After some time, he stopped walking. His extravagant felt hat had become so inundated with rain that its brim was wilting over his field of vision. Removing it, he could see that it was ruined beyond recognition. His hair, elaborately curled and drawn back into a ponytail (the current fashionable hairstyle), was drenched and plastered to his forehead. Looking at his feet, he noticed that his fine, white, leather riding boots had taken on a muddy brown hue, and he could feel a considerable amount of water in them. His fine satin cape clung to his body in a most uncomfortable manner; he longed to be rid of it. The young man despised Zozo with a deep passion, and inwardly he wondered how he had ever been put up to this task.

He had reached his destination, though. Glancing up at one of the dark, foreboding buildings, he noticed the sign he had been looking for: a crude woodcut of a bed with a crescent moon above it. The man grimaced inwardly at the thought of entering such a place; its customers were apparently illiterate street urchins, incapable of reading a proper sign. With a curse, he hurled the object that once was a hat into a nearby puddle, and breaking the clasp at his neck, he let the cape slink into the mud behind him. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door of the inn.

He was assaulted by the stench of tobacco as he entered, closing the door behind him. The inn's illumination was not a great deal brighter than the dark, unlit streets, and the young man peered about myopically. Shivering, he realized that it was not much warmer or dryer for that matter. Several disreputable-looking characters were sitting in the tap-room, and he noticed with some discontent that it was one of the barmaids who had the reeking pipe clenched between her yellowed teeth. Scanning the room, he saw the man he was looking for, sitting at a small table in the one of the darkest corners of the inn. Swallowing hard, he approached him.

The man sitting at the table was quite disparate from the other patrons of the inn. For one thing, he was a deal cleaner than most of the citizens of Zozo; from what he could see, the man's white shirt was utterly spotless, and his the leather vest he wore was of fine quality. It was the man's face that disturbed him, though. His smooth, clean-shaven head and short, black beard gave him a fierce appearance. His shrewd, hawk-like eyes were barely visible under a foreboding brow and the young man had the distinct impression that this grim figure had been watching him from the very moment he had entered the inn.

Drawing himself up, the young man bowed curtly. "Lazarus Brokengulf, I presume?" he asked in a piping, shrill tone. "My name is Oliver DeBarre, it is good to finally meet you. "Forcing a smile, the young man extended his hand.

* * * * *

Lazarus appraised the foolish young man who stood before him, dressed in his drenched, foppish clothes. He glanced briefly at the hand that had been extended towards him in greeting, covered with gem-encrusted rings. He looked at the similarly decorated hilt of the rapier the man wore at his side, no more than a fanciful toy that could be broken over one's knee. He stared into the young man's weak-looking blue eyes, and saw little intellect beneath. He said nothing.

Paling visibly, the young man took a seat. "You were informed that I would be arriving?" he asked nervously.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Lazarus replied, frowning.

"Yes, yes, of course..." DeBarre mumbled. "I -- that is, we -- have a job for you."

"I should, for your sake, hope so," Lazarus said, an edge in his voice. He had no desire to conduct business with some nobleman's spoiled brat. It was too late in the evening for this sort of foolishness.

Lowering his voice, DeBarre continued. "There is a man we would like... err, removed. He's been nothing but trouble to us, you see. His trading schemes are ruining us." The young man's fingers plucked furiously at his blue doublet.

Lazarus arched an eyebrow. "We? Who are you representing?"

The young man blanched. "We are, err, a trading organization." He lowered his gaze. "None of your business, actually," he added.

"You're right. It isn't," Lazarus said flatly. He didn't care at all for this young man, and he began to feel apathetic to his plight. He had no interest in trade, and could scarce warrant the hiring of an assassin to resolve a trading company's failures. "I think you're wasting your time here, son. It's not worth my trouble to kill a man because he's damaging your little mercantile pursuits."

The young man's face became slightly green. "I have been told to offer you the sum of one million gold coins." His hue seemed to be more a result of paying the extravagant price, rather than fear of failure to hire the assassin.

"Who and where?" Lazarus asked bluntly. Admittedly, his interest was piqued; it was the single highest amount he had ever been offered.

DeBarre exhaled slowly, he had been holding his breath. "In the city of Jidoor, to the south. That is where you will find him."

"And the mark's name?" Lazarus was growing impatient.

"His name," the young man replied in a hushed voice, "is Owzer."

DeBarre nodded slowly, looking as though he would rather be elsewhere.

With a derisive snort, the assassin rose from his seat and glared at the young man darkly. "It appears I was wrong," he remarked. "You aren't wasting your time. You are, however, wasting mine."

The young man flushed deeply. "Surely that price is more than adequate!" he stammered.

Lazarus grunted. "Owzer is dead. Do take me for a fool, DeBarre?"

"N-no, of course not!" DeBarre exclaimed. "It is just that, well, we have reason to believe that he may still be alive..."

The assassin's frown deepened. "Most of the world has reason to believe that he is dead. I'd be interested in knowing why you seem to think otherwise."

The young nobleman swallowed. "Yes, yes, of course. You see," he began, as Lazarus seated himself, "it has to do with the merchant cartel operating out of Jidoor."

"Yes?"

"You see, it was run by Owzer; in fact, it was how he obtained most of his fortune." DeBarre, noticing that he was on dangerous ground, continued. "Now, after his death, it continues to operate. It's taking up a sizable share of our market, and it's ruining us."

Lazarus ran a weathered hand over his smooth scalp. "So someone else is running the business, DeBarre. One of Owzer's subordinates, perhaps." He was growing weary of this overdressed fool.

"That would be the logical assumption, naturally," the young man replied. "But you must understand that Owzer was a financial genius. He ran his businesses with impeccable efficiency and he was ruthless in his strategies." Noting that Lazarus' sour expression remained, he added, "His 'style' is quite noticeable, you see, it could not be imitated easily."

The assassin leaned back in his chair, deep in thought.

Apprehensively, DeBarre continued. "There is also the matter of this," he said, withdrawing a sodden piece of folded vellum from his coat. "This contract was... apprehended from a warehouse in Albrook. As you can see, it is signed by Owzer, and it is dated not two weeks ago." DeBarre unfolded the paper and pushed it across the table.

Lazarus snatched up the document and studied it intently. "Naturally, we considered forgery, but the signature is identical to Owzer's own," DeBarre explained. "We have enough experience with Owzer to recognize--"

"His 'style?'" suggested Lazarus, with a sneer.

With a deep sigh, the young man nodded solemnly. "Obviously, we could be wrong about this. Yet the fact remains that someone is operating Owzer's business, and it is harming us. We would like this 'someone' to be removed."

Lazarus pushed the paper towards DeBarre, who carefully refolded it, and deposited back into his pocket. "One million..." the assassin muttered.

"Yes," DeBarre responded. "A million--"

"Now," Lazarus interrupted. "A second million when the job is done."

DeBarre's eyes widened tremendously, and he began to tremble violently. "I..."

"Look, DeBarre. You don't even know who it is you want dead." The assassin jerked a thumb at himself. "Which means I have to find out. If you want to hire me, you'll agree to my terms."

"I have little choice," the man conceded quietly.

Lazarus nodded in agreement. "No, you don't."

* * * *

The payment was doled out within the blasted hulk of one of Zozo's former residences. Hefting a saddlebag from a chocobo, DeBarre muttered a few words to his companions, a pair of men dressed with similar extravagance. One of the men gasped in outrage, but quickly clamped his mouth shut when he noticed the assassin staring at him. The other man began to argue vehemently with DeBarre.

"Have you gone mad, Oliver?" he bellowed. "You intend to let this common criminal extort us out of our money?" His loud tones unnerved the large bird, which began to squawk loudly.

DeBarre glanced at his irate companion. "Yes," he answered simply, flicking his gaze to the dark corner where the assassin sat. "Shut that damn thing up!" he ordered the other man.

As DeBarre walked toward Lazarus, the satchel slung over his shoulder, the assassin rose. "You know," Lazarus remarked, "the three of you are very lucky. Three young men, dressed like maypoles, carrying a million gold coins through Zozo. Brilliant." He casually plucked the sack from the young man's shoulder, enjoying the resultant jingle of coins. The man who had been arguing gave him a fierce look, but remained silent.

"If you'll excuse me," the assassin announced. "I must be heading to Jidoor now." Turning to DeBarre, he added, "I'll meet up with you later, for the rest."

DeBarre bit his lip. "We have an extra chocobo, if you need it," he offered.

Lazarus glanced at the animal. "Spend a day on the back of one of those filthy beasts? I regret that I must decline your offer," he returned in a sarcastic tone. Stopping at the ruined doorway, he turned back towards the merchants. "Flight is much quicker," he explained, and then walked out into the rain.

* * * * *

"I tell you, Oliver, Odesseron will have your hide for this! And probably take ours as well!"

The young man's companion had begun to shout again, after the assassin had departed. DeBarre fixed him with a rigid stare.

"Odesseron told me to hire that man at any cost, Ronal. I know what I'm doing."

Ronal scowled. "Two million gold coins. To murder a dead art collector. You're both crazy." He abruptly turned his back on DeBarre, and began to inspect his mount, the agitated chocobo.

DeBarre pursed his lips. "Perhaps." Looking out into the damp night air, he whispered, "But I sincerely doubt he'll live to see the rest."

Running a greasy cloth over one of the Spit Fire's landing struts, he glanced upward at the assassin. "Where you off to this evening?" he inquired mildly.

Lazarus was silent for a few moments, then turned to look at the crouching mechanic. "Albrook, then Jidoor," he replied.

Lurm stood up, tucking the cloth into his back pocket. He was not a great deal taller when standing. Rubbing an oil-smeared hand on the stained bandana he wore, he cleared his voice noisily. "Well, if ye don't mind me saying so, I'd advise against traveling to Albrook right now."

The assassin's eyebrow arched dangerously as he waited for Lurm to continue.

"Right," Lurm muttered. "Carrier pigeon from Luther arrived while ye were in Zozo. Seems Albrook's been, well, invaded." The filthy man flashed a set of yellow teeth in a grin.

"What? By who?" Lazarus asked, genuinely astonished.

Lurm looked his employer straight in the eye. "The Empire, boss, same ones that took Kohlingen," he said in a serious tone.

"Bloody hell. I had no idea they had become that strong. Kohlingen's just a village... but Albrook..." With a mumbled oath, Lazarus turned away from Lurm, and rested a hand on the side of the Spit Fire, deep in thought.

"I still have to go to Jidoor. As soon as Petrarch returns."

Lurm nodded once. "Well, this thing's ready to fly, whenever you need it."

Lazarus had been considering returning to the cabin when the young man returned, breathless. "Hell if that isn't a record run, Lurm," he exclaimed breathlessly. "How long did it take me?"

The mechanic snickered softly. "I'd say, oh, an hour and a half."

"You bastard," Petrarch responded, "I'll be damned if that was a second over an hour!"

Lazarus interrupted the playful conversation with his monotone, businesslike voice. "Did you get it?" he asked briefly.

"Eh? Sure," he replied, withdrawing a small piece of parchment from his coat pocket. "Couldn't spy on 'em, though, they were leaving when I found 'em. I just broke into a run, and collided with the blonde one. As I was apologizing, and trying to fix up his soiled finery, I filched that paper." Petrarch beamed a proud smile at the assassin.

Lazarus inspected the document. "Yes, this is what I wanted, nice work." Without another word, he stepped into the back door of the cabin.

Petrarch gave Lurm an inquiring look, but his friend simply shrugged.

Some time later, Lazarus emerged, wearing his long black coat, carrying a leather satchel. Silently, he approached the Spit Fire, and climbed into the cockpit. Raising a hand to close the open hatch, he paused, and turned to regard Petrarch and Lurm.

"There's seven hundred and fifty-thousand gold coins in the cabin," he said quietly. "Take your wages from that and put the rest in the usual location." The two nodded dumbly as Lazarus continued. "I'm going to Jidoor for a job, but I think it's a set-up. If it is, I'll deal with the swine accordingly, and I'll take my pay out of their hides. In the meantime, find out what you can about this new Empire."

"Will do," Lurm answered.

"And Lurm," Lazarus added, "Go find that borras and kill it. I don't want it to stumble upon this location and bring some of its friends." With that, he closed the hatch, and focused his attention on the devices within the machine.

Lurm and Petrarch stood a respectable distance from the Spit Fire as its engines flared into operation. The vehicle rose slowly, and then screamed off to the south, flying low over the treetops. Petrarch returned to the cabin, while Lurm, hefting an enormous crossbow over one shoulder, set off down the dark path, in compliance with his grim orders.

* * * * *

No one in the vicinity was awake to see the sky craft fly over the mountains surrounding Zozo. Lazarus carefully kept his eyes upon the the instruments and gauges within the vehicle, his eyes only glancing out of the glass hatch once in a while. If there was anything out there he should be aware of, the various screens would inform him of it long before his eyes would sight it. As it was, nothing of interest occurred during his trip, and the flight to Jidoor was a short one, anyway.

It was one of Lazarus' greatest resources that he had a relatively secret location to land the Spit Fire near the major cities. It was often a hidden clearing in the woods, with the exception of Tzen, where he hid the Spit Fire in a large crevasse in the nearby mountains. Here, near Jidoor, he would land in a forested locale similar to his hideout near Zozo.

Locating the small clearing was simple, and he landed the craft without difficulty. Unlike Zozo, there was no cabin here, housed with his paid employees to watch over the Spit Fire; he had to simply rely on the reputation of the dangerous wildlife in the area to guard his vehicle, though it was unlikely that many people could fly such a craft.

Securing the vehicle into its landing position, and gathering what he needed, Lazarus then extricated himself from the Spit Fire, and activated the security device, making the hatch nearly impossible to open by any save the bearer of the ignition keys. With grim resignation, the assassin withdrew his twin blades and examined their crimson edges on the moonlight. And then, he stalked off into the wilderness.

Lazarus expected as much. Owzer's home was in disrepair, bereft of all furnishings. He had crept in through a window behind the mansion, but he might as well have walked in through the front door. If anyone was waiting for him here--and he was certain that that would not be Owzer--they were aware of his presence regardless of how he entered. He walked over to the cold, empty fireplace and dipped a finger into the thick ash; it was quite cold.

As he stepped, floorboards creaked. He had heard other sounds throughout the house, sounds that did not originate from his own presence. He had little doubt that someone else was here, that he was being observed. His daggers remained at his side-sheaths, his body felt somewhat vulnerable beneath the flimsy armor of a linen tunic and a leather vest. He had, just recently, noticed the glint of steel near the top of the staircase...

"Well?" Lazarus finally said to the empty room.

Silence followed.

Turning on his heel, he walked over to a small table upon which an oil lamp rested. Drawing a flint and tinder from a pocket in his long, black coat, he proceeded to strike a spark. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking you've hidden yourself from me," he continued. Lazarus blew lightly on the glowing tinder, and lit the lamp. Light flickered tremulously into the room.

In his peripheral vision, the assassin could see the figure crouched at the top of the stairs, remaining absolutely motionless. He did not turn to face the half-hidden man. "And what now?" he asked the room. "There is light now. If you move, I might see you. I already hear you, you know." His voice was casual, nonplused.

"As though it mattered," a new voice continued. The figure rose from its crouch and proceeded to walk down the stairs, each step creaking loudly. "I have the advantage of you sir, as you must be able to see."

Lazarus pivoted his head, saw the crossbow leveled at his chest. It was of Figaran make, the type that were able to launch a number of small bolts simultaneously. The man who carried it was in his middle years, his brown hair having gone gray at the temples. He wore the standard ponytail of the current fashion, and was garbed in piecemeal armor, mostly that of a Figaro foot soldier. Casually, Lazarus focused his attention on the lamp, turning the flame higher.

"Do not make any threatening moves, murderer. You aware what the consequence will be." The man's voice was little more than a snarl. He had spat the word "murderer" out as though it tasted bad in his mouth. He continued to walk towards the assassin, in easy, confident steps.

When the man had gotten close enough, Lazarus studied his face. It was bent into a rictus of hate. He had suspected a set-up long ago; such cases were often the result of the victim's family seeking revenge. Certainly, this man seemed to bear a grudge. He continued to approach the assassin until the sharp tip of the weapon was no more than two yards from his chest.

Lazarus' eyes flicked down at the weapon, pondered its close proximity. "I suppose you're going to tell me why you went to all this trouble before you kill me," he remarked. They usually did; those seeking revenge seemed to believe that such an explanation would make the assassin understand the folly of his ways. The words never moved him much.

In reply, the man simply sneered at him. "You were a fool to come here. Greed is the only thing that drives you, isn't it, assassin? Well, look where it has gotten you now."

Lazarus' lips smirked faintly beneath his trim beard. He would have enjoyed telling the man how many times he had heard that before. "Before you kill me, I'd at least like to know who Odesseron is," he requested politely, with a chill smile.

The question summoned forth the desired effect. The man's face paled visible, the tip of the crossbow lowered slightly. "How in the name of the Goddess do you know about Odesseron?" he demanded.

Lazarus shrugged. "The dandy little fop DeBarre mentioned him a few times when he was talking to his friends."

"Bloody idiot," the man muttered. Looking up at Lazarus, he grinned slightly. "You should have found out who Odesseron was when you killed his brother, you murdering pig."

"This is a hell of a lot of trouble you're taking to kill me. Why not just march up to Zozo instead of going to all the trouble of a fake contract?"

The man frowned. "You have friends in Zozo, you know the region. Here, we are able to catch you unawares."

"Unawares," Lazarus repeated. "Friend, I knew from the moment I heard DeBarre's story that this was some sort of set-up. I could read it all over his face, never mind the blatant forgery he handed me."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Then you are a greater fool for giving yourself up to us." The hand gripping the crossbow twitched.

Without warning, Lazarus knocked the weapon's aim aside with one hand. The other hand snuffed the small lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Floorboard creaked in the inky blackness. With a sharp crack, a volley of bolts discharged from the crossbow, striking the walls and the floor. Then, there was silence.

Lazarus knew he could move better in the dark than this man. He had been waiting for all that time, on the stairs, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. But the lamp had erased that. Now, the lamp was gone again, and both men's night vision had faded. Regardless, he could tell where the man stood; he was not moving, but rather pivoting, no doubt aiming his crossbow at any sound he heard. Lazarus began to circle him.

"Fool, eh?" he whispered. Another burst of fire passed over the spot Lazarus had been standing in a few seconds ago.

"Coward!" the man snarled, his voice wavering in fear.

The man peered into the darkness around him with no avail, firing his crossbow at random. Then, he heard another sound, the sound of two blades being drawn.

Lazarus leapt upon the man from behind, throwing him to the floor. The crossbow was thrown from the man's hand, clattering loudly as it fell. Jerking the man's head backward by his hair, Lazarus held one blade across the breadth of his throat. "I wouldn't have come here if I thought I couldn't handle this sort of situation, my friend," he said coldly.

The man said nothing, his breath coming in quick gasps.

"You're very fortunate, you know," Lazarus continued. "I don't have the time to question you. That, would be most unpleasant for you." The man made a gurgling sound, perhaps in relief."

"This," the assassin continued, "is so much easier." Effortlessly, he dragged the blade roughly over the man's neck. With a final gasp, the man went limp in Lazarus' arms. Lazarus' hand was warm, and wet.

* * * * *

He had not discovered as much as he would have liked. On the whole, he had handled everything quite badly. He was foolish to have walked into that trap, once again trusting to luck. He was a fool not to have cut his way through DeBarre and his friends, and simply taken their money. He was an idiot to have thought, for one moment, that the contract might have been genuine.

Lazarus crept out of the city of Jidoor, much the way he had sneaked in. The entire event had taken about a half hour. He had almost been killed, and all he had to show for it was a few hundred gold coins he had found on his assailant, as well as a Figaran pistol crossbow. He longed to return to his cabin near Zozo, and get some sleep.

* * * * *

"Boss," Lurm said, interrupting Lazarus' rest in the hammock, "this came by pigeon while you were gone." The short, greasy man handed the assassin a sheaf of paper.

Lazarus' eyes studied the text. It was a job offer of sorts, the offered price numbered many, many digits. He would have to mull it over, of course, as other ideas had begun to form in his mind.

"Oh, uh, boss," Lurm murmured apologetically. "Ye came back so soon, I had no time to even think about gathering any info on this new Empire."

"Quite all right, Lurm. In fact, I'm going to find a great deal of information on them very soon." Lazarus' eyes glimmered in the candlelight, his voice taking on a strange quality.

"Oh?" Lurm asked, looking somewhat curious.

"In fact, I will be joining the Empire, once again."