It was Pickle Face again, along with the young guard with the unsteady hands, who took the Highwayman to Market Commons, and Erick Rosemont walked behind them, strutting slowly, arrogantly, as if he were in charge of them all. It was a long walk down from Cloudkeep, and even at that early morning hour the sand-swept streets were warm and muggy.

The jailers carried pistol and blade; a delicate rapier bounced against Rosemont’s hip; the Highwayman remained manacled and unarmed – his belongings in an oilcloth sack slung over the young guard’s shoulder.

“You’ll return those to me eventually, I reckon,” he said, “and remove these bracelets.”

“Once you’re in the catacombs,” Pickle Face bluntly told him.

“After all,” Erick added, his voice dripping with mockery, “there’s no such thing as being too careful when dealing with the legendary Highwayman, is there?”

The Highwayman ignored the young Lordling’s jape. Instead, he looked, and he listened, and he considered.

There were few people out at that early hour; craftsmen and shopkeepers getting ready to start their day, a swarthy fellow hawking coffee from a pushcart percolator, beggars with pleading eyes and empty wooden bowls huddled in what scant shade the sandstone buildings could provide. The people of Elgeist favored airy, light-colored clothes that only covered the bare minimum their modesty required.

Unlikely that a group of men ‘wearing black from head to toe’ could get the drop on Elena, in a crowded marketplace, without being noticed, the Highwayman thought. Unless her guards were blind, drunk… or they let her be taken.

As the gears began to turn in his head, the Highwayman caught a glimpse of a slender figure watching them from an alleyway. The observer was well hidden, only catching the Highwayman’s eye for two reasons – first, because they were the only person not moving about in some way or another. Workers went about their business, and even beggars shifted their legs or stretched their arms, but the observer was still. And second – he’d seen them before. Not enough to take notice of then, but the Highwayman recalled seeing the same figure with the same carelessly graceful poise, the same lithe build, standing amongst the shadows when he’d been taken to Cloudkeep the day before.

And this was certainly reason enough to take notice of them now.

He was careful not to turn his head, or change his stride, when he shifted his gaze for a second look, but as though sensing his eyes moving in their direction, the observer slunk behind a building before the Highwayman could see anything more.

Whoever they are, they’re good. He glanced back at his captors to see if they had noticed anything, but of course they had not. Which, as far as he was concerned, was for the best – he would much rather deal with them himself, once he was alone.

Market Commons was far busier than the streets they had walked down to get there. It was well into mid-morning by that point, and the hustle and bustle of the marketplace was in full swing. The Commons were an open space in the city center, full of market stalls, peddler’s carts, and merchant wagons scattered across the sun-scorched summer grass. The air smelled of spices and coffees. The cacophony of commerce buzzed through the heavy air. Wealthy gadflies gaily flitted from vendor to vendor, parading about in silken finery while their servants trailed behind them, staggering beneath the weight of all their masters’ expensive, wasteful purchases. Urchins and beggars skulked about on the periphery, haplessly hoping for some small bit of charity. Malnourished children stared longingly at food carts, while burly men in studded jerkins watched them, hoping for an excuse to use their clubs.

Pickle Face pointed past the Commons, where the broken belltower of an abandoned church rose over the crowds. “That’s where they took Lady Elena,” he informed them. “It’s one of only a handful of Triad churches that still stand, after the Templars razed them during Reunification. Doves ran a soup kitchen out of there for a while. Mostly just squatters and beggars in there now, though we ran them out once she was taken.”

Lord Rosemont let out a long, exaggerated yawn. “Is the history lesson really necessary? Let’s toss the Highwayman into the catacombs, post a few guards to make sure he doesn’t walk back out, and get on with our day. I believe I saw a merchant with a few casks of Calabrithian wines that would look just lovely in my cellar.”

“As you command, my Lord,” the jailer begrudgingly said. The four of them made their way through the crowds, and on to the church, with only the Highwayman aware of their fifth, secret, tagalong.

The old church was a muggy, crumbling affair with high ceilings, broken pews, and a partially collapsed roof that offered no shelter from the summer sun. Ancient wooden statues of the Triad – Mother, Watcher, and Beast – loomed over the chapel hall, once lovingly oiled and maintained, now cracked and splintered, and bleached dry.

Two men of the town watch stood at the doors, nodding a bored greeting to Pickle Face as he led them inside and down to the cellar.

“Through that door,” the jailer said, pointing to a wooden trapdoor with an iron ring set into the sandstone floor, “lie the catacombs of Elgeist. You know what’s being asked of you, Highwayman, so you might as well get to it.”

He walked behind the Highwayman, who stood silent and stoic as the jailer unlocked his manacles. “Mark your path, because it’s easy to get lost down there. These passages were old even when the city was young, and nobody knows just how deep they go.”

“Do watch your step, Highwayman,” Rosemont added with a grin; “when my great grandfather built Elgeist’s first sewer, they cut down into some of those useless old tombs. It might get a little… shall we say, uncomfortable down there.”

“You have a real lack of concern for your sister’s well-being,” the Highwayman said, coolly, fixing the young Lording in his steely gaze. “Makes one wonder.”

Rosemont unflinchingly met the Highwayman’s stare. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, and his lip trembled angrily, and ever so slightly, before chuckling.

“She is just a woman, Highwayman,” he laughed. “The world will move on fine without her. My father does care for her, but! … He also cares for his dogs.”

He leaned in closer to the Highwayman, and added, “I don’t expect you to find Elena. You’re going to die down there – for stealing an apple.” He smirked. “A fitting end to the legend of the Highwayman. Even dogs and women know their place… and now, you know yours.

“Give him his things and let’s be done with this farce,” he told Pickle Face. “There’s wine to be drank.”

*

The Highwayman sat in the cool, dry dark of the catacombs, rubbing his wrists where the manacles had chafed them. A lantern sat on the floor, far enough away that he sat in shadow, and could see anyone – or thing – that approached him.

He took stock of his belongings – a well-worn rapier, a ruby-pommeled dagger – a gift from the Pirate Queen of the Shadowseas, after they’d retrieved her treasure from the Honeyed Matriarch – and a flintlock pistol, its barrel etched with delicate silver filigree, a family heirloom passed down to him from his aunt. His captors had also seen fit to provide him with some other gear - chalk, rope, a lantern; some other bits that might come in handy.

He'd only ventured a bit into the tunnels, wanting anyone that wanted to find him to have no problem doing so. If his hunch was correct, that anyone would be whoever had been tailing him for the last two days. They would soon make their move. Perhaps they would try to end him.

The Highwayman looked at the tripwire he had set at the end of the lantern’s light, and the bit of lamp oil he’d spilled on the stone directly before it. His thumb rested gently on the hammer of his pistol. He sat, and he waited. He had no intention of being ended.

He did not wait long. The catacombs were preternaturally silent; the Highwayman could hear even the burning of the lantern wick, and his own breath seemed like the autumn wind in his ears. The footsteps approaching from the dark were quiet – but not quiet enough.

His pursuer stopped just short of the lantern’s glow, far enough beyond the light that the Highwayman could only make out a vague idea of a humanoid figure, slender, graceful – at least it was humanoid. That was good. He knew how to hurt a humanoid.

He wondered if his pursuer could see him. He slowed his breath, and coiled his muscles into taut, stony stillness. He visualized the movement of his arm, where his hand would point, when his finger would squeeze the trigger, and locked that into his mind. When you shoot, you shoot with your mind, not with your hand. His mother had taught him that, too.

Slowly and without a sound, the pursuer faded, wraithlike, back into the dark.

And then called out to him.

“Well,” she began – it was a woman, and her voice was youthful, both brash and melodic – “one of us has to talk first, and I guess it ain’t gonna be you, so… well met, Highwayman.”

He did not reply.

“Listen,” she continued, “I’m not here to do you no harm. I’m here to help you get out of here. The Watch has all the ways in and out of the catacombs guarded, but only the ones they know about. And there’s ones they don’t know about. I can show them to you.”

Still, he did not reply.

“You know, it’d be nice if I knew I wasn’t just talking to myself like some drunk, stumbling home from the mead-hall.”

“Step into the light, then,” he finally said, “slowly. I don’t have much trust in this city’s people.”

“That’s fair,” the woman said as she approached the lantern and stepped into its light. “But it just so happens that I owe you, Highwayman, and the Gods frown upon debts left unpaid.”

The woman who approached wore a pair of tight leather trousers that accentuated her strong thighs, a sleeveless cotton blouse that contrasted with her olive skin, and a leather choker around her neck. Her hair was dark, as were her eyes, and she had a mischievous grin on her full lips. She looked like the type of woman sailors dreamed about while they were at sea, or powerful Lords hired as maids just to watch them work. Though, the Highwayman reckoned, any man fool enough to try and claim this woman as his own would soon find themselves with an empty bed and an empty purse.

“You’ve been following me since I was arrested,” said the Highwayman. “Why?”

“As I said, I owe you a debt. And you’re lucky that I do,” she laughed, “or else you’d never get out of here.”

“I don’t know you. You owe me nothing.” He holstered his pistol, though his hand remained upon its grip, as he stood and walked toward her. She was almost as tall as he was – and he was quite tall himself.

“My name is Calla,” she told him. “My little brother’s name is Luca. And he told me what you did at Market Commons. You plucked the apple he stole right out of his hand as soon as the Watch was called. He said you moved so fast that it was magic. Is that your secret, Highwayman? Magic?”

“I’m no sorcerer,” the Highwayman muttered.

“You let the Watch take you, while he ran.” Calla’s voice was softer, now. “They would have caught him if it weren’t for you. My brother. Why?”

“They hang thieves in Elgeist,” the Highwayman said, plainly.

“Yes,” Calla agreed. She slowly pulled down her choker to reveal a scar, pale upon her olive skin, encircling her neck. Rope burns from a noose. “I know. And I didn’t think luck would smile upon my family twice… but here you are.”

The Highwayman shrugged. Though he was uncomfortable at the turn this conversation had taken – he was not a man who sought glory or adulation – his face remained stoic. “He was just a hungry kid. You owe me nothing. Neither does he.”

“That’s not the way the Gods see it,” Calla smiled. “Besides, you need me, Highwayman. I know my way through these catacombs. I practically grew up down here. You have no chance of finding a way out without me. Just think of me as the Gods paying you back for your compassion. ‘A good deed done; a kindness received in turn.’”

“Don’t quote the scriptures to me, girl,” the Highwayman growled. “I’m not looking for a way out. I have a job to do down here, and I mean to see it through.”

Calla raised her eyebrow. “A ‘job to do?’ The Rosemonts tossed you down here to die, Highwayman. Nobody thinks Lady Elena is still alive. And,” she added, “my name is Calla, not ‘girl.’”

“Calla, then. I gave my word, and I mean to keep it.”

“Lords, Kings, they only honor their word when it suits them, so why should you-”

“Because I’m not them,” he interrupted. “Tell the truth, I don’t much care for Lord Rosemont or his prancing peacock of a son. But that has nothing to do with Elena. If she needs help, and I can give it, then I mean to do so.”

“You really are everything they say about you, aren’t you?” Calla thoughtfully said after a moment. “’The Knight That Serves No Lord.’ I don’t know if that makes you admirable or a fool, Highwayman – but I suppose either way, you’ll be needing my help. There are places down here you don’t want to be going, and I can keep you from stumbling into them.”

The Highwayman considered her words. Though he was not a man who enjoyed the company of others, and who trusted them even less, Calla had a point.

“Fine, then. Just stay out of the way when the fighting starts.”

Oh, don’t you worry about that,” she laughed again; she laughed a lot, the Highwayman thought, but it was at least a lovely laugh to listen to. “Fighting and I have an agreement. I won’t do it, and it won’t get me killed. It works out quite well.”

*

Perhaps they had spent a day traversing the labyrinthine halls of the dead. Perhaps it had been more, or less; time seemed to lose its meaning down in the endless dark. Even the air they breathed, stale and dusty, seemed ageless. Each small sound they made echoed out into the consuming darkness, and the occasional, unfamiliar sound from beyond that black veil echoed back at them. They chalked the walls to mark their passage, but could see so little in any direction that it seemed pointless to do so.

Calla, at least, seemed to know where she was going. She of course did not know where Lady Elena was, but she did know where she wouldn’t be, and so she guided the Highwayman past those places. That passage leads to the sewers, and lakes of rotting waste. The Lonely Dead wait in those chambers, so unless you want to spend eternity trapped in their desperate embrace, we should skirt them. You hear that sound? – monstrous, man-eating rats as big as horses.

The Highwayman did not know which of her tales he should believe, and which were jests, but decided it made no difference. He let her lead the way, following closely behind with their lantern in one hand and his rapier in the other. When they came across the well-gnawed corpse of a man in the Town Watch’s livery, he believed her a little more.

As they crossed a long-decayed vestibule, its walls graven with images of long-dead priests, the air around them began to change. Imperceptible at first, the scent of honey and black licorice wafted through the catacomb. Calla and the Highwayman both found themselves savoring it before they realized it was there, but once they did, wondering where it was coming from seemed entirely unimportant.

The scent was followed by a sound coming from up ahead; a long, contented sighing that was interspersed by an occasional moan. And another sound, beneath that; something… slick, and wet.

“Sounds like someone’s having fun down here,” Calla whispered. Although those sounds were so odd and out of place, she was not bewildered. Rather, she was curious, perhaps even intrigued, though if she’d been asked why she felt that way, she would not have been able to put words to it. She simply felt more at ease, more comfortable both with where she was, and with the tingly flush of warmth that was spreading through her body. She raised the tip of her thumb to her mouth and gently bit it. A lazy smile crept over her lips.

The Highwayman nodded in agreement. And though he recognized something strange was happening, as he tried to take stock of the situation, he found his thoughts disrupted by a delightful, sensuous frisson. Yes, something strange was happening, but it was not terribly worrisome. It was, he considered, somewhat comforting. Somewhat… seductive.

You know what this is, he told himself.

Remember.

The Highwayman did remember, and with those memories came a riotous conflict of emotions. Anger, frustration, desire… lust.

Fear.

He moved past Calla and walked, with a determined stride, toward the sounds of pleasure echoing from the darkness beyond. Calla soon followed, thoughtlessly driven forward by a need to experience more of the strange pleasure building within her.

*

The Highwayman had seen this thing before.

Not this one in particular – no two things of the Indigo Realm were alike, exactly, though they all shared the same qualities – a certain malleability of flesh, a sense of shapelessness clinging to itself as it held its form together. The glistening, iridescent shimmer of their dark purple forms. The smell of absinthe and other, more carnal, fluids that accompanied them. Viscous slipperiness. Wetness. Yielding insistence.

This one was sluglike and gelatinous, somewhere between a small horse and large mountain lion in size. Its body was splayed out across the stone floor, like something slowly melting.

It was quivering. And it was eating.

A member of the Town Watch, still youthful but closer to her middle years than her teenage ones, lay on the ground. Her short brown hair was matted with sweat, and though her eyes were partially open, she was unaware of her surroundings. Her face wore an expression of exhausted ecstasy; a sliver of drool slipped from the corner of her open mouth. Her arms lay limp at her wide, and everything below her waist was engulfed within the creature’s rubbery maw.

Though he was all too aware of the effect of the Indigo things had – how their scent inflamed men’s desires; how their strange, glistening forms enthralled those who looked at them for too long – the Highwayman still could not ignore the loathsome stirring in his loins.

“What… what is that?” Calla whispered from behind him. She understood that she should be revolted, perhaps even terrified, by the foul and squamous entity before her. She knew it was consuming the watchwoman, just as a snake slowly consumes a mouse. Yet when the woman struggled, she struggled not to escape, but to get further inside the Indigo thing, the thing which moved like the ocean, gently swelling and contracting, undulating so slowly it was as if it existed on another scale of time, one which Calla could not fathom.

Calla didn’t know if it was her, or the watchwoman, who moaned. She did know that the wet, molten heat between her legs was becoming quite difficult to ignore. The thing's pull upon her was inexplicable, irrational, and wholly irresistible. All understanding of anything other than pleasure, of want and need, was draining from her mind as she longingly gazed at the Indigo thing. That it seemed oblivious to their presence only made her want it more, to be with it, to join with it…

“Get it together, Calla,” the Highwayman snapped at her.

The colors… Gods, she had never seen such colors…

Calla was immediately ripped from her reverie by the smell of ammonia, harsh and stinging in her nostrils, as the Highwayman tied a bandanna damp with the stuff over her nose and mouth. She choked and sputtered, each breath like acid, as he took her by the hand and pulled her out of the room, as the Indigo thing unthinkingly continued its meal.