, he was no longer surprised by anything. At the beginning of the year, if someone told him that an imported Frontier sorceress would make more HDMs in half-a-year than his salary as the Lord Marshall for the same year, he would laugh in their faces. Now, he could only numbly accept the sad reality sold to him by the Devourer of Shenyang.

"The subject's classes commence from the 5th of October," Morrigan said.

"I know." Ravenport replaced the report on the table. He felt strangely affected by an unpleasant jumble of emotions. The last time he had held the "grade report" of a child and felt such a rush of blood while reading the results was for Charlene, his youngest. "What course is she undertaking?"

Morrigan paused before materialising a copy of her subject's application.

"… Land Economy and Management Studies? She's not going to push for Magical Engineering or Advanced Spellcraft?"

"The application says that she's hoping to do her future Tower justice, milord."

Ravenport took a deep breath.
Typical "Elite" students studied to attain the title of Magister so that they may work their way up within the Mageocracy's Tower system. Gwen Song "studied" because she couldn't erect her Tower without a Magistership under her belt.

A Magistership— one of the most lauded positions in the world, a title worshipped and adored by the multifarious multitude in their milling millions, was a mere tool the girl needed to keep a promise made with her dead Master.

The Duke of Norfolk carefully examined his turbulent feelings.

Not for the first time and not for the last time, Mycroft Ravenport wished that Edmund wasn't such a blithe, red-headed fool. If his boy had turned out anything near normal, he would have been a post-graduate scholar by now, or at the very least a Major in her Majesty's esteemed service. Maybe then, with a bit of coaxing and a dash of Morrigan's serendipity, the meeting between Gwen and Edmund would have been something worth celebrating, especially with his spell-hand casting Grease on the wheels of affection.

"Where is she now?" Ravenport asked.

"Soon not to be in Cambridge, milord," Morrigan produced another document. "She will be going away for the first two weeks."

"Truly?" The Duke of Norfolk scanned the application. "An application for leave… is she returning to Shanghai? I suppose that makes sense, considering how long she's to remain anchored in London once her classes commence in full. The Magistery Qualification Exams are not easy by far."

"The subject will route to Yangon, then to Shanghai," Morrigan replied. "Then within the week, onto Singapore with Gunther Shultz and Alesia de Botton."