Siduri's long, thin fingers drummed restlessly against the dark, sleek wood of his desk, a wood so highly polished that a blurry and indistinct reflection of his own form was visible in its smooth surface. His mind, however, was elsewhere, far from the musty, windowless room in which he sat and the monstrously intimidating tower of papers which he had yet to file.

He became suddenly aware of voices and heavy footsteps in the hallway outside, and started, his whole frame stiffening. Then the sounds receded as whoever had been outside continued on their way.

You. Clocking. Idiot. They're not here to arrest you.

Gritting his teeth, the young clerk forced himself to attend to the papers on his desk. What was wrong with him? In less than a week, it seemed as though his life had turned on its head. Ever since the riot. . .

Frankly, he couldn't bring himself to care what became of the wicks. If anything, it would be a refreshing change to see the city clear of their destabilizing influence. Hygiene would probably improve, at least. No, it was not the riots themselves so much as what had followed in their wake.

No, not even 'what' so much as 'who.'

Alstair Murdoh.

Siduri's attempts to dig up information on the man had thus far proven disappointing. The Seventen, after all, could be expected to cover their tracks, and he was one of them. He needed to know who he was dealing with before he found himself in too deep. The man had mentioned a girl in their discussion earlier, and now it seemed she was a Seventen Initiate as well. Dangerous enemies. . .

He should have said no, refused to hear the man out, stayed away from this whole deadly mess. But then he might have been putting himself in even greater danger, with the knowledge of a plot and no ties--even false ones--to Murdoh's cause. He simply needed more information on this man.

No, it would be better just to lay low and avoid doing anything rash. As he had no great investment in the victory of either side, Siduri saw little incentive in sticking his neck out for one or the other, and that meant being content to wait until Murdoh or the girl contacted him again, until they gave him something else to report. . .

Yet even that was dangerous. With a prickling chill up his spine, he recalled his brief encounter with Hanz Morde the previous evening, the hiss of the man's mechanical leg, the glistening weaponry beneath his cloak. In him, it had triggered the worst fight-or-flight reflex he'd experienced since childhood, and it had deeply shaken him. He was unprepared for this sort of intrigue, and it seemed only a matter of time before he slipped up or was uncovered.

Siduri grimaced and pinched the bridge of his arched nose; the last thing he needed was more stress, and already it was giving him a headache. Then another thought surfaced, one which had been gnawing at him incessantly, particularly since he had parted ways with the leader of the Seventen.

Was Murdoh plotting to assassinate Hadrian Siordanti?

No, that wasn't it. It was part of the problem, certainly; he had inferred that it was a consideration from his earlier meeting with the man, that such a plot was a very real possibility. He had done his best to stall for time on the man's behalf, but even so, he had serious doubts as to whether it would be enough. Murdoh, it seemed, was impatient, itching to gain a following and contacts, even if it meant increasing the risk of discovery.

And suddenly, there it was, the question which had been haunting him:

Why hadn't he informed Morde of this plan?

Because I wasn't sure. Because I didn't want to pass along false information. Because Murdoh won't move until I tell him things are in place.

Siduri felt the cold fingers of guilt and anxiety tightening their grip on his stomach. None of those reasons were good enough, and he realized he'd made a mistake. As much as he wanted power, he couldn't bring himself to accept it at the hands of a murderous traitor. . . and at the expense of an honorable man.

Suddenly, he felt a flash of anger in an unexpected direction. No, not anger so much as bitter envy. Damn you, Nauleth! That boy had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and he had spit it out. It had been years since they had spoken. . .the last time he could put his finger on had been their duel, back when they were both at school together. Yet while the years had passed, his impression of the boy had remained static.

Some kinds of people never change.

He took a deep breath, surprised at how worked up he had gotten himself. This irrational behavior was not at all like him. . .just one more casualty of the madhouse that was now his life. He found himself wondering what would happen if he simply waited outside his employer's door until it opened. Hello sir, sorry to bother you, but you see, there's going to be an attempt on your life. . .

Siduri exhaled sharply, a bitter 'hah' of faint laughter. No matter who came out on top, who lived, who died. . .he was guilty. And it was no one's fault but his own.