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DargonZine Volume 10 Issue 06
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 10
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6
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DargonZine Distributed: 09/14/1997
Volume 10, Number 6 Circulation: 655
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Quadrille 2 Alan Lauderdale Sy 7, 1012
Friendships of Stone 1 Mark A. Murray Naia 5, 1015
Pudlong and the Beanstalk 2 Jim Owens Late Spring, 1016
========================================================================
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 10-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 1997 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 may
not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of
the author(s) involved, 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>
Keep it brief.
Well, the biggest news since our last issue has been an update to
the Subscriptions section of our Web site. Not only can new subscribers
sign up online, but existing subscribers can now change their email
addresses and subscriptions types, and even sign off (heaven forbid!)
online, without human intervention. So if you ever need to change your
subscription to DargonZine, the Web site is now the first place to look!
The only other announcement is that our next issue, which is due
out before the end of October, will be a special issue, devoted to
Dargon's dread "Night of Souls". Be watching for that one -- we hope
you'll like it!
But for now, we've got the second installments of Alan Lauderdale's
"Quadrille" series, as well as Jim Owens' "Pudlong" series. These
stories are accompanied by the first installment of Mark Murray's
"Friendships of Stone" series.
That's all for now, but keep your eyes peeled for our next issue,
as the "Night of Souls" approaches!
========================================================================
Quadrille
Part II
by Alan Lauderdale
<lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
Sy 7, 1012
Author's note: This story builds on material presented in Winds of
Change (FSFNet 8-2), A Scent in the Air (FSFNet 11-1), and A Sudden
Storm (FSFNet 11-2), by Becki Tants, and also The Dream (FSFNet 6-3,
6-4) by John White. The first part of this story was in volume 10-5 of
Dargonzine. Therein was explained the purpose of Mouse Kervale in coming
to Dargon.
II. Kittara Smells a Rat
Sy 7, 1012
Since it was fairly close to the wharves, only a short way inland
from Commercial Street along Traders Avenue, the tavern named the Rogue
and Quiver might've been expected to be a rowdy and raucous place.
However, the owner, Malcolm Shortclip, had several close personal
friends amongst the City Watch, not to mention off-duty members of the
Watch among his employees, so order usually prevailed. In spite of this,
Kittara and Sylk occasionally stopped there for the above-average ale.
"That was interesting." Kittara Ponterisso brought the two mugs to
the table where Reyakeen Sylk waited. It had been her turn to buy and
Sylk knew better than to try to be gallant with her.
"Jastrik's health," he toasted perfunctorily, taking one of the
mugs and quaffing a third of the contents. "What was interesting?" he
then asked.
"You know Rales Spinner?" Kittara preferred to sip her ale.
"Who?"
"Also referred to as Onions."
"You've mentioned him before, haven't you?"
"He's City Watch. He's also been trying to bed me ever since I
settled here."
"So he has good taste."
Kittara smiled. "Flattery will get you everywhere. Onions hasn't
tried that approach though -- at least not that obviously. He prefers
just to tell me everything about what he's up to and hope that I think
he's interesting."
"How's it going for him?"
"Come on, Sylk. He's Watch."
"Silly me." Sylk quaffed some more ale. "So why are we talking
about him?"
"Because tonight he is doing something interesting."
"He's off Watch tonight?"
Kittara pushed her chestnut hair back. "Actually the interest is
Watchwork."
"Are you sure we should be talking about this?" Sylk drained his
mug.
"He's been assigned to watch a warehouse."
"Sounds like typical City Watchwork."
"All night. They're watching the warehouse one back from the wharf
on Division Street."
"Makes me glad I'm -- did you say -- ?"
Kittara nodded. "That's Duke Jastrik's warehouse."
"All right," Sylk admitted. "Now I'm interested. Why's the Watch
watching our Duke's warehouse all night?"
"Onions had no idea," Kittara said. "The way he saw it, he was just
glad he wouldn't have to walk around the docks all night the way he
usually does."
"So the rest of the dock area won't get patrolled tonight?"
"I suppose not," Kittara admitted. She shrugged and drained her
mug. "Still, that's hardly our problem. Think we should know what's so
interesting about Jastrik's warehouse?"
III. The Queen of Air and Darkness
Ariel lay in bed, covered by a blanket and gloom. She had been in
Dargon only four days but, running from crisis to crisis it seemed like
much, much longer.
Stefan was dead. That was how it began. No. It began with Stefan
alive and visiting her town and the inn where she worked for her father.
Yes. That was how it began: with her breaking away from everything she'd
known for nearly eighteen years. Stefan was exotic -- not in appearance,
perhaps. But he'd strolled around her old town and seen everything new.
And he'd talked to her about all of it, asked her about the stabler's
wandering, unfocused eye, wondered why the cobbler's son walked with a
limp. He had captivated her attention, focussed her interest on himself.
Wings! She'd already fallen in love with him and was willing to go
anywhere he wanted -- and then he'd invited her to come along with him
when he left. The suggestion had been casual; a flicker of surprise
sprang up in his eyes when she'd accepted immediately. But she could not
possibly have stayed in that same small town after Stefan departed. So
of course she'd gone away with him. And she never said a word to her
father before leaving.
Then, on the road, her story began again. And it was a wondrous
tale, because it was filled with magic. Stefan was an air mage. He'd not
mentioned that outright in the town, but the news didn't surprise Ariel.
She'd known already that he was special. And he explained that it was
prudent to be circumspect. Mages of the air often had enemies that they
didn't know about, so it was best not to mention that profession unless
in trusted company. But he trusted her, and Ariel, of course, wanted to
know more about air wizardry. So he taught her a few basics and she
mastered them easily. Impressed, he began to teach her more seriously
and more thoroughly and those days on the road were bliss. There was the
work of absorbing these new thaumaturgical intricacies every day. But
there was also Stefan's touch and his smile and his flashing blue eyes
and his commanding voice and sparkling sentences. There was love and
magic; it began well. Twice, Ariel's story began well.
She had to hold onto that: It did begin well.
Then, Haargon intervened. Rather, priests of Haargon -- or
followers or goons. There was no difference among the terms, not where
Haargon was concerned. Agents of Haargon all, they shattered Ariel's
happiness.
Stefan, while teaching her the disciplines of air magery, had
described to her the rivalry between the Air Mages who worshipped
Iliara, and the Earth Mages who worshipped Haargon. He'd warned her that
the conflict was turning deadly and had even mentioned a few instances
of murder. But those cases, he'd said, had been far away and, when she'd
shivered at the gory details, he'd soothed her fears with kisses and
assurances that they themselves were hardly significant targets for the
lumbering god of earth.
Nonetheless, there came a night that proved she and Stefan mattered
more than they thought. They'd set a camp in a grove of pines and bedded
down together as usual after a typically full day of walking study. They
were both asleep when the dirty, shambling men attacked, grabbing Stefan
and then herself, pulling her away from her lovely beloved.
If they said anything to Stefan before they killed him, it was very
brief and she didn't hear it. But it was perfectly clear to her what was
going on when the knife flashed in the light from the single torch and
Stefan screamed. These were the grotesque followers of Haargon and she
could expect the same treatment from them that Stefan had received.
She expected it and they no doubt expected to administer it. But an
angry mist seemed to cover her vision and a furious rage welled up
within her even though two of the filthy men were restraining her arms.
She screamed with Stefan and a whirlwind swirled up, stirring the pine
needles and flinging them about -- at everything and everyone save her.
Men shouted and covered their faces and eyes against the showers of
needles. And Ariel was free.
She ran to Stefan, but he was still. Needles struck his wide open
eyes, but he ignored them. Life was no longer there in him. Ariel
shrieked at him to come back to her; she shook his corpse. But only her
whirlwind answered her. The goons of Haargon, though, were calling to
each other; her whirlwind pleaded with her to flee them. Acceding to it
and to Iliara, she ran away into the night.
After that came the sad time. She'd run that night until she
collapsed. Then, after she recovered consciousness again, she'd
continued her flight, though not with any clear plan nor with more than
tatterings of arcane energies. The magical power she eventually
regenerated after weeks more on the road, but all her plans had died
with Stefan. They didn't regenerate, except that she knew what she
didn't want to do: Any interest in staying in her father's inn in her
father's town had died in her life with Stefan. Though he was now dead,
Ariel's former life remained still moribund in her mind.
She had no plan, only a solitary misery and a sense that Haargon
wasn't finished with her. But one had to decide on awakening or
encountering a crossroads what to do next. Since Stefan had talked some
about a place named Dargon and she thought perhaps there would be
priests of Iliara there who could shelter her, she steered more or less
toward that city. It wasn't a plan, only a direction.
The minions of Haargon had dogged her all the way across Baranur
until she'd finally come to Dargon. They'd not clung close to her heels,
but she knew they were trailing her. It was nothing obvious, but she
knew they were still after her. She recognized the lingering stares of
disheveled passersby on the road, the muttered exchanges of other folks
with innkeepers after she passed by, the murders of crows that she saw
with ominous frequency on the roads as she came closer to the city. They
were after her; she knew it.
But she did get to Dargon, and she did find an inn that was
pleasant though too expensive. To pay for her lodging, she'd managed to
find work quickly at Camron's Trading House as a bookkeeper. A good air
mage, Stefan had said, took copious notes of all the manifestations of
Iliara in the world, and it had been well for her that she had also kept
accounts for her father's inn before Stefan spirited her away from that
old life. Camron's books were complex, well-nigh unfathomable, but she'd
been better qualified than most to sort them out and make sense of them.
They still held some puzzles, though.
But the work at Camron's didn't worry Ariel. It was the rest of her
life that was perilous -- even in the city. She'd found cheaper lodging
easily enough. Camron had happened to have a cousin, Karina, who was
looking to rent a spare room in her house. The landlords, Karina and her
husband Marcus, were very nice, the price was low, and the location was
convenient. Ariel had taken the place readily.
The new home was pleasant but the trip to it after Ariel's third
day of work at Camron's office was not. She had encountered a trio of
ruffians who, she felt sure, were in the employ of the priest of Haargon
she'd seen near them. She'd managed to evade them and, with the help of
air magery, outrun them in a flat-out sprint home, but the incident did
serve as a reminder to her that Haargon's minions were still after her.
The next evening, Camron had sent her home with an escort, Johan.
Johan turned out to be a nephew of Camron's and Ariel concluded that
Karina was attempting to put into instant effect her belief that Ariel
should be finding herself a husband as quick as she could. Johan was
nice and Johan was large and muscular. Ariel had no trouble on the way
home, except in making it clear to Johan that Karina's opinion did not
necessarily match Ariel's. Johan, however, didn't act as if Ariel's
opinion was of any importance to him at all. Even after she pointedly
dodged an attempted embrace, he was suggesting a picnic lunch the next
day. Ariel managed to get home to Karina's house, though, without saying
anything entirely insulting. But she doubted she'd be able to come up
with any message for Johan that would be both subtle and discouraging.
He was just that kind of man and she didn't want to be coarsely rude to
her employer's nephew. It was a mess. Johan was handsome but he just
wasn't what she wanted now.
And the whole matter went completely out of her head anyway, when
she got to her room in the house and found a priest of Haargon waiting
for her. He'd attempted, with crude magical manipulation, to turn her
from her allegiance to Iliara and Stefan's memory to worshipping
Haargon. She'd managed to resist but the experience had left her even
more shaken. And since the sounds of her argument with the priest hadn't
gone unnoticed by landlord Marcus, she'd had to tell him and Karina all
about her involvement in the war between Haargon and Iliara. All about
it, including the fact that she had been herself a practicing student of
the Art.
But they didn't throw her out of the house immediately for
concealing that tidbit of information. Indeed, Karina and Marcus had
offered all kinds of suggestions of help. Karina had been sure that
Johan would be willing to stay by her all the time. (Ariel sighed,
wishing she could work up any enthusiasm for that idea.) Marcus had
mentioned some sage named Corambis and suggested that if they just knew
a little bit more about this Haargon cult, they could probably break it
up thoroughly. Oh, they had lots of ideas. They just didn't understand.
Ariel sighed again and softly got out of the bed that Karina had
tucked her into not too long before. She'd told them what Stefan had
made clear to her, if not by his words then by his example. These
minions of Haargon were not playing. They killed. Ariel could not stand
the idea of anyone she liked, like Karina or Marcus, coming to any grief
through association with her. It had been bad enough with Stefan, but at
least there, her lover had been a target for Haargon on his own. Karina
and Marcus, Ariel knew, were otherwise bystanders to this conflict
except because of their sheltering Ariel. The air sorceress also was
sure that, if the couple did continue to involve themselves in her
troubles, then the minions of Haargon would certainly punish them for
intruding on this private little war.
Quickly, Ariel loaded her pack again. She moved quietly, having had
some practice at moving around quietly while still at home working in
her father's inn. Taking her cloak, she went down to the kitchen and
added a simple breakfast to her pack. She found a scrap of parchment and
quill and wrote Karina and Marcus a quick note:
I'm sorry, but I can't stay here. My presence puts you in
danger, and I care too much for you to do that. I am going to
find myself somewhere to live where I won't be hurting anyone.
You can reach me at Camron's, as I still have to work for at
least the next couple of days. Thank you for everything.
Ariel.
On her way out the door, Ariel wondered whether either Karina or
Marcus could read. But that, she told herself, was silly: If neither
could read, why would they leave pen, ink and parchment lying around
their kitchen?
IV. Ariel In the Dark
When you're assigned to watch someone and report all her movements,
Alec reflected for the thirteenth time since grabbing supper from a
street cart, you spend a lot of time watching buildings the person is
in. Right now, as he'd done the last couple of nights, he was watching
the house of Marcus and Karina from his post in an alley he was
beginning to grow fond of. And that was something to worry about: The
noisome alley was hardly a place he'd've thought to become comfortable
in, let alone taking pleasure in its familiarity.
Alec loitered there, fairly close to Dargon's Main Street and more
or less in the neighborhood of Atelier Street, so that he could almost
consider the digs he was watching respectable. He assured himself that
he was merely making sure that Ariel wouldn't be coming out again
tonight. He was tired. It had been a long day. He'd come to this house
early in the morning and followed the girl directly from there to
Camron's mercantile house where she had clerical work. Then he'd put in
bells and bells of tedious time loitering outside that place. Every gull
in the area recognized him by now, he was sure.
The only excitement of the day had been the large young man who'd
come out of the shipping office at the same time as Ariel and, it was
soon obvious, was accompanying her. Since the boy's size made trailing
her almost pitifully easy, Alec had practically sleep-walked the return
trip to Marcus' house, only having to make sure that he saw Ariel go in
the door. After that, he'd settled into the vantage at the mouth of his
favorite alley and waited for a reasonable amount of the evening to pass
so that he could call it a day.
He was just about to do so when the door he'd been watching for
those many counts of bells moved. Instantly, Alec mustered the best
semblance of alertness he could manage under the circumstances and
stared through the darkness to see if he could go home anyway.
No such luck. It was the girl, wearing the usual dark blue cloak
over the same pale lavender dress with white edging that he'd seen far
too much of lately. She couldn't even keep him amused with a varied
wardrobe -- or even dress her hair differently. As always, it was rolled
back from her face with a circlet. She was just the way he'd seen her
before.
In fact, she was exactly the way he'd seen her before. She was
carrying the same baggage she'd borne when she first came to this house
the day before yesterday. So now she was running away from -- home?
Hardly. And it was too soon to be skipping out on the rent, wasn't it?
Alec shrugged. It wasn't his to question, only to follow. He
watched the girl creep out into the street and look around the quiet
neighborhood for someone to tell her to get back inside where she
belonged. No one did, so she pulled the hood of her cloak forward and
then shuffled away past the uncaring houses. Alec was about to pursue
her when the door of her house moved again. In his mind, Alec recited an
elaborate curse that he'd spent his lunchtime earlier in the day
formulating, one that involved Haargon's backside, the lips of Erida,
and a large circlet of peacock feathers. The image had amused him but
he'd not quite dared utter the thing out loud. It was just as well since
he was trying to remain unnoticed.
Camron's brother-in-law, Marcus, emerged into the street. He
apparently had no difficulty picking out Ariel in the darkness, since he
immediately started off after her. Alec, taking his turn after Marcus,
had to assume that the other man hadn't had any lights on wherever in
the house he'd been. Marcus' eyes were already well accustomed to the
dark. Alec mused about what that meant: That he'd been most likely
waiting up in a dark room for Ariel to do something, and that caution
would be needed while following him. The reverie broke off when Marcus
reached the end of a row of houses and stepped around the corner.
Alec cursed a much briefer imprecation and hurried ahead to make
sure that he would still have at least Marcus in sight. He reached the
turn just in time to see his quarry up ahead along the road. Breathing a
small sigh of relief, Alec settled into a routine solution to the
problem of tailing someone through deserted streets late at night. He
almost relaxed too much. Marcus (and, Alec hoped, Ariel) appeared to be
tracing again Ariel's route to Camron's office, so Alec decided he could
hang back a bit more to be sure that Marcus didn't notice him. A couple
of turns before Ariel would actually have gotten there, though, Alec
came around a corner and discovered a completely empty street.
Still not wasting breath or noise voicing aloud the curses he was
thinking, Alec hurried forward. He paused at every alley to peer within,
hoping that he would spy the familiar lope of Marcus. After a couple of
failures, he was rewarded with that comforting vision. The alley was
narrow and dark, but the silhouette was right. Alec eased into the alley
and made his way along it. He was only halfway along it when the man
ahead emerged from the other end and walked briskly away to the right.
Lightly, Alec ran forward, quickly reaching the end of the alley.
He peered around the corner in the direction Marcus had gone.
A fist smashed into his face.
V. A Most Dangerous Profession
Jarvis was working late in Camron's Trading House. There was, after
all, plenty of work to be done, especially after Camron had brought in
that new girl. Of course, she'd been hired to help Camron get his
records straightened up and clear so that Jarvis, among others, could
examine them quickly. But, in fact, she was only creating more work for
him.
First of all, she was a definite distraction -- far too pretty to
be fluttering around his office all day and not have his gaze
continually attracted to her movements. Which it was, terribly often,
because -- dammit -- he was male and her figure was far more desirable
to look at than his ledger figures were.
He smiled at the little, old, bookkeeping joke -- and then frowned.
Even when she wasn't there, she was distracting him from his work. That
was so annoying.
He bent to his papers again. He simply had to get them completed
tonight because -- well, that was the other problem with Camron's new
girl. Jarvis was actually here working for Duke Jastrik, who had a large
investment in Camron's business. From time to time, Jarvis examined
Camron's books for the Duke to make sure that the profits and losses
Camron reported were genuine. With the addition of Camron's pretty
little bookkeeper, though, Jarvis was obliged to spend some time
learning her methods and satisfying himself with her competence at
neatening up the books. And thus far, his studies had not left him
convinced. There were some discrepancies, some potentially large
discrepancies. He pulled his lamp a little closer, dipped his pen in the
well, and stared again at the parchment.
The parchment rattled. No, that wasn't it. The rattle was coming
from downstairs. But there shouldn't have been any noise downstairs. It
was long past the time for any shipments to be received or dispatched.
Indeed, only Londron the night watchman ought to have been active down
there and he, Jarvis knew, moved no more than he absolutely had to.
"Something wrong, Londron?" Jarvis called. No response came up the
stairwell. Jarvis hadn't expected any, not really. Londron was as silent
as he was static. But Jarvis had now made the mistake of calling to the
man. In some way, he now felt honorbound to go and look for the
watchman, to prove that he hadn't been calling to a void.
And besides, he could use the break from thinking about figures
(and figures).
He got up from his desk, loudly scraping his chair on the floor.
The noise he made felt necessary and comforting as well. "Londron?" he
called again, still not expecting any response. The watchman, he felt
sure, was going to make him come all the way downstairs and see him if
the auditor wanted to verify his existence. With a heavy tread, since he
didn't want to hear just that soft rattling, Jarvis walked over to the
stairs and clumped down them.
Below, Londron was sprawled in his favorite chair. He was asleep.
This was his favorite way to pass the long, dull sands of supervision
over the quiet building. It also, he reasoned, assured that he would be
awake and alert come the morning when Camron would arrive and expect him
to be able to report that everything was in order. How could he be
expected to be sharp and clear, speaking briskly and firmly to his
employer at dawn, he asked himself nearly every night, if he'd spent all
night moping about the place. His answer was always the same; hence the
long and regular naps.
And Londron was blessed with the ability to sleep through nearly
anything. The scratching inside one of the barrels that had been stacked
in the receiving barn hadn't disturbed him. Neither had the presence of
someone standing close beside him, someone dressed in a hooded cloak
over a pale lavender dress and looking pensively at his regular
breathing.
Nor, of course, did Jarvis' ponderous descent, though it did cause
the other person to seek the shadows. Jarvis, grumbling to himself, had
brought his lamp with him into the darkness below. Now, he set about
looking for the uncooperative Londron. He'd find the man, thank him most
sarcastically for his efforts to foster others' ability to concentrate
on their lamplit work and then get back up to his damned books. Then,
perhaps he'd be able to get out of here himself within a bell. He strode
from the staircase toward the front of the building; the front seemed a
reasonable place to start.
He was walking past the doorway into the receiving barn when he
heard something break. The noise was muffled some, but he was quite sure
he'd heard something untoward in that receiving area. Pottery, perhaps,
but it sounded as though it might have been knocked off a closet shelf
by a careless cat. Yes, that was it, except that the barn didn't have a
closet. He stopped and peered at the dark doorway, aware that the door
should have been closed.
"Londron?" he called, standing at the open door. "Are you in
there?"
"In here," a very faint voice, which sounded nothing like Londron,
responded.
"Where?" Jarvis demanded, taking several steps into the barn.
"In this barrel," the faint shout replied. Jarvis walked over to
it.
"What are you doing in there?" he asked.
"How about 'Trying to get out'?" the voice suggested. "Are you
going to help me or just stand there?"
Unpacking a barrel was not, strictly speaking, part of Jarvis' job.
He was there to examine books of numbers and verify in some obscure way
that they were "true." However, his charge was also more generally, he
told himself, to safeguard the Duke's interest in Camron's business.
This gave him authority to poke around in any aspect of shipping that
excited his curiosity. And if Camron was moving people around in
barrels, the Duke ought to know about it. Furthermore, Jarvis had seen
nothing on the ledgers about this transport of people and that would
indicate another serious oversight. Jarvis set his lamp on the closest
neighboring barrel, found a crowbar hanging on the wall of the barn, and
began prying loose the lid of the barrel.
The lid soon came off with a crash. Jarvis peered at what lay under
the lid. Mouse, blinking at the lamplight, peered up at him. The auditor
dropped the crowbar with another crash. "He's shipping faeries?" he
asked.
"I am *not* a faerie!" Mouse declared, as emphatically as she
could. "I am Mouse." While Jarvis continued to stare at her, she began
extracting her sack of possessions from the hay. She also offered the
story she'd spent the journey composing: "I was traveling with this
shipment of preserves to ensure that this valuable food reached its
destination safely. One of the jars seems to have broken against another
though. Sorry about that. But there's someone I have to see now, so I'll
be -- Hey!"
Her speech was interrupted by the heavy thud of something smashing
against the back of Jarvis' skull and then the heavier thud of Jarvis
falling against the side of the barrel and then the floor. She looked up
and repeated herself: "Hey!"
Someone else was holding the crowbar now. The someone was wearing a
deeply cowled cloak with the hood pulled up and forward keeping the face
completely shadowed.
A third party echoed Mouse, "Hey!" and the figure instantly broke
the tableau: The crowbar clattered to the floor. A hand shot out and
seized Mouse at the waist, pinioning one arm. The hay she'd been wading
in had made it difficult for her to dodge. Then, the assailant sprang
away through the darkened barn as Londron -- the latter having finally
been roused by the clattering barrel lid and crowbar -- lumbered in
pursuit.
Mouse shouted and pulled ineffectually at the closest finger she
could reach -- obliging her captor to change grips -- as she was carried
to the other end of the room. Then, Mouse almost crashed against the
ground, as the girl -- judging by the dress she was wearing under the
cloak -- reached down to grab something before racing out a small door
of the barn.
VI Breaking It Up
"Kittara," Sylk asked, "how can you say that wasn't a waste of our
time?"
After having spent a bell poking around Duke Jastrik's warehouse on
Division Street, another unsounded bell watching her converse with
Onions and his colleague, Carver, and who knew how much more time
discreetly watching the Watch watch the warehouse, Sylk had persuaded
Kittara that the tip was false. Not wishing to chance a late ferry
across the Coldwell, the two were walking the long way around back to
Jastrik's quarters via the causeway. They had only gotten as far as
Commercial Street, somewhere between Ramit and Layman and the prospect
of the long remainder of the walk did not improve Sylk's mood.
"We have a pretty good idea now what the layout is of that
warehouse," Kittara said.
"That is something I neither need to know nor want to know," Sylk
said. "If that's the best you can do, I rest --"
"Sh!" Kittara ordered. "I hear a brawl."
"Not our problem," Sylk reminded her.
"You're not even curious?"
"No."
"Then buy your own beer." Kittara ran lightly forward and
disappeared into an alley. "Now, now, what's all this then?" Sylk heard
her shout in her most officious manner. This was followed by "Hey, what
the hell?" in a surprised but more usual tone. "Sylk!" she shouted.
Sylk grumbled to himself but sprang forward. As he did, a figure
emerged from the alley, paused an instant to absorb the sight of the
approaching Sylk, then shot off in the other direction. Though tempted
to give chase, Sylk decided first to check on Kittara. He ran into the
alley.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Of course not!" Kittara shouted, already getting to her feet.
"I've just had that jerk run right through me. Nobody pushes me out of
the way like that! Nobody! Now, come on! Let's get him!"
"Why?" Sylk asked.
"Why?" she repeated. "Because he was fighting with this other guy
and when I made like I was the Watch, they both cut and ran. That's
*got* to be interesting."
"Maybe," Sylk admitted. "Where'd the other one go?"
"Other end of the alley. Why? What do you care about him?"
"He could probably tell us as much as the one who flattened you."
"Yeah, but he isn't the one who knocked me down."
Sylk took a moment to recall and admire his mental picture of what
Kittara looked like and how physically fit she was. "I know," he told
her, before running down the alley after the less obviously dangerous
fighter.
"Coward," Kittara muttered, going after the real prize.
========================================================================
Friendships of Stone
Part 1: Matthew & Ben
by Mark A. Murray
<mmurray@weir.net>
Dargon, Naia 5, 1015
Silence pervaded the alley until two boys entered it. The boys
chatted constantly as they walked to the end of the alley and turned
left onto Thockmarr. The echoes of their conversation softly faded away
as they continued walking to the marketplace.
"I'm glad William let us go early," Matthew, the taller boy said.
"Even if the day's mostly gone."
"Yeah," Ben replied. "The barkeep's a grump. He'd have us cleaning
the inn all night."
"Did you see his face when William told him we didn't have to work
tomorrow? Or for the rest of the week? I thought his face was going to
burn up as red as it got," Matthew said, laughing.
"And when he started to say something back, he stuttered and spit
on William," Ben laughed. "I thought William was going to get rid of him
right there."
"I never saw David apologize so much."
"You know," Ben said, "that he's going to take it out on us really
hard when we go back to work."
"I know. But we have the rest of the week to forget about it,"
Matthew replied as the two turned right onto the Street of Travellers.
"I wonder what's new in the marketplace?"
"I don't know, but that group of men in the inn kept talking about
a lot of the stalls being used. I tried to listen to their conversation
as I was gathering up dishes, but it was too loud most of the time."
"At least you got to go out into the main room," Matthew said,
frowning.
"I had to wash dishes all day. And when I wasn't doing that, I had
to clean the kitchen floor and walls. *And* take the garbage out away
from the inn. It stunk and was drawing lots of flies and bugs. Skarlin
was cooking when he got a whiff of the garbage outside the back door. He
told me to quit cleaning and take the garbage far away from there."
"I wondered why you smelled so bad, but I was too busy to ask. When
I came back in the kitchen you were gone again. And the next time I saw
you, you didn't stink anymore."
"I know," Matthew laughed. "Skarlin told me I smelled as bad as the
garbage after I was done moving it. He told me to go and get the smell
off of me, and he said he didn't care if I jumped in the Coldwell to do
it."
"We're getting close," Ben said, changing the subject. "I can see
some of the stalls from here."
"I see them, too," Matthew said. "Look, see that stall that's
broken in half? The one next to it is where mom used to buy bread. The
vendor's not there now. I don't know what happened to him."
"How do you know that's where he was?" Ben asked. "And how do you
know he isn't on the other side of the marketplace now? Vendors change
stalls all the time."
"He never did," Matthew replied. "He was always there when mom took
me with her to the marketplace."
"Oh. Well, if there are new stall holders here, where do we start
looking first?" Ben asked.
"I guess we just roam around and look. I don't want to look at
anything with food. I've seen enough of that for today."
"They might have sweets," Ben suggested. "That'd be worth looking
at."
"I guess."
"Look," Ben said, pointing. "That's new." Matthew looked to where
Ben pointed and saw a booth displaying rugs. They walked over to get a
closer look. It was one of the outlying booths and not many people were
around it.
"Don't touch them," warned the merchant. "Keep your dirty hands
away from my rugs."
"We weren't gonna touch them," Ben said. "We just wanted to get a
better look. Besides, my hands are clean." He held up his hands, palm
up, to show the man.
"I don't care how clean your hands are. Don't touch my rugs. Some
of these rugs are delicate and can be ruined by a hand print."
"What's the use of having a rug like that?" Matthew asked. "You
couldn't put it on the floor."
"The *floor*?" the merchant repeated in a high voice. "You don't
put my rugs on the *floor*!"
"Why not?" Ben asked. "What else do you use a rug for?"
"Go away!" he shouted as he pointed away from his booth.
"Come on, Ben, let's find something more interesting. Who cares
about useless rugs, anyway?" As they turned to leave, they heard him
curse and ramble on about kids, respect, and his rugs.
"I hope the rest of the new stall holders aren't like that one,"
Ben said. "And there aren't that many people here. I expected to have to
push our way through crowds the way those men talked. There's lots more
people in the summer when the farmers bring crops in to sell."
As the two walked from the outlying scattered stalls of the
marketplace to the more closely grouped central stalls, the amount of
people increased.
The whole marketplace covered several streets and alleys when it
was full, but now, in early spring, only the inner area seemed
populated.
"Look," Matthew said, pointing. "There's Corambis' booth. We could
get him to tell us about our future. What we'll be when we grow up."
"Do you really believe he can do that? I mean, that he can tell
people's futures?"
"I don't know, Ben," Matthew answered, stopping to stare at
Corambis' booth. "But lots of people go to him. Look at it now, there's
people waiting outside his booth for their turn."
"Yeah. I guess he knows what he's doing or he's good at foolin'
people.
Now, come on," Ben said, tugging on Matthew's arm. "I don't want to
stand here all day. There's got to be more new merchants here than just
that rug man!" Ben pulled Matthew a few steps before Matthew turned and
walked on his own beside his friend.
"Okay, I'm coming. We've been through the marketplace lots of
times. I doubt we'll find many more new -- Hey, what's that?"
"Where?" Ben asked.
"What's that in front of the small tent?" Matthew pointed towards a
small tent down the street. The tent stood next to several empty stalls.
"I don't see what you're pointing at," Ben told him.
"That one," Matthew said, walking toward the tent. "There's
something in front of the tent. It looks like animals."
"I see it," Ben replied. "One of them looks like a cat. I don't
know what the other one is." As the boys got closer, they noticed that
the two animals they saw never moved.
"They don't look right," Matthew said as they neared the tent.
"They're stone!"
"They looked like real animals from back there. You sure they're
stone?" Both boys were in front of the tent. There were two small tree
stumps placed in front of the tent, one on each side of the opening.
Upon each stump was a stone sculpture. Matthew reached out and felt the
cat figurine.
"They're stone. But they look real. Like something turned a real
cat into stone."
"You don't suppose that's what happened, do you?" Ben asked. "And
what's the other one supposed to be?"
"It's a shivaree," a female voice said from inside the tent. "A
smaller version of one," the young woman said, stepping out of the tent.
Her hair was long and black, and she had dark eyes to match her hair.
She smiled as she looked at Matthew, whose hand was still resting on the
stone cat.
"I didn't mean to touch it," Matthew said, pulling his hand away
quickly.
"It's alright," she said. "They are stone. You would have a hard
time breaking them. My name is Sharin, and I sculpted those."
"You made them?" Ben asked, eyes wide. "How'd you get them to look
so real?"
"That's my secret," she replied. "If I told everyone that, then I
wouldn't be the only one to make them this real. I have others inside.
Would you like to look at them?"
"What kinds?" Ben asked.
"I have some of people and some of animals. Come inside and see
them," she said opening the tent flap. Ben looked at Matthew, who
shrugged and went inside. Ben followed him in. Two lamps lit the inside
of the tent to show two rows of stone figures on the ground on the left
side. On the right side was a table with various rocks and stone blocks
upon it. A hammer and several chisels were on a smaller table in the
back and were next to an unfinished figurine.
"See, Matthew," Ben said, "I told you there would be new people
with interesting things to sell."
"New?" Sharin asked. "I'm not new."
"Not new? How long have you been here?" Matthew asked her. "I don't
remember seeing you before."
"I've been in Dargon for a few years now," she explained.
"Although, I only started selling my sculptures about a month ago."
"These look almost real," Ben said as he studied the figurines on
the ground. Most of them were of animals in varying poses, while a few
were busts of people. "I don't recognize any of these," he said,
pointing to the busts.
"I had some nobles come here to have a likeness made of them in
stone. The ones you see there are the ones that have not been picked up,
yet. I only do them when asked, because it takes a lot of effort and
time to do them. And I don't get paid for them until they've been picked
up."
"Have you ever sculpted a dragon?" Matthew asked.
"A dragon? No, I have never made a dragon. I don't even know what a
dragon looks like. There to your right," she said to Ben, "is another
shivaree. And three from that is a wolf. I have seen both of those here
in Dargon."
"You only sculpt what you see?" Ben asked.
"Mostly. I can sculpt what I have not seen, but it usually does not
look as life-like."
"How much does one of these cost?" Ben asked.
"The smaller ones, I sell for 10 Scrod. The larger ones can go up
to two Sterling."
"We don't have enough, Ben," Matthew said.
"Enough for what?" Sharin asked.
"For a dragon figurine," Ben answered. "But you don't even know
what one looks like, so it doesn't matter."
"Do you know what one looks like?" she asked. "If you could
describe it well enough, I could sculpt it."
"But we don't have enough money," Matthew stated.
"Would you work for it?"
"Work? What could we do?" Ben asked, his eyes lighting up with the
idea.
"I could sculpt the dragon for you, and you could take it
throughout the marketplace and tell people about me. You could show
everyone you see the dragon and tell them about what I do."
"How long?" Matthew asked, shrewdly.
"Say four days? Since this is near the end of the day, and it will
take me some time to sculpt it, you could work for four days -- starting
tomorrow."
"Done," Ben replied, looking at Matthew. Matthew looked at his
friend and saw the glint of hope and expectation in his eyes.
"Done," Matthew said, turning to look at Sharin. "But please make
it look as real as you can."
"I do my best always. Now let me get a sketch of this dragon. What
does it look like?"
"It's got scales all over its body," Ben told her. "And a
triangular head with big round eyes. Two horns above its eyes that curve
back behind its head. When it opens its mouth, there are rows and rows
of sharp teeth and --"
"Wait, wait!" Sharin pleaded. "I can't draw that fast, and I need
to get the details down before I start on sculpting it."
Ben slowed down on his description as Sharin sketched the dragon on
a piece of slate. Matthew added his thoughts on what a dragon looked
like, and when Sharin was done, they looked at the drawing. Ben wrinkled
his nose and shook his head. He pointed and made more suggestions on
what a dragon *really* looked like.
Sharin smiled and made the changes. Matthew stood watching, while
Sharin drew another sketch of the dragon. This time she got it close
enough that Ben was happy. She looked at Matthew, and he smiled and
nodded his assent.
"Now that I have the drawing, you'll have to go," she told them. "I
don't let anyone watch me when I sculpt. It's a family secret that has
been passed down from generation to generation." She ushered them out
amidst pleas of wanting to stay. "Come back in a bell or so," she said
as she closed and tied the tent opening.
"A bell?" Ben cried. "What are we going to do for a whole bell?"
"Whatever you want," came the answer from within the tent.
"I want to watch you," Ben said, but there was no reply.
"Come on, Ben," Matthew said, pulling his friend away from the tent
by his arm. "We'll go look for some more new stalls. And I'm hungry."
"Okay. Let's eat first. I'm hungry, too." The two boys wandered the
marketplace looking for something to eat. They found some dried, spiced
meat that they bought and ate. When the fire started burning their
mouths, they bought a mug of cider. Unfortunately, it didn't help, and
the two tried to fan their open mouths with their hands, all the while
gasping for air.
"Hot, yes?" The vendor asked, smiling. "I warned you it would be!
Do you believe me now?" They nodded their heads emphatically as the
continued to fan their mouths. "Too hot, yes?" Again they nodded. "Here,
then," the vendor replied, filling two mugs with an off-white liquid.
"It's milk, drink!"
Matthew and Ben drained the mugs in one long drink. The milk cooled
the fire in their mouth, but did not get rid of it entirely.
"I normally charge for the milk, but, ah, you two reminded me of
when I first ate the spiced meat," the vendor told them, grinning.
"There was lots of hollering that day."
"That was hot!" Ben said.
"Hot? Huh, you don't know hot until you try Simon's sun-sweet
stew," the vendor replied. "That is hot. Don't know anyone who's
finished a bowl of it. Makes that meat you ate taste like water, it
does."
"Why make something so hot you can't eat it?" Matthew asked.
"Why? People want it. They buy it. I don't ask why they want it --
don't know, don't care. They want it, and I sell it," the vendor
answered.
"Yeah, but if you knew why they wanted it, couldn't you give them
more of what they really want?" Matthew asked. The vendor looked at
Matthew in a quizzical fashion. Moments later, he smiled.
"You mean if I knew why they wanted spicy, I could give the right
kind of spicy. Many more people would buy, yes?" he asked Matthew.
Matthew nodded. "Huh, if that were possible ... I'd be a rich man. You
find that answer, tell me. I'll share the profits."
"Has it been a bell, yet?" Ben asked.
"No," Matthew replied. "I don't think so. But we can go check,
anyway." The two thanked the vendor for the milk and left. They walked
back to Sharin's tent, but the flap was still closed.
"She's going to take a whole fortnight to make it," Ben whined.
"Ben! The next bell hasn't even sounded. Give her time. You want it
to look real, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, you don't think she can just take a stone and mold it to a
dragon in her hands, do you?"
"No."
"You saw the hammers and chisels on her bench. Give her some time
to make it."
"I wish she could just mold it out of stone. It wouldn't take so
long, then," Ben sighed. "Let's go see if we can find anything else
that's new."
The two of them turned away from Sharin's tent and once more walked
through the marketplace.
A bell echoed loudly through the marketplace. Ben stopped walking
suddenly and turned towards Sharin's tent. "Let's go," he told Matthew
impatiently.
"I'm right behind you," Matthew said, turning. The two hurried
through the marketplace, and when they came into sight of Sharin's tent,
they saw that one flap was blowing open by a small breeze. Ben broke
into a run, and Matthew had to run to keep up with him. Ben came to a
halt as he heard voices inside the tent, and Matthew almost ran into him
before he could stop.
"What are --" Matthew started to say.
"Shhhh," Ben said. "Someone's in the tent with her. And he sounds
mad."
"... is wrong with you?" they heard a man inside the tent ask. "You
could have nice clothes, better tools, and a real place to work -- not
this pieced together tent."
"I like working on my own," Sharin replied. "I don't need anyone's
help."
"J'Mirg's bones, girl! I'm offering you a life of luxury."
"I don't want your life of luxury!"
"I need your sculptures. My business is not doing well, but with
your sculptures and my customers, we could make a fortune. We would be
helping each other."
"No," Sharin replied.
"I could make life very unpleasant for you," the man threatened.
"Even cause you to go out of business."
"Get out," Sharin said, her voice slightly higher than normal. "Get
out now!"
"I ask you again. Will you work for me?"
"No, I will never work for you!"
"You will!" the man said, loudly. "You will work for me one way or
another!" The man stormed out of the tent and came face to face with
Matthew and Ben. He didn't slow his pace as he told them to get out of
his way. The boys quickly moved aside, and the man went his way.
"Kind of mad, wasn't he," Ben stated, matter-of-factly. Sounds of
crying could be heard from inside the tent. Matthew was the first inside
the tent, closely followed by Ben. Sharin was leaning against her
workbench with her face buried in her hands, tears leaking out from
around her hands.
========================================================================
Pudlong and the Beanstalk
Part II
by Jim Owens
<gym@ncweb.com>
Late Spring, 1016
It was a late afternoon when Levy and his family arrived at the
keep. Lord Farley, the local landowner, welcomed them, and squinted
carefully at Clifton Dargon's letter of recommendation. The names and
titles meant little this far south, but the gold in the seal spoke
volumes. Farley allowed Levy's band to spend the night, then released
them in the morning with permission to go and study the great beanstalk.
It wasn't even a day's journey to Pudlong's small farm. Their
arrival found Pudlong and Thully busily at work in their field. Pudlong
hurried over and bowed subserviently when Levy and his entourage
arrived; no doubt the presence of the lord's captain helped. The captain
left after it was clear that nothing untoward was going to happen. By
this time Pudlong was busy recounting the tale of how the beanstalk had
come to be. Levy listened, fascinated, and Bren took copious notes.
"Do you fertilize it or anything?" Levy asked, shielding his eyes
with his hand as he stared up into the verdant heights.
"No, lord," Pudlong replied, following a step behind as Levy and
Bren slowly walked around the trunk of the amazing sight. "It all just
grew. I rekkin' it's all due to that wizard, what put 'is spell on me
land."
"Wizard?" Bren asked, his hand unconsciously slipping a little
closer to the hilt of his sword.
"Yes, it was a wizard what stowed a treasure hereabouts somewhere,
no one knows where," Pudlong's eyes grew big and his hands animated as
he lapsed back into storytelling mode. "An' to guard it, 'e put a spell
on it, a spell that makes anyone what comes close to the treasure," he
straightened up and waved a hand at the ground the beanstalk grew from,
"to pop up here, in my bean field."
Levy and Bren stared at him, then glanced at each other, then back
at Pudlong. There was a moment of quiet.
"Okay," Levy said. They stood a moment longer, then Levy again
looked up into the leaves above.
"I'd like to stay a while and study your beanstalk. Lord Farley has
said I may. My family and I will sleep in our wagon. Is this alright?"
"Oh, yes, m'lord." Pudlong nodded vigorously, ducking his shoulders
in a slight bow.
"And we'll need some food. I can pay for what we eat."
"Oh, that'll be fine, m'lord." Pudlong continued nodding.
Levy glanced at the peasant, a quizzical look on his face.
"I don't want to be a burden to you. I and my family can help out
here, while we're staying with you."
"Yes, yes, that'll be quite nice," Pudlong continued, his head
still bobbing up and down, his hands clasped.
"We shouldn't really be a problem to you," Levy explained,
carefully watching the man's expression.
"Oh, no trouble, no trouble," Pudlong replied, smiling. "Any guest
of m'lord's is a guest of mine. Most happy to help you, m'lord. Anything
you want, just ask me or the missus."
"Yes, fine," Levy replied, almost softly. "If we need anything,
I'll call. You may go back to work now."
"Yes, thank you, m'lord." Pudlong nodded and bowed, turning and
walking back to where Sarah and the children were clustered around
Thully. Levy watched him as he departed. When Bren started to follow the
farmer, Levy seized the former herald by his cloak.
"Bren." Levy ignored the sharp glance of indignation the younger
man threw at the intrusive clutch. "We must be careful that our stay
does not harm the farmer in any way."
"I have no intention of harming the old sod," Bren replied,
twitching the cloth from Levy's hand. His eyes were cold.
"This is a peasant. One needn't intend harm to cause it." Bren's
uncomprehending stare made Levy continue. "These two will float a
boulder to make sure we're happy and well cared for -- they'll see that
as their lord's will," Levy gestured over his shoulder toward the
distant keep. "They'll work night and day to serve us, neglecting their
crops, their house, everything. But their lord could care less if their
crops wither, or that their winter's wood doesn't get cut, something
that will happen if we allow them to spend all their time on us."
"They're peasants," Bren shrugged. "Peasants survive."
"And you're my hired sword," Levy's voice grew quiet, "and you'll
do as I say."
Bren stared at Levy for a moment, then nodded curtly and walked
off. Levy watched him a moment, then followed him, thoughts about the
current situation churning in his head. Levy had been born free, a
member of the Barel clan. The Barel's were originally from the South,
but had moved north when one of their number had been granted a title by
the Duke of Dargon. They had not brought many of their southern ways
with them to the colder north. Each man was now considered to be born
free.
Levy had not considered himself wealthy or special growing up, but
in his travels he had come to realize that not all men were free.
Indeed, most people were mere property, owned by their lord and used as
any other cattle would be. To Levy this seemed strange, but he had grown
accustomed to it. There was little else he could do. But what he could
do, that he would.
The novice lay on a large rock in the middle of the stream, eyes
closed, as the sun warmed his skin. The sound of the master's chanting
and splashing was soothing, calling him to sleep. He sighed happily,
stretching. No need to draw water for the morning bath; the stream
provided that in the form of a deep pool, filled to overflowing with the
summer's warm rain. With no supplicants begging for blessings there was
no need to don ceremonial robes, or any clothing at all, for that
matter. In fact, there was no need for anything but to lay here and rest
and soak up the sun.
When the master climbed out of the pool, water streaming from the
hair matting his thin chest, the novice rolled off the stone and took
his place in the soothing embrace of the stream. For long moments he
just floated underwater, listening to the song that roared in his ears.
He then planted his feet on the sandy bottom and flung himself into the
air, a fountain erupting around him. He landed back in the water and
just wallowed there a moment longer, until the master's voice summoned
him. But even that wasn't enough to draw the slight smile from his face.
They rode all day, as usual, trading for fresh horses at the royal
stables halfway through the morning and halfway through the afternoon.
The novice sneered at the lavish expense. After the war the price of
horses had risen hellishly. The amount of coin the pair had spent on
fresh horses thus far could have bought several largish villages. It was
not a new thing, however, for the novice to see such profligate waste at
the hands of the masters. They were quite willing to expend great effort
to achieve their goals, especially if they themselves did not have to
make that effort.
How many novices had died in foolish strivings over the years, the
novice wondered to himself? Just last month two had died trying to
capture a piece of lightning for some particular incantation. And what
of that young novice lowered into that cave for bat dung? No one saw her
again. Then there were the supplicants. How many poor peasants had
poured their meager wealth into the greedy hands of the masters in
exchange for cures that were easily procured, if one only knew where to
go, and for blessings that were nothing more than words and gestures
granted the ignorant? The novice began to burn inside as he thought
about the great, heavy inequalities he had seen in his brief life inside
the sanctuary. It had housed him, but it was no home.
The only image he had of his parents were of huddling forms,
pushing him along a dark path in the rain, the walls of the sanctuary
looming ahead. He had learned later that he, as most of the novices, had
been payment for a cure for an older sibling who had been dying of the
cough. This knowledge came from the sanctuary's ledgers, It didn't say
whether the older child had lived or died, or even what the novice's
name was. Not that it mattered -- the master only referred to him as
'boy', and the other novices didn't get much chance to talk among
themselves. Only the raven-haired novice ever referred to him by a name
-- she merely called him 'Yellow', as his hair color was an unusual
blond.
They were drawing near to the target of their journey. They knew
now that the fabulous plant grew in a northern province of Mandraka, on
the land of minor lord named Farley. The master had a parchment that
described the land, and even mentioned Farley, though not in great
detail. The master was careful to listen to any rumor and gossip
regarding Farley, and had instructed the novice to do so as well. No one
seemed terribly anxious to speak to the young servant, however, and he
had gleaned little.
Bren stood on one of the leaves of the beanstalk, several hundred
handbreadths above the ground. Pudlong at first had been very anxious
about anyone climbing the beanstalk, relating horrid tales of giants
flinging careless adventurers to their ill-timed deaths, but Bren had
insisted that he only wanted a better vantage point from which to scan
the countryside. That had been several days ago. When no ill-effects
came from the climb, Bren repeated it every day, and had actually
established a small lookout in the leaves of the plant.
Levy had also climbed the stalk, with Eli, his eldest. They had
been fascinated by small things, such as the shape and size of various
leaves, the size and type of the insects found on the stem, and other,
mundane things. One of those largish bugs now crawled toward Bren. It
was the length of his boot, but not very bright, and quite sluggish. He
kicked it off the leaf and watched it tumble to the ground. He directed
his gaze upward at a cluster of mammoth beans that hung like fat swords
over his head. Levy had drawn black lines in ink on the fruit, to chart
how they grew. Bren cared little for such things, but it was interesting
to watch the lines draw further and further apart. He was not up today
to watch beans grow, however.
Bren turned his gaze outward, scanning the land. This was not his
home territory, but it was very near it. Seaport was only a hard
three-day ride away. The plants and landscape were frustratingly
familiar. He remembered the feel and flavor of home, and this was so
like it that it burned not to be able to actually return home. But his
duties here prevented that. He had been hired to protect Levy and his
family. Besides that, the order for his exile was surely still in force.
Even as he was busy keeping watch, planning escape routes, and noting
strong points in the land, his black despair still threatened to engulf
him. With an effort, he pushed it down. His home was in Dargon, now, and
nowhere else.
His gaze dropped to Levy and the others, out in the field. He shook
his head in bewilderment. Levy and Sarah were born free, of noble blood.
Yet there they were, working and talking side by side with these
peasants. Their children played in the dirt, like a litter of dogs,
while they themselves grubbed in the ground like chattel. If Bren had
not given his word to Bartol to protect them, he might have walked away
in confusion and disgust. If those of noble blood did not behave as
their stations demanded, it would give the lower classes ideas beyond
*their* stations.
Even more disturbing was Levy's insistence that Pudlong and Thully
be treated as if they too were free. This worried Bren. Bren doubted
that Lord Farley had a soft heart or head to go along with his soft
belly. Peasant uprisings were few precisely because they were so
ruthlessly put down. Bren hoped that Levy would have the sense not to
put all their necks in jeopardy for some strange principle.
As Bren brooded he continued his vigil, hopping from leaf to leaf
in order to see around the massive trunk. As he did a dark clot on the
distant road caught his eye. He studied it. There appeared to be a group
of people approaching from the keep. He narrowed his eyes to see more
clearly. As they approached the cluster resolved into the Lord and some
other me
n riding on horses. Bren leaned over the side of his perch and
yelled down to Levy and the others.
"Levy!!" An upturned face looked in Bren's direction. "Someone's
coming!"
Levy stood up and walked to the road. After peering down the
highway for a long moment he returned to where his wife and the others
were working. He paused to snatch up his clothes, having stripped for
work like the others, then proceeded to climb up the stalk to join Bren.
They watched the approaching group.
"You may wish to have your wife and children move away from the
road," Bren cautioned. Levy nodded, and after another long look, moved
down the trunk. Bren studied the approaching group. He could now count
four people on horseback, with six troops on foot. By Bren's
calculations it was either a small raiding party or the newcomer was a
dignitary of sorts. He glanced down to see Sarah and the children moving
across the field to where a shallow in the land led to the distant
trees. He watched until they reached the hollow and turned, using it as
concealment from the road. Levy was climbing back up.
"I'll stay here and stay hidden for now," Bren cautioned Levy.
"This might be a state visit, but it never hurts to have a hidden
dagger."
Levy merely nodded and watched the newcomers draw closer. Finally
he started down. Bren saw him conference for a moment with Pudlong on
the ground, then Bren had to move to a different leaf to keep the trunk
between himself and the approaching party.
"Greetings, Pudlong," Bren heard as the group stopped at the small
hut.
"G'day, m'lord," came the dutiful reply.
"Good day, Lord Farley," came Levy's reply.
"I have brought a new guest, who also wishes to study the great
beanstalk." Bren hugged the trunk a little tighter, envisioning Farley
looking up at the plant as he talked. "This is the great wizard
Mon-Haddar. He has traveled far to see our great sight, and wishes to
learn from it, just as you do, Levy Barel."
A different voice spoke now, at once both resonant and feeble. "I
had heard of your great wonder, Lord Farley, and had come to pay homage
to it and you," Bren could not hear the lie in the man's voice, but he
knew it was there, "but the legends do not keep pace with the reality.
With your forbearance, we will stay here a while."
"By all means, Mon-Haddar. All I have is at your disposal."
Farley's voice grew quieter, more conspiratorial. "And perhaps later we
will speak of this fabled treasure that is reported to be hidden
hereabouts."
"Indeed, indeed." Now Bren knew the snake was hissing. Mon-Haddar,
if that was his real name, was not here to help Farley. Life had just
gotten more interesting.
Later that night, Bren and Levy sat by the fire, looking at the hut
where Mon-Haddar could be seen chanting and gesticulating by the light
of a lard candle. Behind them, in the wagon, Sarah and Eli snored
contentedly, while to their left Thully made similar sounds as she lay
beside Pudlong. The two men sat silent, watching. A sound in the dark
caught their attention. Bren's hand moved to the hilt of his sword,
relaxing only when the novice came into view, carrying a load of
branches on his back. He set them down beside the fire with a loud and
theatrical gasp. Levy and Bren both looked at each other, unimpressed.
"My master has instructed me to build a fire in the hut for him
tonight, so he might do some scrivening," he hesitated, "and to stay
warm, of course." Levy glanced quickly at Bren. It had been blisteringly
hot that afternoon, and the heat would last until morning. They said
nothing as the youngster continued. "I wonder if I might have some coals
to start it with."
After a moment Levy nodded. "Of course. Take your wood inside. I'll
get a potsherd to carry the coals in." The novice nodded and re-hefted
his load, while Levy levered himself up and stepped over to the wagon.
He returned a moment later with the potsherd and stooped by the fire.
"Why should we care if the old man is scrivening?" Bren asked
dourly.
"I don't suppose it's any business of ours," Levy replied
carefully. As he straightened, he and Bren exchanged a meaningful
glance, then Levy slowly carried the coals to the hut.
The wizard had completely taken over the small hut. The couple's
meager possessions were shoved to one side, and the master's own gear
piled in its place. When Levy arrived the novice was piling the wood in
the crude fireplace.
" ... down to the stream for my evening ablutions. Do not talk ...
" The man stopped as Levy appeared, cradling the embers carefully. The
wizard scowled at him, then continued roughly. "Do not talk to anyone or
rest until you have everything unpacked and my food set out." He
glowered at Levy as he finished. "I will return shortly."
Levy stepped aside and allowed him to pass, then carefully poured
the coals on the pile of tinder the young novice had prepared. While the
boy blew on the smoking sticks and shavings, Levy glanced about the
room. Several parchments lay on the small table. The script was ancient,
but Levy, trained by several scribes over the years, was able to read
it.
"So, where have you come from?" Levy asked the young man casually.
The novice started to look up, but instead leaned closer to the
fire. "My master has told me not to speak to you until I have finished."
"Ah, yes. Right." Levy studied the papers a moment longer, then,
when the boy started to get up, he scooped all the papers off the table.
"Here, let me help you clear the table for your master's food."
"Thank you," the boy replied gratefully. He stepped outside. Levy
quickly scanned the pages, then set them on the small cot when the boy
returned with a sack of food and dishes. Levy helped set the table,
helped set the small stew pot on the fire, and then helped unpack, all
the time sneaking glances at the pages that lay on the bed, until the
boy gathered them up as well and set them carefully on the table beside
the waiting bowl.
"Well, when you're finished, why don't you come out and chat with
us for a moment before sleep?" Levy invited, sidling toward the door.
"Thank you, I will," the boy replied, stirring the stew. Levy left,
returning to the fire.
"Well?" Bren asked as Levy returned. Pudlong was sitting beside
him, rubbing his legs. Levy sat down beside them and began speaking in a
low voice.
"It seems that this beanstalk of ours is not a new idea," Levy
began. "That wizard has an old parchment that discusses the legend of a
giant beanstalk that would spring up in the South, and of what to do if
it appears."
"What to do?" Both Pudlong and Bren cast uneasy glances at the
ebony bulk that loomed over them, blocking the stars from view.
"It seems that the legend states that the beanstalk is a
repository, a storage place for great magical power. With the right
magics, the beanstalk can be induced to yield some of that power, so
that whoever receives that power can direct it at his will, to do
specifically what he wants."
Bren uttered an oath and spat. "And so Mon-Haddar is here to
extract that power for himself. Just what we need, one more bastard
throwing his weight around, telling us to do this and do that, building
up a following of hangers-on who leech off the hard work of others." He
scowled at Levy, almost as if Levy were to blame.
"There's a catch, though," Levy continued. "The power comes in the
form of a talisman, an object of some sort. Whoever holds it wields the
power. The parchment was very insistent that you have to be ready to
grab it as soon as it appears."
"What does it look like?" urged Bren.
Levy shrugged. "Unfortunately, it didn't say, just that you need to
be ready for it when it appears. Also, there is some sort of guardian,
watching over the beanstalk. We need to keep an eye open for him, too."
As he said this the wind kicked up. The leaves above rustled
loudly, and there came a loud snap. Just off to the left, between where
the men sat and Thully slept, a giant bean came crashing to the ground,
splitting open and tossing squash-sized seeds about. They all jumped to
their feet, while Thully sat up and stared bleary-eyed at the
apparition.
"And what does *that* mean?" asked Bren.
"Wha', I guess it mus' be time ta pick 'em," Pudlong said simply,
staring upward.
The next day presented an unusual scene. While Levy and Bren
climbed the stalk to continue their study of the plant and the land,
Mon-Haddar and Yellow, as he was calling himself, chanted and built
fires and made smoke and disemboweled small animals, all in an attempt
to study the strange phenomenon themselves, with Pudlong shuffling
between the two parties solicitously, and with Thully, Sarah, and the
children working the beans, casting occasional glances up at the
madness.
After making his measurements and notes, Levy returned to Sarah's
side in the beanfield. As they worked their way down the long rows they
talked in low voices, casting the occasional glance up at the
gesticulating wizard.
"Certainly is a lively fellow," Sarah commented after a
particularly wild outburst from the man.
"Probably the most activity he's had in years," commented Levy
wryly as he laid the uprooted weeds up against the base of the beans.
"What is he saying? Can you tell?"
"He's using an ancient dialect from the east. It's not used much
any more, except for dark incantations and weird magic. I studied it
some when I was young, but I don't really understand it."
"Can you make out any of the words?"
"Some." Levy cocked an ear toward the wizard and listened for a
moment. "Gold. Power. Praise. Evil. Power again." He shook his head.
"Not real comforting, I know."
"Perhaps we should leave," Sarah said quietly.
"Perhaps."
They weeded on for a ways.
"Is there anything we should be doing?" Sarah asked.
"Well, we don't actually know that he's up to no good," Levy
cautioned. "Just because he looks mean, smells bad, talks funny, and is
a wizard doesn't automatically mean he's up to no good."
Sarah just looked at him. He put his head back down and continued
weeding, until a set of shoes suddenly appeared before his downturned
face. He looked up to see Bren standing before him.
"Yes?"
Bren was frowning, hands on his hips. "The wizard wants to hire
me."
"What?" Levy got up to a kneeling position. "But I'm hiring you."
"He insists that he talk to you. He wants to hire me to climb the
beanstalk for him." Bren lowered his voice. "I think he's after the
talisman. He may know where it is."
Levy stood up, brushing off his knees. He voice was raised just the
slightest bit. "Sarah, I think you and the children ought to go down to
the stream to cool off. I wouldn't want them to overheat."
Sarah accepted Levy's outstretched hand and got up also. Hers was
an expression of worry as she studied Bren's frown. "I think that's a
good idea."
"Let's you and I go and talk to this wizard, eh?" Levy commented to
Bren as Sarah hurried away. They headed over to the beanstalk, Levy
stopping to snatch up his breeches along the way. Pudlong hurried over
to greet them, then accompanied them to where the wizard and the boy
stood.
"I understand you wish to hire Bren to climb the tree for you,"
Levy started in.
"Yes." The man's eyes were keen and hard.
"I have already hired him," Levy began, "but if there's something
you wish to know about the beanstalk, I too can help you." Levy resisted
the urge to glance at Bren. "Bren and I can both climb the beanstalk,
and find ... out whatever you wish found out."
"I require only Bren," the wizard replied, turning away.
"I cannot hire him out. He is still doing work for me," Levy
ventured to the retreating back. The wizard stopped, and looked over his
shoulder at Levy.
"No matter. I and my assistant will climb the stalk."
"He's onto me," Levy thought to himself. "He knows that I know that
he's up to something, that he's looking for something."
Levy started to look over at Bren, hoping for something to say.
Just then there was a faint whistle and another of the giant bean pods
crashed to the ground, squarely in the middle of the five men, splitting
open. As each jumped back, startled, each one saw the gleam of something
shiny inside the pod. The halves fell apart, and there, among the other
green squash-sized seeds, lay one seed which was not green, but instead
a warm, gleaming gold. There was a long moment as each man stared at the
seed, then another long moment as they stared at each other. Then, as
one, the men dove for the seed.
Levy was never sure just whose hand it was that was wrapped around
his belt. Looking back it seemed preposterous that it could have been
the wizard's, and too strong to have been the boy's. Nonetheless,
someone had his belt firmly in their grasp and was trying to pull him
away from the bean. There were arms and legs all over the place and even
someone's belly pressing into his face, as Levy strained to reach the
bean, and pulled it from someone's hands, only to have it taken from
him. He tried again to take it, and managed to touch it, when suddenly
something as if from underneath him lifted him up and rolled him away.
He found himself on his back, staring up at the sun. He blinked, and saw
a man, standing, with the golden seed held firmly aloft. The man's face
was a study in self-knowing satisfaction and expectant pleasure, like a
two-year old who has done something special and expects to be praised
for it. It was suddenly an amazing face. That face belonged to Pudlong.
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