Torwena Allens, Jaqueline Clem, Moire Thomas, Denise Lattic, Narise Rohm.

That was the entirety of Taran's message that day. No still here, still alive comments, no requests, no reason for sending names.

Five names. Five women's names.

"Taran, brother, how did you ever get him to name names?" Daear whispered admiringly. "Never...never has he even admitted that we are not Rinoa's!"

This was beyond important. This was unprecedented. With these names, Daear could find out who her family was. What her true legal identity was, before becoming Daear ab Llew, ward of Balamb Garden.

A legal identity that Garden couldn't trace. Her mother was dead; possibly she would also have an inheritance to claim. And the others....Daear smiled. The women would be from around here - of that she was sure. But of all her siblings, she was the only one in the city...who better to claim their inheritances than she?

This was worth pursuing. Quickly she copied down the names and sent her own still free message out to the others, and then made a quick call to her editor.

"Hey Clive? I'm going to be on research detail today, the phone's on vibrate if you need me."

"What's the lead?" came her boss' reply.

"Conspiracy, according to the tip," Daear replied easily. Certainly the women had been involved in a conspiracy of some sort, though if it was anything other than a weekend of fun Daear would personally be surprised. "Could be nothing, but I want to check it out."

"If it's nothing you'll make up the hours on Saturday," said Clive gruffly. "You know the drill."

"I'd better get moving then," quipped Daear, and clicked the cell phone closed. "Moron." The necessity of being pleasant to an employer was one that never ceased to twist at her. Six months in Deling City, and her network was expanding. Enough so that she knew alienating her current employer would surely spell disaster farther down the road - the media took a great delight in bringing down anyone who neglected to pay proper homage. She grabbed her notepad and her purse, and left her flat.

She was still in her first home - a ground floor flat that had almost nothing in the way of furnishings. All of her Gil was carefully hoarded against other things - expensive clothes, makeup, accessories, all the things that let her present an image of wealth and sophistication and maturity. She was no longer mistaken for a teen, even though physically she still was one. Her entire bearing and image were adult, and so she was treated. It was worth sleeping on a lumpy mattress in a ratty flat, to have the respect of her associates when she went out.

The first stop would be the city archives, where the birth and death records were kept. As a reporter for the Deling Times, she'd been in here fairly regularly. She didn't even need to give a reason for being here any more, which suited her purposes today perfectly. Quickly she seated herself at a terminal and clicked in the names Taran had given her. Any records with a name match that seemed to be in the right age range, Daear copied down on a sheet of paper. The next step was to hunt down the individual files, and see which if any of the matches she'd found had died in childbirth. While she was at it, she added Soares Detmer's name to the list she was checking - she'd known she could find his records at any time, but hadn't bothered until she had more pieces to go with it. Now was the time.

By the end of the day, she'd managed to cut the stack of names down to about four or five each - four or five instances of each name in the right age range, who might have been parents.

* * * * * *

In the end, it took her four days to narrow down the names. And when she did, she had even more names to consider. Though here it was easier; she could take care of two of the mothers very quickly. Narise Rohm died in a multiple birth - twin daughters, named Sabiya and Sabirah. Daear snorted. Hardly better than Cariad and Chwaer, and it was anyone's guess which name belonged to which twin at this stage. And the only other mother to die giving birth to a daughter was Moire Thomas, whose daughter's name was Adrienne.

That is my name, Daear thought. Or at least, it was at birth. Adrienne Thomas. A far cry from 'Ab Llew' or 'Leonhart', that's for sure. It should be simplicity itself to make this my 'legal' name.

She was fairly sure her genuine legal name at this point was Daear ab Llew - and when she hunted down Soares Detmer's file that hunch was confirmed. It had been Detmer who had given the Pride their names, as a sort of mental shorthand to remembering their powers. Daear meant 'earth', letting him remember that Daear's power was gravity. It was within the rights of an adoptive parent to change a child's name - Detmer had done so entirely legally. As had Garden, so that her true legal identity was the only name she'd really ever known. But with the birth certificate, she could become 'Adrienne Thomas' very easily. She made a mental note to take that in hand.

And that just left her three brothers to sort out. Well...match up the birth names with the adoption papers, which included physical descriptions. Since all three boys had different eye colors, she knew she could declare with certainty whose name was whose. With the two sets of documents, the work was laughably simple. Taran's name at birth was Chander Lattic, and Daear bit back her laughter. No luck at all, brother dear. 'Chander' or 'Taran', you have no luck with names at all. Gwynt's name at birth was Frasier Allens, and Daear nearly bit through her tongue trying not to laugh at that. She knew it would drive Gwynt crazy to have ever had a name like 'Frasier'. Which meant that Nodwydd's name had been Verne Clem. Poor brother, you almost got away with an almost normal name. Now you're stuck with 'Noddy' until the day you die. Though Nodwydd was such a ... well, goofball, that really the comic sound of 'Noddy' fit him rather well.

She didn't let herself get sidetracked with laughing over names, though. She filed a formal request for a copy of her own birth certificate, and photocopied the rest, clipping notes on where to find the originals to each for future reference - she didn't think it likely her siblings would trust her to claim inheritances, but it was always possible. She ran down as much documentation as she could for herself and her siblings, not sure what she was looking for but sure she'd know it when she found it. While she was at it she documented their mothers as well, and their adoptive father.

Bingo.

Their mothers weren't just nobles - all five had been heiresses, the only daughters of dying families. Research in the media archives turned up photographs, and Daear blinked. Although physically different in every other respect, all five women had had black hair and brown eyes. Daear stared for a long while at the photos of Moire Thomas, trying to find something - anything - in herself that matched the image of her mother. Moire had been slender and tall, to judge by the pictures, but in no other respect could Daear find anything in common with the woman. It wasn't like the pictures of Narise Rohm, the twins' mother, at all. There, Daear could clearly see that her sisters had inherited their hair and china-doll features from their mother. Or Torwena Allens, Gwynt's mother - and Daear couldn't resist printing out photocopies of the images in that case. Gwynt had actually gotten off incredibly lightly - to describe Torwena as unattractive was being kind, and the thick curls that were Gwynt's one vanity looked much, much worse on his mother - like a badly made wig that had been put through a tumble dryer before being worn.

Having made copies of Torwena's photos, though, Daear paused. Gwynt would hate to see this, she was sure - and while her rivalry with Gwynt went back as far as she could remember, they were adults now. Free, now, from anyone's guardianship. She wanted power. She deserved power - she was better, in any measurable way, than anyone else in this whole city. If she could take control of Deling she could steer the city to greatness. Her siblings, really, were the only ones who could stop her - either on her rise, or after she achieved her goal. Gwynt, in particular, held a power that could neutralize her own. Anyone else, if she surprised them she could kill them. But Gwynt she'd have to fight hand to hand, if they fought at all, and chances were good that Gwynt wouldn't be alone. That was why she'd always lost, fighting her siblings. Gwynt neutralized her power, and then Taran or Chwaer - or both - would fight her hand to hand. And if they came together to come after her now...it would not be for a family scuffle. It would be to kill.

She ran her finger along the photos thoughtfully. If there was one among her siblings she could not afford to antagonize, it was Gwynt. Tempting as it was to simply mail the photographs to Esthar - or find some other way to get them to him since she didn't know his address - the photos were better saved. For blackmail, or until or unless Gwynt actually requested to see them. It was far, far too late to be friendly with her half-brother - Gwynt tended to be suspicious of anyone who did anything nice around him for any reason, looking for hidden strings, and she had to admit she'd taught him that herself. But she could be...pleasantly neutral, perhaps, and keep him from nosing around in her life more than absolutely necessary, while at the same time arranging for him to know those things she wished him to. On that line of thinking she made copies of the other women's photographs and put them with the relevant birth information. Gwynt would notice the absence and request his own himself, she was sure - and then he could hardly blame her for showing him. She smiled. Yes, that was a much better way to go about things.

So. Five heiresses with similar coloring. Seeing Gwynt's mother disabused Daear of the assumption that her father had simply screwed around. She knew her father to be no drinker, and Daear had a strong suspicion you couldn't even drink Torwena attractive. And although all five women had coloring similar to Rinoa, that was really all that could be said for them. Had her father had any interest in money she might have believed his dalliances were to wrangle cash - but the Commander of SeeD was easily one of the most well-paid men on the planet. So. Not wealth, not power - or he'd not have chosen Rinoa - or would he? Power might well be the connection...Daear realized she was tapping on the console with her fingernails, and stopped herself. Perhaps she was following the wrong lead. Obviously her adoptive father had known all five women. Known them well enough that when they died he was able to adopt the children.

There was nothing in Soares Detmer's file that put him in the same category as the five mothers, beyond his own noble birth. On the other hand, it did have his last known address - the home she'd lived in until the age of ten. She stored her new files in folders and put them carefully away, and left the hall of records with Detmer's address in hand.

* * * * * *

She hadn't expected sadness, when she reached the house. She hadn't really expected to feel much of anything. Detmer hadn't loved her any more than he'd loved her siblings, she'd known that even then. He'd begun teaching her how to kill, as he'd taught Nodwydd, but for the most part preferred her to capture instead. Nodwydd couldn't disable with his power - he could only kill. Daear's power was more versatile, and Detmer had taught her to take advantage of that. She vividly remembered crushing Irvine just enough to knock him out, for example, though she'd threatened him with death. She'd been fascinated with death in those days - the way even grownups didn't come back and bother her again. Her father had pretty much answered all her questions on the subject in a permanent and definitive way, though.

Looking at the ruins of what had been their home, Daear wondered if it would not have been wiser to kill Irvine. But she'd only been ten years old, and Taran had been so specific - if she wasn't specifically ordered to kill, it was better not to. After all, you could always kill them later, but once they were dead they stayed that way. If she'd killed Irvine when they met, she would never have known her father. She would have remained Detmer's ward, would have been raised here, in Deling City, all her life.

Her boot-heels made muffled thuds against the overgrown walkway. Probably what had kept the place from being sold was her father's handiwork - a circular blast hole, going from what had been the front door all the way through the house to the other side. What had kept it from being bulldozed was the house's age and otherwise good condition - it was a historical residence, according to the plaque on the rusted gate, and therefore it required permission from the city council to destroy it. That meant for anyone to take up residence they would have to buy the property and then restore the house to its original condition. Very few people had that sort of money.

The house felt...sad. It had been looted, of course, of anything remotely available and valuable that could be seen. No paintings on the walls, no furnishings. A gaping hole in one wall testified to the prior occupation by a safe. The bodies had been removed to a morgue long ago, and the faint chalk outlines where they had been were dotted with the ancient brown stains of dried blood. Ten years. It hadn't really felt like all that long.

Anything of value that was at all easy to find had been taken, by looters or by SeeD - which amounted to the same thing, really, in the end. If she were to find anything at all, it would not be by the usual means. She let her eyes shift in the dimness, and ran her fingers over the walls. On an afterthought she pulled off her boots as well, and socks, and let her sense-shifted feet feel for discrepancies in the floor. Once, long ago, she remembered...

padding on small bare child feet up the stairway to Daddy's office, the big men always smiled at her but they smelled wrong and she stayed away from them. There was a bump in the floor, it made her feel taller, bigger, but Daddy told her not to stand there, it wasn't polite, that was someone else's place. But who it was never showed, nobody stood there and Daear put her hands on her hips and told Daddy she knew he was lying, nobody stood there so why couldn't she when she came to his office? And Daddy froze, and he was angry she knew he was but if she looked away he might punish her and then he smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile at all but he said see, you have been good, you have been smart, you have passed my test. And he gave her a toy and sent her back to The Room, but he still didn't like for her to stand there and she didn't want Daddy angry at her so she didn't.

She understood much better now. Detmer hadn't loved her, or her siblings. He'd feared them, and what they could do, and tried to win them over. Had she looked away, he would have punished her because he would have known she would accept punishment. But she hadn't looked away, and in the end he hadn't dared to punish. And he'd given her a toy as a bribe, not to talk and not to disobey. She looked around the ruined house. Where had the office been?

Second floor. Around a hallway. She stepped carefully, shifted eyes watching for the glints that would be broken glass in the carpet - for anyone knows that shattering the windows of an abandoned house is good luck. Up the stairs, listening for creaks that meant collapse - and she was very much an expert at what sort of noise a collapse made - and lightly, quickly down the hall, trying to remember being a small child and the perspectives of a child, to get the right door.

Amazing. She knew there had been heavy furniture up here, so heavy that even with her inborn strength as a child she hadn't been able to move it far. And it was all gone now, stolen so long ago there was no sign in the faded carpet that anything had been here at all.

This was the right room though, she was sure. She stepped carefully on her bare feet around the room, her eyes watching for glass shards as her feet felt for that difference in the floor.

Here. There was a slight difference here, so slight that human eyes couldn't see it, and she'd bet human senses couldn't feel it either. But it was here. She pulled a dagger from an ankle-sheath and cut into the carpet. Doubly hidden - human eyes still couldn't see the difference in the floorboards. But she wedged her dagger down in between them, and carefully used her strength to pry them up. Dry and half-rotted, they broke first.

But underneath was a hollow place, and within that hollow in airtight plastic were sheafs of paper in many folders. This was what she had come for, she was sure. Detmer had known it was here - don't stand there - and he'd deliberately hidden this so that it couldn't be easily reached. Information for emergencies, then. If he'd needed it often it would have been made more accessible. If he hadn't needed it at all he would have discarded it.

She lifted the packet out and slipped back down the stairs. Here was not the place to examine them. She pulled her socks and boots back on, but didn't leave right away. Smiling faintly to herself at her own whimsy, she walked along the main blast-zone created hallway to a corridor leading to a back corner of the house. The Room, this was. That was all they'd known it as. The Room. Detmer had kept all six of them penned in here as long as he could, with many men around the door. Zell had had to let Nodwydd know to kill them before he would - it had been a staple sight in this hallway for all their lives. And now it was coated in rusted old blood, and there were tiny holes in the walls where the needles had been.

And beyond the stains of old horrors, The Room. To adult eyes it hardly seemed worth the capital letters - a smallish room, and yet six ten year olds had all but lived in it. In all the house, it was only this room that was untouched. Perhaps even looters had scruples about hauling anything away past the remnants of gore in the hallway. A three dimensional memory, in a way. The room was as it had been the night their father came out of nowhere and Detmer died, and all their lives had been turned upside down.

A small chest of toys. And for a wonder, untouched. They were ratty things, mostly. Rag dolls, stuffed animals badly sewn of patches, but there were a few toys that were better made, and much loved. It didn't matter - she knew her siblings. She would lay money even Gwynt wouldn't refuse his toy if she offered it, proud though he was. He had always thought of himself as Pandemona's son, as a child. The small stuffed replica of Pandemona had been his imaginary friend, security blanket, and occasionally shield - all at once. She did not think he would have forgotten Purple Demon, (Purple, or just Purp for short a lot of the time). It would be - an overture, perhaps. Or a bribe, to keep him out of her business. And it would definitely please her twin sisters into paroxysms of squeaking, which she devoutly hoped she wouldn't be called on to witness. She picked up the chest and put it over her shoulder.

It was a long walk home, and having something like this so visible would mean she'd probably be attacked. That was all to the good, really. She was running short on cash - and at the very least she could pawn off a mugger's weapons.

And then she could examine all her prizes. In detail, and determine their true worth.