Paris, France

"A kiss for luck, cherie?" Jean-Luc leBeau smiled at Raven Darkholme as they stood outside the Parisian Residence of Michel Valois.

Opulent to the point of sybaritism, the double-storied villa stood in one of the oldest districts of Paris - a quartier renowned for its low crime-rate and high rent. Despite the deprivations of the Second World War and the resultant depression, the pace of life continued unchanged here. It was like stepping into a time-warp and going back to the fey days before the Great War, where the entire world had waited, watched and feared.

The quartier was sullied with a sense of unreality, of foreboding, almost as if their anachronistic gaiety would be detected by a universal auditor and corrected. Jean-Luc leBeau, always sensitive to the underlying mood, had tried to alleviate the pressure by cracking a joke.

Like good Queen Victoria, Raven was not amused. A serious woman by nature, she believed that work and pleasure should remain strictly separate. She had surprised him - surprised herself - when she told him that she wanted to be more than partners. Jean-Luc blamed her coldness on the oppressive air, on nerves.

"Do you remember our plan, Jean?"

"Oui," he made a face, "Ya make sure dat Monsieur Valois doesn't disturb me while I appropriate de diamonds."

::As if I'd f'rget ya schemes, chere..::

Raven nodded at him in approval, "Excellent."

They had been hired by a notorious dealer in stolen jewels - Claude Darceneaux - to relieve Michel Valois of some ancestral diamonds, commonly known as the Stars of Africa. The jewels were said to be housed inside a safe hidden beneath the floor in the Conservatory.

All went according to plan at first. Jean-Luc infiltrated the house with ease - old money relied too much on the honesty of people - and found the Conservatory. Moonlight streamed through the large glass windows, illuminating the scene. In one corner, a baby Grand stood, music spread on its mirror-like surface. Droopy ferns decorated the room, contrasting strangely with the rich oil portraits.

Jean-Luc dropped to his knees and knocked softly on the floorboards, listening to the answering sound. Eventually, after many patient attempts, one reverberated hollowly and he grinned.

"Bingo"

Removing a slender knife from his tool-kit, he prized up the yellow-wood panel, revealing a strongbox beneath it. Scornfully, unable to believe his luck, he examined it. It was heavy, square and made of iron, but its lock was a simple one. He extracted a lockpick and inserted it delicately. One by one, he felt the tumblers click into place and the lid opened.

"Yes!" he whispered as he removed the small, velvet pouch. Grinning in triumph, he replaced the Stars of Africa with fake gems of cut glass. If the switch was not effected, the theft would be discovered and the gems would be worthless - too hot to sell with ease.

"Yes, indeed," Raven stepped through the door, a strange expression on her vivid face, pointing a deadly-looking pistol in his direction. Her ivory hand was poised on the trigger.

Jean-Luc looked at his lover. Her cinnamon-brown eyes were triumphant beneath her mop of coppery hair and her lips were curled in an unpleasant smirk

::Is dis a double-cross?::

"Hand them over, Jean."

"Raven? What de hell are ya doin'?" he hissed, "Claude Darceneaux'll kill us if we don' have his gems."

She laughed, and Jean-Luc stepped back in horror. Her face writhed and twisted, becoming something completely different, becoming Claude Darceneaux. She . . . no, he placed his hands on his hips. A ripple passed over her skin, and Raven once more stood before him.

::Blessed Mary, full of grace, savior of the human race . . . .::

"What are ya?"

"The woman who out conned you," she held out a hand, not lowering the gun for a second, "Hand them over."

::Dere was no job. She used m'love f'r her t'acquire de gems.::

Reluctantly, he dropped the pouch into her palm, then stepped back, horror written on each feature. Raven's leer grew wider and she slipped the gems into her pocket, backing slowly away from him. The street-lights and the moon leant her a silver aura. Her copper hair glowed around her, shimmering in waves of bronze and gold.

"Au revoir, cheri," she blew him a mocking kiss, "Je t'aime."

With that gesture, she was lost to the humid, Parisian night, to the heavy moonlight. Jean-Luc waited until she had disappeared from sight then removed the real gems from the pocket of his trench-coat. They shone in the ghostly brightness, like the tears on his cheeks.

French Quarter, New Orleans

The cold scythed through the layers of clothes which the pedestrians wore, making red their noses and blue the tips of the fingers. An icy rain fell on the city; hard, sharp and merciless; promising to turn into a flurry. New Orleans in winter was milder than its Northern counterparts in the United States, but still frosty enough to keep most people indoors.

The young thief stamped his feet like a restless horse, trying to keep warm. His hands, wrapped in woolen gloves, were shoved deeply in the pockets of his trenchcoats. At seventeen, he was impatient, yet cautious enough to curb his impulses.

'Parfait,' he whispered, as he saw a middle-aged woman rounding the corner. Her 'Big Easy' sweatshirt and camera marked her as one of the phalanx of tourists which descended on the city from time to time.

Removing his Saints cap and running a hand through his russet hair, he walked up to her and flashed her his most charming grin.

"C'n I help ya, Mademoiselle?"

She smiled gratefully at him, "You're so kind! I knew the natives were so friendly, but I never imagined . . . . This city is wonderful! You're fortunate to live here! This town really knows how to . . . ."

::She's gon' say Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler. Dey always do.::

"Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler," she finished, looking pink and flustered, "Anyway, I was wondering whether you could direct me to a decent eatery."

"Mais oui," he nodded his head vigorously, putting on his most ingenuous look, "Go down dis street an' take de first alley on ya left, den de second one on ya right. Be one o' N'Awlins best- kept secrets."

"Thank you," she gushed, "I must give you something for your trouble."

::Dieudedieudedieu. She can't be lookin' in her purse.::

He doubled the voltage of his smile, "Helpin' ya be reward enough f'r dis poor Cajun boy."

::Dey always fall f'r de poor Cajun boy line.::

"Thank you," she looked pathetically grateful and the boy suppressed an urge to laugh, "I won't forget your kindness."

::Oui. I'm sure ya won', mademoiselle.::

Waiting for her to disappear into the alleyway, the boy sprinted into the dark lane that led between the two houses. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the tourist calling for the police. Evidently, the local fishmonger was not exactly her idea of fine eating. Her wallet was thick in his hand and he grinned with sheer pleasure. It was an almost perfect pinch - 'Vitemain' LeBeau, his pickpocketing tutor, would have been proud of him.

He discarded the Saints cap and parka, that he had been wearing, throwing them into the backpack, that he had left in this side street for just this purpose. Pulling a chartreuse sweater over his head, he whistled his way to the Thieves' Guild.

As he was approaching the tall, elegant building in the heart of the Vieux Carre, he heard the sounds of a struggle emanating from the end of the road. Dropping his backpack and removing a slender knife from the recesses of his shirt, he went to investigate.

Three burly men were forcibly escorting a woman into the abandoned building at the corner of the road. He recognized their leader as Antoine Lenoir; a swart, unpleasant youth whose clan was loyal to the Assassins. The other two brutes, while unfamiliar to him, were cut out of the same cloth as any flunkey - a species uniquely lacking in personality.

::Must do somet'ing 'bout dis saloperie (mess).::

He entered the house, knowing that he would regret his actions, and called:

"Hey, assassin-trash? I know ya'd prefer t'ief blood t'de blood of de femme."

The three men turned on him with matching looks of disgust, letting the girl drop to the floor. Their leader smirked as he saw the young thief standing there, his knife blue-silver in the light.

::Gone an' done it now.::

"If it isn't le Diable Blanc (the white devil)," Antoine leered, encouraged by the snickers of his minions, "I wonder if *freaks* bleed de same color as de rest of us. Should we find out, mes braves? (guys)"

"Let's not," the girl said coolly, as she performed a neat, roundhouse kick to the back of Lenoir's head. The assassin fell to the floor with a muffled oath, clasping the rear of his skull. Blood seeped out through his fingers, staining them red.

"Get dat salope (shrew)," he hissed, pointing to the girl.

"Mon ami," the thief grinned as he decked one of the flunkies with an uppercut, "Ya orders not be too good t'day."

The second lackey, having profited by the example of the first, required no encouragement to turn tail and flee. The girl laughed; her eyes brilliant, her cheeks flushed; and held out her hand.

"Thanks."

"Je vous en prie," he shook hands, "Though it didn' seem ya needed m'help."

"Hon," she lifted an eyebrow, "Ah always take help where Ah can get it."

"What was deir beef wit' ya, chere?"

"Don' know," she shrugged, "Went up ta them an' asked them where Ah could find Monsieur leBeau's house."

The boy laughed as they exited the building, "Dere was ya fatal mistake, belle. Dose cap-caps (white trash) be Assassins, sworn enemies of m'kin. Dey'd kill ya soon as look at ya."

"Gawd," the girl wrinkled her nose, "A family feud. Thought those went outta style with the Middle Ages."

She was pretty in her own way - a slip of a girl with solemn, green eyes and unusual, white-streaked hair. Her athletic figure was complemented by the spandex leggings and bulky sweater that she wore.

"C'est vrai, chere," he explained apologetically, "No-one knows how it got started, but it be commonly believed dat it occurred when Marc Bordeaux stole Chantelle Thibert's heart away - she was t'be married t'Andrieu leBeau. Dey claimed it was le coup de foudre (love at first sight) but family honor had been wounded an' only blood would salve it. Didn't help matters none that Marc Bordeaux was a telepath, known f'r using his powers in less dan honest ways."

"Gawd," she repeated, "If'n people had ta die, ya'd think it would be foh somethin' better'n love."

"Not much dat is better, chere," he said quietly.

Her eyes were instantly sympathetic, almost as if she sensed his pain,"Did Ah step on a nerve, hon?"

"Naah," he waved it away with a hand, quickly changing the subject, "Why are ya lookin' f'r de leBeaus?"

"Mah guardian, Ms Darkholme, asked Monsieur leBeau if he could tutor me in . . . " she paused, her expression as secretive as a budding rose, " Uh . . . certain areas. Apparently they're close friends from way back when. Can ya show me where they live?"

"Goin' dere m'self, belle," he grinned, "Ya be welcome t'tag along."

"Thanks," she picked up her heavy duffel bag from where it had fallen in the skirmish, hefting it over her shoulder with little difficulty, "Let's go."

::Hope dis isn't a honeytrap.::

Thieves' Guild Head Quarters, New Orleans

Jean-Luc leBeau stared at the receiver, tapping his fingers against the desk. The phone-call he had received was most irregular. Most unexpected. Most audacious.

::So Raven wants me t'teach her fifteen year-old protegee de arts of t'ievery? Guess I can't refuse, even if it is jus' f'r de sake o' what happened between us in Paris.::

Moonlight picnics. Walks in the dark streets. Intimate tete-a-tetes in cafes. The pinch and thrill of a lifetime. The sharpness of love betrayed. He scowled and pushed the thought out of his mind. The child should not suffer for the sins of her guardian. Besides, he would be true to their broken-winged love, even if Raven had not been.

::Be company f'r Remy as well. Mebbe a fille will even have a civilizing influence on him.::

He thought with fondness of his seventeen year-old son. Remy had come into his life six years ago - an underfed, scruffy urchin that the French would have called un gamin. How things had changed! The sullenness had been replaced with a salesman's charm and, although his son remained slender, the gangliness had been sublimated by grace. The boy was still impulsive though and his cousin, Lapin, a notorious firebrand, was not helping matters by encouraging him in his feats of daredevilry. Fortunately, Remy was blessed with preternatural agility that had saved his life more than once. Nevertheless, Jean-Luc's hair was considerably more gray than it had been seven years ago. He grinned with wry humor, thinking: ::Oui, a fille could be a very good t'ing indeed.::

Thieves' Guild HQ, New Orleans

The girl sat on the high-backed chair, nervously tapping her heel against the floor. The opulence of the office surprised her - she would have thought that Jean-Luc leBeau's study would have been dingier, darker. Thick, blue curtains were drawn against the cold while a cosy log-fire burned in one corner of the room. She picked up the gold paperweight from the desk and tossed it from hand to another. The clock chimed the hour, then the door opened. A small, wiry man with hair the color of a fox smiled at her, as she stood to greet him. His blue eyes were shrewd sapphires in his bronzed face and his clothes were elegantly expensive without being ostentatious.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle. Je m'appelle Jean-Luc leBeau. Comment vas-tu?"

(Good day, Miss. My name is Jean-Luc leBeau. How are you?)

The girl cleared her throat, "Fine, sir. Ms Darkholme sent me."

"Raven's protegee. Good," he took a seat opposite her at the desk, "What am I t'call ya, 'tite?"

"Rogue'll do, suh."

"Unique name," he commented, "Ya c'n call me Jean-Luc though, belle."

"Fine," Rogue nodded her head, "When can we get started?"

"Patience, belle," he laughed, lighting a cigarette, "Ya aren't even moved in yet. Find a room an' den we c'n talk 'bout tutoring."

She paused, familiar with the stalling tactics of adults but wondering whether to press the issue. Her straight-forwardness won the contest.

"Suh, can Ah at least meet mah tutors?"

"All in good time, ma chere enfante," he stood, a grin on his face as he walked towards the door, "I'll get m'son, Remy, t'show ya around, Rogue. He be conveniently listenin' right outside de door."

Jean-Luc leBeau pulled the door open to reveal the same boy as earlier. The young man looked highly embarrassed at being discovered. His red-and-black eyes were effulgent in his handsome face, while his lips essayed a cocky smile.

"Pere! Pardons-moi - I t'ought I heard ya call me."

::Quite a looker with th' charm ta match::

His father shook his head in mock disapproval, "Remy, Rogue. Rogue, m'son, who is betrayin' his lack o' social graces."

"Ah'm glad foh that, suh," she said honestly, "Most gentlemen wouldn't have come ta mah rescue foh fear o' ruinin' their pedicures."

Jean-Luc looked concerned, "Ya were attacked, belle?"

"Yeah," she confirmed, remembering the incident of earlier, "Ah was lost an' Ah thought ta ask th' way ta your house. Seems that Ah chose th' wrong people ta ask directions from though, 'cause they began escorting me forcibly inta th' nearest abandoned building. Ah went along with them, because Ah didn't want ta cause a scene on the streets when Ah took 'em down. Ah didn't want th' police asking uncomfortable questions . . . . Guess it's something Ah picked up from Raven."

The man turned to his son, "Who was it, Remy?"

"Antoine Lenoir an' his two assassin goons," the boy replied, "Ya t'ink de feud has flared up again, pere?"

"Non, Remy. I'm sure of it," Jean-Luc's face grew serious, "Dieu. Dis could be bad news f'r de Guilds. I must consult de Council."

In a show of forced jollity, as transparent as glass, he grinned at her, "Not'ing t'rouble yaself about, belle. Jus' a few hotheaded fools who like t'shoot deir mouths off. Remy'll show ya to ya room - I'm sure ya be exhausted."

Rogue was not convinced, but followed the young man out of the room, one urgent thought at the forefront of her mind.

::Gawd. What have Ah walked inta this time?::

Thieves' Guild Training Hall

New Orleans

"Damn," Rogue swore vehemently as the lockpick slid uselessly out of the safe's keyhole again, "Damndamndamn."

She paused to push back her unruly hair, staring at the tool in her hand. Thin and hooked slightly at one end, it was difficult to manipulate effectively and, more often than not, her best efforts were unsuccessful.

"Rogue? You havin' problems?" the grizzled Canuck, who was her lock-picking tutor, asked, "Concentrate, girl - this is an easy lock."

::Where is Remy?::

Atypically, he was late for their joint lesson; a fact which Girard Renault had commented upon earlier. While he was irresponsible, she had never known him to be tardy in the few days of their acquaintance.

Almost as if on cue, the door swung open and Remy entered, touting his enormous backpack. His auburn hair was mussed and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face.

"Sorry'm'late," he mumbled, "I was wit' Lapin an' lost track of time."

Smilingly, Girard rebuked him in thick Canuckois - "Jeune cafard - tu es en retard. Aides la fille. (Young cockroach - you are late! Help the girl!)"

Remy grinned at Rogue, coming to squat next to her. He smelt of exotic, expensive perfume and she wondered with a twinge of half-understood jealousy where he had been. He removed his own finer tools from his pocket in preparation.

"Dis be a simple 'nough task," he told her, "Ya jus' need t'click de tumblers int' position an' ya be sittin' pretty."

"Thanks foh th' lecture," she drawled sarcastically, "Lahke Ah haven't been tryin' ta do that foh th' last hour while ya an' your cousin were chasin' skirts."

::What is she like? Is she as lovely and rare as her scent? A tall, elegant *lady* who knows th' right things ta say; who is charmin' an' refined; who cooks an' sews; who isn't *me*. Ah'm a goodsoldier, a mercenary, a killer-cold-as-steel-and-hard-as-iron. Love is for the weakan'feeble. Love is only useful as long as it serves ya purpose. Raven taught me that, yet . . . .::

He laughed, removing a tool of similar design to her one and some oil, "Jealous, chere?"

::Yet there is a part o' me wishin' that it was mah perfume that Ah smelt on ya.::

"O' th' fact that ya missed half o' th' lesson ta have some fun?" she said, deliberately misconstruing his words, "Not at all."

He paused to oil the lock delicately, then inserted his lockpick.

"Come 'ere, belle," he told her, "An' I'll show ya how t'crack dis sucker."

Rogue crawled closer to the lock, and he put her hand on the slender tool. Shifting position so that he was more comfortable, he placed his hand over hers, ensuring that the hollow of his elbow fitted into the sharp angle of her one. His breath was warm against the back of her neck, ruffling the strands of her hair.

::Oh gawd.::

"Now," he continued, "Ya feel around until ya find de tumblers et . . . ."

:: He's so close an' . . . . Stop it! Love is foh th' weak an' ya are strong. Concentrate on th' lock.::

Under his skilled guidance, the three clicks came in quick succession. The door sprang open, revealing an empty interior.

"Ya'd t'ink after all dat work, dere'd be somet'ing inside," he quipped, releasing her, "I remember how disappointed I was de first time I opened it."

"How old were ya?" she asked, curiously aware of where his hand had been. His touch surrounded her wrist, like a bracelet of fire.

::Love. Is. Foh. Th'. Weak.::

"Eleven," he replied, "But I'd been t'ievin' since I was about four . . . ."

"That's enough for one day, enfants," Girard Renault, the old Franco-American, interrupted, "I have a council meetin' to attend so I'll see you two the same time tomorrow? Be punctual this time, jeune leBeau."

Remy favored him with his most charming smile, "I will be, monsieur Renault."

::Man could charm a golden egg outta gander.::

Once their tutor had left the room, he turned to Rogue, a secretive look in his alien eyes. The open charm had disappeared from his face, leaving a more subtle, attractive one in its wake.

"D'ya want t'know where I was earlier?"

"No," she told him bluntly, folding her arms, "Ya . . .ya conquests don't interest me."

Remy laughed, pulling his backpack to him, "I was shoppin'."

"Foh what? Blondes? Red-heads?"

"Non, f'r a brunette."

Remy unzipped one of the side compartments and began rummaging within it. Eventually, he removed a small package. It was wrapped in silver paper and decorated with brilliant, royal-blue ribbons.

"F'r ya," he smiled as he handed it to her, "Dere be an old tradition in our house dat every guest gets a gift. Call it Southern hospitality."

::A brunette. Me?::

"Thanks, hon," she hugged him briefly and stiffly, once more painfully aware of his touch and his arms encircling her waist. The sweet scent of the perfume overwhelmed her again, so she released him, knowing that he was someone else's to hold.

::He must love her whoever she is. He's just bein' polite ta th' new kid.::

"Open it."

Rogue untied the ribbon carefully, then proceeded to slit the paper with the knife that she constantly wore at her waist. A slender, golden box remained and she stared at it in open amazement.

"Perfume?"

The bitter irony of her earlier thought came back to her. In a sense, it was her perfume that she had smelt on him. Having no better guinea-pig, he evidently had sprayed himself with it. Remy must have taken her surprise for dislike, because he instantly apologized.

"Ya don't like it," he grimaced, "I'll take it back an' exchange it f'r somet'ing different. Mebbe a nice set o' throwin' daggers or a decent set o' lockpicks?"

::Yes. Ah'm a soldier - all o' those things would be better - more useful - than this . . . .::

A stubborn part of her rebelled against her teaching. Why should she not have something beautiful? Something that served no concrete purpose? Something as lovely and fleeting as the sunrise? It was that part of her soul that replied.

"No. It's perfect . . . just perfect."

Rue d'Ursuline, New Orleans

The assassin pulled her cloak around herself, shivering in the cold, morning air. The council had received word from a mole in the Thieves' Guild to meet him there. He said that he had important information. Marius Bordeaux, never a trusting man at the best of times, had sent the one person upon whom he knew he could depend - his daughter, Belladonna.

::Bon sang, where is dat idiote?::

She heard a high-pitched whistle and she turned around like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Belladonna felt the dagger before she saw it, then felt nothing more.

New Orleans

"Hey, hon!!!"

Rogue waved at Remy as she saw him cross the street. He was whistling to himself, a smug look in his demonic eyes, and swinging his omnipresent rucksack. It looked heavier than before - the day had obviously been kind to him. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw her.

"I t'ought ya'd be cloistered wit' ol' Poignard, chere."

"Yeah," she replied, as he sat down next to her on the steps of the Guild Hall, "But he was called away on an urgent council meeting an' he dismissed me early."

He looked at the floor, worry written on his handsome face.

"Dat can't be good news, belle. A full council meeting always spells trouble f'r de clans."

"Ah know," she said simply, "It could be war this time."

He turned to look at her and she searched his face for some kind of reassurance. Any that she found was hollow. Eventually, he said lamely:

"It's never come to dat before. . . ."

Assassin's Council Chamber

"Dis means war!" Marius Bordeaux's face was purple; the veins on his temple stood out in sharp relief. His red-rimmed eyes betrayed his lack of sleep and his abundance of tears.

"Dose trashy t'ieves have gone too far."

His son, Julien, looked sympathetically at him and poured him a glass of water. The leader of the Assassin's Guild took it gratefully, draining it. He was calmer when he spoke again:

"If we let dem get away wit' murdering our children, dey won' stop. Our entire clan would be wiped out in a single generation. We can't allow it to happen. Retaliation is our only option. We attack in a week's time."

::An' heaven help us all::

McDonald's, New Orleans

Lapin scooped up the last few fragments of ice-cream with his plastic spoon and licked it. That task complete, he turned his attention on his younger cousin. Remy was stirring his Coca-Cola with his straw, absently watching the ice melt.

"I'm sorry t'hear about Belle," Lapin said after a long pause.

"Hmmm?" Remy lifted a quizzical eyebrow, "Oui, it be a pity. We used t'be close, but after de feud flared up again, I didn' see her again."

"Say," he lowered his voice, "Ya don' t'ink dat dat Rogue-femme has anyt'ing t'do wit' Belle's death? It's suspicious dat it happened so soon after she arrived in N'Awlins."

His younger cousin's eyes flashed angrily, "Non. She'd never do anyt'ing like dat."

"I'm not sure m'self," Lapin put on the air of a skeptic, "Poignard's always on about how skilled she is wit' daggers. Hits de bullseye nine times out of ten."

leBeau was disgusted, "Ya sound like a vielle dame (old woman), Lap. Fammes ta guele.

(shut up!)"

The older man grinned, "I t'ink ya have more dan a professional interest in our Rogue. Love be blind when ya have t'see ya paramour as a murderess. . . ."

Remy silently stood, dropping two dollars onto the table to cover his portion of the bill.

His voice was low and furious when he spoke: "Elle ne l'a pas fait. (she did not do it)"

"Whatever ya say," Lapin shrugged, still smiling stupidly, "May I finish ya Coke, padnat (buddy)?"

Cimetaire des Assassins, New Orleans

"Ashes to ash, dust to dust."

Marius placed his arm around his teenage son and drew him close, as he listened to the old priest intone the burial rites. His eyes were dry and a steely resolve was reflected in their depths. His tears had given way to a colder, more cleansing anger.

"The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord."

The body was carried into the crypt by four, burly assassins dressed in black velvet. At their head, Sarabeth O'Connor, Marius's niece, sprinkled white rose petals, sniffling as she did so. Marius looked compassionately at the girl - she had been Belladonna's confidant and was feeling the loss as keenly as he was.

"Dose t'ieves will pay, pere," Julien whispered.

"Hush, Tijules," he said hurriedly, "Dis is a place of peace."

::Mebbe de last we'll know f'r weeks if fightin' breaks out again.::

His son stared ahead moodily, his eyebrows drawn together in an angry line. Marius Bordeaux's heart broke within him again and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks, because feared - and knew - that he would lose more than one child before this conflict was done.

Training Hall, Thieves' Guild

New Orleans

The knife-blade shone blue-steel in the harsh, neon light. Rogue weighed it with an expert hand, judging its balance. Perfect. An Oriental piece by the feel of it. The target stood a few feet away - alternating black-and-white rings that surrounded a red circle. Lips pursed in concentration, she threw the dagger and it embedded itself in the heart of the target. Poignard, the old weapon's-master at the Guild of Thieves, came forward, clapping his hands.

"Tres bien, petite. Ya be more'n a match f'r any assassin unfortunate enough t'cross ya way."

"Thanks, suh."

She sneaked a glance at Remy. He was scowling as he practised with a quarter-staff, hitting a dummy repeatedly before dodging as it swung back. He had the graceful fluidity of a natural athlete - his form with the weapon was impeccable.

"Here, chere," Poignard grinned, as he handed her a quarterstaff of her own, "Give ya a valid reason t'watch de boy."

"Ah . . . ." she stammered, a hot blush spreading up her cheeks.

"LeBeau, get ya tail here," he called, "Time f'r some sparrin'."

Remy crossed the room, wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead. He was dressed in a baggy shirt and trackpants. He smiled wolfishly at the older man.

"Oui, Poignard?"

"Let's see how much ya two have learnt," he said, "Un. Deux. Trois. (One, Two, Three.)"

The ferocity of Remy's attack surprised Rogue. She lifted her staff just in time to avoid him connecting with her head. Spinning around, she attempted a blow of her own, but he easily blocked it and retaliated with a low swipe. She jumped his staff, landing squarely on the floor and lashing out with a swing of her own. He danced away and tagged her squarely on the back.

"Ya left yaself open f'r dat one, fille!" Poignard jeered, "Nice shot, Remy."

::Ah'll wipe that smirk offa his face.::

Their staffs clattered together. Sensing that he had left himself open for an attack on the left, Rogue lunged in that direction. leBeau dodged to the right and hit her in the ribs.

"Good gambit, Remy."

::Ah'm gonna get him.::

Suddenly, the door to the Training Hall opened and a slender man walked into the room. Poignard raised his hand to stop their match. Rogue recognized him as Pierre leBeau - one of Remy's innumerable cousins and a council member.

"We need ya, Poignard. De worst has happened."