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on the matter.
    He might have swung the balance, but he chose instead to keep his own counsel. It was quite maddening.
    When the forces of Baranak--the forces of hidebound reactionary conservatism--finally met the revolutionaries in the square of the City, there on that fateful day so many centuries ago, Malachek was nowhere to be seen. He knew precisely how the conflict would end, and knew that by not acting, he was in fact guaranteeing the outcome.
    Later, when they threw me into the dungeons for the first time, I tried desperately not to hate him. He had not fought against me, and had not helped my enemies. I understood this. I should not have hated him then, and I surely could not hate him now.
    Nevertheless, old slights, even those merely perceived, die hard.
     
    Before I could utter a word, I heard the humans all gasp in surprise. I turned back to see what had startled them, but I should have known already. Malachek’s ghost-guardians flickered about the room, their ethereal forms solidifying momentarily as they engaged in any number of tasks, from dusting the ancient wooden furniture to sweeping away the muddy tracks we’d left on the floor. One took Malachek’s soaked hat as it passed, while another brought him his pipe.
    “Do not be troubled,” he reassured the humans. “Baranak has his Hosts, and I have my Ghosts. Of the two, I assure you these are much better behaved.”
    Smiling, he gestured them toward a side room.
    “You will be provided with refreshments in there. Please make yourselves at home while I speak with Lucian.”
    As the humans cautiously entered the room Malachek had indicated, he gestured me toward the library.
    “Come and sit. We will discuss recent events and make such sense of it all as can be made.” As an aside to me, he whispered, “New minions, eh?”
    “Burdens, rather,” I replied, “though only until I can find a proper way of disposing of them.”
    His face betrayed a measure of alarm.
    “Now, Lucian—do be civil. They seem perfectly harmless.”
    He surreptitiously looked them over, his gaze pointedly dwelling upon Evelyn.
    “And not altogether unattractive.”
    Still wary of the flickering specters, Evelyn, Cassidy and Kim made their way into the cozy library, followed by Malachek and myself. The fireplace blazed warm and welcoming, immediately driving the chill from my bones, as did the snifter of brandy he handed over. As the humans warmed themselves and looked over the old god’s collection of books and maps, Malachek directed me to a rich, leather-upholstered chair. Into this I was all too happy to collapse my lank form after a night on the cold, hard floor of the dungeon. My senses, still not fully attuned to the reawakened Power, warned me not to make myself too comfortable—to watch for any signs of betrayal. My aching body argued persuasively otherwise, however, and quickly prevailed. I sank into the cushions.
    Conjuring an identical chair opposite me, he filled his delicately carved pipe with tobacco and lit it. Settling back into the cushions, he exchanged pleasantries with me briefly. Then his expression grew more somber, and he came quickly to the point.
    “Let us assume,” he began, “that I believe you had nothing to do with the recent deaths.”
    I nodded, quite happy for someone to believe this, even if only hypothetically.
    “The first I heard of it was when Baranak accused me,” I told him.
    “So what do you intend to do?”
    I laughed humorlessly.
    “I have to admit, the temptation is great to secure a case of good whiskey and vanish into a pocket universe until Baranak or somebody else finds the real killer.”
    Malachek smiled.
    “But you won’t.”
    I inhaled deeply, looked away, exhaled slowly.
    “No. I won’t. Because I have very little confidence in Baranak’s ability to find his ass with both hands and a set of directions; even less in his capacity to recognize the truth; and still less of a sense that he even cares to.”
    “You