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DargonZine Volume 11 Issue 04
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 11
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4
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DargonZine Distributed: 05/09/1998
Volume 11, Number 4 Circulation: 682
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Abandoned Treasures Clayton Fair Naia 1015
The Broken Staff 3 Mike Adams Ober 1015
Quadrille 6 Alan Lauderdale 8-9 Sy, 1012
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 11-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 1998 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
The dance is over.
In this issue we conclude Alan Lauderdale's six-part "Quadrille"
series. First envisioned around Christmas 1995, the story took almost
exactly a year to research and write. Another nine months later, in
August of 1997, after considerable revision and waiting in queue for
publication, its six chapters began seeing print. And it has taken
another nine months just to print the stories! But with the publication
of this issue, the players take their final bow as the dance finally
comes to a close.
"Quadrille" is a superlative story in many ways; it is also an
excellent example of both the advantages and disadvantages of writing in
a longstanding collaborative milieu.
Perhaps the most interesting part of the story is how it came into
being. Alan had been reading one of our early issues (back from the days
of FSFnet), and came upon a storyline that interested him: that of Ariel
the novice air mage, beset upon by the evil minions of Haargon. As often
happens in an anthology where writers come and go steadily, Becki Tants,
the author and originator of the Ariel storyline, had left the project
back in 1988, leaving behind a three-story series with no climax or
conclusion. Alan, finding the storyline intriguing, decided to pick it
up where Becki had left off. By being part of a collaborative project,
Alan therefore benefitted from a ready source of ideas and material to
call upon.
In developing his story, Alan rapidly discovered other characters
such as Kittara Ponterisso and Terkan, who fit nicely into roles his
story needed, and had also been used in the past. Here he discovered
another advantage in collaborative writing: a huge collection of
ready-to-use secondary characters with plausible backgrounds.
While all Dargon stories do this to one extent or another,
"Quadrille" is unique in how extensively it takes advantage of
preexisting storylines and characters, maximizing the benefits of
participation in a longstanding anthology.
On the other hand, those preexisting storylines and characters come
at a cost. Anyone writing a story that leverages previously-printed
material is, of course, constrained by that material. For example, in
Becki's stories Ariel is attacked by minions of Haargon; in order to
maintain consistency with Becki's story, Alan could not alter the fact
that those attacks actually took place. In DargonZine, anything which
sees print becomes "canon", and cannot later be changed.
It should be apparent that a writer who borrows characters or
storylines would need to do some research in order to ascertain exactly
what is and is not printed canon, so that he can portray people and
events in a manner consistent with previous depictions. In the case of
"Quadrille", which recycled at least three storylines and a large number
of existing characters, that research task was immense. In fact, the
Online Glossary was created primarily as a response to our writers' need
for tools to manage and sift through the ever-increasing morass of
printed stories.
Beyond simple adherence to previously-printed details, a writer who
borrows characters or storylines from another writer has a moral
obligation to respect the original creator's intentions. If the creator
is still an active participant in the Dargon Project, ascertaining the
owner's intentions and obtaining permission to use a character may be as
simple as a brief exchange of email. However, when a writer leaves the
project, one has to extrapolate their intent from the materials at hand.
One of Alan's early decisions was to take Ariel's story in a very
different direction than it had been going. Although his story departed
radically from where Becki might have taken it, Alan expressly retained
her presumed intention to have the heroine come through her trial
relatively unscathed.
Finally, existing characters usually come with existing
relationships and entanglements. In Quadrille, Alan borrowed a few
characters to play key roles in his story. Yet he very soon discovered
that those characters were already involved in other storylines which he
would, to some extent, have to portray in "Quadrille". As he included
partial portrayals of those tangential storylines, he also wound up
bringing in additional characters from those stories, who brought along
additional entanglements and further research requirements. Alan found
himself having to deal with a continually expanding number of peripheral
characters and plots in "Quadrille" which spiraled outward from his
central tale.
In the end, "Quadrille" stands as an extensive example of the
interrelatedness of all Dargon-based stories. Furthermore, it is proof
that one can write a story that both integrates the creations of
multiple writers, and is a great read. It does an exemplary job of
integrating multiple storylines and borrowing other writers' characters,
yet is also an example of how much work it can take to do so.
And, believe it or not, during the year it has taken to print
"Quadrille", Alan has been busy researching and writing his next story,
which continues the exploits of Mouse of Kervale. He tells me that it is
nearly halfway written, and may wind up being just as long as
"Quadrille"...
But as editor, I'm used to getting those kinds of threats all the
time!
========================================================================
Abandoned Treasures
by Clayton Fair
<c646073@showme.missouri.edu>
Naia 1015
Dargon was less crowded these days. The normally packed streets
were now only sparsely populated with the few who had not joined the
Baranur armies and the few who had returned from the fighting. G'veldi,
a server for Belisandra's, was one of the few who had remained in
Dargon. Unlike the less established taverns in Dargon, Belisandra's had
only experienced a change in clientele instead of a decline in business.
G'veldi left the tavern at the approach of evening; the gratuities of
her regular customers weighed down her belt pouch, and jingled with
every step. Without Byrne to walk her home and deter malicious eyes, the
empty streets played on her insecurities.
She began to think of her customers -- maybe one of her regulars
would be willing to escort her home. They all seemed to eye her with a
male's want in their eyes, but she wondered if any could be trusted to
walk her home without further expectations. Barkel Smith came to mind, a
blacksmith and a family man. He had remained in Dargon to profit from
the countless orders he was receiving due to the war. He was a respected
man that a thief would be unlikely to hold a knife to. Then there was
Nicholas Greuber; a scribe, he was a scholar who sold his services to
the merchants of the city. She smiled as she remembered him standing
outside her window, reciting a poem he had written for her. He had been
unaware of her relationship with Byrne at the time, but his recital had
forced an introduction. Nicholas was not the size of Byrne nor Barkel,
but any male presence was better than none and she was not intimidated
by his.
She came to her door, still turning the possibilities over in her
head. Deciding finally that she could protect herself if need be, she
fumbled to retrieve her key. As she dug inside her pouch, she felt a
shift in the wind and heard a soft footstep behind her. She turned to
face the street, only to find herself shadowed by a broad set man in a
weathered cloak. Her heart skipped a beat. Her breath shortened. But
before she could react, a familiar voice came from beneath the hood.
"G'veldi, it's me, Sven," said the man, pulling the hood back to
reveal his face.
"Sven! You're alive! I'd thought you dead!" exclaimed G'veldi,
clasping her arms about him and hugging tightly. She relaxed her grip
after a shared moment of reunion and looked questioningly into his eyes.
"Why is Byrne not with you?" she asked, dreading the reason, but
needing the answer.
Sven stood silently, allowing his eyes to reveal the truth.
G'veldi swallowed hard, and asked, "How did he die?"
"We were attacked by a Beinison scouting party, sent to find us in
retaliation for the death of a noble," he explained. "We were on the
trail of treasure. We had lost Tristan and Pavo and were determined to
see the trail to its end. The map that we were following was written in
Beinisonian, but we must have followed the wrong path, for we found
nothing. We camped for several days at the location of the markings. It
was then that the scouts found us."
"He wanted you to have this," Sven said, presenting a scroll case
to G'veldi as she stood speechless. "It contains the map. He said you
would know what to do with it. It is worthless to me now, for I cannot
afford the cost of the translation, and I vowed not to return to
Beinison. But if you uncover its meaning, let me know."
"I will."
Nicholas watched the alluring motions of the barmaid's figure as
she jigged her way between the tables of the tavern. Her name was
G'veldi and he had admired her ever since she had begun working for
Belisandra's, one of Dargon's more reputable establishments. While the
other patrons hunched over the bar, staring despondently into their
tankards, Nicholas sat upright, transfixed by her every motion. Every
day after toiling over a desk piled with scrolls, he would relax at the
tavern and revel in the brief time spent in her presence. Every day he
spent the two Bits for a meal, a stout ale and a chance to hear her
voice.
"Good day, G'veldi," said Nicholas, beginning the transaction in
same manner as always.
"I'm assuming you want the usual?" she asked with a smile, as she
filled his goblet with a dark ale.
"What I want will never change," he replied dreamily, sipping from
the goblet.
"Of course, Nicholas," she answered, breaking the lock between
their eyes and turning towards the kitchen.
He motionlessly waited for her return. The next few moments blended
into one as his gaze remained locked on the point of her departure. As
he stared vacantly at the kitchen door, his mind recalled life before
the war. It had been several months since Byrne had left Dargon. He left
on what would have been an ordinary evening. The usual crowd of patrons
had all gathered at Belisandra's to relax at the end of a long day. One
of the men at the bar mentioned the recent atrocities against Baranur,
commenting on the tyrannical ways of the Beinison empire. The words
forced a change in Byrne. He stood from the bar, raised to his full
height, and stated in a loud voice, "I will take the war to their
homeland! They will know the suffering that we have felt, and more. I
will take from them what is ours by right! Enough wealth to rebuild the
ruin they have laid upon us." As he took an awkward step back to catch
his balance, he must have seen the hopeful looks in the eyes that were
upon him, for he continued his speech, and strengthened the vision he
had manifested. "A toast," he said, raising his tankard to the rafters.
"For every man that leaves with me tomorrow, I can assure them each a
king's ransom colored with Beinison blood." All their arms raised in
unison to the toast, and the tavern broke into cheers. The kegs of mead
had flowed freely, for that night was the last that many of them would
spend in Dargon.
Nicholas' reflective trance was abruptly broken by a movement near
the kitchen door. G'veldi returned to the tavern floor, replacing his
thoughts of the past with those more promising. Unconsciously, his face
returned to a lost expression of hope and love.
"Your meal, my dear," said G'veldi, placing the platter of ample
portions in front of him. "Don't let me forget, I've got a scroll for
you to translate."
Nicholas' face did nothing to hide his shock. "Forget?!" he
exclaimed. "This is the first time I'll have the pleasure of working for
a maiden instead of an overweight noble. I will not forget," he
finished, allowing G'veldi to return to her work about the tables.
Nicholas had always wanted to be needed by G'veldi. Her daily life
did not necessitate calligraphy or a knowledge of foreign tongues, and
her dismissal of his skills tore away at his confidence. He had
previously given up all hope of impressing her with his talents with a
quill, preferring instead to avoid rejection and hold his tongue in
silence. The scroll marked Nicholas' first chance to prove his worth to
her, and she had come to him. The only other work he had done for her
had been a scroll she had never seen and it had led to his introduction
to Byrne.
It had been shortly after he first met G'veldi, when Nicholas still
had confidence in his manhood. He had produced a symbol of his love for
her; the act came naturally to him. It had come in the form of a scroll,
complete with illustrated dragons bordering a poetic verse. He had
waited for her to leave Belisandra's and followed her home. When he was
sure that she had settled for the night, he began to read the verse from
below her bedroom window. The words rolled from his tongue, as naturally
as waves in the ocean. His vision of her glowing face, framed by auburn
locks, appearing through the open window was abruptly shattered by the
black bearded, scowling face of Byrne that appeared instead. In that
instant, Nicholas' aspirations of lasting companionship were shattered
by the man's threatening voice. "If you're looking for attention, you've
just found it!" he boomed in a low, vibrating voice. Nicholas watched
the head draw back into the window, followed by a stir, and then G'veldi
appeared. When she recognized Nicholas from Belisandra's, a sweet smile
appeared on her face. A frantic turn and a desperate wave quickly
replaced it, though, as if she was trying to shoo him away. From the
cacophony of noises travelling through the house, it sounded as if Byrne
was breaking through the walls to get to the door. Wasting not a moment
more, he blew her a kiss and retreated down the street. That was the
closest he had ever come to being a part of G'veldi's life, and ever
since, he had felt the threaded bond between them.
That had been before Byrne left Dargon, and since then, the tavern
had become more relaxing. Without the possible chance of confronting
Byrne, Nicholas could dine in peace. He enjoyed eating his meal slowly,
savoring the atmosphere of Belisandra's and allowing his thoughts to
shift from past to present with the coming and going of the patronage.
He looked forward to his evening meal -- anything to delay the
inevitable return to a cold, lonely bed. While he ate, he would always
keep an eye on the alluring jigging of G'veldi. If he ever missed the
chance to catch one fleeting glance from the barmaid, he would never
forgive himself, and so his gaze was fixed. He sat silently as he ate,
gleefully waiting for her to entrust him with her scroll. When the
servers began to depart, G'veldi approached without her tray. With the
scroll in her hand, she came to his table and sat beside him.
"I need you to translate this for me," she said in a hushed voice,
speckled with urgency.
"Let me take a look," Nicholas said, prompting her to roll out the
scroll on the table.
"Not here. Others may be watching," she warned.
"Nonsense. Everyone here is a regular customer, I can place a name
to every face," he countered.
"I know, Nicholas," she said, "Be careful."
Seeing that he understood, G'veldi left the scroll in his care and
returned to the kitchen. He sat there looking at it tightly rolled upon
the table. He tipped his goblet back to finish the last drop of ale and
scanned the room. There was only a handful of other men in the tavern,
but a sideways glance from Barkel Smith sent a shiver up his spine.
"Nonsense," he thought, reassuring himself that it was a
preposterous situation. Nonetheless, he quickly bundled up the scroll
with the rest of his books and left Belisandra's for his home, where no
wandering eyes could peek at his work.
During the walk back, the scroll burned incessantly at his
curiosity. It drew him to consider the possibilities of its contents.
Evidence to incriminate Lord Clifton Dargon himself, or possibly a
powerful under-lord? Navigational charts to a new world laden with gold?
The recipe for an elixir of youth? His pace quickened in step to each
new possibility that entered his head.
When at last he reached the door to his shop, he abandoned the
bundle at his desk and searched for suitable light. He dug out a candle,
lit it, placed it on the edge of his work space, and unbound the scroll.
It was about the width of his forearm and, once unrolled, it covered
twice that length across his desk. He recognized what lay before him.
G'veldi had given him a map of the land near the Beinison borderlands.
The first thing that caught his eye was a darkly marked cross,
pointed to by a downward arrow, along with a prominent grove of firs and
a familiar roadway that connected the two empires. A lengthy inscription
circled the border of the map twice and half again, beginning from the
upper left corner and ending along the bottom, so that Nicholas was
forced to rotate the scroll as he read it. He could make out the
Beinison words for 'king', and 'wealth', yet many of the words were
unfamiliar to him. His heart quickened its beat, matching the pace that
his mind had set. He understood G'veldi's need for secrecy and he
eagerly pulled his collection of notes on Beinisonian from a stack of
scrolls near his desk. He worked around the border of the map, writing
the translation in chalk on a piece of slate.
The translation was tedious, yet it consumed the interest of his
mind. He worked on it until it was complete, lighting new candles
periodically. When he had finished, he selected a blank scroll and began
transcribing the map, careful to catch every twist and burr of the
lines. As the candles burned lower, his thoughts inevitably drifted
towards his bed above. Leaving the transcription half completed on his
desk, he retired to his quarters above his shop. He was exhausted from
the concentration and excitement, and he welcomed the sleep.
It took a while for Nicholas' mind to focus. His conception of the
day had been distorted by the work of the night before. Someone was
knocking, but his need for sleep overpowered him. He rationalized to
himself that a couple more moments in bed couldn't hurt. He heard the
pounding again. "Who is it?" he thought, dreamily expecting the knocker
to answer his thoughts. Groggily, he rolled to one side, allowed his
vision to focus, and recalled his work on the map. The promise of a
king's wealth and the persistent knocking forced Nicholas awake.
Once standing, it took only moments for him to robe and return
downstairs. The knocking increased in volume, pounding at his head.
Hurriedly, he covered the map and translation, with his notes on
Beinison. G'veldi's words kept repeating in his head, "I know, Nicholas.
Be careful." Once he covered the map, he rummaged through his desk
drawer to retrieve a dagger. He slipped it into his belt, behind his
back, and moved towards the door. Taking a deep breath and smoothing his
unkempt hair, he cautiously approached. To his relief, he recognized the
familiar face of Yarrick Wilcolm's messenger, Matthew Ronnic, through
the small opening centered in the door. Yarrick was a merchant that
frequently sought his services to transcribe navigational charts for his
trade routes, and his business was always welcome. He exhaled, opened
the door, and greeted the lad with authority.
"Good morning Matthew, how can I be of service?" Nicholas asked, in
his most polite and charismatic voice, letting his hand fall to his
side, away from the dagger's hilt.
"One of my master's vessels will be departing for Miass tomorrow
and he needs a copy of each of these," he said, handing Nicholas a stack
of scrolls.
"That will not be a problem. As you know, my fee is a four Bits per
scroll," said Nicholas, thumbing through the stack. "So, tell Yarrick
that I will require two Sovereigns on hand when the transcriptions are
retrieved."
"Of course, of course," Matthew said, in agreement. "I'll see you
tomorrow morning then."
Nicholas eyed the scrolls in his hands and decided that it would be
worth his professional interest to put the lure of buried treasure on
hold. He laid the scrolls upon his desk, and began his work. The charts
were familiar to Nicholas; he had transcribed them for other merchants
before, and copying them again would not prove difficult. As he etched
the northern coast of Baranur, he was continually distracted by the lure
of G'veldi's map. Every other bell, he would take a break from Yarrick's
charts and translate a few more of the place names etched onto the map
or copy a bit more of the transcription. When he finally placed the last
of Yarrick's scrolls to the side, he reclined and rubbed his aching
wrist. His evening meal at Belisandra's would serve him well. Besides,
he was anticipating sitting close to G'veldi when he revealed the
translation. Eagerly, he gathered the map and translation together with
his notes on Beinisonian, and left for Belisandra's.
Upon entering the tavern, he was quickly greeted by G'veldi.
"Nicholas, I've been waiting for you. Take a seat over there, and I'll
be over in a mene," she said, motioning to one of the tables in the
back.
He took his place at the table with his back to the wall. It was a
familiar location for him and he fell immediately into his old routine.
He became transfixed by G'veldi's sweet dance about the tables and
chairs of Belisandra's with a serving tray in one hand and a pitcher in
the other. He let himself become so mesmerized with her work that he
didn't notice the well-traveled man that sat down across from him at the
table.
"Hey! Scribe!" the man said, in a loud whisper.
Nicholas immediately snapped out his trance, unaccustomed to having
company at Belisandra's. "Sven?" he asked, vaguely recognizing his face.
"Did you find the wealth that you sought in Beinison?"
"Don't play games with me. I know G'veldi gave you the map," Sven
said, motioning towards the bundle of scrolls. "Show me your progress."
"These are only for a project that I'm currently working on for
Yarrick Wilcolm. You would not find them interesting," explained
Nicholas.
Sven paused, considering his statement. After a moment, he turned,
and looked about for G'veldi. Summoning her over, he spoke into her ear,
and explained the situation. She turned towards Nicholas and said, "Be a
dear and show him your work."
"I've already explained to him that I do not have it with me," he
said, initiating G'veldi to pull a chair beside him and drape her arm
across his shoulders.
"Please show us the map, Nicholas," she said, suggestively.
Feeling G'veldi's warmth at his side, he could not resist her
request and unbound the scroll from the bundle. Unrolling it and the
translation, he explained the meaning to them. "You see, this writing
around the borders is in Beinisonian, as well as the writing above the
geographic features," he began.
"Geographic?" Sven asked.
"Yes, the forests, rivers, roadways -- they are all named in
Beinisonian. The inscription around the borders reads: 'My name is
Giranti Escalde, I've traveled the lands of far and wide, from Beinison
strongholds to the eastern coasts, and this map points to what I have
found. I have gained wealth that kings can only dream of. To find it you
need not stray fruitlessly into forbidden marshes or risk the desert
heat. There is only one place to find what you seek and it is marked by
the downward arrow on this map, here.'"
"You can see that there is only one arrow on the map and it points
to the cross marked below it. If Giranti has a treasure, it is there.
>From the names and the positioning of these features I would say that
the mark lies just within Beinison lands," informed Nicholas.
"Yes, that is where I returned from. We spent days upon days
roaming the hills near the mark on that map. Byrne refused to return to
Dargon without a mountain of gold in tow and we did not question him. We
had already lost two men, Tristan and Pavo, gaining the map from the
clutches of a Beinison noble. It cost us dearly, but the rumors that had
been spread about the riches that the map led to would have been worth
the loss if true. Things were going smoothly until we ran into a
scouting party in the borderlands. I turned and fled the ensuing battle,
thinking only of my wife, Katherine, before the others were overcome.
"The Beinison scouts I encountered later paid no notice to a lone
traveler on the road and I returned unhindered. On my return journey I
heard tales of a maddened giant with a blackened beard and eyes of
death, clad in blessed mail, that cut down a dozen men before falling to
a well placed arrow. The tales were exaggerated, but they brought back
visions of Byrne, as I remembered seeing him when I ran. They could only
be of him. Forgive me G'veldi, but it is the truth. I was prepared to
leave it in the past, but Byrne must have known of your scribe friend
and directed me to give you the map."
Sven's mention of Byrne's fall returned a flash of buried emotion
to G'veldi, and she gripped Nicholas' hand tightly beneath the table.
Nicholas' attention had been distracted by something else, though, as
Sven told his story. With the map facing Sven, he could read only the
last few words of the inscription '... the downward arrow on this map,
here.' It had seemed odd when he had translated it, but now it made
sense. From its present angle the arrow pointing at the spot marked by
the cross was pointing up.
"I think I have the answer that you seek," said Nicholas, turning
the map so that he could show Sven what he had just seen.
"The last word, 'here' ends at the base of this large fir tree. I
had originally taken the tree to be only a marker for the 'Knotted
Woods', but it is much more. Notice that the shape of the fir makes an
arrow and from this view it is pointing downward. Notice also that it
points directly to this word," he continued, pointing at a word placed
at the tip of the tree.
"Well, what is it?! Tell me, so I may avenge Byrne's death!"
exclaimed Sven.
"The word is ..." Nicholas began, gripping G'veldi's hand tighter.
"... love."
"So five great men died for nothing!" growled Sven. "A curse upon
Escalde's map!" he shouted, slamming his fist upon the table, standing
erratically and storming out the door.
"When he returns home to Katherine, his rage should subside," said
Nicholas.
G'veldi loosened his grip on her hand, reached up to hold his other
shoulder, and focused his attention. Looking into his eyes, she saw what
she had seen the first time they had met, and had been there ever since.
She leaned closer and kissed him. Nicholas tensed in shock; a dream not
meant for reality had come true, and he was not prepared for it.
"I ... I ..." he stuttered.
She put her finger to his lips and said, "Escort me home tonight,
Nicholas."
"But ..." he began, thinking of his contract with Yarrick that he
needed to fulfill in the morning. Yarrick was a faithful customer, and
any broken contracts could reflect poorly on Nicholas' reputation, and
two Sovereigns could cover his expenses for more than a month.
"Please don't question me. Just walk me home." she said.
Nicholas did not question her. Yarrick could wait till mid-day, he
reasoned, maybe later. Escalde's treasure was within his reach and
nothing could keep him from it.
========================================================================
The Broken Staff
Part III
by Mike Adams
<meadams@sunherald.infi.net>
Ober 1015
In The Broken Staff II, Bren kel Tomis arrives in Dargon
after exile from his homeland. He finds employment with Qanis
Jetru, a merchant, as a bodyguard. Jetru has a precious stone
which he has sold, and is waiting to deliver.
Several days after the incident in the alley, I was escorting Qanis
back to the office as day wore into evening. The day had been warm
enough for me to forget about being cold, at least for a while, and I
had thrown my cloak back over my shoulders to enjoy the sun while it
lasted. Qanis had assured me that the weather in Dargon was mild,
compared to other places, and that I'd soon become acclimated. I wasn't
so sure.
We walked down Main Street, heading in the direction of the docks.
Qanis was in a jolly mood, having just concluded a deal to supply the
Duke of Narragan's household with candles for the next year. Since Qanis
had managed to buy up most of the beeswax in the duchy the day before,
he was quite pleased. Personally, I was astonished at the number of
candles the household was expected to use.
My work was undemanding, and the merchant was a pleasant enough
fellow. In the past few days we had walked the length of most of the
streets in this small city. With all the walking, and observing Qanis in
his negotiations, I was beginning to feel like I could learn to live
here, and possibly enjoy doing so.
As we crossed another street something in my mind whispered for my
attention, and I stopped in the middle of the street. "Qanis," I asked,
"Isn't that Ramit Street we just crossed?"
Qanis looked around, slightly puzzled. "Why yes, it is. I'd meant
to turn sooner." He looked uncomfortable. "Maybe we should turn back."
I turned, and about twenty paces back stood a scruffy man. At least
his fingernails were clean, or they were if the dagger he was cleaning
them with was sharp enough. I grabbed Qanis' right arm with my left
hand, turning away from the dagger, but stopped again. Twenty paces in
front of us stood the deranged mugger from the alley, along with another
friend who seemed fond of sharp instruments.
I thought quickly, then spoke to Qanis in a low, urgent whisper. "I
am going to turn and charge the man behind us. I don't think he will be
expecting that. When I charge, you follow me, running as quickly as you
can. I will engage him, while you keep running."
"But I can't leave you here to --"
I interrupted Qanis harshly. "You are no soldier, you are a
merchant. Dying here will not serve your purpose, and your escape will
certainly serve mine."
"Merchant!" The madman was trying to attract our attention.
"Now!" I screamed, then I turned, and smoothly drawing my sword,
charged at the startled man, who dropped his dagger and reached for his
sword. Obviously rattled, and not used to facing a victim with a blade
of his own, he had barely gotten his sword out of its scabbard by the
time I reached him. A quick slash at his head was distraction enough to
let Qanis get by, and I kept the man occupied so that he could not chase
Qanis down.
A scream of outrage came from behind me, and I heard their boots
slapping on the cobblestones as they ran towards me. The man in front of
me relaxed, seeing his comrades on the way. I reached down to my left
boot and pulling my hidden knife, threw it hard at him. The blade didn't
rotate far enough to penetrate, but the handle, sharp enough in its own
right, stuck in the mugger's right eye. He dropped to the ground,
screaming and clutching at his face, while I spun to face the other two
attackers.
The short one had a long straight blade ... He slashed at my head,
and as I parried I could feel the strength in his wrist. Then the other
man came at me, two blades style, and I silently hoped that Qanis could
run as fast as he could talk.
The only factor in my favor was that it didn't appear as if the two
men had fought together before. A good swordsman can defeat two, or even
three others, of average ability, but the chances become negligible if
they work as a team.
I struck at Two Blades, then parried a thrust from the short one.
Then they spread apart, preparing to come at me from both sides. I
charged at Two Blades, then darted forward into a doorway. I was now
trapped, but at least my back was protected.
I could hear the shrieks of women coming from the other side of the
stout wooden door. The short one chuckled a bit, but Two Blades just
grunted and attacked.
I managed to hold the two men off for a mene or two, but then my
bootheel slipped on a wet cobblestone. I flung my sword arm up in a
desperate attempt to stay upright. As I fell Two Blades lunged, and I
felt a fierce pain as his blade ripped into my abdomen. I tried to rise,
but a boot came from nowhere, and I collapsed to the ground.
As I lost consciousness I heard the madman speak.
"See if you can find the merchant. I'll deal with this one." A low
cackle was the last thing I heard.
Dargon, Layman Street
Wern sat, huddled, in the corner of his room. Likewise, the mental
half of Wern was huddled in a dark corner of his mind, trying to keep
out of the way of the Voice, which roared through the battered corridors
of Wern's fragile psyche like an enraged animal. Wern had failed to
provide a victim, and even worse, had not regained the Eye. Wern had not
expected the Guard to respond so quickly, and lost not only the
merchant, but the black-haired one as well.
The Voice seemed to thrive on the fear and death of those that Wern
killed, but when Wern failed, the Voice took his anger out on Wern.
Never so far as to damage him, at least not physically, but always more
than Wern felt he could endure. Wern had resisted, once. In quiet times,
Wern would look for ways to escape, but there was no way, not even total
madness, for the Voice was too powerful, and would not allow it.
Then the pictures started, and Wern sat bolt upright. The pictures,
and the sounds that accompanied them, were hard to understand, and very
difficult to decipher, sometimes taking days of repitition and effort.
It had always been that way, and Wern had long given up trying to
understand why such a powerful being had such trouble making itself
understood.
Slowly, painfully, the images came, and Wern trembled with
near-orgasmic ecstasy, for he knew now that the Eye was almost within
his reach.
Dargon, Atelier Street
I was lashed to the whipping frame that stood on the parade ground
of the College of Heralds. The midday sun beat down, and I could taste
the saltiness of the sweat that ran down my face. It was silent; I
seemed to be alone.
Then came a voice, one I knew well.
"This is for impersonating a knight of honor," said the King of
Mandraka. The whispering sound of the whip was followed by an incredible
searing pain across my shoulders. A low moan escaped my lips.
"The herald has been judged and found wanting," came the voice of
Lord Skel, First Herald. The second bow seemed even more painful, for
now I knew what to expect. I bit my lip open, but no sound betrayed my
pain this time.
The next voice cut me as deeply as the lash had. "My dear boy,
believe me, this pains me more than you know." In my mind's eye I could
see Kira, my noble temptress, raise the whip. I could see the cruel
smile playing on her lips as the whip flew forward ...
"Kira, noooo ..."
I sat bolt upright, feeling a slight pain near my stomach. A light
sweat covered me, but it had only been a dream.
Before I could shake the sleep from my head and wonder where I was,
the door opened.
A woman, bearing a shielded candle, entered the room. Her face was
puffy from sleep, and she wore only a loosely belted robe. She held a
hand up to forestall me, and spoke.
"I am a healer, my name is Raneela S'Dun. You were brought to me
two nights ago. You seem to have had a bad dream."
"I apologize for awakening you, healer," I replied.
"There is no need," she said. "It has been some time since I had a
patient wake me in the middle of the night. Actually, it is some time
since I had a patient here for this long." She moved towards the bed,
and set the candle on the bedside table. "While I am here, let me
examine you." She leaned closer, looking intently at the scar on my
right side.
As she examined me, I did the same to her. Her hair was beautiful,
a golden red, cascading over her shoulders, but her face was too somber
for my liking. I glanced down into the parting of her robe. If ever she
gave birth, I mused, it seemed likely the poor babe was to die from lack
of milk.
Of course she looked up at that moment, catching me staring at her
breasts. Without haste she pulled the robe a bit tighter.
"I apologize if I embarrassed you," I said quietly.
"I am a healer," she replied. "The body holds no embarrassment for
me." The tightness in her lips belied her, but I did not dispute it.
"Where am I, by the way, and how did I come to be here," I asked.
"You were brought by the guard. I have told your employer that you
will be released in the morning," she answered. "Apparently your friend
is performing your work while you are here."
I began to ask another question, but again she held up her hand.
"Hold your questions, sir," she said. "We can speak again in the
morning. Good night." With that, she picked up the candle and left the
room.
It seemed to me that I had offended her in some deeper way than a
cursory glance at her bosom. As I had no way of knowing what that might
be, I laid back down and returned to sleep.
In the morning I woke suddenly, with the feeling of being watched.
I opened my eyes, and saw the healer, seated near the bed, watching me.
When she saw I was awake, she averted her eyes. By the light from the
small window, I could see that her eyes were green.
"Excuse my rudeness," she murmured. "You remind me of my husband."
She looked at me, but I said nothing. She continued, reluctantly,
as if I were drawing a confession from her.
"He served as a Ducal messenger. During the war, a group of
Beinison soldiers caught him with a message for the King. They tortured
him for a very long time before he died."
"My sympathies, lady," I said. "In war, men often commit acts that
most reasonable folk find detestable." I did not think it prudent to
mention that I had done many things in the service of my king that I
found distasteful. On a number of occasions my vow of knighthood had
been forced to accede to the demands of my vow to the Crown.
She turned to face me again and said, "I promised myself that I
would never heal another who bore arms for his livelihood. I treat
merchants, children, nobleman's wives, but no soldiers. Not until you,
that is."
She looked closer, inspecting me. "In the light I can see how I was
fooled. He had long black hair. His skin was not as dark as yours, but
you have the same build." She paused for a moment, seeming to be on the
verge of tears.
"When the guards brought you, I was too shocked to say anything. By
the time I realized you weren't my husband, it was too late." She turned
to me and glared, "I would not be fooled the same way again."
I had heard enough. It was obvious to me that this woman was
blaming me for her emotional state. This is ever the way of women,
creating difficulties for themselves, accusing a man, and then expecting
him to support and lead her through the crisis.
I rose from the bed and stood naked before her. "I feel only sorrow
for your loss, healer," I snapped. "It seems to me, however, that you
lost more than just a husband."
Her eyes came alight with anger, but I spoke before she could.
"Now, lady, if you would be so good as to have your servant bring my
clothes, I will leave you in your misery."
"You listen to me, sirrah! I have good reason to behave as I do."
Her mouth open and closed several times, so overwhelmed that she
couldn't speak further. She put her head in her hands and began weeping.
I was to play my proper role in this little drama, now was the time
to comfort the bereaved widow, and reap my manly reward for doing so,
but I declined the part. Instead I began searching for my clothes.
When she heard me opening the cabinet she jumped up, opened a
drawer, and flung a pile of clothing at me.
"There are your things, soldier," she hissed, flinging the word
"soldier" like an epithet. "Your clothes were not salvageable, so I have
given you some of my husband's. You are of a size." Her anger then
drained from her in a rush, and she sat limply on the bed.
I dressed without another word. Her husband's clothes were all
black, like the ones I had worn. As I picked up my cloak, my pouch of
silver fell out, onto the floor. I picked it up and finished donning my
cloak.
I walked to the door and stopped. Over my shoulder I asked, "Has
your fee been paid, healer?"
"I asked for no fee," she replied between gritted teeth. "And I
will not accept your coin."
"I would not have it said that Bren kel Tomis did not pay the
healer who saved his life." I tossed the pouch at her, and heard it hit
the floor as I closed the door behind me. The next thing I heard was a
scream of outrage, followed closely by the loud clink of the pouch
hitting the door.
Two days and several bells later, Qanis, Toran, and I left the
office and headed towards Commercial Street. Kultris had sent word that
the exchange was to be made at a derelict house there. As we approached
the area, I could see that it was very run down. This area of Commercial
Street seemed abandoned by business, but probably still saw use by the
poorer inhabitants of Dargon who had not yet drifted towards Layman
Street.
I had brought Toran along because my instincts told me he would be
useful. Qanis was not unduly upset; apparently his clients were a
nervous lot, and often requested meetings in strange locations. I was
still worried about the mad stranger who seemed able to locate Qanis so
easily, and I did not trust Kultris at all.
As we approached the house, Toran hung back, then slouched in a
doorway across the street. Kultris would only allow Qanis one guard, but
Toran would come at my call.
The house was situated slightly off the street. It looked to have
been the home of a wealthy man some time in the past, but for once,
Qanis had no pertinent story to tell. I entered first, my senses
scouting for danger, but there was no one in the entranceway. Narrow
hallways led right and left, but I saw before me two sets of fresh
footprints leading straight ahead, through another exit. We stepped
carefully through the exit into a large courtyard which was open to the
midday sun.
"Do you have the stone?" The harsh voice I recognized as belonging
to Kultris came from our left.
As Qanis moved to the center of the courtyard and started to remove
the Eye from its container, I examined Kultris and his guard closely.
The buyer was a small man, going bald, but flipped the rest of his hair
over the bald patch in a vain attempt to hide it. He wore an expensive
cloak, hanging open, and the front of his shirt was filthy with food.
His face was thin and pinched, his beard was straggly, and his long nose
added to the impression that he was a buzzard waiting for his next meal
of carrion.
His guard was a huge hulk of a man, easily four hands taller than
me. He carried a club instead of a sword, but I did not doubt that the
club would do as much, if not more, damage than a blade.
Kultris noticed me looking at the guard, and laughed, "Pay no mind
to Clod here, he is as thick as a post, and nearly as deaf. He does
scare away the ruffians, which is why I keep him around." He then made a
gesture at the giant, who retreated to the corner, and stood there, with
a blank look on his face.
"Now, let me see this stone," Kultris said, pulling a jewelers
glass from a pocket in his cloak. He returned to his corner and removed
several items from a bag there. While he was using these instruments, I
moved to the center, near Qanis, awaiting the results of the inspection.
Suddenly, Kultris stood upright, and shouted, "What is this,
trader?"
"What is the problem?" Qanis asked.
Kultris held up the Eye. "This stone has a large flaw inside, which
would reduce its value radically. What kind of trick is this Jetru? You
didn't think to fool me with this imitation, did you?"
Qanis was nonplussed. He was speechless for several heartbeats, the
longest such span since I'd met him. Finally he spluttered out a denial.
"Master Kultris, this is the same jewel that Corambis examined. There is
no foolery here." At the same time, I moved forward, to place myself
between Qanis and the giant.
"This for your tricks!" shouted Kultris. He then raised the Eye
above his head and dashed it to the stones. To my amazement, the stone
shattered, spraying red glass everywhere, and a smaller jewel rolled out
onto the tile floor. It pulsed with a deep red glow, and the sense of
voices that I had heard in the inn was much stronger now.
"Ah yes, now I see," said Kultris, the first to react. "The real
Eye was inside the other stone. It seems I will have the jewel after
all." Kultris then made a gesture in the air, and the giant grunted and
moved towards us.
Pushing Qanis back into the corner behind me, I drew my sword, and
bellowed, "Toran, come quickly!"
Clod swung his club at me, much faster than I would have believed
possible. I jumped backwards, rolling as I fell, and felt pain as the
club grazed my left arm. I tried to flex my left hand, but there seemed
to be no feeling in it.
As the brute stepped towards me for his next blow, I saw Kultris
heading for the Eye. I was not sure what kind of power Kultris
possessed, but I did not want him to reach the Eye. I moved to the
right, dropped my sword, pulled a knife from my boot, and threw it at
Kultris. The dagger stuck in his thigh, and he dropped to the ground,
screaming in pain.
I turned back to the giant, then ducked and rolled, as the club
whistled by, only fingers over my head. The big man giggled like a child
as he stood on my sword, ready to make a killing blow.
Behind Clod I could see Toran sprint into the courtyard, and taking
in the situation with a glance, lunged at the bodyguard. Toran's sword
pierced the behemoth's vitals, and Clod let out a shrill, girlish,
scream. Spinning around, he swung a fist the size of a ham, catching my
friend on the head, and knocking him across the courtyard where he
slammed into the wall and fell in a crumpled heap.
The giant threw his hands up and roared in triumph. The roar turned
to another scream, as I had leapt up, and plunged my remaining dagger
into the base of his skull. penetrating the brain. Slowly, the huge man
fell, toppled like a tall tree. I remember a very long instant in which
I watched the dust raised by his fall sparkling in the sun. Then I
turned towards my friends.
I picked up my saber, and moved towards Kultris, who was trying to
reach for the Eye. "I'd love to cut your head off, you maggot," I said,
"So please continue to reach for the jewel." For I moment, I think he
was actually tempted, but then he pulled back, and sat against the wall,
glaring at me.
"Qanis, how is Toran?" I asked.
"I think he needs a healer, right away," came Qanis' worried
response. "I can't wake him up."
"Let's go then; I'll carry him," I said. 'You get the Eye, and then
run ahead to alert the healer." My left arm was now tingling with the
return of feeling, but was still effectively useless. I would need
Qanis' help to get Toran on my shoulder. I sheathed my sword and started
towards my friend.
"Stay where you are, unbeliever, or I will kill you right now." I
groaned as I recognized the voice even before I turned around. As I
thought, in the doorway stood the madman. A loaded and cocked crossbow
was pointed at my chest.
The wild-eyed man stood as tall as he could and spoke, "I am Wern,
disciple of Amante. He has spoken to me, told me where to find the
sacred stone, and said that I will grasp it in all its power."
Wern stepped towards the Eye, but Kultris had crawled towards it
while Wern was speaking. "Now the power will be mine," screeched
Kultris.
Cooly, Wern brought up the crossbow, and put the bolt through
Kultris' head. The force of the bolt flung the body against the far
wall, where it slowly slid to the ground, leaving a slimy trail of blood
and brains.
Now, Wern hooted wildly, and took up the stone. It looked as if his
mind had gone completely now. I stood in front of Qanis, who was giving
Toran as much aid as possible. I didn't know what I would do if Wern
could harness the Eye's power, but at least I would die with my sword in
my hand.
"Now the Power is mine," crowed Wern, flinging the now useless
crossbow aside. He clasped the Eye tightly and held it high. For a
moment his whole face, then his whole body, seemed to glow with the same
demented intensity of his eyes. Then smoke came from Wern's clasped
hand. Suddenly, his whole hand took flame.
"No master, please!" he screamed. "You said I would have the
power!" Something Wern had said a moment ago came back to me. He said
that Amante said he would 'grasp' the stone in all its power. He was
surely doing that. Such trickery is why I worship no gods.
Wern seemed frozen in place by the flames that now consumed his
entire body. We watched as the madman's life passed is unspeakable
agony, while he was unable to even scream out his pain. Finally the
corpse was released, and it crumbled into a small pile of ash. The Eye
was nowhere to be seen among Wern's meager remains.
"Bren." Toran's voice, weak as it was, brought me back to my
senses. I rushed over and crouched at his side. "I must get you to the
healer, old friend," I said. "We'll have you mended in no time."
"You never were a good liar," Toran replied. "I don't think the
healer will be able to mend my shattered insides. I want you word on
something."
"Save your strength, you fool," I said.
"Listen to me," Toran hissed, flinching as a wave of pain hit him.
"Promise me that you will forgive yourself. Regain your honor, my
friend."
"I have no honor, and I don't want to lose my brother. We go now,"
I said. There was no response from Toran, whose eyes were now shut. My
left arm was usable now, if very painful. I hoisted my friend up, and
started jogging through the streets of Dargon, almost oblivious to the
stares of those that I passed. I was heading for Atelier Street, where
Raneela practiced. She probably would not help, but she was the only
healer I knew.
When I reached her house breathless, I pounded frantically on the
door with my foot. In a short moment the door opened, and I brushed past
a startled apprentice, and strode into the house, shouting, "Healer,
come here, I need you."
"What is it?" said Raneela, poking her head out of a door down the
hall. "What is all the shouting?"
"Mistress -- "
I cut off the apprentice sharply. "It is my friend, healer. He is
gravely wounded. Help him, please."
Raneela started when she saw me, but seeing Toran in my arms,
apparently decided to help. She waved the apprentice away, and led me to
another room, where I laid Toran on a table. She quickly stepped up, and
started to examine him, but then stopped.
"Why are you not doing something? I asked.
"There is nothing I can do," she said, looking away. "Your friend
is dead."
I could not accept it. "No, it cannot be," I pleaded. "You are a
healer, you must do something." I reached out and grabbed her.
"I am a healer, not a god!" she screamed . "I cannot help him. Now
leave me."
"Help him!" I roared, shaking her back and forth.
"He is *dead*," she shouted in my face. "Dead, dead, dead!" With
each repetition, she pounded her fist on my chest. "Go!" She pushed me
away easily, for now I had no more strength. She shoved me from the
room, and shut the door.
With my back to the door, I slid down to the floor. My world was
shattered. Not only had I lost my honor, but because of that, I had lost
my only friend. I turned and sobbed, leaning on the door, shouting my
blood brother's name, over and over. A part of me could hear the healer,
weeping, as the wound of her husband's death was ripped open anew, and
the knowledge that I had caused more pain only made me cry the louder.
========================================================================
Quadrille
Part VI
by Alan Lauderdale
<lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
8-9 Sy, 1012
XXII. The Subtlety of the Woodcock
Ariel jumped out of her chair. "Marcus!" she shouted. She stared at
Karina's husband, who was also Camron's cousin-in-law and briefly her
landlord. Then she ran to embrace him. "What are you doing here?!"
"Came for you, of course," Marcus replied. He hugged her. "You do
seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble last night. Who were
you talking to?"
"Who? I was talking to --" Ariel looked over her shoulder and
realized that Mouse was nowhere to be seen. "I was --"
"Rehearsing a speech to give the Duke when you throw yourself on
the mercy of his Court?" Marcus grinned.
"I --" Ariel didn't feel like grinning back.
"No," Marcus' face quickly became serious. "That's not funny. Your
struggle against the forces of Dark Earth is no joke --"
"No," Ariel agreed, "but Marcus, how did you find me? I thought I
was *hiding* here."
"Ah." Marcus' smile returned. "That's part of the good news I'm
bringing you. I'd never have known where you were without him. Now, you
don't have to fight alone any longer. Cyrrwiddyn Hawkwing, priest of the
Seventh Circle, has come to bring you into the Congregation of Iliara's
Faithful."
"Iliara's Faithful?" Ariel repeated.
"Who else?" Marcus grinned. "Come in, Cyrrwiddyn," he called out
into the hall.
A man came in the door of the library -- and Ariel felt a surge of
disappointment.
He was quite ordinary, she thought, this priest of the Seventh
Circle of the Congregation of Iliara's Faithful. The clothes he wore,
the grayish tunic, the darker breeches, the cloak of undistinguished
fur, could have been worn by a hundred other men in the city. The face,
with all the usual parts in all the usual places and a general smile
that looked unimproved by any great spiritual insight, could have
belonged to a miller hopeful of her custom. Indeed, the man was short
and his glance darted to the corners of the room. He simply wasn't what
she'd hoped for from a colleague of Stefan's in the Great Struggle.
Her reaction was obvious in her expression.
"He doesn't look like much just now, does he?" Marcus quickly said.
"Hardly a sight to make you think that he's one of the brave few that
keep the world from spinning into the complete chaos that would mark the
final triumph of Haargon. Or something like that," he added, when the
priest arched an eyebrow at the effusive speech.
"We must walk disguised," the man named Cyrrwiddyn murmured, "lest
the forces of dark earth find us before we find them. We must be
vigilant and alert," he added, continuing to inspect the room
circumspectly, "lest they catch us unaware. You're alone here?"
"Except for --" Ariel glanced back at the reading table, but Mouse
was still missing.
"Where is the little one called Mouse?" Cyrrwiddyn asked.
"You know about her?" Ariel asked, turning back to the priest.
"My dear Ariel," Cyrrwiddyn said smoothly, "you are one of the
chosen of Iliara. Do you think there is anything about you that your
Mistress doesn't know?"
"Then why did she leave me alone all that time while those earth
priests were after me?"
"Ariel," the priest clasped his hands in front of himself, "Iliara
knows you -- perhaps better than you know yourself. She knew that those
priests and their assaults were not more than you could handle. See,
they have done their worst and you are still whole --"
"I am not whole!" Ariel declared forcefully. "I am wanted for
murder."
Cyrrwiddyn allowed an eyebrow to rise. "But you did not commit --"
"Of course not," Ariel said bitterly. "But it'll be hard work
convincing the Watch of that."
"Hard work, perhaps," Cyrrwiddyn said calmly. "But in time, of
course, the truth shall prevail."
"How much time?"
"That's not important, Ariel," the priest reproved her. "What is
important is that you have come through your trial -- as have we in our
struggle against Haargon. You have been tempered and are the stronger
for it. It is now an acceptable time for you to join with your
companions in the fight."
"I don't feel stronger," Ariel complained. "I don't feel any relief
now that you've finally showed up."
Cyrrwiddyn sighed. "You have been separated from your true friends
for too long," he declared. "Come. Embrace me." He held out his arms.
"And then we can sit down and tell brave tales of our respective parts
in the hidden war."
Ariel looked at the man, feeling no desire to hug him. He held for
her not even a flicker of the spirit that she'd felt Stefan kindling in
her when he told her about Iliara. He seemed to her a pleasant man who
sighed and smiled and spoke the same language and meant well. But he
wasn't anything more -- and something at the back of her mind made her
wonder if he might be even less. It occurred to her -- and as she
thought it, she realized that this was a shift in her perspective --
that perhaps Iliara wasn't going to get her out of her present mess
after all.
"Come," he repeated.
Reluctantly, she went to him. The embrace was awkward and she broke
it before he wanted to let go. He sighed again.
"It is as I feared," Cyrrwiddyn said to Marcus. "I have not dealt
personally with this Mouse, but it's clear to me that she is an agent
for the Other Side. Earth darkness has enveloped this child. She yet
struggles against it, but the influence of Haargon already weighs
heavily upon her."
"What, from Mouse?" Ariel exclaimed. "That's absurd! Mouse doesn't
even believe in earth darkness. Or Haargon. Or the War. Or even in
Iliara -- at least, not the way you -- we do."
Cyrrwiddyn gazed at Ariel with compassionate sadness. "And you see
what she has done to you? You're confused now, no longer sure what to
think. And whose work was that? The seeds of bewilderment, those are
sown by Haargon and by his minions."
"But she's not his minion!"
"She only says she's not his minion. How do you know what her true
purpose is?" Cyrrwiddyn's soft, gentle voice began to harden as he
continued to raise questions. "How do you know why she accosted you? And
it was just last night. That was awfully convenient -- for Haargon,
don't you think? You don't know anything about her, not really."
"And where is she now, anyway?" Marcus asked.
"I don't know," Ariel admitted.
"You see?" Cyrrwiddyn said. "She is actually a follower of the Dark
Way. She was trying to trip you out of the Path of Light and make you
stumble into their grasp. But she had to flee when your true friends
arrived."
"I don't know," Ariel said again. "She didn't seem to me to be
trying to make me do anything."
"The ways of the Evil One may be subtle indeed," Marcus remarked,
sounding as if he was quoting something.
"Be therefore three times subtler," Cyrrwiddyn responded, "yea,
more circumspect than a woodcock." He looked at Ariel. "The Letter of
Jamison," he explained. "Did Stefan tell you about it? I don't suppose
he offered you a copy of it to read." Ariel shook her head. "Too bad. It
would have been a comfort and a help to you after he -- after your
loss."
"Perhaps," Ariel admitted doubtfully. "But --"
"I think," Marcus interrupted, "that you and Cyrrwiddyn should go
now to the nearest post of Iliara. You'll be much safer there."
"Post of Iliara?" Ariel asked.
"House of Zephyrs," Cyrrwiddyn said, as if that should explain all.
When Ariel's expression made it plain that the term explained nothing,
he added "A place of safety here in Dargon for the followers of Iliara.
Marcus is right, though. We should go now."
"But -- my friends --"
"Are not your true friends," Cyrrwiddyn cut off the protest. "They
do not have your real interests at heart. They try to separate you from
the love of Iliara. But we are your true friends -- your true family. We
only will help you serve Iliara more faithfully and bring the light of
Air and Truth more fully into the world. Now come. We need to get to a
place of greater safety."
"I should at least tell them where I am," Ariel said. "And that I'm
all right."
"I'll come back and tell them you're fine," Marcus promised, "that
you no longer need their dubious help."
"I'm sure they meant well," Ariel resisted.
"Whatever they may have meant," Cyrrwiddyn told her, "the result
was that they were doing Haargon's work."
"Unless you're doing H
aargon's work," Ariel suggested.
"I?!" Cyrrwiddyn exclaimed with clear affront. "How dare --" He
caught himself. "But Ariel, Marcus, here finds me genuine."
"Perhaps you've managed to deceive him as well," Ariel shrugged.
"Ariel," Marcus said solemnly. "I assure you that I have no doubt
that Cyrrwiddyn has come from the counsels of Iliara herself. I do think
you should accept his advice and counsel. And quickly! We don't know
when the Groundlings might mount their next attack on you."
Ariel gazed at the two men, watching their impatience become a
little more blatant. Finally, staring into Marcus' eyes, she suggested,
a little reluctantly, "Or perhaps Marcus is doing the work of Haargon as
well."
"Ariel, no!" Marcus exclaimed, clearly wounded.
Cyrrwiddyn blinked, then cleared his face, becoming again the
pleasant, blank man who'd first come into the room. He smiled that
chilling smile and said "Of course, child. You have to consider
possibilities like that. Iliara herself suggests that you must be
subtler than the woodcock. But you mustn't wallow in such speculations.
You can raise the question if you must, but Marcus is a good man and
trustworthy. And as you twist and turn your way through your part in the
Great Struggle, you will find, Ariel, that you must trust someone."
"That's true," Mouse said. She climbed back up from the underside
of the table. Marcus and Cyrrwiddyn stared at her. "You have to trust
someone," the tiny girl said calmly.
"There you are!" Ariel exclaimed. The sight of Mouse, unlike the
previous arrival of Cyrrwiddyn, did make her feel better.
"She *is* small," Marcus breathed.
"We can see that," Cyrrwiddyn snapped. "A perfect guise for someone
who wants to persuade that she's an agent of Iliara," he suggested.
"She's never tried to convince me of that," Ariel reminded him. To
Mouse, she asked "What happened to you?"
"Strangers barging into my house make me nervous," Mouse replied.
"So I laid low until I felt less nervous."
"You feel less nervous now?" Ariel asked.
"Odd, isn't it?" Mouse said cheerfully. "Here, I've been listening
to these friends of yours calling me a nasty little agent of Haargon and
no good for you. And I've also heard you declare doubt about whether
anyone cares about you -- whether anyone's on your side in this Great
Struggle. You know, I think we're not in full agreement about what this
Great Struggle is struggling over." She paused for a moment, gazing
thoughtfully at Cyrrwiddyn, then shrugged.
"Oh well," Mouse continued. "Maybe I'm less nervous because the
priest of Iliara finally said something I can agree with. Ariel, there
is such an intricate dance of purposes here that it does look as though
you'll have to let your heart pick _someone_ and then, just trust that
person. I'd vote for Je'en, of course. A very straight arrow. Or Alec,
who, however he came to know about you, I think does care about you. But
neither's here right now. Perhaps you should wait here for one of them."
Cyrrwiddyn frowned. He glanced at Marcus. "You sense it too, don't
you?" he asked.
"Uh, I'm sorry Cyrrwiddyn," Marcus replied cautiously. "I fear I'm
not as sensitive in these matters as you. Uh --"
"Something *soiled* has just presented itself to us!" Cyrrwiddyn
shouted. "Didn't you notice how it just got a lot mustier in here?"
"Oh -- of course I noticed that," Marcus admitted. "I thought you
were referring to something subtle."
"Well I didn't notice that," Ariel said, feeling vexed by the
self-proclaimed priest of Ariel. "I didn't notice anything like that.
And I don't think --"
"Ariel, she has corrupted you," Cyrrwiddyn said, abruptly changing
his tone back to a pretty good approximation of a sweet, conciliatory
tone. "She has blunted your sensitivity to the odor of earth. Now
please, you're too important to Iliara --"
"I am?" Ariel asked.
"Every one of Iliara's followers is important to her," Marcus said.
"Isn't that right, Cyrrwiddyn?"
"Then why did you abandon me for so long when I came to Dargon and
needed you?"
"We didn't abandon you," Cyrrwiddyn said. "Iliara yet was with you.
But her support was more subtle than you might have liked."
"Subtler than a woodcock," Mouse remarked.
"See how she continues to try to poison your will against the
Lady," Marcus said. "Twisting even the sacred words of Jamison."
"Please, Ariel," Cyrrwiddyn appealed. "She's likely to summon other
minions of Haargon --"
"-- if she hasn't already," Marcus added.
"We need to get to Zephyrs as quick as we can," Cyrrwiddyn
continued. "Please, don't let Iliara down. For Stefan's sake, if not
Iliara's herself. Come on!"
Ariel flinched at the mention of Stefan. She clasped her hands,
stared at Cyrrwiddyn, then asked "Mouse, what should I do?"
"Cyrrwiddyn is a wise man," Mouse said. She watched the priest
relax a moment at the unanticipated compliment. Immediately, though, the
man seemed to doubt whether the words would have only a single meaning;
he tensed up again in expectation of an oblique attack. Mouse gave it to
him: "He said you have to trust someone and you do. But Ariel, the
someone you should trust first is yourself. Go with them if you think
that's right."
"You're not going to tell me to order them out of my sight?"
"I --" Mouse bit back her first answer. Instead, she said "No
point. The priest has called me an imp of Haargon. Either you agree with
Cyrrwiddyn and anything I say is damnable or you deny him and leave your
options open."
"My options open?" Ariel repeated. "*My* options open? Yes. That's
true. If I refuse Cyrrwiddyn's help and place of safety, then I'm pretty
much on my own coping with my problems. Those priests of Haargon,
they'll be *my* worry. That murder charge at Camron's, that'll be an
accusation against *me* that'll be *mine* to disprove. Mastering the air
wizardry, that'll be my subject to study. It'll all belong to me again,
won't it?"
"But you can hand it all over to Iliara," Cyrrwiddyn suggested, a
hint of desperation in his voice. "Cast your burdens before Iliara, for
she can carry you on the wings of the morning --"
"But they're *my* burdens," Ariel insisted. "What if I don't want
to share?"
"Then you don't have to," Cyrrwiddyn quickly acceded. But his
message was now muddled.
"No thanks," Ariel said firmly. "I just don't want to go with you
and I'm not getting arguments from you that persuade me otherwise. You
might as well leave now." She glanced around at the friend she'd decided
to trust. "Mouse, we have to figure out what --"
The moment of inattention was a mistake. The priest of Iliara was a
whirl of motion for a moment and then Ariel gasped before falling to the
floor, a wicked looking dart stuck in her neck.
"I would rather have talked her into coming with us," Cyrrwiddyn
remarked to Mouse. "It would have gone easier if she'd thought she was
doing the right thing. But I had no intention of leaving here without
her. And we can change her attitude later, at our leisure, though the
process will be more time consuming and painful this way. Now, the only
remaining obstacle is you." He and Marcus started walking slowly,
casually, toward the table Mouse was standing on. "How are you at
vanishing while people are watching you?"
"I was thinking I'd like to ask the same question of you," a voice
announced from the doorway behind him.
XXIII. Don't Call Me That
"What?" Cyrrwiddyn spun around. Kittara Ponterisso leaned against
the doorjamb. The crossbow she carried with deceptive casualness was
pointed at the priest.
"I was thinking," she said lightly, "of asking you how good at
vanishing you were if someone armed with, say, a crossbow was watching
you and that watcher didn't want you to go disappearing until you'd
stopped to answer a few questions."
"This is none of your business --" Cyrrwiddyn growled.
"Oh, I'll be the judge of that, I think," Kittara declared. "After
all, I'm the one with the crossbow. But to be fair," she went on, as
casually as if this were taverntalk, "I really ought to be putting this
question to your colleague -- Hello Marcus." She waved with the loaded
crossbow at Marcus. Marcus remained frozen, staring at Kittara, but
Cyrrwiddyn, as soon as the crossbow shifted away from him, snarled a
filthily misogynous epithet and sprang at Kittara.
In a blur, the crossbow was targetted again on the priest, steadied
with both hands, and fired. At the same time, Cyrrwiddyn slightly
misjudged his spring and tripped over the fallen Ariel. He stumbled and
then caught Kittara's crossbow bolt in the neck. He crashed against the
reading table and was still.
"Saren's spit!" Kittara exclaimed with clear annoyance. "They're
not supposed to die unless I mean for them to die." She watched the
priest for any sign of life, but the only movement was the seeping blood
around the embedded quarrel. Marcus, however, began to ease his right
hand under his cloak.
"Hold it right there, Marcus," Sylk ordered. He stepped forward
from the hall into the library and pointed his loaded crossbow at the
man. "It's true that we just wanted to ask you and your 'friend' some
questions -- though our list of questions has been getting longer each
mene. But, as Kittara here demonstrated --" he nodded to her and she
walked over to Cyrrwiddyn to inspect her work "-- we can't promise that
if I have to fire, I won't kill you."
Marcus looked at the crossbow. He looked at Sylk's grim expression.
He looked at Cyrrwiddyn and he looked at the bloody quarrel. He raised
his hands over his head. "Guess I should've warned Cleo not to mess with
Crossbow Kitty, huh?" he asked.
In a blink, Kittara had crossed the two steps to Marcus and her
fist smashed into his temple. Marcus collapsed in a heap and Kittara
stood over him, wringing her hand. "Damned clod has a really thick
skull," she complained to Sylk.
"That may be, but --"
"No buts, Sylk," Kittara said. "I told you. Nobody *ever* calls me
that."
"I understand," Sylk said. "But look around." He gestured at the
unconscious Ariel and Marcus who were lying on the floor along with the
expired Cyrrwiddyn. "If you keep popping people like this, we're never
going to get our little list of questions answered."
XXIV. But I Never Forget a Footprint
The night was almost completely gone, but the passage of time was
marked in this interior chamber only by the occasional replacement of
tapers with fresh ones. Ariel sat slumped in one chair and Marcus
occupied another. Kittara leaned against the only door to the room while
Sylk glared at Marcus over one small table.
"So that's still your story," he said again. "You last saw Ariel
before tonight when you found her at this --" He glanced at Ariel.
"Terkan's house?" Ariel nodded. "You last saw her last night when she
said good night and gave you to understand that she was turning in."
Marcus nodded. "And then this evening, this Cyrrwiddyn - - whom you'd
never seen before -- came to you and threatened your life if you didn't
come with him and help him persuade Ariel here to go away with him?"
Marcus nodded again. "How could he threaten your life? He didn't look so
tough to me and you --" Sylk glanced at Kittara's hand. "You, I call a
bit more solid than a rock. How'd he threaten you?"
Marcus shrugged. "I've got a wife," he said. "I've got a nice
little house. He said he had friends. The friends wouldn't stop from
hurting Karina or burning things. Anything."
"So you helped this Cyrrwiddyn just to keep your wife safe from
these friends," Sylk shrugged. "Helped with a lot of enthusiasm, I'd
say." Marcus shrugged. "Why did Cyrrwiddyn want Ariel?" Marcus shrugged.
"Why did you go after Ariel last night?"
"To make --" Marcus stopped. "I didn't go anywhere last night," he
corrected himself.
"Bad lie, Marcus," Kittara murmurred, coming over to stand directly
behind his chair. "I happen to know you were out last night because we
had a very close encounter. I found you fighting in an alley with
someone else and you ran right over me when I tried to break the thing
up. Now, I'm not very good at faces and I do fail to recognize a name
from time to time, but I never forget a footprint. I recognized you. I
knew you were lying earlier today when you said you'd been home all last
night. I knew you were hiding something --"
"So is that how you found me this evening?" Ariel asked.
"Sure," Kittara replied breezily. "We shadowed Marcus. We sure
didn't have anything else more useful to do, what with everyone
interesting lying pretty low today. But it wasn't too terribly long
before Cyrrwiddyn came to Marcus's house and then the two of them led us
to you." She turned back to Marcus. "Now, you were in that alley last
night. The question is why?"
Marcus licked his lips.
"When did you first meet Cyrrwiddyn, Marcus?" Sylk asked.
"A few days ago, I guess," Marcus said. "He said that Camron had a
bird named Ariel who was going to help take care of an annoying audit.
He wanted me to put her up and keep an eye on her."
"When you say 'help take care of an annoying audit,'" Kittara
asked, "do you mean --"
"Marcus, who killed the auditor Jarvis?" Sylk interrupted.
"I don't know."
"It wasn't Ariel, though, was it?"
"A twittering fool like her?" Marcus sneered. Behind him, Kittara
nearly let fly with another shot to his skull, but controlled herself.
Unaware, he continued: "Think anyone would really trust a job like that
to her? Nah. She didn't do it -- but she was set to catch the noose for
it."
"That, Ariel, is hopefully the most backhanded character reference
you will ever get," Sylk grated, glaring at Marcus. "So who could tell
us who killed Jarvis?" he asked. "How about Camron?"
"Cyrrwiddyn probably could," Marcus mused.
"But Cyrrwiddyn's conveniently dead," Sylk pointed out.
"Pity."
"So how about Camron?" Sylk asked again.
"I don't think he'd know about something like that," Marcus
replied. "He preferred to keep to clean, legitimate subjects, 'cause he
was always talking to nice, respectable people like Duke Jastrik.
'Course, you have to wonder if he was always talking to the Duke about
completely respectable, legitimate --"
Kittara's fist smashed into his face.
Sylk sighed. "Kit," he said.
"You expect me to just let him insult both Ariel and the Duke?"
Kittara demanded.
"Yes," Sylk said simply. "Look Kit, it's an interrogation. We want
him to talk. But you're the reason this is taking so long. We keep
having to revive him every time he says something you don't like."
"*Almost* every time," Kittara said, with satisfaction.
XXV. And There Was Evening And There Was Morning.
Ariel stood at the gate to Duke Jastrik's compound. Kittara stood
with her.
"So I'm not under arrest?" Ariel asked again.
"No," Kittara shook her head. "We've got Marcus and we've got
reason to go after Camron. We don't think you're involved and we'll
advise the Watch the same way."
"And you don't have to turn me over to the Watch?"
"No -- and you should be glad. The Watch -- Ariel, between you me
and the gate here -- they sometimes lose people who've been entrusted to
their care."
"Lose? They escape?"
"They die. People connected with certain names. Look, I wouldn't be
surprised if, after we've squeezed Marcus a while longer, he coughs up
some more of those names --"
"More?"
"You know that priest named Cyrrwiddyn? Marcus referred to him once
as Cleo. That's one of --"
"Cleo!" Ariel shouted.
"Shh!! Didn't I just tell you that's a name that can get you
killed?"
"Sorry," Ariel whispered. "It's just that -- I have a friend named
Alec. He's sort of a friend. An acquaintance, really. But he was working
for a man he called Cleo. Except that he thought that Cleo knew
something about Jarvis' murder so he was going to help us trap Cleo so
we could ... we could --" She stopped. "Alec's missing," she said. After
a pause, she added, "He's been missing most of the night."
"But he's just an acquaintance, right?" Kittara asked.
"You think he's in trouble, right?" Ariel asked.
"Uh, yeah -- no. I think he's probably past just being in trouble.
I think you'd better figure he's dead."
Ariel nodded. "I see," she said dully, then shoved the subject
away. "Well. Thank you."
"Sure." Kittara glanced inside the gate again. "Well, good luck to
you. I want to see how much 'Cleo' will make Marcus sweat."
"Bye." Ariel watched Kittara go back inside.
"Back to Terkan's?" Mouse asked. Ariel stared at her.
"Where've you been?" she demanded.
"Around. I'm uncomfortable about strangers who barge into houses. I
told you that."
"Kittara and Sylk are on our side."
"Well, I know that *now*. We might as well go back to Terkan's."
"M-Mouse!"
"What?"
"I was in trouble and you just abandoned me."
"You weren't in that much trouble -- nothing, at least, that I
wouldn't have made worse. And I didn't abandon you. I was around, so I
know just how well you did getting through it."
"But I didn't do anything."
"And you controlled yourself very well. And Ariel, if you really
had needed me, I would've shown up. I promise. Now --" Mouse danced onto
Ariel's shoe. "Shall we go back to Terkan's house?"
"Might as well," Ariel sighed. "I doubt I have a job anymore, or
anywhere else to stay, for that matter."
A Few Loose Ends
At Terkan's house, Mouse and Ariel found a note from Cefn pinned to
the front door. It advised that the Septent of Jhel was smashed and the
last survivor was slouching toward Magnus. A desire for complete
finality required the two to pursue. They were not sure when and if
they'd be back. "... Please be sure to feed the apprentice," it
continued. "Actually, it's probably safe to free him now. Good luck with
the dead auditor, watch out for murder investigators, and be careful
putting hot drinks in Terkan's brown mugs. They hold the heat extremely
well."
"Now he tells us," Ariel said.
Entering the house, Mouse and Ariel found that someone had already
freed Bret. He was gone, as was Terkan's silverware.
Kittara and Sylk turned Marcus over to the Watch with a promise
that Marcus wished to implicate Camron in the murder of the auditor
Jarvis.
Within five bells of being placed in the custody of the Watch,
Marcus managed to kill himself through the simple technique of
swallowing his tongue.
Camron steadfastly denied any irregularities in his books. However,
several investors in his trading house (led by Duke Jastrik) abruptly
withdrew their capital. Camron and his House were both ruined.
Karina, though lacking any apparent source of income besides the
steady stream of boarders she took in, managed to persist in comfortable
poverty. She denied throughout that there was ever any hint of
wickedness in either Camron or Marcus.
Due to the poor choice of distributor, Rockway House had a bad year
in rhubarb relish sales. A set of lovely doll's clothes that had also
been shipped with one of the barrels, however, was sold to Lady Katia
Rombar (age 6) for a very satisfactory price.
Mouse was in the late Terkan's library again, avoiding facing the
enormous task of replacing her lost Court dress by trying to make sense
of a tome that she'd not ever copied for him. It appeared to be an
attempt to describe the mathematics of the motion of magical bubbles,
but it was very hard going. She sighed.
"Hello Ariel," she said. "Any news?"
"I'm supposed to be invisible," Ariel complained.
Mouse looked up at Ariel. "So you are," she agreed, technically.
Ariel was *supposed* to be invisible, but there was a ways to go yet.
"And quite transparent, too," Mouse continued. "But you're still
audible. I take it the air magery is going well?"
"I suppose," Ariel sighed, giving up her effort and allowing
herself to be seen again and taking a seat at Mouse's table. "They
posted a notice on the door of the house today."
"They?"
"Bailiffs. Very official and legal and longwinded. A whole lot of
whereases and therefores, but the news is that someone named Valory
Westbrier now owns this house and he owes the Duke some serious money."
"Valory?"
"A nephew or cousin or something, I suppose. It's too soon for the
house to've been sold already, isn't it?"
"I don't know."
"Anyway, it seems to me that it's time to move," Ariel said.
"You don't think that every house needs a Mouse?"
"That's easy for you to say," Ariel smiled. "You could probably
stay on here after this Valory moved in and he might never notice. But
that won't work for me. Besides, I've found Dargon just a little bit
more exciting than I like. And the way people have come and gone --"
"Still nothing about Alec?" Mouse asked.
"Nothing.
"He had all your spare clothes and stuff. If we work at it we might
be able to find someone who knew him and --"
"Who wasn't part of this Haargon cabal?" Ariel asked. "Thanks, but
there really isn't anything there that I want back."
"You told me about a journal you were keeping."
"Full of -- of Stefan." Ariel made a face. "Do you think I want to
be reminded of that?"
"I suppose not," Mouse admitted. The two sat together in silence,
burying Stefan. Then Mouse asked "What do you suppose happened to Alec?"
Ariel shuddered. "That's another thing I don't want to be reminded
of. The way that crossbow woman --"
"You said her name was Kittara?"
"Yes. The way she described Cleo, I'm sure now that Alec is dead.
Beyond that, I don't want to imagine." Ariel sat still, resolutely not
imagining.
Mouse was tempted to return to the oscillation frequencies of
bubbles that were caught in Chalcedensian inversions, but Ariel spoke
first: "I'd just like to go somewhere quieter -- at least for a while.
Do you think you could write me a letter of introduction to Brother
Muskrat at Rockway House?"
"You want to go there?" Mouse exclaimed. "Of course! It's a great
idea! You'll love them there. They're great." She jumped to her feet,
abandoning the bubbles. "Where's a pen? Where's ink? And they'll all
love you, because you're a great person too -- even when you're
invisible. I need parchment." She jumped to the floor and started
running over to Terkan's writing desk. Then she stopped.
"I'll miss you, you understand," Mouse said gravely. "I consider
you a very good friend, but I do still have business to complete here in
the city."
"You're my friend too," Ariel replied with a smile. "And I did know
about the business. If you don't mind, I'd really rather not go with you
to see the Duke. That sounds too much like an adventure and I've had
enough of that. That's why I asked for the letter."
"The letter. Right." Mouse resumed her sprint to the leg of the
writing desk.
"Remember to write big."
"It's all settled, then?" the master asked after sipping his wine.
"Except that we'll need a new trading house, sir," the man standing
in front of the desk promised. "And Cynthia is out of circulation the
rest of this month and next. Cleo commended her work at Camron's.
Everything he asked of her, both eliminating the auditor and dressing to
look like the other girl, she accomplished perfectly. It's scarcely her
fault that our operation there went down the river."
"Whose was it, then?"
"Camron's. He was careless, letting his filthy books get anywhere
near that auditor."
"And has he been dealt with appropriately?"
"He's ruined."
"That doesn't sound sufficient. See to it. Something slow, I think.
I want him to have time to contemplate his failings. And aquatic. After
all, if you live by the sea, you ought to die by the sea --" He smiled
at a private joke. "I think I have an idea for that." The man took a
sheet of parchment and began to sketch. While he drew, he said "As for
Cynthia, I think an extra bottle of sherry for the little thief's infirm
mother might be appropriate."
"Her mother's a lush, you know," the underling offered cautiously.
"She's dying of too much drink."
"It's the thought that counts. Now, what are you doing about a new
trading house?" The man looked up at his underling, but quickly returned
to his work, remembering that he disliked having the man standing over
him. He was too tall. It was annoying, but the man was valuable in other
ways.
Sketching delicate wavelets, the master said, "Camron was all
right, mostly, but I want no more minority partners from the
aristocracy. I don't care how much of an air of respectability they
lend. The next one we take over, I want full ownership." He sighed and
pushed the parchment across the table. "This is for anyone who
disappoints me. Have Camron try it out first. You know, I'd rather
looked forward to playing a High Priest of Iliara, spewing all those
platitudes, having that wench worshipping me --"
"Of course, Liriss," the underling said.
"What was her name? Aria?"
"Something like that."
"You don't think I could've done it, do you?"
The man shrugged diplomatically. "Wouldn't you have tired of it
after a while?" he asked.
"Perhaps," Liriss admitted. "The role would have been so limiting.
I shall miss Cleo, though. It was very creative of him, inventing the
whole scheme to get himself a pliant assistant and me a loyal mage --
but that bastard Stefan! He owed me that wench -- and more. And so much
more."
"He *is* dead now, Liriss."
"Just makes it a little more challenging to collect his debts,
Kesrin."
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