PART II | Chapter XIX
2:19 | A Lukewarm Welcome
Some thirteen or so hours after running headlong into an unsuspecting young woman and subsequently agreeing to help convince his father to help transport both her, her manservant, and their two horses on the remaining day or so journey to Carthak, Taron sat pressing himself as tightly as he could into the far corner of his own wagon in order to put as much space as physically possible between himself and the dark, hulking, and ominously silent shape of the girl’s guard.
On laying eyes on them—the manservant specifically—his father had instantly refused. After a quick exchange of words, the brandishing of a seal of nobility and the passing over of a small handful of coins, his tune changed entirely and they’d been welcomed aboard.
Unfortunately for Taron, fifteen minutes into the ride, the girl’s interest in spices, and him in general, had faded to all but nothing, her behavior towards him shifting from one of loquacious enthusiasm to one of strained tolerance, leaving him at a loss.
Now, with night falling around them and a thick, creeping fog providing a grey blanket to the outside scene, she lay curled on her side, her head tucked into the lap of her guard with his hand resting idly on her shoulder.
When the guard caught on to the direction of Taron’s gaze, his hand moved without a word, catching the cloak currently laying draped over her legs and tugging it up, over her shoulder, pointedly blanketing her chest and blocking out any chance of an unintentional ‘show.’ She gave a drowsy sound of contentment and curled closer; Taron glowered. He may or may not have imagined the brief, upwards twitch at the corner of the dark man’s lips, but he didn’t dare speak, regardless.
The last time he attempted so much as to rouse her to speak with him, the guard had flipped out a knife from his belt—only to clean under his nails with it, but Taron wasn’t about to push his luck. There wasn’t a speck of doubt in his mind that people had died by that man’s hand, and he had no intention of joining their ranks.
He all but breathed a sigh of relief when a low horn sounded from above, signaling their arrival at the city gates, and their wagon pulled to a halt for inspection—a common precaution in most large cities where trade, as well as crime, was plentiful.
Voices drifted back from the front, inspectors speaking with his father, and a minute or so later, a man came into view at the back of the wagon, rapping a hand down on the lip with a sharp, “Alright, everyone out. Make it quick, now, no dallying…”
Taron slid out quickly, hopping down with ease and glancing back. Inside, the guard gently roused his charge, helping her up as she blinked groggily awake and lifting her down. One of the watchmen hopped in in their place, rifling disinterestedly through their goods, but Taron’s attention quickly turned to the one coming around to inspect them in person, a tired scowl on his face and his thumbs tucked into his belt. On spotting the guard and his charge, he stilled, bushy eyebrows arching widely up.
At length, he scoffed. “And these two?” he asked, rounding on Taron’s father. “They your kin, too?”
“No,” he answered. “Passengers.”
“Passengers…” Somehow, the watchman made the single, innocent word sound like a cringe-worthy insult, and his eyes raked leeringly over the guard’s form, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the man towered over him by at least a head and a half in height. “And what’s this one supposed to be?” he asked finally, making a sweeping gesture. “A freak for the gypsy circus? Come on…let’s see a trick,” he sneered. “Does it even talk?”
Taron felt a sort of sickening, roiling sensation in his stomach, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what he was more afraid for: himself, his father, and their safe passage, or the watchman’s life. Silence stretched on. The watchman held his ground, but as surely as if deaf to his jeering, the manservant didn’t so much as twitch, his eyes cold but silent, and after many long seconds, the watchman finally rolled his eyes.
“A dumb mute,” he assessed coldly, lip curling back as he moved on, “…figures. And then…” Taron felt his own fingers twitch, itching to ball into fists when the man stopped in front of the girl, his expression turning into an altogether different sort of leer that sent bile rising high in Taron’s throat, “…there’s this lovely little piece of work,” he said, giving a low, appreciative whistle. “A bit smooth for a common girl, aren’t you?”
“That’s ‘cause she’s not-” Taron cut in, but city inspector immediately barked back.
“No one spoke to you, boy!” He returned his attention to the girl when Taron shut his lips, gritting his teeth. “Now…a working girl, perhaps?” he continued, reaching up. “Here to make a few silvers with that pretty face of yours-”
“If you touch me,” she warned icily, and the watchman’s hand stalled, inches from her cheek, “…I’ll have you know, you will regret it.”
To Taron’s surprise, the man only chuckled, a low gravelly sound, and shook his head. “Now see here, kitten…that might be threatening…” His hand came to a rest at her jaw, thumb on her cheek, and for a second, Taron could have sworn he saw an eerie, dull glow of red light etched around the shape of his fingers, but it sank out of sight almost immediately, “…
if I had even one reason to believe it. As it is…I’m the one who decides which of you goes through that gate, and you…well, you just threatened an officer of the city guard-” She jerked, and he gripped, snatching hard into her hair and forcing her head an inch back.
“
Don’t,” she snapped out, and at first Taron thought she was directing the command at her attacker—until he caught on to the direction of her gaze and looked just in time to spot her guard stilling in his tracks, a trained wolf halted seconds from a kill. “It’s not worth it…” she hissed, quieter.
“Oh, I think you misunderstand, kitten,” the watchman continued, oblivious of the subtle exchange. “I’ve got nothin’ to lose, here…while you just committed a crime worthy of weeks in a rank cell with a few choice…roommates…” She’d stilled in his grip, and her eyes shut as he drew the knuckles of his spare hand down along her cheek, “…but right now, all this can still be avoided, see…it’s been a long day, and all I got is a cold, lonely night to look forward to…”
Taron’s palms hurt from his own nails digging into them, and why wasn’t his father
doing something? Oh, right, because it would probably get them in trouble, too, and maybe it wouldn’t even help, but this just wasn’t
fair. City guards were supposed to be keepers of justice, men of honor, protectors of peace-
“So what do ya think, girly?” he asked. “You come have a little…private talk with me about how sorry you are for your disrespect, give me some company for a bit, and then, hey…I let your friends in, no hassle, and I even let you in after them, free as a bird without so much as a charge to your name, soon as you’ve paid your dues…sound like a deal?”
Her lashes lifted, her eyes flicking once, dartingly, to her guard, and then, to Taron’s dismay, she said, “Very well…”
The watchman smirked lewdly, and Taron thought he might lose his dinner. “Good girl…thought you’d see reason-”
“…but do
not kill him,” she finished her statement, which clearly made no sense to the watchman—or Taron.
Until another, as of yet unheard voice answered her, not from Taron’s left where he’d have expected it, but already directly behind the watchman, “Pity.”
In the moment it took Taron to wonder when the man had found time to move, let alone span the distance between his previous location and where he stood now, his hand had caught the watchman’s wrist—which gave a brittle
snap accompanied by a piercing cry the next second, breaking his hold on the girl—swung the limp appendage behind his back, slid a foot between his legs, and twisted, knocking him effortlessly to the dirt. There, he dropped, delivered a single, drawn blow to the watchman’s solar plexus, winding him and silencing him, and landed a final, aimed strike somewhere in the vicinity of the man’s throat, stilling him instantly.
When he stood, he came face to face with the other watchman, who’d left the cart on hearing the commotion and already drawn his sword.
“On your knees, hands behind your head,” he ordered, and Taron wondered whether he imagined the very faint waver to his tone.
Unconcerned, the dark man only opened his hands, palms up, saying, “I do apologize for this,” before sweeping in, and—when had his weapon made it into his hand?—blocking a startled sword strike with easy grace. The next second, it was the remaining watchman to cry out, a hilt blow to his hand knocking loose his weapon, and “Blame your friend,” the girl’s guard advised, pulling the same trick on the second watchman’s neck as he had on the first, but this time catching his forearms when he fell limp and laying the unconscious form carefully to the ground.
When he stood again, he turned to Taron’s father, mouth his opening to speak.
“We,” the girl cut in before him, “can pay you. If you need-”
“I have a wife and three daughters at home,” his father interrupted. “Keep your money.”
She blinked, visibly surprised, and then said, “These men will be found, and when they wake they will remember our faces. If you’ve gone by then-”
“Which is why we aren’t leaving,” his father continued, moving to the back of the wagon. “You knocked both of us out after you finished with the guards. We tried to get help, but you moved too fast and there wasn’t a thing we could do.” He unhitched their horses, taking up their reins and leading them around. “We didn’t see where you went and were only just coming to when the help arrives. Would look pretty suspicious if we had extra gold lying around, don’t you think?”
After a long moment, she gave a small, puzzled, but grateful smile and dipped her head, accepting the reins when he offered them. “Thank you, then. We are wholly indebted to you.”
“You’d best move quickly. You should be able to get in now without trouble but in a city this size it won’t be long before a patrol comes through.”
“Of course.” She turned the white stallion, and her guard stepped up to help her on, but a moment from mounting, she hesitated. “Wait. This…” She moved her hands to her neck, where she’d fastened on the borrowed cloak from the wagon, “…is yours-”
“Keep it,” Taron blurted, and when her eyes darted to his, he shook his head. “You’ve barely got anything and there’ll be a warrant out for your arrests come morning. You need it more than I do.”
She lowered her hands, and dipped her head a final time. “Then thank you. Again. May the fates be kind to the both of you.” And with that, a boost from her guard, and a clip of the reins once he’d mounted as well, the both of them were off. Fog swallowed them up before they’d made it in the gates.
As predicted, they made it in without trouble, and fortunately for the sake of blending in, the streets of Carthak supported an impressively colorful variety of patrons. Drunks of various sorts—sailors, merchants, and rabble alike—dominated the scene, followed by peddlers, prostitutes, street magicians, beggars, and undoubtedly a handful of pickpockets, swindlers, and otherwise shady members of society.
By the time they turned down the third street, seemingly delving deeper into the ranks of questionable citizens with each turn, Baisyl stood inches from his guard’s side—both of them having dismounted to avoid drawing extra attention—his eyes everywhere but the path in front of him. He’d never seen so many people out after dark, let alone mingled with such a tangled, dirty rabble.
After jerking his skirts sharply out of the hands of a clasping, staggering drunk, he hissed, “And they thought we looked suspicious?”
“I think,” Kedean replied with a frown at the drunk—who hobbled, and promptly toppled over after Baisyl’s dismissal, “…that the man at the front made it clear it wasn’t ‘suspicious’ that he thought you looked…” At Baisyl’s look, Kedean rolled his shoulders, saying dismissively, “You could have just let me kill him…” and Baisyl pursed his lips.
“You don’t mean that,” he murmured, eyes still tracing warily over the sea of foreign faces on either side. But it was uneasy disapproval.
“I see,” Kedean responded. “So you believe you were the first and last to receive that treatment?” Taken aback by the unexpectedly chilly accusation, Baisyl glanced up, and Kedean met his look with something undecipherable. “Because I can assure you…you were neither.”
For a time after that, they walked in silence. Baisyl’s eyes finally kept to the path in front of him, his mind everywhere but. At last, as they turned down yet another street, he said, “You could have killed him.”
Kedean spared him a glance. “You-”
“You are not my dog,” Baisyl pointed out flatly, not lifting his head. “I do not think of you in that manner and I would hope you do not regard yourself as such. If you were indeed as set on ending his life as you say, it was every bit in your power to do so. In any case…” He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders, his words quieting, “…it’s not as if I could have stopped you…”
Kedean’s expression changed. “Baisyl…”
“You know,” Baisyl continued, his voice taking on an oddly brittle quality, “…there was a time when I honestly believed that the only women to fall victim to men in that manner where those who were really and truly asking for it in one way or another—teasing, flirting without delivering, flaunting themselves about. Do you know what I’ve come to realize?”
Wisely, Kedean kept his mouth shut.
“Nine out of ten times…that’s almost certainly an untrue and unfair allegation, and the remaining tenth time?” Baisyl shook his head. “The remaining portion of the time, it still fails to provide even a fraction of an excuse.
Nothing justifies…exploiting another human being—hell, a
thinking creature—so…so…”
“Baisyl-”
“If I were a man, I’d
never have had to deal with that!” Baisyl burst out. “None of that ever would have transpired! He wouldn’t have
dared to…lay a hand on me…he…” As swiftly as it came, his anger fragmented, crumbling to nothing as he swallowed, and he angled his face away. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I ought to have had you kill him…”
“No…” Kedean said, “…I believe, in this instance, you were the one who was right…” and Baisyl ventured a glance back. “Tempting though it may be, at times,” Kedean continued, “…it is not my job to bring justice to this world one ‘righteous’ murder at a time. Guilty though that man may be, he had yet to actually do you real harm…and strong suspicions alone, no matter how based in fact, do not rationalize vigilante heroism in the form of slaughter.”
“And if girls are hurt by his hand because he lives?” Baisyl asked.
“Then it is not your guilt to bear,” Kedean said, “…and regardless, it should be some time before his hands are in any condition to do harm to anyone but himself.”
Baisyl blinked, puzzled, and then, he shot his guard a seeking look. “What did you do to him?”
“I broke his arm,” Kedean replied neutrally, “…and his wrist…” He paused, thoughtful, “…and his knee, as well, though that was messy. I was admittedly paying more attention to the second guard at that point…”
Baisyl opened his mouth, rethought his statement, shut it, drew a breath, and released it. “Very well…” he said, “…so…if it is not your fated duty to ‘bring justice’ to this world by way of vigilante heroism…then what would you say is your duty?”
Kedean’s eyebrows rose neatly. “At this moment?” he asked, and Baisyl shrugged. “To protect you,” Kedean answered, “…from yourself as much as others, with whatever complications that may entail.”
“Ah. Which-”
“And for whatever it’s worth…” Kedean continued, “…I may not be your dog, but in that moment…it never occurred to me to go against you.” Whatever air of seriousness came with those words was broken seconds later with a brisk, “Here we are,” and Baisyl stilled, staring openly.
After moving to the outskirts, they’d started gravitating as they talked to increasingly less populated areas, and as the crowds petered off, so too did the quality of the scenery. Now, they stood at the dead end of a dirt alley which looked to be useful only for accumulating the various bits of trash dumped there by anyone unlucky enough to be passing by in the first place. In front of them was an unpromisingly dark, dank looking sewage tunnel whose most redeeming feature was that it seemed to be out of use.
“We’re…where?” Baisyl asked at last. Unfortunately, Kedean paid him little attention and stepped without a word up to the large, prison-bar-esque grate blocking the mouth of the tunnel. “Oh. That’s…lovely, I see,” Baisyl said, with no small amount of sarcasm. “So, protecting me now involves leading me to the entrance of a…sewer drain?”
“It’s abandoned,” Kedean confirmed, as if that excused everything, and Baisyl watched with open disbelief as his guard gripped and shook each of the bars in turn. “It’s been a while. I forgot which one it was that move—ah, here we go…” With his next good tug, the bar in question came easily out of place, as did the one after it, leaving ample room for a man to fit through—but not much else. “Come on,” he beckoned, and Baisyl shook his head.
“No, there’s…absolutely no…no. Just…that’s revolting, and…what about the horses?” he asked, relieved to have come upon an excuse. “There’s no way they’ll fit-”
“Fasten their reins to the far rung,” Kedean instructed. “When we get in, I’ll have someone-”
“Get
in?” Baisyl blurted, and to his immense frustration, Kedean’s expression remained neutral—not even a hint of ‘Haha, I got you.’ “There are…people? Down…in…”
Now, perhaps even worse, Kedean looked amused. “Did you think I was leading you to sleep in a sewer for the night?”
“I…no…yes…possibly? Actually, I was quite hoping you weren’t serious at all,” Baisyl admitted. “What kind of…addle-brained
imbecile thought up the brilliant idea of stationing their getaway home in a sewer? This-”
“It’s actually a group of people,” Kedean said, “…and you’re wasting time. It wouldn’t be good if someone saw us-”
“This…section,” Baisyl said, “…of…wherever we are already reeks. I highly doubt anyone in their right mind would willingly come this far without severe cause-”
“Baisyl.”
“It looks, frankly…disgusting. So, no, I propose
you go in, rouse your…‘acquaintances’…”
“Baisyl, you’re coming with me.”
“I’ll
catch something,” Baisyl bemoaned. “Something…abominable, like…plague, or…I’ll be devoured alive by…ravenous, fecal-spawned, man-eating murk monsters and-”
“Your imagination, while impressive, is not helping at the moment,” Kedean asserted evenly. “Now, if you’ll tie off the horses and quit acting like a flighty, pre-teen girl for long enough to-” Dirt scuffed up under the toe of Baisyl’s shoes in his haste to turn, and Kedean smiled, waiting in patient silence as he fastened their rides in place.
“They’ll be stolen,” Baisyl muttered, but returned to Kedean’s side, and Kedean shrugged.
“As we stole them, if you remember,” he pointed out, “…but as you said, few come down to this section of the city, and the chances that a thief will discover them in the time it will take us to get someone to fetch them are slim.”
“If the horses are to be fetched, though,” Baisyl insisted, “…that suggests there’s more than one entrance? We could come in another way?”
“Yes,” Kedean conceded, “…but I am not about to risk the safety of those that would take us in by using a more public route. I’m about to be a wanted man, if you remember…” Baisyl suppressed a guilty wince, “…and unfortunately, I don’t ‘blend in’ well even in the crowds here. I have a hard time convincing myself that not one person would remember seeing me if we went in by way of a bar or tavern. So…” He held out a hand, and Baisyl eyed it, wary. “Unless,” Kedean supplied, “you’d rather me carry you, milady, in which case-”
“You,” Baisyl clipped through grit teeth, hiking up his skirts and pushing past his guard with some cross between a huff and a growl of frustration, “…are positively…
insufferable. Have I informed you of that recently?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“This—ugh, gods,” Baisyl swallowed down whatever sound threatened to escape him as liquid seeped in through his shoes, cold and entirely unpleasant, and pulled the edges of his dress higher, cringing, “…there’s water…wet…and…I’m going to have warts by the time I get out of here, aren’t I?”
“Interestingly enough,” Kedean responded as they started down the tunnel, his tone entirely too amiable for Baisyl’s liking, “…I believe you did mention something to me before about water generally being wet.”
“If I had hands to spare,” Baisyl retorted flatly, “I’d hit you.”
“And I’m sure the pain would be excruciating,” Kedean concurred soberly; Baisyl sort of wanted to kick him.
Instead, he asked, “At the very least confirm to me that this
is water we’re tromping around in?” and Kedean shrugged—which was, perhaps, the least reassuring of all possible responses. “Kedean-”
“It is,” Kedean replied, “…mostly.”
“Most…” Given the choked, dry quality of the word, Baisyl shut his eyes, swallowed, and cleared his throat before repeating, “…mostly?”
This time Kedean spared him a glance. “Yes, mostly,” he repeated. “I’m sure it’s…at least…fifty percent water.” Baisyl swayed mid-step, and Kedean took a step closer, cautioning, “Careful, and watch out for that-”
Baisyl’s sharp yelp cut the rest off as his footage gave out from under him, his other foot slipping, his hands dropping his skirt to flail out for balance, and-
“-hole…” Kedean finished with a quiet grunt as he broke Baisyl’s fall, and wound up with an armful of thick red hair and tight, clutching fingers buried in the front of his tunic. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I did warn-”
“This place,” Baisyl asserted without lifting his head, or removing his grip, “…has it out for me.” Kedean reined the urge to roll his eyes to the ceiling.
“That’s…possible, milord,” he conceded, “or…perhaps you weren’t paying as much attention as you could have been to where you were stepping. In either case you needn’t worry, we’re almost there.” When Baisyl hesitated to move, Kedean added off-handedly, “Unless of course the entire purpose of tripping in the first place was to land dramatically in my arms, in which case, if you wanted a hug
that badly-”
Baisyl shot a narrow, dangerous glare up at him, and a moment later pushed up and off, his cheeks barely perceptibly pink in the dim light. For a fraction of a second, Kedean seriously contemplated sweeping down and kissing the sharp, tightly pursed line of a glower off his face. Then, he realized abruptly that they hadn’t kissed once since that first night. By the time he got around to wondering whether that was a good thing or not, Baisyl’s arms were folded and his face turned away.
“Well?” he prompted. “If we’re almost there, oughtn’t we best be getting a move on?”
Deeming his thoughts untimely to say the least, Kedean shoved them aside and nodded instead, taking the lead. As promised, they came to the tunnel’s end in less than a minute, at which point Baisyl’s eyebrows rose impressively.
“Oh,” he said. “Well. This is…striking. I’m impressed. Congratulations, you’ve successfully lead us to-”
“It’s not a dead end,” Kedean cut in before he finished, stepping up and frowning as he ran his hand over various portions in the wall of rocks before them. “It’s-”
“An illusion,” Baisyl said, quieter, his tone having changed completely, and Kedean glanced over his shoulder, surprised to find his charge stepping up beside him, a curious, fascinated look on his face as he dragged his eyes over the rocks.
“It…yes,” Kedean said, “it is. How did you—?”
“Didn’t I tell you illusions were my forte?” Baisyl asked.
“You…might have mentioned it.”
“It’s probably the only vein of magic I’m even half decent at besides petty healing tricks…” Baisyl mused, the majority of his attention clearly on the wall. “This is truly well woven, though—much more thorough than anything I could construct on my own. Is it rune magic?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kedean replied honestly. “There should be a stone somewhere in this corner that’s grounding the spell. If you move it, it disrupts it long enough to let people through and then resets.”
“Clever,” Baisyl murmured, but made no move to help. Instead, he mulled for a moment more over the wall, and then raised a hand. “There aren’t any concealed traps that backfire if its tampered with, are there?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Kedean said, “but I’ve never seen anyone-” Before he finished, Baisyl’s hand took on a soft, ethereal glow, like a firefly coming to life under his palm, and whatever he planned on saying trailed off.
As he watched, Baisyl traced one finger in a circular pattern in mid-air an inch or so in front of the wall, a thin, blue-white thread of light following in its path. Next came three smaller circles, like the points of a triangle within the first, and finally an intricate series of inter-connecting lines.
When he finished, it gave a brief flash, glowing markedly brighter, and he splayed his fingers out over it, ordering softly, “Show me your secrets.” Like flipping a switch, the illusion dissolved, leaving nothing but a solid wooden door in its wake, and Baisyl turned a smirk on his guard. “It was rune magic.”
“I…gathered that,” Kedean responded, attention still fixed on the door.
Taking in Kedean’s reaction, Baisyl tilted his head. “You knew it was a door long before I did…why-”
“It’s not…” Kedean shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’ve just never seen anyone dispel it manually, is all.” He stepped forward, opening it, and Baisyl followed, surprised to find a set of downward spiraling stairs—though, admittedly, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting.
“I didn’t dispel it,” he said. “I just put a temporary lift on it. It seemed to be serving a definite purpose and it wouldn’t have done to ruin it. The illusion should reform in a few minutes. In any case, that spell showed fine craftsmanship…it would have been almost a shame to unravel it permanently.”
“Mm…and I thought you hated magic?”
“I…” Baisyl frowned. “It’s…more complicated than that. I’m just not particularly good at it, is all, and it has never proved to be of any real benefit to me-” Kedean opened his mouth to object, but Baisyl pressed, “-until very recently. Honestly, though, from a practical standpoint, how often does the opportunity to make oneself useful by unveiling magical hidden doors present itself?”
“I thought the fire in the hand trick did its work well,” Kedean offered.
“Ah, yes,” Baisyl agreed, “because the ability to prove one’s worth by terrifying large crowds of high-strung peasants into submission is…” He paused, thoughtful, “…actually, wreathed with potential, now that I think about it. You’re right, conjuring pseudo-fire in the palm of my hand does come with a variety of useful applications.”
Deciding to forego any number of possible responses to that, Kedean shook his head. When they came to the foot of the stairs, he asked, “So, ready to meet my friends?”
“Well,” Baisyl’s eyebrows drew together in concentration, “given that my feet are soaked, the hem of my dress is dripping, I smell of horses, mildew, too many days travel without a spot of bathing, and possibly some variety of rank, decomposing waste materials…I wasn’t actually aware that I had a choice in the matter?”
After gracing him with a once over, Kedean gave an acquiescent shrug, “Good point,” and opened the door.
A/N: I'm half convinced that nothing happened this chapter. Then I tell myself that no, important things happened because they...finally arrived. And there's sort of a bit of stage-setting, what with them both being wanted criminals and about to meet Kedean's aquaintances...but still. I apologize if the chapter was boring.
Next chapter should have Zyric and Rhyan again, if anyone missed them. I worked pretty hard to get this chapter out within the week and ALMOST made it...hopefully it's close enough for your tastes and I'm sorry for it not being that long and/or interesting. Next chapter may also have the thing you most fear. Maybe. :D (Which will be revealed if/when it happens.) Tooteloo for now. =)
