It was in the War Room that Fursa chose to meet with Clayton. Amid large storage cabinets devoted to everything from weapons and spare clothing to a small selection of the meads that the Prince herself enjoyed, there lay other treasures. A blackboard and maps of the city clung to the walls in this place, waiting to be perused and referenced. The window in the south wall looked out over Webster Street.

She stood, back to the door and the huge conference table. Fursa expected no one else, and had made sure that no one had seen her arrive. The familiar clicks of the interlocks and door mechanisms that kept all but a very few trusted kindred away greeted her hearing and she listened intently as Clayton entered.

Something landed on the table and slid a short way toward her. Clayton's inimitable, well-enunciated, English accent, for once terse, announced, "She's trouble."

Fursa just nodded. There was no need to be redundant.

Clayton stuck his hands in his pockets, not nearly relaxed enough to sit. After a pause, he continued, "She came about as close to breaching the Tradition of Elysium as one can without making it obvious. But I am less concerned about that." He paused for a moment, with a slight trepidation about challenging an Ancient so directly in front of the Prince. "I do not think she intends to Keep the Peace."

Fursa took one of the carefully racked bottles from the shelf and popped the cork, then went back to looking out the window. "She departed and then returned to the lounge. I noted her presence again and the fact that she was being unusually quiet." Her considerations were her own, but she spoke to the facts.

Clayton smirked and shook his head, biting back a comment.

Fursa took a drink and mulled it over "I believe that she was attempting to spy on us. To what end, I am not sure. It is indeed too bad that she believes us to be so stupid." Unlike the Mata Hari of Clan Ventrue, Fursa had no need to attempt an obfuscation of either facts or assessments.

Clayton nodded. "I have also come to the conclusion that her motives may not be congenial to Manchester."

Fursa took another drink "She announced intention to seek audience with Pendragon." That alone might be proof enough of the point.

Clayton's mouth dropped open. For once, he spoke without thinking. "She is a traitor." With a shake of his head, Clayton added. "It all makes sense now."

Fursa refrained from comment on that score, saying instead "I think it prudent that we abandon the use of the Storm Towers Elysium."

Clayton nodded to that. "Without question. Has she been seen at other Elysia? I am afraid the public house may have been compromised as well."

Fursa said quietly "I am unsure. She does not know about this one. Few of us do."

A sigh. "Stark Raving Mad is fairly common knowledge, unfortunately, though it is rarely used. Pendragon knows it well, however. It would probably be safer not to use it."

"At least not for sensitive business."

Nodding, Clayton said, "I would even be wary of gathering there. It would be a very tempting target."

"Indeed."

Clayton exhaled, then began to pace and stroke his chin. "The other question is this: our reaction might force his hand, if he figures out we are on to her."

Fursa took another drink. Considering everything, she tended to think that acting out of character was a bad idea. She paused a long moment before she said quietly "I think that she violated Elysium. We are with our right to act on that basis." Also, any other Prince would act such. "Her desire to meet Pendragon and her blaise attitude about the level of the threat is either hubris or stupidity."

Clayton nodded, then shook his head in dismay. "I will be honest: if she is a spy, she is a terrifically bad one."

Fursa took another drink and said "Indeed."

Clayton stopped his pacing and turned to face his Prince's back again. "How old is she? Two millennia, right?"

A nod. "So I am told."

Clayton considered that as he resumed pacing. "She may very well not be a spy. Ventrue that old are rarely direct about anything. Her game could very well go deeper than Pendragon--which means I trust it even less."

Pendragon's games never had bothered Fursa. Even the night of the attack in '93, when his cronies with the motorcycles. Then the question came to the fore, "Did she violate Elysium?" It really was not a Gangrel concern in general. The Gangrel just beat the holy hell out of each other over infractions of etiquette. But, it was like Harbard always pointed out about the parties at the Mansion, a Prince has to meet the needs of all the Kindred within the domain, no matter how pointless.

Clayton noted, "She threatened a Kindred of higher station, both in words and in action, and gave us good reason to think her a spy. She used the Blood of Caine against another. In my opinion, were she a Malkavian neonate, we could look on this more tolerantly. From a Ventrue Elder, this means trouble. She should know better, and that fact that she acts like she does not is troubling." He summed up. "In my opinion, yes, enough to require some response.""

Fursa nodded, still looking out the window "And your recommendation?" It wasn't like she had not considered the many options. Clayton, though, had a seniority and connection to the politics and the history that she did not. A wise drighten listened to the counsel of the thanes.

"Put the Storm Towers Elysium on low profile, and watch her like a hawk with everything we've got." was Clayton's considered response.

"I was more inclined to deny her access to all Elysium, myself. Is that not what any other Prince would do?" The halls of Elysium were expected to be inviolate. Not even Conrad had dared to break the sanctity of Elysium until the end--and history spoke to what his arrogance got him for it.

"The question is whether we want her where we can see her. At the least, I am quite sure I could persuade Cassandra and Aaron to spread word of this infraction."

/Why not let the chips fall as they may?/ There was no need to plot in complicated ways. Fursa tapped her temple "There are those among us who are capable of keeping track of her."

He nodded again. "True enough. The other reason not to would be that it would tip off Pendragon that we are onto her. If that is not a problem, then I think it would be a most appropriate punishment."

"Would you please word the order? She will be denied access to all Elysiums for a time that you think suitable." Clayton wrote such deliciously quaint proclamations. How could she not ask him for another?

With that, Clayton opened up a storage cabinet and removed out a pot of ink, a quill pen, a blotter, a piece of parchment, a stick of wax, and a book of matches. Clayton set himself to writing, in that slow way one must with quill pens.

"I will put my mark to it." An assurance that was probably unneeded.

The scratchings of the pen continued for a time while Fursa contemplated the night, the mead, and the meanings. The sound of the fire to the wick of the sealing wax signalled her time to finally leave the vigil at the window. As she turned, she saw him then press his ring into it. Then, with a nod, he left the room for Fursa to affix her own seal as well.

It was a a rare moment for Fursa as she reached beneath her shirt to pull out the Thor's Hammer that she used for a seal. She melted a blop of the sealing wax and affixed her seal to the document, also placing her mark beside it. At the end, all she added for Clayton's hearing outside the room. "It is done."

Clayton nodded, letting the wax dry. "I shall take this over to Storm Towers. We should spread word of its closing by mouth--and the reason for its closing." He rose, taking the proclamation with him, asking "Is there anything else before I make this public, Milady?"

Fursa shook her head "Nothing of import. Jason is retrieving some information from the police and other sources. I expect to see him later tonight."

"Excellent. Any news from Concord? I wish to ensure that Fredriksen's childe is doing an adequate job."

Fursa smiled to herself. Clayton detested McDonald, "Clyde knows where his allies are."

He reached the exit and offered his usual salutations, "Good evening, Milady."

Fursa finally looked his way, offering "Be well, Clayton." It was a sincere gesture. She knew how to be little else.

"Likewise." Clayton was rapidly gone, striding off, the parchment tucked into his jacket pocket.

With a deep and unneeded breath, Fursa turned her eyes to the window again. The bottle lay at her fingertips. She considered it a moment and then put the cork back in the top. The bottle made its way to the shelf for another time and the Prince of New Hampshire walked away from it, out into the hall and out of the building by the back way that she had come in.