"I love this land. No man can claim otherwise."

Pynell sipped his wine as he flicked the curtain aside to watch the comings and goings below. Farmers, merchants, ladies' maids, and all sorts were on their ways to and from the market, bearing all kinds of goods- breads and cheeses and roasted meat, or cloth and fine silks. Their chatter floated up to him, along with the music of a pair of dueling minstrels- one plucking away at a fine lute, his voice soaring above the din while the other pounded out a complicated rhythm on a bodhran. Summer was always good to this city. "Camelot is strong. Her enemies hesitate to cross her for fear of her wrath. The Kingdom is just, and every man, woman, and, child knows their place."

"Every man, woman, and child knew their place," a voice said from the shadows.

Pynell snorted. "You're right." He tossed the dregs of his wine out the window and closed the curtain, drenching the room in darkness again. "There was order once, in the days of King Uther. Now serving girls play at being queen, and a sorcerer…" He made a face, like he had tasted something rotten. "A sorcerer- a bastard, peasant boy of a sorcerer- whispers poison into the King's ear, and no one says anything against him. The new king is certainly not his father's son."

He'd had such hope for the future when Arthur was a boy. A golden-haired moppet who was desperate to please his father, he had done everything he could to win the old king's approval. The reports had been dazzling when Arthur was given his first command- every mission accomplished without a flaw, every order given without hesitation. Many had wondered, at first, if the Prince's accomplishments were real, or if they were the result of obsequious tongues trying to gain royal favor. In time, though, the truth became clear. Arthur was becoming the same leader his father had been, inspiring his men to follow even when hope seemed lost, snatching victory out of the air where other men would have failed.

'Where did we go wrong?'

"What would you have me do about it?" Pynell saw only a glint in the other man's eyes. He held himself with such quiet and stillness that it was easy to overlook him. But there was something in his eyes, something less than human that made being in a room with him uncomfortable, like stumbling into a room with a sleeping, starving wolf. "My kind is no longer welcomed in Camelot. There was a time when I would have been welcomed with open arms," he said, his mellow voice edged with gravel.

"Change is not always for the best," Pynell agreed. "And I think you already know what I want from you. Don't pretend you haven't already devised half a dozen plans. If you hadn't, then why am I spending so much on this venture?"

"Because there is no one quite like me, My Lord." The man stepped away from the wall he leaned against, letting a little light shine of the sharp planes of his face. "Any man can wield a blade or fire a crossbow. It takes another sort of man altogether to wield a weapon with patience so the attack is never expected, never seen. And when the deed is done, there must be nothing leading back to him. Or to the one who hired him."

"Indeed. The last man failed utterly. He attacked too soon. He missed, then he panicked and tried to flee. They executed him for it." Pynell slammed his wine cup down on the table, rattling the dishes. He let out a long breath to calm himself.

That venture had been costly, too, both in coin and in favors. The man had been from far away Araby, a land Pynell had never heard of before and hoped never to hear of again. 'These men, these assassins from the desert, they know much about magic. They know how to defeat those who use magic. They have been trained for it. And what's more, their tongues are cut out to ensure their silence. He will not fail you." The agents had made so many assurances, so many promises. None of them had come true.

Well, one of them had. The assassin hadn't been able to confess who hired him.

"I will not repeat his mistakes."

"No," Pynell turned back to the other, "I should hope not. I have been assured of your skills. And your discretion."

The witchfinder regarded Pynell with cold eyes. His only movement was the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. "I have been fighting sorcery across the Five Kingdoms these past twenty-five years, My Lord. I served the Amatan king for most of ten years until his death last winter, at the hands of this… Merlin."

"And yet you escaped the carnage at Blackheath?"

"Not by choice. The Sarrum sent me abroad, to see to his business elsewhere. Had I been at his side, My Lord, last winter's battle would have ended differently." The witchfinder's eyes followed Pynell as he stalked back and forth, a viper watching the dog that hunted it.

"You must forgive me, witchfinder, if I do not weep for your former master. I care as little for sorcery as he did, and yet I did not want him to rule my kingdom." Pynell poured a new cup of wine for himself, and another for his companion. He held it out at arm's length.

The witchfinder reached for the cup, his spidery fingers grasping it lightly as though he expected it to bite him. "I understand, My Lord. You are in line for the throne, after all. In matters of succession, no heir- no matter how remote- wants a foreign interloper to disturb the natural order. That is not what you want of me, I assume, to… upset the natural order?"

"No," Pynell said quickly. If even a breath of treason reached Arthur's ears, his own head would end up on a spike. The man had his father's temper, after all. "No. I may disagree with Arthur, but he is the king. What I want is an end to this business with the sorcerer. By whatever means possible. A quick knife in the dark, a slow destruction of his reputation. However you do it, do it completely. Your former master tried and failed. The sorcerer burned, but did not die. I want no such mistakes this time. His destruction must be complete."

"Yes, My Lord. You may trust me to complete the task, no matter how long it takes." He swirled the wine around in his cup, but did not drink. "There is one small matter."

"And that is?"

"Arthur's squire. The boy, Gareth. He was once a hostage to the Sarrum. He knows my face."

Pynell waved away the witchfinder's concerns. "Then keep out of the boy's sight, or dispose of him if you cannot. The little prince may be his father's heir, but Hywel has another son, a younger one. Raised outside of Arthur's court, he may be more… amenable to our concerns. When dealing with matters of state, one must always be looking toward the future."

"Indeed, My Lord." The witchfinder made to go, to disappear into the shadows and retreat down the servants' passage in the antechamber. Pynell stopped him before he could. "Is there anything else?"

"To maintain trust, witchfinder, to.. clarify our relationship and set us on proper terms, I will need your name. You know who I am. If you are captured and put to torture, you may reveal who hired you. It is only fair that I know your name."

The witchfinder looked back at him, his expression unfathomable. "'Tis difficult to threaten me and mine, My Lord. I am but a stray dog, with no family awaiting my return. My father trained me in the days of the Purge, but he has been dead these past ten years. I come from across the water, from Brittany. If I still have a family there, I do not know them, nor would they know me. If you must have a name, call me Jehan."

Pynell watched Jehan for a while, daring himself not to blink, though the witchfinder's eyes were as cold and as lifeless as any serpent's. "Well, then, Jehan. I'll leave you to your business. I will want to know of your progress, of course, but quietly. The castle has eyes, and as you have said, your kind is now unwelcome at the court of Camelot."

"And I know what sort of end I will face if I fail, My Lord."

Pynell nodded. "Go, then. Do your work."