Erol was savoring the warm breeze caressing his face. He contemplated the roofs of the city from the terrace of the suite that Sileo had reserved for him.

Renaissance was immersed in the torpor created by the neon lights of its faubourgs. Soldiers screamed from afar. Erol couldn’t remember ever seeing so many out and about. Their voices got lost in the maze of streets.

The beautiful neighborhoods of Belleville were calmer. The flag of the Foundation flew over the Great Dome, the image of the split sliver tree on a dark blue background. Torn, faded, it looked so fragile that the slightest gust of air might blow it away.

Above him, clusters of stars and the few satellites that hadn’t already disintegrated into the atmosphere shone brightly. For a moment, Erol allowed himself to imagine a group of men who had survived in some orbital station lost in the galactic vastness. In the past, he couldn’t bring himself to believe in such stories. But that was before a woman awoke from a thousand-year-old sleep before his very eyes. From now on, anything was definitely possible.

And then he thought of Octave. That stupid boy. His heart tightened in his chest.

Suddenly feeling weak, Erol slumped into one of the two armchairs on the terrace. He let his glass roll to the ground and fumbled awkwardly to grab the bottle of wine. Some drops of liquid flowed down his throat while the rest dripped on his shirt. His body was in pain. Every muscle screamed in agony. His limbs refused to move when he asked them to carry him to bed. The mattress looked so comfortable with its goose feather quilt and white sheets of synthetic silk. But it was too far away. The coffee table between him and the bed was an insurmountable obstacle.

A ceramic bathtub had been installed underneath the sundial, a version that was no longer under production. The servants had heated his water in the kitchens and brought up the precious liquid bucket by bucket, after filtering it because of rationing. But the bathtub, too, was too far away. He would never dare set foot in the water that night. He knew that if he had the chance to dive underwater, he would never get out.

After another sip of wine, he finally smiled. He didn’t even know why. His hand slipped to the floor, letting the bottle roll to the edge of the terrace. He fell asleep like that, his hat resting on the tip of his nose.

He was awakened a few minutes later when his brother stormed into the suite. The archaeologist was startled. A trickle of drool dripped from his mouth to the collar of his shirt.

“Good! You are not in bed yet. Excuse my delay,” said Sileo who did not seem bothered by his sudden eruption. “Did you at least take a bath?”

His brother assessed him from head to toe and pinched his nostrils. Sileo’s haughty manner irritated Erol to the core. Sileo had obviously forgotten where he came from.

“You really do have a keen sense of smell for someone who was born in a radioactive dump,” Erol moaned.

His attempt to sit up straight failed. His legs refused to go any further and he fell back heavily into his chair. His neck still hurt from the blow he had received from Suzanne.

Sileo was busy tidying up the room despite its pristine condition. Erol had barely had time to cross it to get to the balcony.

“Suzanne is awake?” he asked.

“Wide awake! How can she be so resistant to sleeping pills?”

Erol raised his eyebrows. “Are you really trying to drug her? We’re going to have to break that habit…”

“Madonna! I tried, but nothing works!” Sileo punched the chest of drawers. “What the hell is she made of?”

“It’s a bit brutal, isn’t it? What is bothering you so much?” Erol asked when he saw his brother dusting a window sill for the third time.

The polluted air of Renaissance left its indelible mark on the furniture and the walls. Everything was covered in a thin yellowish film. If strict hygienic rules were not followed, it threatened to fill everyone’s lungs to the point of asphyxiation. Death came slowly, after years of respiratory complications. Of course, the less affluent populations were also the most severely affected.

“Look, I don’t know this girl,” said Sileo. “And my implant never fools me! She’s hiding something to shake the airwaves like that! All my barriers are red!”

It’s true that Sileo had a gift for sniffing out trouble, Erol thought. But from there to drugging Suzanne… “I am still leaning towards you not drugging your guests. Don’t you think so?

“Yes, and for now it’s best to let her move freely within the facility. She won’t be able to get out and she is keeping herself busy by emptying my supply of organic cockroach meat.”

His brother wanted to continue, but footsteps echoed down the stairs. Erol’s blood froze in his veins when a middle-aged, brown-skinned woman crossed the threshold. It was Freia, the Founder in charge of external and internal affairs, so essentially anything related to internal intelligence and the police.

Sileo was in the process of announcing her arrival when the archaeologist uttered an audible curse before rising violently.

“Ma… Madame,” Erol stammered, tilting his head gently.

Etiquette wasn’t his strong point, but Freia wasn’t the kind of person to worry too much about those sorts of things.

“Is this your brother, Sileo?” She still retained a shadow of her Shandaloo accent. It was a curious mix between the poetry of Hindi and the sagacity of Japanese. Her voice was deeper than he imagined, but Erol understood the reason as their guest took out of her metal purse a cigarette wrapped in red paper. Smoking was a luxury for most people in the High-Lands. But in the south, where tobacco was grown, it was a way of life. For Erol, it was nothing but additional pollution. But he would have killed to have one tonight. Between drags, Freia’s voice broke the silence that had settled over the room: “He looks nothing like you.”

Even Sileo could barely open his mouth in her presence. “We both grew up in the nauseating alleys of our proud city, Freia. Which makes us much more than brothers despite the absence of blood kinship.”

Erol and Sileo never divulged their modest origins. It was a part of their lives that would remain forever engraved in their flesh, but which they both preferred to forget. Their friendship was the only thing they wanted to remember. They had decided years before that it was better that way.

The owner of Bacchus’s Lair invited Freia to take a seat in the second chair opposite Erol. Then he went to fetch a new bottle of wine by the bed. He returned with a tray of dried mushrooms, a local specialty. Erol knew these mushrooms well and thought it best to refuse them.

“The Inquisition has made life difficult for you at the University,” said Freia, who obviously hadn’t wasted her time to come over here for an aperitif.

It wasn’t a question but Erol still nodded.

Sileo served three equal glasses of sparkling wine and handed them to his two guests. The archaeologist refused the offering, in spite of the fact that his throat had never been so dry. He coughed.

Shortly after, Freia addressed him a tender smile before resuming: “I got wind of what happened to the son of Greymar. Octave, right?” Her almond-shaped eyes wrinkled at the edges, which lent her a certain charm.

“A tragedy, yes,” Erol remarked. He finally picked up his glass and drank half of the liquid in one gulp. He winced when Freia looked him straight in the eye.

“Greymar is on the verge of burning down the floating city of Carascinthia. I spent dinner trying to talk him out of it,” she continued impassively.

“The headquarters of the Inquisition?” Sileo squealed.

“Is Octave’s father in town?” Erol asked, frowning. His heart tightened. Greymar and his sons were going to cut his face off with a saw, and he should be glad, for it would be the sweetest punishment these warriors of the northern steppes could inflict upon him. Erol had always wondered how Greymar could have sired a scrawny intellectual like Octave. “Why prevent him from setting fire to that anthill?”

“Because the Foundation does not have the resources to pursue this vengeful campaign,” Freia corrected him. “The Ark anchors off the coast of Francia, it would be a diplomatic headache that we don’t need after this umpteenth revolt of the Barons.” The vein on her temple was drumming through her brown skin. Freia was on the front line of this border agitation. “He will have to grieve with all the restraint the situation imposes on him. Difficult as it may be.” Erol swallowed and Freia reassured him immediately: “He does not hold it against you. Nothing could have predicted the audacity of these madmen.” She then turned to the cabaret owner who was anxiously tapping with his stubby fingers the back of the chair where Erol had collapsed after hearing this comforting news. “I am really sorry to break into your house at such a late hour, Sileo. But as we briefly discussed, I would like to ask Erol a few questions.

“I am at your disposal,” replied the archaeologist, standing back up. His voice was firm for the first time that evening.

“We know that the Inquisition will stop at nothing to secure its hold on the High-Lands with each passing day. However, a good number of Founders are convinced that what happened at the University was not by chance.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sileo, while Erol kept his silence.

“From what I understood, the Judge was looking for Master Marian. And contrary to what I have heard about the servants of Sainte Maev, he wanted him alive.”

“That’s impossible! Judges never capture those they consider heretics. They execute them on the spot!” intervened Sileo.

“And what is even more curious, the terminals of the University were hacked. Several times,” Freia continued.

“Do you know who did it?” Erol inquired, although he knew who was responsible for at least one of the cyber-attacks.

The fear of further exposing his expedition under the Dammastock froze him into place.

“The Inquisition, that’s for certain,” the Founder said. “The latest attempts were traced back to a nun with incredibly sophisticated implants. And this is my first!”

“The Inquisition has two faces,” Erol admitted. “I don’t know about the Judge, but these are the directives of Sainte Maev.”

The archaeologist proceeded to tell them about Père Flumine’s testimony and repeated what the librarian had explained to him in the reading room.

“Do you think it’s possible?” Silo asked Freia.

Freia had remained silent throughout the story. She resumed after finishing her cigarette and lighting a second one. “Perhaps. Yes,” she replied. “I am going to inform the Founders. Of course, it would be better if you kept this to yourself.”

She trembles as if all her fears had just been confirmed. She knew, the archaeologist thought. These intriguing Founders have known for a long time. To make this news public would raise a wind of panic. How many of them are taking advantage of this conflict with the Inquisition? There is nothing more lucrative than war. Except when you lose it.

“Erol,” she continued. “What were you doing at the University? Everything leads us to believe that the Judge and his nun were waiting for you. Rather curious when they could have been pursuing Marian, their primary objective.” As the ice lady was enjoying her second cigarette, a think wisp of pink smoke escaped from its tip.

The man with the hat rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. He was having trouble formulating his thoughts. His answer came to him when he exhaled a soft lilac cloud that smelt like jasmine: “I was coming back from the south. An expedition…” For a moment Erol considered mentioning the young woman in the glass coffin. But he preferred staying silent on the question for now. He was struggling to believe it.

Freia, however, did not drop the matter. A new wave of questions assailed him from all directions. They came from behind a smokescreen. “Is that what they were interested in? What did you bring back that might have interested Marian? Exciting tech? Weapons?”

“And by extension the Inquisition…” Sileo added.

A pinkish cloud hid Erol’s two interlocutors from view and made his head spin. He would have bet his life that Freia was using some kind of drug on him.

Erol denied having made any significant discovery. He pointed out that these expeditions were commonplace and that he had brought back some used implants and a bunch of almost illegible data. He then swore that nothing of what he had brought back to the University of these recent discoveries could have interested the Inquisition to such an extent that a Judge would decide to make a trip with Paladins at his side.

But Freia was definitely not fooled and dealt the one blow she must have been preparing since the moment she began her interrogation: “So… Octave died for some useless information and a box of used T.-I.? He lost his life for some worthless junk?”

Erol swallowed his nascent resentment and pretended not to pay any more attention to his interlocutor’s remarks. When the latter decided to drop the matter, he charged right back once the final wisps of smoke that surrounded him had dissipated: “Do you know where Marian is?”

Freia seemed astonished at the archaeologist’s renewed ego. Sileo was also waiting for an answer and stared at the woman in front of them intently. He had now taken his place on the coffee table, next to his brother.

“I have a bird on his heels,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I will know more tomorrow. Maybe. Do you still want to confer with him? Why?”

So, Freia wouldn’t let him be the one to lead the conversation. Her gaze was sterner than before. She got up from her armchair and leaned against the low wall of the terrace.

At that moment, one of Sileo’s lackeys entered the room and whispered to his master. Sileo sent him away and told Erol that Suzanne had been taken back to his apartments as agreed.

Erol could feel the fatigue eating away at him. His breathing was jerky. The acrid smoke had not helped his condition. Upon reflection, he preferred the yellow ashes to the poison of this ice queen.

“The Foundation is dying, Erol.” Freia crushed the butt of her cigarette in the palm of her hand before placing it on the table. “The Foundation has its faults and its own demons. But the Inquisition? Please, Erol … obscurantism. Fear. Ruin. This dogma drums at the gates of the city day after day. The ideals of the Inquisition are in total contradiction with the values of the world we are trying to rebuild. Sainte Maev and her Judge Executors…”

“Sainte Maev is not the Inquisition,” the archaeologist interceded, after moving to her side. “She is an even greater evil, but one that does not have unanimous support among her ranks.” He thought of those special units that were conducting their excavations in the greatest secrecy within the brotherhood. The Judge himself had announced his disagreement with how the University operates. “Technology no longer frightens them. They use it, just like we do. They know the powers that lie dormant in the depths. And you knew about it.”

Freia stood frozen like a statue. “Yes,” she confessed.

“The offensives are multiplying, aren’t they? I’ve never seen so many soldiers in the streets. The danger is now growing from within.”

“Indeed, the Inquisition is winning more and more followers,” Freia admitted.

“And whose fault is it?” mocked Erol in a much more threatening tone. “Why don’t you attack them before they gain power?”

Freia didn’t answer right away.

All corrupt, every single one of them. Does this state of cold war make them really so rich? But she must realize that they are playing with fire with these fanatics. She knows that soon it will be too late. So, she is desperate. Ready for anything.

“Who is dis woman?” she snarled at last. She could no longer hide her Shandaloo accent. It appeared he had finally made her angry.

“She will be Herr Marian’s concern. The only Founder in whom I trust and the only one with whom I will dialogue,” replied the archaeologist without missing a beat.

“Very well. We can only hope that this Judge and his nun don’t run into him before we do,” Freia concluded, referring to Marian.

The Foundress stood up and gave a brief nod to each of them. Then she left the room hurriedly. Erol was surprised. Their victory had been easier than expected. Much too easy. “It’s been a really bad day!” he grumbled when Freia finally disappeared from his sight.

“How stubborn you can be, it’s unbelievable! Not wanting to tell her anything. I’ve never seen her contain her fury like that,” Sileo commented, having emptied a second bottle since his arrival. “Marian has always protected you, but if he doesn’t come back—”

“I owe nothing to this fascist,” Erol interrupted him with a growl, before his brother attempted to calm him down.

“I think we all understood her bottom line. But not all the Founders have the same vision as Freia.”

Erol knew what his relative was trying to explain to him. He was closer to the upper echelons.

“Are you sure you can trust me?” Sileo asked before Erol took him in his arms.

“Of course, you bloody Italian fool.” Except when you drug your guests.

“Where did you find this blue-eyed pearl? So that’s what the information you hacked from Marian’s files led you towards?”

“The documents talked about a compound under the Dammastock. We came across her down there, in a sort of glass sarcophagus. She had been inside for a thousand years,” Erol confided.

“Oh?” Sileo blinked. He wasn’t expecting that answer.

Who could have?

“Rather well kept for a mummy,” he joked while looking at his reflection on the wine bottle.

“The Judge had a nun with him. I am afraid she has already uncovered Suzanne’s deal to the rest of them…”

“The one with the eye implants?”

“Another mystery. Regarding the girl, I thought that Marian—”

“Freia will find him. I am certain she will! Nothing can escape her drones. They are everywhere these days,” Sileo continued. “What do you suggest we do in the meantime?

“My mission was supposed to end at the University. Instead of bringing back trinkets, I brought back the girl. I would get my bounty and all would be good in the world.” Erol pounded his fist on the table, crushing the smoking cigarette butts left by Freia. “Then Marian could do what he wanted with her: dissect her or exhibit her in his museum…”

Erol paused, regretting his words.

“But?” Sileo had taken the word out of his mouth. But this was not the time for an emotional outburst.

“I know that Marian is as distant as you and I are from the manipulative Founders. With him gone, I won’t be able to leave her at Freia’s mercy,” he finally said. She would torture her to try and find out the position of weapon caches, top secret military bases, or some other foolish endeavor. If Suzanne’s identity became known, both the Inquisition and the Foundation would be after her.

“I understand that. Until Marian’s situation is settled, she can remain confined here. As you have already seen, she will want for nothing. And I promise I won’t try to drug her anymore!”

“Thank you, Sileo.”

“Prego, brother.” In his armchair, Sileo yawned while contemplating the horizon. Pale-yellow flakes were snowing all around them. “I cannot envision what must be going through her mind. Can you imagine it? Lost in the midst of barbarians like us.”

Erol nodded. He liked to imagine that these ashes were the remains of men and women who had lived long before him. And Octave had now joined them.

Before Sileo could continue, one of the servants in charge of Suzanne was leaning against the door frame. A drop of sweat beaded down his nose. For a moment he stood with his mouth open and no sound would come out. “Speak, Adrian! Have you lost your tongue?” wailed the cabaret owner.

“The Fräulein is gone!” he whimpered, talking about Suzanne.

Erol exchanged a quick glance with his brother. Grasping his belt and the sleeve of his sword, he headed for the exit, leaving Sileo alone with his servant. He had never run so fast before in his life.