The Words In Wolff's Head

And here is Wolff, once 'Sir Wolff', but now a leader of his own Order, the way the St John's Ambulance people are a pale shadow of the Hospitaller Knights of Malta, of the Sovereign Order of St John of Jerusalem. These days, he trains novices to be Wyverns, even if they are not of that Order. And his old Order appears to approve. Yet, there are still those who make him tetchy. Like the parents of some novices, who after having given them into his care, still make sideline noises.

By what right do you tell me how to handle my children?

The right of the novice master, thinks Wolff. His right, who wields the sword which cuts away all that will not endure. But all he says is the very simple and true:

I am the one who teaches them.

And this gives you the right to tell them I am wrong?

Yes, thinks Wolff. Because I was brought up to tell right from wrong, and teach others right from wrong. But all he says is the very simple and true:

What I have said, I have said.

Why do you confuse them by saying that their other teachers are wrong?

Because some of them are, thinks Wolff. And I would not give them a chance in a millstone, should the Highest wish to apply the law against leading children astray. But all he says is the very simple and true:

I speak things as I see them.

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And thus it is that the parent goes away confounded even though the truth has been spoken. All Wolff can think is this: forte dans mon devoir, simple dans ma vertu. It is perhaps one of the strongest principles he has obeyed in his long journey, and he has miles to go before he sleeps — miles to go, and promises to keep.

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If you wish to read more of the tales of the Wolff, look here.

Wyvernation

Over the last few days, I've been engaged in a very interesting conversation with various Sons of the Wyvern. The whole point is: how do we define Wyvernhood?

To elaborate, does it necessarily mean that spending life at a Citadel of the Wyverns from Year One to Year Twelve makes you more of a Wyvern than one who was only there for Years Eleven and Twelve? And if you were there for the first ten years and then became a Gryphon or some other creature, could you still claim Wyvernhood as an alumnus?

To me, there are practical as well as metapractical answers to these questions. Here are a couple.

First, the fact is that for many years, there weren't enough spaces for all the Wyverns — and many of those who wanted to, and possibly deserved to, continue being Wyverns were excluded.

Second, some non-Wyverns (and some who came from beyond and entered Year Eleven) turned out to have more Wyvernhood in them than some fellow-travellers who were there all along and showed no loyalty thereafter.

There are many other answers to many other related questions. But the crux is this: the idea of Wyvernhood is an imaginary, and there are almost infinitely many conceptualisations of that imaginary. By the nature of such things, any conceptualisation will exclude some people, excepting all-inclusive ones which don't add anything useful to the conversation.

So who is a Wyvern? He who was Sir Wolff laughed when I told him about it all. Nonchalantly, he pointed at the Sword of Oldham — he keeps it in a corner behind the door — and said, "Do you think that blade makes me more of a Wyvern than the many others who have never seen it and yet swear by it?"

Changing Atlantean Schools

Atlantis, as has often been said, is a meritocracy. And that said, there are two major flaws in that — the question of what merit is, and the problem of deciding whether such merit is appropriately privileged.

I spoke to Wolff, who once was Sir Wolff, almost Lord Wolff. And Wolff laughed that deep rolling laugh of his, that rare and dangerous laugh, and he told me some stories.

There is always privilege, he said, and always people who resent such. There are those who claim the aegis of the Dauntless Hero, but who have never sought to live up to his ideals. I have said, not all our sons from Cathay or Sind or more distant lands are worthy of the name. Indeed, I suggest that each year, not more than 20% of such sons be allowed to claim a birthright. We need new blood.

I replied, "My friend, how can you deny such people their birthright? Their fathers were alumni, why should they not benefit?"

Wolff's laughter now had an edge to it. Four generations of my lineage have been sons of the Hero. Far be it from me to be ungrateful. But I must quote the words of the Man, when he said not all who called him Lord would be recognized by him. I suggest that the Governing Authorities decide, case by case, on who should receive such honours. And when there are no more places, THERE ARE NO MORE PLACES.

His voice turned melancholy. But the main problem is that of Atlantis itself, a nation now of nit-pickers, if not fruit-pickers wandering soulless orchard roads. Why should the young be sifted like chaff and wheat at 12 short years of age? And to four decimal places too, forsooth. They should be banded, banked and balloted. If randomness prevail to some extent, fewer will be inclined to overclock their children, or as the terrible legend goes, send their children through the fire of Moloch.

Give them their bonuses for proximity, but do not give them too much. Let each council of each school choose who they take in, but only to a fifth of the harvest. Let the remaining four fifths be as random as the raindrops in the ocean. Then we will know which schools are truly best, and which have been as milkmaids stealing cream.

I laughed at that. The spell shattered, and I awoke alone to the sound of distant howling, as if a wolf had claimed all the wilderness for his own.

Knightly Virtues

Many years ago, at the Citadel of the Wyverns, Wolff (who was then Sir Wolff) spoke to the initiates on the knightly virtues. Many of those initiates had no idea what these were, although their dreams and ideals had crafted many versions, mostly incomplete and some rather strange.

Today Wolff looks back on what he said, and this is what he recalls.

The heraldry of the Citadel shows a shield upon which a unique beast flies. It has the head of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the body of a dragon — most often depicted with two legs, making it a sort of wyvern.

This beast is a mnemonic image for the virtues which the Citadel of old sought to imbue within the hearts of its knights.

The lion's head symbolises courage to do what is right, act justly, protect the innocent, and resist falsehood.

The eagle's wings symbolise excellence to do what is best, act rightly, aim for perfection, and resist mediocrity.

The dragon's body symbolises wisdom to do what is merciful, act generously, defend the weak, and resist ignorance.

In the book of the prophet Jeremiah it is written that the wise man should not boast of his wisdom, nor the strong man of his strength, nor the rich man of his riches — but they should understand that God prefers the exercise of kindness, justice and righteousness. This too is virtue, and not much different.

Momentary

Today Sir Wolff sat with me. He had been put in mind of an old rhyme:

One for the money
Two for the show
Three to get ready
And four to go!

This was in connection with several events, all held a few hours ago, at which Sir Wolff's former Lords Inquisitorial of the Magisterium had been spread thinly throughout — trapped in gold laurels, or with gold ingots, or dealing with the gold of youth, and so forth.

I asked him, "Wolff, were you always inclined to be so irreverent of your superiors?"

He chuckled. "No, rather say that I was never more reverent than usual of the banal or mundane; the quotidian, secular or ephemeral. What is there to revere especially of those who breathe the air we breathe and use the same conveniences that we do? I respected their rank, and avoided their authority."

I tsked at him. "Avoidance of authority shows some disrespect, surely."

Soberly, he replied, "But this was sometimes the only way to serve the higher calling and the grand endeavour. At the end of my days, I often felt nothing more than a mercenary."

And that was our cue for the wine and cheese.

Lightning

Lightning and enlightenment, thought the Crooked Man to himself, these are the things that prove the balance of the foundations. As if to answer him, the sunlit glade boomed with thunder and white light streaked across the sky shedding rain.

He looked up, shaking his head at the impropriety of the younger generation of weatherlings, and flicking drops of water away from his mismatched eyes. It was time to visit the Wolff again.

Blue, Gold and Red

In heraldry, blue represents the heavens and the spiritual virtues; gold represents the earth and the temporal virtues; red represents sacrifice, courage, and the common blood of mankind. And so Sir Wolff, knighthood regained, looks upon the armoury of his forefathers and meditates on the shield thereof.

It is divided blue and gold, and the blue is on the shieldbearer's right, for it serves him foremost and is the source of his virtue. The gold is on the shieldbearers's left, for it serves to support him and is the product of his virtue. Across, in letters of crimson fire, is the monogram of his order — it reminds Wolff of the blood shed by the Redeemer, that binds heaven and earth as one.

In chief azure is an historical and legendary wyvern limned in gold and fire, but not the poisonous serpent with an envenomed tail of other traditions. Rather, this has the head of a lion, for courage is its first answer, and it was born from the power of the Lion Throne. It has the wings of an eagle, for excellence lifts it, and it was brought here by a mission of Eagles. It has the body of an oriental dragon, for the wisdom of the past and the wealth of the Middle Kingdom gave it form and substance.

Thoughtfully, Wolff lifts it. It is heavy, for its gravity is great; it is light, for its burden is balanced. No helm goes with it, no armour is specified for it, and it has no visible supporters — all that is supplied by the invisible realm.

Tonight, he will stand vigil. He will speak to the memories of his ancestors and the histories of those who served before. He will bow in the presence of his Creator and give thanks. And the crosspiece of the blade Perdurias, the glaive of the Dauntless, will be the focus of his thought.

Who knows the mind of God, and who will be His counsellor? Not Wolff, never. But he who lives to serve will some day be rewarded — for the best is yet to be.

=====

Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find some of them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident. And you might want to start here.

The Bloat

Wolff has found himself back in the colours. With blade and long lance, on fully-caparisoned horse that is not a horse, he sits on a hilltop and gazes into the distance.

And there it is, as Chesterton puts it, 'like a fungus of a leprous white and grey'. It is the Bloat. Wolff remembers when a squad had one leader, and several squads a commander. The Romans had squads of ten men.

But at the Citadel these days are 265 who have been given rank, and of these, 90 have a higher rank. 90 out of 265. It is more than a third. It is as if out of every three, one is a leader.

Wolff shakes his head. He has looked at the banners of the Green Order, and for all their prayer and service, they have only one in four. It is the same elsewhere, perhaps as low as one in five or one in six. But at the Citadel, one in three.

He is reminded of the mighty Parkinson, who pointed out how the Admiralty of old swelled at the top even as the ships became smaller in size and the men became fewer in number. He too was based in Atlantis for a time and knew whereof he spake.

He remembers when the citadel was 1200 soldiers, with 80 knights, and among those, 20 of higher rank, who shared the work and tasks appointed unto all. Now it is 3000 soldiers, with 265 knights amongst which are 90 of higher rank.

How did this perversion come to be? It was all the fault of the Grand Inquisitor, Wolff decides, he who carefully scattered largesse around to secure his place, but not the Order. And hence the general incompetence, for if one needs not prowess at arms to win the prize, why should one aim for prowess?

90 in 265. Wolff laughs. The winnowing will not be a happy one.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

The Cruellest

"April, she is here," announces Stearns. Wolff looks up. Indeed, April is here. It is time, and reluctantly, slowly, he draws the crystal-clear blade of the Dauntless.

"Don John's haunting, and his hounds have strayed," says Keith. Wolff sharpens his sword. It once belonged to Bishop William of ancient fame, and its name is Perdurias.

A decapitation strike, Wolff thinks. It must be that, or nothing. Who is complicit? All, especially the river-horse and the periwinkle. The magnates have agreed. It's time.

"It's time, boys, it's time," sings Stearns through the barrier. "And many a one grows witless in his acquired room in hell," replies Keith. Wolff nods slowly; it is time.

"Only on a crownless throne, a nameless," whispers Keith. "Fear in a handful of dust," hisses Stearns. It is time it is time. Trumpet that sayeth ha! Domino gloria! Donjon.

I shall break their bonds asunder. I shall break them with a rod of iron. Lean and foolish knight. Human voices waking. Echoes. Datta, dayadhvam, damyata. Cervantes, sultans.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Citadel Miniatures

She sits in her office as the work piles up. She never knew it would be this heavy a burden, to be the left hand of the Grand Inquisitor and then to be abandoned to do the work herself.

(There is a fitting end to ambitions.)

She sits in her office unaware of the burden she never knew. It is abandoned and piles up, to be handed to the next Grand Inquisitor who worked heavy-handedly and who has now left.

(There will be no more Grand Inquisitors.)

She sits in her office thinking to play the game while deluding herself that she is not. She has lied to herself so much that she cannot see it is all happening again, and again.

(There will always be such delusions.)

She sits in her office doing the work. She has nothing much else left but work. She is abandoned by the rest, but she will always have her work. She expected nothing more than that.

(There will always be someone like that.)

She sits in her office. She has a good job and she has kept it that way all along. Not for her the gulls and the subterfuge, although she could probably handle all that. Good job, eh?

(There will always be what will always be.)

Wolff, who was once Sir, walked into the Panoptikon. He said to the Russian, "Ah come on, boyo, stop taking up precious observation time. We all know where those are going. Look at something else more important, will you?"

Accounting

Wolff, once a knight, looked into the tray. It was an odd tray, full of many seeds. The seeds were green and gold, silver and brass, nut and mahogany, shining in the bright sun. He squinted at the Accountant.

Milord Accountant, what is it you do with these? Surely you are not regressing to being a bean counter? He who has beans, has been!

The Accountant grimaced at this impromptu witticism and unfurled his wings. Just a tiny bit, enough to remind Wolff of what he really was.

These are the new seeds, young knight. Primus, the old dead wood must be cleared; secundus, you are still a knight. Each new seed sprouts to balance the old wood that dies. Primus, the Highest has made it so; secundus, by His grace, none know what each seed will bring; tertius, we take it on faith that the Books will balance. At the last trump. Note: trump can be a horn, trump can be a card, both are instruments, and can be final.

Wolff grimaced in return. He had heard the Accountant was prone to speaking in footnotes. He wondered whose tray it was. And then he saw the sign of the wyvern.

Yes, so it is. And what a mess it is, to account for all of it.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Winter Queen

It is always hard when one comes into power in the twilight of a bitter war, thought Wolff to himself. He stood at attention, Bishop William's sword grounded and burning quietly at rest, content to wait as he saw the trial unfold at a distance.

After the fall of the Grand Inquisitor, power had been granted to the Oldest of his Circle. It had always been the way; even before any High Lord of the Citadel had even had a circle of any kind, the next highest in the Rule had ascended after the loss of a High Lord. Yet, the Grand Inquisitor had been the first ever to have no obvious heir and a circle (a pentagram, perhaps, Wolff wondered) instead.

Never since the days of Thomas of sad memory had the Citadel been so beset by forces beyond its control. Yet Thomas's predecessors had all been good men, and he himself had not been an evil one.

The Oldest had broken tradition. A cruel usurper with many other differences from all before, the Oldest had become a victim to pride and fallen on the other side. The Oldest was not meant to have sat upon the Throne. But the usurper had acted in its place without humility.

Now, the winter of discontent was coming down like a howling snowstorm in all fury. Wolff watched, and only Bishop William's ancient fire kept him warm.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Malbractes

Large, he waited at the bottom of the river. In time, the riverbed became his bed. The journeys of mortals and immortals across it concerned him not. He waited because it was his nature to wait unless summoned. And those who would summon him were few indeed.

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Wolff poled his way in a small flat-bottomed punt across the channel. The channel followed the road to the tin mines, as it had in the past. The goddess of wisdom had made it her home, amidst stands of maple and towards the more clement parts of the land.

Little creatures chirped and burped, mewed and croaked, trilled and hummed all around him. He found himself smiling at a frog, laughing at a flycatcher.

And then, the river erupted around him. Aooooouuuuuuuuwwuuwuwwrgggh.

He found himself looking into the maw of something that was part giant bloodworm, part crustacean, part legendary nightmare. The ravens flapping away did little to distract him from the sulfurous taint of rotting vegetation as the huge mouth dripped its fangs at him.

Wolff said, Hello.

The mouth closed. One of the two ravens approached and fluttered noisily onto Wolff's punt. It spoke to him in the silent speech, eye to eye. Lord Malbractes the Large and Horrible says, "Oh it is you. Where are you going?"

Wolff said, It is beginning again.

There was a microbelch, but enough to stink up the surroundings and extinguish flames. Wolff winced.

The raven winked beadily, as if by accident. Lord Malbractes says, "Stop sticking your pole into the ribs of a sleeping person. Go away. And give my regards to the Lady."

Wolff replied, I will.

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Large and terrible, Malbractes slept. In the world of mortals above him, Wolff found his way into another campaign.

This time, however, Wolff carried the stenchful blessings of Malbractes. This time, he would win. The distant voices of his ancestors prophesied war. And Bishop William's sword glowed fitfully.


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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

New Day

It's over, thought Wolff. No more will the gulled cry at the walls. No more inappropriate questions at inappropriate times, about one's personal and private life. No more inappropriate behaviour more fitting to some Siberian birchwood sauna. If the Citadel had ViciLeaks, a single shiny platter would not have been enough for the two decades of abuse of power, of shameful treatment, of exile of the faithful, of tormenting the vulnerable.

Let those who do not believe continue unbelieving, said Wolff to himself. They can have whatever peace of mind they forge for themselves. It does not change the facts. It does not change the many testimonies of people whose lives were manipulated for ill, who were made to feel unclean.

But what we do after the rebuke and the removal must be in terms of repentance and restoration. And so it was that Wolff sank down on his knees to pray for the soul of the Grand Inquisitor, for it was the right thing to do, and he had finally brought himself to the point of realising it.

He felt the heavy breathing of the Hound of Heaven slow and lighten behind him. He did not dare turn around.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Today

It is today, says Wolff to himself. Today is the last day of a wicked age. Incompetence rewarded, arrogance cosseted, silliness encouraged — these were the things of that age. It was not always so. And he remembers.

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What is that blade you bear, Sir Wolff?

It is named Perdurias, milord. It was sanctified by Bishop William.

What are its properties? Know you that no blade may be brought into the Citadel without our inspection?

I had not heard that, milord. As to your question on its properties, it is perdurable. And hence, the one who forged it called it 'Perdurias'. It is merely an instrument, although somewhat potent.

Put it away. This is a new age, and a better one. We will not have relics of the past in our way, where we might trip over them.

I shall hang it up next to my door, then, milord.

Better you hang it behind the door, Sir Wolff.

But that is where I hang the shield of my ancestors, milord.

You call us 'milord' and yet you disobey us?

Milord, by virtue of your office, I call you thus. But by virtue of it being true, I tell you what I tell you. For that is the nature of truth, milord.

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And in Wolff's mind, he weighed two things. Primus, Wolff was no longer Sir Wolff. Secundus, 'milord' would never be anyone's lord again. Looking up at the ravens, he smiled.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

What Young Wyverns Should Know

Wolff shook his head. He heard that the young wyverns at the Citadel, despite the evil of the Grand Inquisitor, still pined for his firm and leathery dark hand. Yet, he knew it was natural for the immature to seek guidance. It was just that their former Dark Master had rid the place of many who were qualified to guide.

And so, many of the Council of the young wyverns were deceived, for they knew not the truth, or if they knew it, did not recognize or want to accept its import. Wolff wondered if they would think differently had they known that the Old Man had been an inappropriate leader to other young wyverns in the past.

But Wolff laughed when he saw the last line of the letters of fire upon the wall. "November 30th," the flame-writing said. Fewer than a thousand days had passed.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Emergency

This is the testimony of Wolff, who was once Sir Wolff:

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The Citadel emerges from the shadows cast by the Grand Inquisitor. Yet, there are many who cannot believe that the Inquisitor cast such a dark shadow at all. Many were duped, many were deceived, many were too polite to say anything; few escaped unscathed. But the fact remains that even from his early years, he was carefully abusing people. The records, now brought together because the time for goodwill is past, show an abominable picture altogether.

For those who cannot believe it, you must understand that fifteen pages do not even begin to encompass the extent of his abuses. They merely sketch a single aspect of it. And yet that faint sketchwork is sufficient to strongly reinforce the single material allegation that has come to light. If all those who had been abused came forward, there would be hours of testimony. I know this because I have broken bread with many of them.

The second echelon abetted it. There is no doubt about that. Some of course were more innocent of direct assistance; they merely spread around the idea that it was not possible for such a person to have done such a thing. Their own faith in their leader made it difficult for others to believe in the unpleasantness that lurked inside the door. And when others were abused, it was taken that they invited it, they wanted it, they deserved it.

The paper trail itself is damning. On the instructions, hinted or otherwise, of the Grand Inquisitor and his cronies, records were changed, rankings were altered, and the transparency of fairness was clouded by the pollution of self-interest. What I brought out of the Citadel when I left is evidence of it all. And that is why the Citadel sent agents to dog my footsteps, and evicted those who had been kind to me.

From day to day, I accumulated evidence. Fearful acquaintances of the distant past who had tried to tell the truth beneath a shield of anonymity had wasted their time because the old Archon had protected his Inquisitor with both eyes closed and hands folded. But the weight of evidence eventually told, and now those who stand in authority should dispense with pride and ask themselves hard questions.

You who turn the wheel and look to windward, know this. Your former leader was guilty of many things. He was great in many ways, but his power corrupted him, and he fell. And many will yet fall because of him, if they will not search themselves and realise what lies they have believed.

The time has come, and the Citadel must emerge from its tainted history. Its emergency must be as clean as that of a well-oiled sword from its scabbard. Or what beacon of truth and light can it be?

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And as Wolff left, I heard him mutter to me: "Now, the Ides of December approach."

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Severian

Wolff sat wrapped in fuligin, the heavy blade of his profession once more in his hands. By midday, the news had escaped, and what he knew no longer mattered so much as a weapon in his hand.

The Grand Inquisitor had been tracked down, and the lictors and pursuivants had hunted him into his deep earth. Now the former Master of the Darkness stood enchained by negative light, and reinforced legations bound him to an iron post.

And the Autarch had sent word that the sword of Wolff's forefathers was needed once again. "We have scotched the snake, not killed it," was one cryptic phrase.

Wolff pondered it deeply. He had little to say, except that the new leadership of the Citadel should possess character first, then competence, and also culture. He had seen too much that was... nekulturnyĭ, or perhaps varvarskiĭ, as his friend the Rock had once said, without much irony.

He looked at those who now claimed the places around the Black Table. He saw insecurities and incompetencies. He saw the ruin of the past and the erosion of the future. He saw people unprepared to think.

To his surprise, it was this last vision that angered him the most. Where there is lack of thought, there is thoughtless faith. Faith is more worthwhile when the one who possesses it has retained it even against fierce trials of the intellect. For that was the lesson of the epistles, bound tightly in the flowing Greek of debate and argument, sophistry and casuistry.

He wiped the dust off the long, black, two-handed sword.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Revolt

Wolff is amused and yet revolted. The past behaviours of the Grand Inquisitor clearly were inappropriate. The evidence is too overwhelming. But to have a self-proclaimed soldier behave so much like a sailor who has been at sea too long... that is incredible, and Wolff shakes his head.

All humans are fallen, he reminds himself. There have always been consequences of the first revolt as well as the second. For every success, a victory; but also more failures than successes if not for the grace of the Highest. And in the greatest failure may lie the seeds of the greatest victory.

Wolff looks back at the Citadel and wonders, though, what it will take to purge the entrenched minions of the late Grand Inquisitor. He has a list, but he is not in the habit of writing anonymous letters. With a sigh, he takes out his name from where it has been hidden.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

Nostalgia

Wolff nodded grimly to himself. He sat at an old table, his fist near the sherry decanter and his sword in the corner. He poured. And sipped.

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In his mind, he saw a line of brave knights, before his time, not so many after. One by one, in some perverse mirroring of the Grail quest, they had been sent forth, with the sole purpose that they not come back to the Citadel. And so the fellowship had been broken, and the false knights had gained power without a fight.

He thought of the ivy that used to adorn the tower, and was no more to be seen. He thought of the keen swords and the sharp wits of those who saved the sum of things for pay.

In the ruins, the things crawled. Sometimes they seemed to cry out in the tongues of men, but Wolff suspected it was wishful thinking that made their morologia into speech.

In the ruins, the rats chittered and the bats squeaked. Where the Grand Inquisitor had once laid heavy hand, the signs and symbols were tarnished and scratched. Desolation was the name of the city, the ancient city of the Citadel.

But outside, the walls were brave. The children looked like knights in their armour of tin and satin, where once was bronze and steel. Yet each year, the dilution continued, and nobody noticed, because you cannot watch watchmen when they are gone.

The Grand Inquisitor had decided to go south for his health, or so he had told the remaining officers of the Citadel. Ignominy had never been easy to deal with for the sons of men, and for that man, hardest of all.

He cracked a crippled joke: "Do not leave the Citadel because I have left it," he urged. At the back of the room, several knights laughed grimly and walked out. They had already purposed in their hearts to leave, because they had thought he might stay. They continued to have misgivings about what might come next.

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Wolff had sipped once for each of the lost. The decanter was nearly empty. Outside, through the windows of his rooms, the night was full. But he was sure that in the morning, the sun was very likely to rise again.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.