Visitors to the city were usually amazed, at first.

Eidolon was tall. Its buildings stretched towards the sky, stories upon stories in a way that few others could match. Only their neighbor, Kai-Tan, came close and that wicked city only managed because it was built upon a hill. Eidolon had no such advantage when it came to elevation, but it did have access to engineering secrets that made dwarves drool, and a great deal of budget allocated for civil enchanting.

Visitors to the city were usually amazed at its scale and scope. It had a relatively small footprint upon the land, but that footprint was used to stand on its tippytoes and reach for the heavens.

They were astounded at the cleanliness. Every home had a flush toilet and running water, the streets were regularly cleaned, and residents took pride in ensuring their homes were spotless.

And perhaps most astounding of all, everyone who lived in Eidolon had a home. The poorer ones had to share, it was true, but the Ministers ensured that everyone had their place.

After a time, most visitors got over their amazement.

Once they did, they tended to move on quickly.

The more free-willed among them did so because Eidolon was a place of rules and regulations and customs and protocol. Unlike Kai-Tan, where individuality was the rule of the day, Eidolon was a place where one knew one's place, and tried not to be too much out of place.

The more criminally-minded among them did so because Eidolon was a very, very hard place to get one's foot in the door. Even the crime was organized, and the niches left unfulfilled could easily be obtained with a few days' trip over to Kai-Tan.

But the more sensitive of them left for another reason entirely, that had nothing to do with its organization, social structure, or legal intricacies.

The more sensitive of them left Eidolon because of a feeling in the air. Because of some lingering malice, an ineffable sense that there was something very corrupt at the heart of it all. Something wrong, that didn't just forebode, but five-boded, and six-boded as well.

There was a very logical reason for that feeling.

And the Minister of foreign adjustments was walking through that reason this reason right now.

It was a tall building, twenty stories of metal and stone pointing towards the heavens like an upthrust black finger flipping off the gods.

It didn't even cross the Minister's mind that it could also be seen as a phallic symbol. Such childish humor had been drummed out of him by a combination of decades of peer pressure, and a steadily decreasing pool of friends as he rose through the ranks.

No one made it through Eidolon's civil service without sacrifice.

Some more than most. And he looked upon those unfortunates now.

The center of the building was hollow, arranged around a central shaft, lined with balconies. And five Cultists stood at the edge of each balcony. Five Cultists, twenty stories, a full hundred practitioners of dark magic, who bartered their sanity and souls for the good of Eidolon.

Well... somewhat.

In lieu of standard summoning circles, mighty chains clacked and clattered and clinked, drawing up and lowering cylinders, cans the size of a human. Each contained a grisly trophy, either a full corpse or a combination of a severed head and a salvaged heart.

Not that you could see them. The cans were sealed, both physically and magically. Arcane runes, and sinister glyphs lined each cylinder, warding them... not against outside interference, but from their own contents.

Dark chants echoed up and down the shaft, as the Cultists worked their magic. Strange words, echoes from outside the universe itself growled into reality through the throats of those who had given themselves over to blasphemy.

And blasphemy gave back.

As the Minister climbed the stairs, past a few vacant balconies whose assigned Cultists were either between shifts or on break, a chant reached culmination and its cylinder chimed, runes flickering in patterns to spell out a simple word.

DONE.

“There we go, lads!” said the chief Cultist of their squad, as he tugged on a lever next to him.

With a clunk and a clatter, the cylinder lowered, picking up speed as it accelerated, heading for the sorting rooms below, and the cells beyond. There the summoned daemon would be released into its living space for the rest of its host's natural lifespan, while the Inquisitors milked it for every bit of information that it could provide, and the analysts collected and collated that information into reports, and sent the more useful stuff upward.

Eidolon had been doing this for two decades.

And it had paid many, many dividends. The lore and secrets gained from hellish sources gave them a powerful edge over their many, many neighbors.

However, it still gave the Minister pause for concern whenever his duties drew him this way. He stopped a moment, to watch the five-man team of Cultists, dripping with sweat from their laborious chants, but giddy, heading off duty to get a few drinks and rest up until their next assignment came down.

Their containment measures were strong. Eidolon's rules and regulations and surveillance ensured that the Cultists had no direct contact with their summoned entities. And their storage measures were the best work of counter-infernal containment on the continent.

But he still couldn't shake the feeling that something would go wrong, eventually.

And when it did, those thousands of bound demons in the chambers below wouldn't remain there for long.

That threat is above my paygrade, he told himself, as he had many times before, and focused on taking the stairs one at a time. He'd been behind a desk for far too long these last few years, and the physical exertion had him sweating under his suit as he found his way to the upper offices. He knew he'd reached the right place, when he got to the doorway with the words, “AS ABOVE, SO BELOW,” carved into it.

“Minister,” the secretary nodded at him as she rose from her desk. “You're the first, here. Would you care for some coffee? Perhaps a dough ring?”

“No, thank you,” the Minister said, leaning against the door. The anxiety that had kept him up last night was at a fever pitch. He was quite sure that if he put anything in his stomach right now, it would come right back up again. “Are we in the Tedium room or the Doldrums?”

The Tedium room wasn't bad. It had a mandatory ten minute waiting period, where everyone had to sit in silence without any reading material at hand before the meeting began. It was for meetings that management wanted resolved quickly.

The Doldrums were used for more lengthy meetings. They were a pair of rooms that you could go between and discuss different matters simultaneously. Of course, you couldn't go outside them until you were finished, so there was room for a little politicking and shenanigans, but eventually the Doldrums got to everyone and so meetings there tended to be wrapped up within a day.

Either of these rooms would mean that today would be business as usual. He'd take a few lumps, true, but nothing he couldn't recover from. Nothing that would disrupt his routine, or hinder any of the projects he was juggling. It would be over with, and he would sleep well that night.

“No sir,” the secretary pursed her lips. “I believe you're scheduled for the Hot Gates.”

“Ah,” he said, feeling the blood drain from his face. “Very good... then...”

“Would you like me to show you the way?”

“Please,” he said, fighting momentarily for balance as the world swam before his eyes. “I've never actually been.”

The Hot Gates were not for simple meetings.

Though they DID tend to be shorter than the regular options.

Very short indeed, if one was unlucky.

The secretary led him back through an oaken door, and down a twisting series of hallways. For a moment he expected her to take him out on the spiraling path that led to the outer ring of the Infernal Affairs offices, out to where the rooms had windows, even if they didn't open.

But no, she took the other path. A much shorter one, that led to a circular path around a curving steel wall. They were circling the great shaft itself, literally walking around the edge of the pit.

And there it was, a simple black door, with red letters engraved into the surface.

“ABANDON HOPE ALL YE THAT ENTER HERE.”

“Thank you,” the Minister whispered.

“Please don't,” the secretary said, and patted his shoulder. Then she hurried away.

Steeling himself, the Minister opened the door...

...and froze.

“Ah, there you are,” said the Patrician.

“There must be some mistake,” the Minister said. “She said I was the first.”

“And so you are. In the first seat, that is.” The Patrician pointed a languid hand toward the metal chair at the head of the table.

It was on rails, that chair. Rails that led straight to a hole in the metal wall. A hole that, if one stood next to it and leaned out, would let one look down twenty stories to the very bottom of the shaft.

The Minister looked to the seat. Then over to the large, black iron lever set in the floor right next to the Patrician's chair. Then around at the other three occupants of the room, none of whom met his gaze.

Swallowing, he moved carefully around the table, and settled into the metal chair, putting his back to the hole.

And for a second, just a second, he found himself trying to remember long-forgotten prayers to Weeky, the kind and gentle goddess his parents had tried to get him to worship so long ago.

It was an oddly comfy chair, for what it was worth.

The two men and two women in the seats safely away from the pit considered him.

The least important were the Minister of Operatives, and the Minister of Records.

Records was a small man with scruffy clothes and ink-stained hands. He was famous for his ubiquitous silence, and his only role here would most likely be taking notes of everything spoken and done within this room.

Operatives was a middle-aged dwarven woman, with iron gray hair and spectacles, clad in conservative garb. She was considering him with a blank but not-unfriendly look, which was somewhat encouraging. However, he knew that she had little power in the grand scheme of things.

The other woman in the room was the newly-appointed Minister of Cylvanian Affairs. Her recently-forsaken name was Featherquill, and she was dangerous. Young, black-haired, and from what he had heard, black-hearted... she had done her own mentor dirty to get her appointment, if the rumor mill was correct. He rather thought her gaze, when she peered at him through spectacles she probably didn't need, was one of a hungry wolf considering a plump rabbit.

The angriest man in the room was the Minister of Arcane Assets, and this was the clearest present danger. Plump, because he could afford to be, bald because he had lost his hair during alchemical experimentation, and a master of many, many magics, all that paled next to the sheer political clout he could bring to bear. Everyone used arcane assets. Everyone needed arcane assets. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of arcane assets.

Yet, here he was, at the other end of the table.

And there there was the Patrician.

Brown-haired, just easing into early middle-age, mildly heavyset, and clad in a simple white suit, the Patrician kept his fingers interlaced before him, and an enigmatic smile on his face.

There were none in Eidolon who wielded more power.

The Minister was well aware that, given that lever to the Patrician's side, his life was literally in the Patrician's hands, should that man so will it.

“Shall we observe a period of silence?” Arcane Assets asked, voice deep and gruff.

“I don't think so,” the Patrician said. “Records?”

Records nodded, and opened a black, untitled book, posing a quill above it. His lips moved, probably silently activating his Scribe job skills, or whatever else he used to keep his notes.

He had scarcely finished, when Arcane Assets spoke.

“The purpose of this meeting is to judge the Minister of Belltollian affairs for incompetence, negligence, and the squandering of valuable resources in the matter of the recent business of the Phantom of the Lop Ear.”

“Possible incompetence, negligence, and squandering of resources,” Operatives interjected.

“By all means, if he can prove his innocence,” said Cylvanian Affairs. “Though that may be an uphill battle.”

The Minister looked to the Patrician. The Patrician said nothing, didn't meet his gaze, merely kept smiling serenely, hands together and fingers folded. There would be no help from that quarter; the Minister would have to muster his own defense, here.

Though Operatives seemed to be indicating the possibility of some support, and Cylvanian Affairs was neutral, if the stance she was displaying was to be believed...

“I would like nothing more than to discuss any possible mistakes I may have made,” he said, meeting Arcane Asset's gaze. “If indeed they are as bad as you believe, I would like the chance to remedy them or do better the next time.”

“Remedy? There is no remedy! One mercury golem. One in all the world! We had it, and now it's destroyed, gone without even a chance to research it properly! How the hells do you plan to do better, given that there won't BE a next time?”

Ah, though the Minister. This explained much.

He was still in mortal danger, but if this was the main driving concern, his chances of escaping the pit were much, much better. For a second, hope flickered and rose...

...hope that was destroyed within one sentence.

“If we are to discuss mistakes, then I believe we would be better served by focusing on the continued existence of the Phantom of the Lop Ear,” said Cylvanian Affairs.

“Ah,” the Minister said. “That.”

“That.” Cylvanian Affair's smile faded, a bit.

“That's the insult to the injury! You wasted it and failed!” Arcane Assets pounded the table with one meaty fist.

“I did not fail,” the Minister said. “I prevented a bad situation from getting worse.”

“And how was the situation allowed to get so bad in the first place? I believe this was all under your purview.”

“Oh no. No no no,” he said, half rising before the Patrician's eyebrow rose. Hastily remembering the rules of this room, he settled back into the chair. “No, you don't throw me under the wagon on this one,” he told Cylvanian Affairs. “I've been trying to keep the Phantom in check for years. You're the one who decided he should antagonize Cylvania. That was a joint project, I'll remind you.”

She sniffed. “I offered you a solution to your problem. On fuzzy little feet”

“Yes, and what did he do? If we hadn't had an operative in the audience,” he paused to nod at Operatives, “then we would have had a much, much bigger headache. They were talking! Negotiating! They were supposed to fight the Phantom, supposed to kill him! Instead, they almost joined forces! I had to think fast, and use the resources I had in the area.”

“The resources YOU had?” Arcane Assets shook a finger in his face. “That was on loan, in case you needed to plant it as evidence!”

“Yes, and you would have refused to sign off on that, too,” the Minister snapped back. “You just wanted that golem and damn the big picture!”

“If we could have replicated it we could have made a NEW big picture!” Arcane Assets roared, fingers turning white as he gripped the edge of the table. “That thing was made to slaughter armies! Our enemies would have trembled before us—”

“No,” the Patrician spoke.

Everyone fell silent, looking to him.

“Poison's of little use against dwarves and most of the rest of the threats on our board are run by humans. Humans don't see a weapon like that and go, 'oh, I shouldn't fight them.' They see a weapon like that, and go, 'hey, I need to get me one of those.' Then things get complicated.”

Arcane Assets flushed, but bowed his head. Operatives nodded, apporvingly. Cylvanian Affairs folded her hands together and glanced to the Minister, spectacles flashing in the light.

When it was clear he wasn't going to say anymore, Arcane Assets cleared her throat and spoke. “Be that as it may, Threadbare and the Phantom shouldn't have gotten to the point of engaging in a cooperative manner. What went wrong?”

“I've read the profile you sent me on the bear,” the Minister said. “This was absolutely something he was going to try. But the fact that the Phantom was receptive was as much a surprise to me as it was you. I've been worrying about possible behavior shifts due to his newly-gained undead status. It's possible that's the explanation for his reception.”

“But he reacted the way you expected when you used the golem against his people,” she mused.

He raised a hand, let it fall. “I'll need to completely reassess everything we know about him. The coming war should give me a chance to do that. It should distract his attention enough that I can work a few agents closer. We could do with another operative in that case, to split the load between his entourage and the home front back in Belltollia.”

“That could be arranged,” Operatives said, squinting at Cylvanian Affairs. “Although I'll want assurances that these won't be tasked to work directly in the conflict. We are the elite. Not pawns to be sacrificed for minor gains.”

Cylvanian Affairs cleared her throat. “I assure you, it was not an easy decision—”

“We are straying onto tangents,” said the Patrician.

The room fell silent again.

The Patrician put his hand on the lever, and the Minister's breath hitched in his throat.

“You've made your cases. And heard his defense. Is this man guilty of the charges, or is he innocent?”

“Guilty,” Arcane Assets muttered.

“I abstain,” said Operatives. “My sphere of awareness on this situation is less ideal than your own, so I will defer to you, Cylvania.”

The Minister felt his chest tighten. He looked to Cylvanian Affairs, let his mask fall.

And watched her nod. “Innocent, I think,” she said finally.

His heart resumed beating. The breath left his body. The sweat rolling down his scalp slowed, just a bit.

And then she spoke once more, and he knew that his death was upon him. “But I'll need closer cooperation in the future. This war is crucial to my development, and I'll... why are you looking at me like that?”

Clunk, went the lever.

Minutes later, in the stunned silence of the room, the Patrician turned his gaze to meet the shocked eyes of the Minister of Cylvanian Affairs.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Ask Arcane Assets,” the Patrician said. “We're done here, I think. Good day to you.”

The ministers left, and after a moment he could hear the faint murmur of them on the stairs, patiently explaining that while the Patrician didn't have a problem with political manipulation to enhance one's position, blatantly doing it in front of the Patrician himself was a good way to see your schemes fed to the dogs.

That was the conclusion he expected them to reach. And though his predictive modeling was a far cry from the flawless logic and mathematical mastery that he used to enjoy, it felt like a pretty safe prediction.

Safer than anything to do with Cylvania, now.

As the empty chair clunked back over the lip of the pit, rolling back into its spot at the end of the rails, the Patrician rose and stared down from the edge, hands clasped behind his back, considering the mortality of all things.

Well, most things.

“I've got a lot riding on you, Threadbare,” he spoke, as he stared down at the hell he'd made to rule in. “Be a good golem and do the logical thing..”