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DargonZine Volume 14 Issue 07
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 14
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7
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DargonZine Distributed: 9/3/2001
Volume 14, Number 7 Circulation: 752
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Devotion Jim Owens Mertz 1, 1015
Triskele: Coda P. Atchley and Mertz 30, 1018
Rhonda Gomez
Talisman Eight 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 7-13, 1013
========================================================================
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 correspondence to <dargon@shore.net>or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at
ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 14-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2001 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>
It's been a long, long time since I had to apologize for the
lateness of an issue. Typically, our goal is to distribute issues on a
very predictable schedule every four to six weeks. For the past five
years we've done a wonderful job, but it hasn't always been that way.
We had some pretty mean years in the first half of the 1990s.
Issues were put out unpredictably, whenever we had enough material and
time. Sometimes there'd be a four-month gap between issues, followed by
three issues in a six-week period. One of our readers' biggest
complaints was the lack of a reliable publication schedule. In 1996, we
made a commitment to our readers to distribute issues in a more
controlled fashion, and of the 50 issues sent out in the past five
years, only four have been delayed beyond our ideal target.
Some numbers will help illustrate how dramatic the change has been.
From 1989 through 1995 we distributed one issue on average every 9.2
weeks, plus or minus a whopping 8.7 weeks. It was just as likely that
our next issue would come out in one week or four months! Our schedule
was very clearly out of control. Compare that with our performance since
then: from the end of 1996 to the present, we've averaged one issue
every 4.9 weeks, plus or minus just 1.7 weeks!
As you can see, we heard our readers' concerns, and have done our
best to put issues out on a more regular schedule. But I find myself in
the position of letting you know that we may not be able to print issues
as predictably as we have been. No, the dot-com meltdown hasn't impacted
us, nor have we had to lay off any of our volunteer writers! But there
is a clear reason.
Back in 1996, when we decided to begin sending issues out more
regularly, we were fortunate to have many stories that were either
waiting for publication or nearing completion. We enjoyed a steady
supply of material to print, and we had a number of prolific writers who
ensured that the queue of ready-to-print stories was replenished just as
quickly as we could publish them! Although we'd often have one or two
contributors whose writing flagged for whatever reason, there always
seemed to be other active writers with more stories to enable us to meet
our publishing schedule. In short, with DargonZine coming out once every
four to six weeks, our writers were creating enough new fiction to
support the magazine indefinitely.
That worked out tremendously, as we've been very proud to be able
to bring you 135 great new stories over the past five years. But in
2001, we've hit a bump in the road. We've lost a few productive writers,
our new writers haven't produced many new stories, and even our
longstanding writers have had reasons for not writing that range from
mandatory military service, moving, visa problems, overseas work
assignments, family illness, and other life-impacting events. In short,
instead of one or two writers flagging and the other writers picking up
the slack, it seems that this year almost everyone has had to put their
writing aside for one reason or another. Our usual steady stream of
submissions has slowed to a trickle, and that means that we can't put
out issues as often or as predictably as we would like.
Of course, that doesn't mean DargonZine is an endangered beast.
We've survived slow periods before, and like all others, this particular
slowdown will resolve itself in a few months as new writers come on
board and our current contributors return to their writing. However,
it's likely that we won't be able to print issues as frequently as our
readers have become accustomed to. I apologize for that, and ask for
your patience. We have a number of stories that are in early draft
stages, but it can take a long time for a work to go through our
exhaustive peer critique process. Rest assured that I am shepherding
stories along, and will compile them into issues and distribute them as
often as is practical. And if you didn't notice this issue's two-week
slippage, perhaps you won't even notice the change at all; it seems more
important to us because, having heard our readers ask for a more
predictable schedule, we take our publication timeline very seriously.
In the meantime, enjoy this new issue. In it, we have a new
standalone story from Jim Owens, one of DargonZine's remaining founders.
We also conclude the three-part "Triskele" series, an exemplary
co-authored effort from our Texan contingent: P. Atchley and Rhonda
Gomez. And finally, Dargon veteran Dafydd begins his two part "Talisman
Eight", resuming work on his immense "Talisman" epic after a
well-deserved six-month hiatus.
And if you value the free stories that DargonZine brings you and
want to help me encourage our writers to keep cranking out stories,
please feel free to drop them an email. Their addresses are shown on
nearly all Dargon stories, as well as on their bio pages on our Web
site. I'm sure they'd welcome your encouragement!
========================================================================
Devotion
by Jim Owens
<Gymfuzz@yahoo.com>
Mertz 1, 1015
Finn rounded the corner of the keep wall at the normal speed for a
young boy: a dead run. The path he followed was narrow and not used
much, but the boy neither noticed nor cared about the sharp rocks and
steep falls around him. Like all young boys, he was immortal and
invulnerable, and on a very important mission: getting around the corner
of the wall.
Captain Koren, on the other hand, was in no hurry at all. His
normal watch would keep him at the main gate of the keep for another
dozen menes or so, regardless of what did or did not happen. Years given
in service had tempered him like a well-used maul. He seemed somewhat
ageless: not old, not young, but very competent and very aware. At that
moment, in fact, Koren was aware of a small group of brown-robed figures
pulling three hand-drawn carts toward him, or at least toward the keep
gate behind him. In the lead was a single, brown-robed figure, one with
no apparent cart-pulling duties. This figure stepped up to Koren while
the carts and their pullers stopped.
Simon Salamagundi was also watching the brown-robed men approach.
He had come to the keep on a few long-neglected errands, and was now
headed back toward the causeway and his more customary and profitable
market: the docks. Most of his years were now spent, and his time was
used in cooking fish and spinning tales. Simon paused to shake a tiny
pebble from his shoe. From his shoulder Simon's pet monkey Skeebo
screeched at the change of posture. Simon straightened and stood a
moment, stroking Skeebo and eavesdropping on the incipient conversation.
"Are you the captain of the town watch?"
Koren studied the face that was asking the question, and detected
no guile in it. It seemed to belong to a man of about thirty-five or
forty, not terribly different from many faces Koren saw in the course of
an average day's work.
"I am," Koren replied.
"My fellows and I seek permission to make a musical offering this
evening at the gate of your castle."
Koren ignored the minor flattery and considered. He had the
authority to grant permission for minor events, and had learned over the
years that while many things were not what they first appeared to be,
many more things, in fact, were. Still, it never hurt to ask a few
questions.
"What sort of music will you be playing?" Koren asked, staring
pointedly at the carts.
"A musical tribute to the One who holds us all in loving hands,"
came the reverent reply. Koren stepped over to the lead cart.
"And which one would that happen to be?" he asked, tapping the tarp
on the cart with a finger. "And what's in these carts?"
"The only God, whom Stevene spoke of," came the sonorous reply. The
monk made a complex series of gestures to his fellows, and two silent
monks untied the tarp and twitched it aside. Koren glanced into the
tightly trussed bundle and saw the burnished wood and taut leather of
drums.
"And you want to do this at the gate, tonight?"
Finn ran up, glancing in the cart with honest curiosity. The silent
monks smiled kindly at him, allowing his uninvited inspection for a
moment before re-tying the canvas. Simon also ambled over, and he and
Skeebo could see some larger instruments in the dim depths of the cart
before the tarp covered them over again.
"Yes, we wish to play for the glory of God, and the greater
edification of those who hear us," intoned the spokesman. Koren looked
over the other monks, who stood impassively and watched while he
considered.
"Seems harmless enough. I'll pass the word that you're to be
allowed to play here tonight." He turned and walked through the keep
doors.
"Thank you, captain," the spokesman called after him, and turned to
his fellows. He again made a series of complex gestures, and they began
turning their carts around.
"Why did you do that?" asked Finn. The man didn't seem to hear the
boy, and continued to gesture.
"They're deaf, aren't they?" Simon said loudly when the man turned
back around and looked at his audience of two, man and boy. The
spokesman nodded.
"They have devoted their lives and their hearing to the glory of
God. Ours is a life of service, beasts of burden in the herd of God. We
have no need of ears now, for God can speak directly to our hearts."
"So are you gonna play here tonight?" Finn asked immediately,
displaying youth's intuitive grasp of the obvious. Only when he gestured
at the other monks did the spokesman look down at him. After a moment
the brown-clad figure nodded.
"Yes, young man. Tell all your friends to come tonight, and hear us
play for God's glory, and for the town's entertainment."
"That's gonna be fun," Finn said, "just like those pipers that came
from Shireton. Those guys were lots of fun!" He glanced over at Simon,
adding as an aside, "I liked it when the fat one dropped his music."
"If I may ask," Simon asked, focusing on the spokesman, "where are
you men from?"
"We have come from near Magnus, from the Sanctuary of Praise." He
rolled his eyes heavenward, and Simon knew the man was now addressing a
larger, higher audience than merely Simon and Finn. "We have devoted our
lives to sounding forth the praise of the Highest, and the continuation
of Stevene's ministry on Cherisk, so that all men may hear and know the
greatness of our God and Maker."
"I've heard of the Sanctuary of Praise," commented Simon. "You're
Tympanium, aren't you?" Simon glanced past the monk, studying the men
and the carts.
"Our service is known by that name, yes," smiled the monk,
apparently somewhat pleased that Simon had heard of them. Simon in turn
nodded.
"I heard some of your sect play once, in a field outside of Magnus.
Well outside of Magnus," he added, glancing back into the keep's open
gate, one eyebrow cocked slightly. "Yes, that was a very interesting
concert." He shook his head slowly, his eyes not focused on anything
nearby, or recent. "Yes, that was a very interesting year." In his
memory's eye Simon could see himself, so much younger, and a friend from
those long past days as they ran laughing toward a field on a summer's
night, long ago. He smiled sadly, his shoulders drooping and the creases
in his forehead deepening. Then he was standing tall again -- or as tall
as he ever stood these days -- and the mischievous twinkle was back in
his eye. "Well, I shall look forward to hearing you play tonight. Go
well!"
The monks headed down to make camp at the base of the outcropping,
and Simon and Skeebo headed down the path too. Finn followed.
"Where are you going, Simon?" Finn asked.
"Back down to the docks. Want to come?"
"But I thought you said you wanted to stay and listen to them
play," Finn protested. "You won't make it back in time ... it'll be dark
in a bell!"
Simon smiled to himself.
"Oh, don't worry. I'll be able to hear the music just fine from the
docks. Maybe you should come with me."
"No, I want to stay here and listen," Finn replied.
Simon smiled, his eyebrows arching just a hair. He nodded and began
to walk back down the road. As he headed back toward the causeway and
the other side of the river, he again cast his thoughts back through the
years. How long had it been? Had it been his first or second visit to
Magnus? And how had he met her? Roanna had been her name, but Simon had
called her Raven, to tease her about her flaming red hair. He thought of
that hair, and of red, and his smile faded.
Finn was back as dusk was falling. He joined the small crowd of
townsfolk who came to the keep gate on the spoken advertisement of the
coming concert. From the wall Koren glanced down as he passed by on
business. Several of the guards were watching the gathering with
professional interest.
"Let me know if anything strange happens," Koren advised them, "but
don't bother them otherwise." The gate was closed and barred for the
night, so a few musicians didn't worry Koren.
Finn settled onto an old, discarded building stone and watched
while the musicians prepared. His breath puffed out in the chill spring
night air, but he had managed to make it back to his home for a heavy
coat and permission before nightfall. He chewed some stale fruitcake
while the monks set up their instruments. Though the night was cold, the
monks stripped down to bare loincloths as they worked in pairs to carry
large, shrouded objects from the carts and arrange them before the
closed gate doors.
Down at the docks the daylight was leaving, and taking paying
customers with it. Many folk feared the dark areas by the piers after
nightfall, but Simon had a working relationship with the docks. The area
could be traversed safely, if one knew where not to go, and what not to
do, and if one had a fire in the eyes like old, sharp iron. Simon found
himself a sheltered spot against a storehouse shed with a view to the
south, and unfolded his three-legged stool. He lowered himself into it,
and bent down for a mug of wine he had brought from home. With his cart
safely stowed by his small house and Skeebo tucked in for the night
Simon was ready for a pleasant diversion. He settled back and pulled his
cloak tight to his shoulders. He drank, and waited for the familiar heat
to filter out from the liquor. He thought back to a warm summer
afternoon, to a similar concert, and of a hurried conversation
afterward.
"Let them be, Raven," he muttered under his breath. "Let them be.
Not ours to interfere." His lips tightened into thin lines, and he
blinked once, and again, as if someone had flicked something in his
face. His hands clenched on the handle of the old stein, as if gripping
something much heavier, as if preparing to fight.
"Is there room for two?"
Finn looked up from his stony seat at a wizened face.
"Yes, ma'am," he remarked, moving aside to share his seat with the
woman. He recognized her from the market, but didn't know her name. She
sat down beside him and wrapped herself a bit tighter in her long,
tasseled shawl. She pulled out some bread and broke off a small piece.
Rather than biting into it, she instead offered it to Finn.
"Here. Growing boys are always hungry."
Knowing the truth when he heard it, Finn took the offered food and
bit it. It was cold but sweet -- milkbread from the taste and texture.
As he chewed he pointed at the monks, who were nearly ready to play.
"I'm surprised they aren't cold," Finn remarked between bites. "Why
aren't they wearing their robes?"
"Maybe those things are very heavy," the woman answered. They
watched as the monks settled the last of the objects in place and
whisked the tarps off. There was a moment of reverent silence, broken by
Finn.
"My, that's a big drum," he said, staring as one of the monks took
the cover off a set of chimes, or at least he assumed they were chimes.
He had never seen chimes that were as thick as his hand and taller than
his head. Other tarps were coming off now, and Finn was duly impressed,
as the size of the instruments seemed to get bigger with each
revelation. When the canvas came off the last set, he let out a long,
low, appreciative whistle. The monks now positioned themselves by
various instruments. Each one seemed to be hefting a stout club, each
staff bound with bands of iron. The spokesman approached the crowd with
a small chime in his hand and tapped it once, twice, and again for
attention. Around Finn the small patter died away, and the monk spoke.
"Tonight we offer up to the heavens a sound of praise, so that each
of you may know, if not the actual power of God, at least a hint of it."
He turned back to the musicians. They were now laying their clubs on the
ground as one of their number passed among them, handing out wide
goblets of dull metal. As he passed he poured a small amount of liquid
into each goblet from a jug. Soon he was finished, and as one each
musician withdrew a tiny dagger from an unseen sheath concealed by his
loincloth.
"But first," the spokesman said, holding up his own goblet and
knife, "we celebrate the coming of the Stevene, and we again pledge our
lives to his God, and our God." So saying he pricked his bare arm with
the dagger. Finn gasped.
"Why did he do that? He's bleeding!"
Each monk held up the goblet and the knife, and chanted in unison,
with one voice.
"Life given is gained, blood spilled is life. Glory to God."
Finn and the woman watched as each man resheathed his knife and
drank from the cup. Beside Finn the woman stirred.
"Heretics," she muttered angrily, standing up. "Wash it off first!"
she hollered, and some in the crowd spoke their agreement. The musicians
didn't seem to hear. Finn turned to look at her, but she gathered up her
skirt and bustled away. He was about to get up and follow her, to ask
what this was all about, but he saw the players taking up their clubs
again, and decided to watch instead.
"And now," the spokesman said, then turned to the band and raised
his hands.
On the wall, Koren was again passing on an errand. He glanced down
in time to see each player raise their clubs over their heads in a
double-handed grip. His practiced eye swept across the assembly, and saw
the massive drums, the titanic chimes and gongs, and the musician's
rippling muscles. Only then did he remember the hand signals required by
the players.
"Oh my, what have I done ... " he said, half to himself, and the
players struck.
From the first blast of sound Finn sat paralyzed with ecstasy, his
prepubescent male mind transported into a world where the loudest noise
one could imagine was music, and each child a player. So smooth and
seamless was the beat that even though the people around him continued
to talk, and even shout, Finn couldn't hear a single word. He wasn't
listening, in any case. He knew what Stevenism was, and he had heard the
glory of Stevene's God preached many times before, but suddenly he could
feel in his chest and bowels the need, the urgent need, to give his life
for a cause, for any cause. He wanted to serve, he wanted to belong. For
as long as they played, Finn was transported.
Across the water, Simon sat on his stool with a drink in his hand
and stars in his eyes as the music played, loud as a roll of thunder.
With part of his mind he could imagine Captain Koren frantically trying
to get the gate raised so he could rescind the order to allow the band
to play. That part of his mind wondered idly how long the concert would
last. But mostly his thoughts were of a day years before when he had
first heard the Tympanium play.
Raven had been Stevenic. Simon had not been, but she had been
persuasive as well as beautiful, and Simon's ship didn't sail for two
days. He had enjoyed her company. They had spent many a bell in the city
discussing the life of Stevene with the philosophers and bards. She had
taught him the sacrament of the knife and wine. He had taught her a few
things of a more intimate nature. He had spoken of the sea, and she had
talked of the life in the king's court. They had run through the streets
of Magnus -- two new friends, free and alive. Simon smiled as he
remembered how they had sat through the concert, far enough away to
still talk to each other, close enough that they couldn't tell their
heavy heartbeats from the sound of the drumming, hidden in the shadows
of the night. Simon had wanted to stay in those shadows after the
drumming stopped, but her heart had quickened in ways different from
his. She dragged him up from their nest to greet the players.
Raven had felt the same call to devotion that young Finn would
later hear, and she was a passionate woman. In fact, the music had
roused the passions of many that night, but not all the listeners had
the same appreciation for the power of the drums. The two lovers had
reached the musicians at the same moment that the drunks from the
closest tavern had arrived. The drunken mob had spoken first, and had
struck first. As popular as the doomed man's cult was in the capitol,
not all loved the religion of Stevene. Simon had gone down fast, as yet
unaccustomed to a brawl. Some of the musicians had fought too, but most
believed in the softer response. Raven had stepped in to shield one of
them from the wine-maddened thugs. She probably never saw who wielded
the iron-banded staff. The last Simon saw of her was of her hair, her
beautiful hair, now red with blood, as she lay face down in the field.
Across the river the music stopped. Whether it began again was
irrelevant -- the message had been preached. The call had gone out to
surrender, to yield to the higher cause. Slowly, Simon set aside his cup
of wine and reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a very thin
and very sharp blade. He cradled it gently in his right hand, rubbing
his left wrist with his rough knuckles. He too had felt the pull, now as
an old man, then as a young man. He pushed up the fabric of his left
sleeve, exposing wrinkled skin. With a precise and easy motion he
pricked the exposed forearm and watched a few drops of blood ooze up. He
wiped them onto the blade and regarded them critically. Life in the
blood: a life to give, or keep. He took his glass and stirred the wine
with the crimson edge. He pulled the now-clean knife from the liquid and
raised the mug almost to his lips, then paused as if to reconsider. All
served in the end, as cooks or as cattle. And he was a cook. His lips
moving almost silently, he carefully and deliberately poured the red
fluid out onto the ground.
" ... bloody god ... "
========================================================================
Triskele: Coda
by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez
<dpartha@usa.net> and <RhondaGmz@aol.com>
Mertz 30, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-5
"So you've told her then?" Nessa asked me.
I stood behind the huge worktable in the center of the room,
glaring at Nessa and breathing hard, trying to control my anger and my
body. After sennights of trying, I had managed to convince Viveka to
roll with me and barely had we begun than we were interrupted by Nessa.
Silently, I swore every single oath I could think of and then some.
Several sennights past, I had fallen down the rapids of Thyerin's
Run, a river nearby, and Viveka, a doll-maker, had found me and brought
me to her home, which she shared with Nessa, the village herbalist. They
had nursed me back to health but believed I had forgotten who I was
because of my head wound.
"Told me what?" Viveka asked, turning to face me across the table.
She was a beautiful woman and I wanted her with a passion that rocked me
to my toes. Unfortunately for me, while Viveka was innocent, her friend
Nessa was not, and Nessa had managed to confound every effort of mine to
get Viveka alone.
Nessa bent, picked up the soldier doll that lay carelessly on the
ground and put it away on the shelf. Momentarily I wondered how it had
gotten to the ground, then turned my attention to Viveka when she said
insistently, "Told me what, Yellow? Have you remembered?"
"He never forgot," Nessa said, a dry note in her voice. She started
to gather things to make the inevitable pot of porridge. "What do you
think you were doing?" She took a deep breath to calm herself and I
remembered anew how protective she was of Viveka.
"I love you," I said to Viveka, a little perplexed to hear the
sincerity in my voice. I was not a good actor, and I wondered whether I
meant it, never having said it to anyone before. It was surprisingly
easy to say, so I said it again, "I love her, Nessa."
"Oh! Is that right? Tell her then. Tell her the truth," Nessa said,
as she tore up pieces of bread and dropped them into a pot.
I knew that Nessa wanted me to tell Viveka that I was a bandit, but
really I was more than just a thief. Long before my time with the
bandits, I had learned to steal something better than other people's
gold; and that particular talent seemed inextricably bound up with my
former master, Mon-Haddar, a mage who had taken me along on one of his
trips and abandoned me.
It seemed as good a place as any to start. "My former master,
Mon-Haddar taught me many things: how to use a knife, how to kill
slowly, quickly, in many different ways."
"He hurt you." Viveka's response was a breath of gentleness in the
suddenly taut atmosphere of the room.
"Mmm." I sighed and went to help Nessa who was dropping the last
few pieces of dried bread crust into the pot. I lifted it, hung it on
the hearth and bent to light the fire. "He hurt me in order to teach me
how to hurt and how not to hurt. He wanted me to know how it felt." I
remembered the lessons with a clarity that burned me every time I
thought about them.
"What about your robber friends?" Nessa said, and I inhaled
sharply.
"Not friends," I denied. The other members of my little band were
no more my friends than anyone else belonging to the so-called robber
brotherhood. We had robbed and pillaged together, but friends we most
definitely were not.
"Continue." Viveka's command was uttered in a tone I had never
before heard from her.
"Tell us," Nessa urged and I was conscious of the difference in the
tones of the two women. I could feel Viveka slipping away from me, and
paradoxically, Nessa drawing towards me at the same time. "What
happened?" she asked.
Nessa had become my friend and confidant. I trusted her. That
startled me, for trust is not something a thief gives easily. I looked
into her eyes and knew it was time for the truth. "I fell down into the
river," I said abruptly.
Silence settled on the room, broken only by the twittering of
birds, and the sound of a rat as it scrambled past the open doorway.
Nessa said nothing, but simply waited for me to continue. It was more
than past time I shared with both women the secrets of my past. I knew
that, yet I hesitated. The time I had spent at this cottage was
precious, and I didn't want anything to change.
The last time Nessa and I had talked about my situation she had
asked me something. "Are you an honorable man, or are you a knave?" Her
question had haunted me for the past sennight. I had no claim to honor,
but to face the depths to which I'd sunk terrified me almost as much as
the thought of Viveka's reaction to the real me. Yet the questions in
their eyes forced me to continue.
"A small group of robbers took me in after Mon-Haddar left me. We
would lie in wait for wagon trains travelling down the main highway
leading away from Dargon. Some of the merchant caravans had a lot of
booty in 'em." With a distinct lack of pleasure I began to recount the
events that had transpired the previous month. "We'd had a bad winter
because one of our group, Piet, stole from us. We never found him or the
gold, only lost a whole lot of our winter supplies on account of chasing
after him.
"Anyway, the four of us -- Nuru, Draage, Kamin and myself -- robbed
a wagon on the Kenna highway back in Vibril. I think the wagoner and
Nuru died. There was a merchant and his daughter in the wagon. Draage
was angry with me because I killed the girl and denied him his
pleasure." I rose from the table and walked to the window, unable to sit
still, the force of my memories coming out in staccato sentences. "We
fought; I killed Draage and then I fell into the river. I thought I was
going to drown in Thyerin's Run, but I didn't."
"You are a part of the robber brotherhood?" Viveka accused, her
face pale. I stared at her, seeing the death of something I had not
realized was precious to me. Slowly, unable to meet Viveka's eyes, I
turned away and found myself looking at the two dolls that Nessa had
placed on the shelf earlier: a woman and a soldier.
"He *was* a part of it," Nessa replied, her hand stilling.
I stared at the two dolls, marvelling at the care with which Viveka
had carved every distinct feature. Was it my imagination or did the
soldier's face resemble mine? His hair was a brilliant yellow, brighter
than my own, but the female doll's hair was dark, a sort of blue-black.
I wondered if that was an omen, for although Viveka's hair was dark, it
was brown, while Nessa's hair was black.
"Words -- don't play with words, Nessa," Viveka snapped.
I remembered myself saying much the same thing to Nessa. I had been
bitter then and Viveka was bitter now, and maybe rightly so. In her book
I had behaved more than dishonorably; I had lied and I had killed. Was
that wrong? Perhaps. I regretted my past only because it was proving to
be an obstacle to getting Viveka. If there was more, I didn't know it.
Viveka turned to me and said, "In spite of what you were, we helped
you. And what did you do? You betrayed me in every way possible. How I
could have ... Oh, Thyerin!" Her voice broke.
I turned away from the dolls and moved toward her. "Viveka, all of
that is in the past," I said, trying to think of what would convince
her. "I was young, and heedless. I didn't --"
She turned on me like a cheetar. "*You* were young; *you* were
heedless. Do, for once in your wretched life, think of someone else,
Yellow. How do you think that girl felt when her father was killed? And
when you killed her?"
"I saved her," I said, remembering the anger I had felt when Draage
tried to rape her. "I did a good thing, Viveka. I stopped Draage from
raping her. She would have lived with the nightmares forever. I saved
her sanity."
Viveka laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. I stared at her as
if I were seeing her for the first time. I knew Nessa was looking at me
with compassion, and it galled me to admit that Viveka was not the
perfect person I had thought she was.
"You saved her sanity?" Her voice was incredulous. "You killed her!
You killed her father in front of her! You killed --"
I interrupted her. "I didn't kill her father; Draage did. Viveka,
try to understand. We were robbers. That's what we did."
"And does that make it right? Does it? Does knowing that you
murdered alongside the rest of your friends make you sleep better at
night?"
Nessa spoke. "Viveka, listen to me. Yellow is not the same person
now as he was then."
"I can't believe you don't understand," Viveka snapped at her.
I knew Nessa understood what Viveka did not, but I had also thought
Nessa disapproved of my relationship with Viveka. I was puzzled about
the reason she was now willing to speak in my defense.
Viveka said in my direction, "I think you should leave now,
Yellow."
"Viveka!" I couldn't believe she was just sending me away. "You
can't do that. What about the time we spent together? Did that mean
nothing to you?"
"You killed -- you are a murderer. You were a highway robber. And
you lied and betrayed me. What I felt for you is irrelevant now," she
said coldly.
She had said 'felt'. Anger filled me, and perhaps because of that I
said things I shouldn't have said. Viveka was old-fashioned and a lady.
I forgot that. "What you felt for me? Does that mean you no longer feel
anything for me?" I remembered intimate moments, and my rage spun out of
control. "You're in love with me, Viveka, and you wanted to roll with
me. That counts for nothing?"
She covered her ears, shaking her head. "Enough! You have no right
to -- to even mention it. How dare you?" Her voice quivered with
indignation.
Yet I found no compassion within me. "So, I'm not good enough for
you now, is that it?"
"Yes, yes, yes, that's it exactly. You're not good enough for me,"
Viveka's voice rose. She sniffed and dashed her knuckles against her
eyes, rubbing away tears. Then she turned toward me, her face
expressionless, her voice soft. If it trembled at all, it was only in my
imagination. "You will leave. Now."
"Please go, Yellow," Nessa added.
That was it for me. I had been carried into this cottage with
nothing but the torn clothes I had worn. Now I walked out wearing my
mended clothes and the memories of two women who had become important to
me in ways I did not understand.
I walked toward the river, Thyerin's Run, and to the temple that
graced the river bank, with only one question resounding in my head. Was
I an honorable man or a knave? When I reached the temple, I knelt and
spoke to the god.
"Why? What happened to me? Why did you take me from my old life and
show me ... this? Now I have to go back to Kamin; Viveka doesn't want
me. What am I to do?" A stray tear ran out of one eye and I dashed at it
angrily. "It's all your fault, mighty Thyerin. And how am I ever going
to answer Nessa's question?"
There was a sudden rattle behind me and instantly, I rolled and
came up in a defensive posture. My life as a member of a thieving band
had left its mark and I had responded as if to a threat. There was
nothing in any direction. I sighed and turned, but something caught my
eye, something that gleamed brightly in the mid-morning sunlight. I
gasped. It was the soldier doll that I had left in the cottage. Now it
lay there on the floor, separated from its other half, no longer a part
of the whole. I didn't know how it had gotten there, but I wasn't about
to touch it. I backed away from it and retreated, away from the temple
and away from the lives of the two women who had taught me things I had
yet to comprehend.
From my vantage point on a nearby tree branch I watched the highway
from Dargon to Kenna, waiting for the next merchant wagon to arrive.
Sitting there in the tree I was forcibly reminded of the last time I had
sat thus, a few months past, waiting to ambush a wagon with my then
compatriots, Nuru, Draage and Kamin. At that time, it had been cold and
windy, with slush from the melted snow covering the road. Now, it was a
balmy afternoon, the sun shining brightly in a cloudless blue sky, birds
chirping, lizards chittering and tree-rats scurrying. It was a beautiful
spring day.
It had been six sennights since I had left Viveka and Nessa. When I
had shown up at my band's hold, Kamin had been surprised. He thought
that all of us had died that night: Nuru, Draage and myself. During my
absence, Piet had returned with more outlaws, a man and a woman had
joined Kamin: Zivenig and Stai. Of the two, the woman frightened me, for
I had discovered that she was like Kamin in one disturbing quality: she
enjoyed watching pain and prolonging death.
Idly, I wondered why Kamin had not killed Piet upon his return, and
it occurred to me that perhaps Kamin had a fondness for him after all,
strange as the thought was. I remembered the way in which we had chased
after Piet when he had stolen our supplies and disappeared, and wondered
if it hadn't been Piet's betrayal that had caused our pursuit rather
than the missing supplies. Kamin and Piet, friends. I was conscious of
surprise, and knew for certain that this thought would not have occurred
to me before my time with Viveka and Nessa, because at that time, I had
lacked the capacity to understand the concepts of friendship and
betrayal.
A tree-rat scurried on a branch near me, and brought my attention
back to the present. In the distance I saw a wagon, and I whistled to
let my cohorts know of its approach. This was going to be our first
ambush since I had returned, and I found that I had fallen into our old
patterns with ease; I had sharpened my knives, oiled my leatherskin
sheath, fastened it with something approaching anticipation and, when we
reached the ambush site, I had assumed the position of lookout. Yet I
felt a strange sense of alienation even though everything was familiar.
Meanwhile, the wagon had come much closer, and I heard hoofbeats as
my cohorts arrived. The wagoner looked up at the sound and watched with
mouth agape as Piet slid off his horse and vaulted onto the carriage,
landing expertly next to the wagon-driver, knife in hand. Zivenig rode
to the back of the cart while I slithered down the side of the tree and
approached cautiously.
"Hold your horses, or I will kill you," I heard Piet say to the
wagoner.
Ahead of me, Zivenig held open the curtain at the back of the wagon
with his sword and snapped, "Out!"
Kamin and Stai, still mounted, nodded me to the back of the
carriage, and I went to give Zivenig a hand he didn't need. The
passengers were stepping out of the wagon, two women and a man, who
blustered, "This is absurd. How can this happen on the king's highway? I
shall complain, indeed I shall, the next time I go up there. Where are
the --"
One of the women, whom I guessed to be his wife, interrupted
sharply, "Be quiet, Robius." She was beautiful and slender, dressed in a
rich dress of dark red, black hair hanging in ringlets around a
heart-shaped face. I had an instant vision of the woman doll that Viveka
had made. The other woman traveller seemed younger and was dressed in a
dull, gray tunic and breeches.
The man continued to talk despite the woman's admonition, his voice
high-pitched with anxiety. "How is a man supposed to travel with his
family if there are bandits? Is there no value to hiring mer--" He
abruptly crumpled to the ground, a red flower blossoming in his stomach,
a glint of metal in the center.
I glanced at Kamin and saw him bring his arm down from a throw.
"Robius? No!" The woman's voice cracked, and I thought I saw the
glimmer of tears in her dark, gentle eyes, but I wasn't sure. She knelt
next to him, uncaring of the dirt on the ground, and raised his head
onto her knees, one hand holding him around the waist.
He gasped, blood seeping out of his mouth, eyes widening as he
recognized what was happening to him. "Gi-Git--" He exhaled.
The woman raised her bloody hand to his eyes and closed them. I was
so close to her that I could see her hand tremble. A strange feeling
enveloped me; it was as if something were clamping my heart so that it
was hard to breathe. I watched the woman almost without blinking. Slow
tears wandered down her face, but she did not so much as breathe loudly.
Her silent grief filled me with resentment against Kamin; such a
beautiful face was made for smiling, not weeping.
"Yellow, search for the money," Kamin said from behind me. I
started. I had been so engrossed in the emotions playing on the face of
the woman in the red dress that I had paid scant attention to the events
around me.
Before I entered the wagon, I spared a look around. Piet stood
untying the horses from the wagon; I surmised that he had probably
killed the wagoner. Stai had dismounted and was staring at the woman in
the red dress with an expression close to joy on her face. The quiet
sorrow on the widow's face seemed to delight her. My stomach heaved and
I hurriedly made my way inside the wagon. The interior was luxurious,
soft cushions on soft sheets; the three had certainly travelled in
style. A jewelry case lay in the far corner next to a small box full of
dried fruits and three or four leatherskins which I guessed to be wine
and water.
The jewelry case was made of a dark wood and it had been polished
so that it gleamed even in the limited sunlight that filtered through
the half-open curtain at the back of the wagon. I flipped open the lid
and gasped. On top of the chains and other assorted jewelry in the box
lay a doll: the same soldier doll that I'd left behind at the temple of
Thyerin six sennights past. Gingerly I tilted the box so that the doll
fell out. Fear gripped me, and I didn't want to touch it. Viveka's
blunder in making the doll look like me had invited evil magic, I knew.
I stepped backwards, hitting something, and fell awkwardly, cursing
aloud.
"Yellow? You okay in there?" Zivenig thrust his head inside the
carriage. "Look at those goodies," he exclaimed. My leg had kicked the
jewel case and its contents had spilled out, a small pile of glittering
invitation.
"I'm fine; I'm coming," I said, crawling toward the pile. I shoved
everything haphazardly back into the case, when I heard loud yells from
without. Dropping the jewelbox without another thought, I hurried
outside to find my band under attack from three mercenaries. I guessed
they were the guards the travellers had hired; I had been surprised at
the lack of warriors, given how prosperous they were. I wondered why the
warriors had not been with the wagon itself. My question was answered as
my quick glance took in the sight of the mercenaries' horses: there were
only two. Two of them had probably doubled on one horse, and that had
delayed them and would most likely cost their employers their lives;
whether through ignorance or fate, they were not likely to be rewarded
for this day's work.
Kamin and Zivenig, both experienced swordsmen, were fighting two of
the three men and both pairs of fighters seemed well-matched. Piet was
occupied with the horses while the remaining mercenary and the two women
travellers converged on Stai. The woman in the gray tunic was on the far
side from me, and the merc and the woman in the red dress had their
backs to me, fighting Stai side-by-side. I rushed out to help her,
pulling out one of my knives and aiming for the merc as I approached.
But both the mercenary and the woman in the red dress moved as I reached
them, and to my dismay, the knife plunged into her back. It slid in
sideways, easily, in a place where death would come, but slowly.
She gasped and fell into my arms. Unprepared for her weight, my
knees buckled and I sank to the ground, turning her body so that I could
look at her face.
"Breathe slowly, evenly," I said to her softly. She was trying to
raise her shoulders, and I put a restraining hand against her neck.
"Don't move; it will hurt more." She began to gasp for breath and I said
again, "Breathe slowly."
There was a shout and both of us looked up, the wounded woman
groaning as she did. The other woman traveller had closed with Stai and
was barely holding her own.
Our band still had bouts of practice; Kamin was a stickler for
those, and in consequence, I had come to know Stai's strengths. In close
fighting, Stai was very good. She had stamina and she was fast; moreover
she had some moves that I had found alien enough to wonder if she had
trained with a foreigner. Her only weakness was that she lacked power,
but that was a disadvantage only when her antagonist was bigger than
her, which was not the case now. Even though the woman in gray appeared
trained, Stai was bigger and better.
The traveller was getting the worst of it and her nose, mouth and
chin were red. The problem with nose-bleeds is that they always look
worse than they really are.
The woman in my arms moaned at the sight. "Help her," she said,
gasping for breath. She met my eyes. "In the name of Thyerin, help her."
I was already shaking my head in a negative motion, when she tried
to lift herself up and exhaled sharply. I pressed her down, saying
angrily, "Don't move; I told you, it will only hurt more."
"Help my sister. Don't let her die, I beg of you. Help Niveda." She
gasped again and this time a thin line of blood trailed down the side of
her lips. Her gaze acquired a glassy sheen, signalling death's approach.
"You're a chosen of Thyerin, I know; I can see it. Please save my
sister."
Another exhale and then what I held in my arms was a thing, a
corpse, a dead body, devoid of breath, of beauty, of life. The beauty
had become a shell, a husk that mocked me. Her open eyes stared upwards,
sight denied them because of my knife, because of me. I opened my mouth
and nothing came out. I wanted to shout, to scream aloud. I felt the
power inside me, the power that could kill, the power that had caused
... this.
I stared down at her, the blood on the side of her mouth slowing to
a stop almost as I watched, and I shuddered. Tremors rocked me and I
shook with the force of my feelings. I could feel the emotions
spiralling away, could hear Nessa's voice in that question echoing
across the clearing, and I melted into nothingness. My being was filled
with the woman's passing and I gagged with the scent of death in my
nose, in my mouth. A cold wind blew through me, changing me to ice,
melting me to water. The void inside me began to fill with life, with
emotion. Slowly at first, and then quickly, more quickly, too fast for
me to keep up. My breath came raggedly in short bursts so that I shook
as if with palsy.
Someone shoved the body away from me, I didn't know who. It fell
awkwardly, coming to a stop just a short distance away. She was worthy
of respect and her body deserved more than that. I screamed, in short
bursts, as if I could hurl everything inside me at those who desecrated
such beauty.
She had wanted me to save her sister. Dimly I heard Kamin and
Zivenig talking, but my mind and my heart and my body were all in
motion. I felt them try to stop me, but I brushed them away as if they
were flies. I attacked Stai with a desperation that was not my own, with
a ferocity that I never knew I had, with a viciousness I'd learned from
the past, and with a vengeance that belonged to the beautiful woman who
had died in my arms.
When I opened my eyes, it was night and the stars twinkled brightly
above me. I felt odd, as if bereft of my body. Examining that thought
brought me comfort, for I could feel each of my limbs; I was alive,
breathing.
"You're awake," a soft voice exclaimed. A face came into view above
me: Niveda.
"What?" I struggled to sit up. She moved away and waited while I
gathered my recalcitrant limbs; it took me a while but I managed it.
"Where is everybody?" I looked around. We were still at the clearing
where my band had ambushed the wagon, but there was no one present save
Niveda and myself.
She looked at me, and I could see the resemblance between the
sisters. "You saved me," she said quietly, in a matter-of-fact manner.
"I've been trained in combat, but that woman was much better than I am."
"Was?" I asked, trying vainly to remember what had happened.
"You killed her."
"What?" The thought of killing someone, even Stai, filled me with
abhorrence. I allowed myself to experience that feeling, knowing that it
was new to me, knowing that it would never leave me now. "What happened
to the others?"
"Well, you screamed and then you attacked that woman as if you were
possessed. The robbers thought you had gone mad and they ran away with
the horses."
I stared at her curiously. "Do you think I'm mad? Aren't you scared
of me?"
She laughed at that. "No, why should I be scared of you when you
helped me?"
I continued to look at her, trying to sort out the confusion inside
my head. "You didn't answer my question. Do you think I'm mad?"
"What do you think?"
I stared at her silently as images of dolls, and women in coronets
of long black hair filled my head and the pieces of a puzzle slowly
clicked into place.
========================================================================
Talisman Eight
Part 1
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Yuli 7-13, 1013
The girl's screams sounded in Rhonwn's ears as he stabbed at her.
He grinned as he worked: those screams were exactly what he was striving
for. The louder she cried, the harder he worked. His hands moved, his
weapon thrust, and her voice was silent for a brief moment, her face
crumpled in surprise, before the screams rang out once again.
Rhonwn felt it would soon be over, that his efforts would soon
bring their inevitable climax. He put more effort into his
ministrations. This time had to be perfect; he was always perfect. The
girl, Merilee, was shaking her head from side to side, hoarsely panting,
"Stop ..." and "No ..." and "Don't ...". In between, her screams had
faded through exhaustion until they no longer covered up the noise from
the taproom downstairs. The final moment was approaching, and Rhonwn
stabbed one last time, stiffening above as she did below, and with one
final "Yes!" from his own throat, it was over.
Rhonwn leaned down and kissed Merilee, whose eyes were closed and
whose lips were dreamily smiling. Sweat covered both their naked bodies,
and the candles dotted around the room -- his own extravagance -- made
her plain face glisten like a gilded statue. A statue depicting satiated
lust, by a master sculptor.
He eased himself off his lover, ending up on his side between
Merilee and the wall so that she wouldn't feel trapped. She lay there,
unmoving, still reveling in bliss as Rhonwn gazed fondly at her.
He reflected on how he had met her that morning, completely by
accident. He had only just arrived in Beeikar with his murntedd, Bobere.
They were Rhydd Pobl, what the folk of Baranur called gypsies, and they
had just traveled from Fremlow City, the capital of Welspeare, the duchy
that also encompassed Beeikar. Rhonwn had finished helping Bobere set up
their sales stand in the market square, and had then gone exploring the
new town.
Before he had even left the market square, he had come across a
pair of women walking towards him. One was tall and fair, with a pretty
face, bright eyes, and a belted robe that showed off her fine figure.
Her companion was short and somewhat ruddy, as if being outdoors didn't
suit her. Her hair was mouse-brown, her face was plain, and her robe was
unbelted, offering no hints of what lay beneath. They were both young,
and the guild braids at their shoulders, combined with their plain dress
and youth told him that they were probably apprentices.
Rhonwn had smiled broadly, his eyes twinkling at the prospect the
taller, prettier woman presented. He knew he cut a dashing figure in his
typically gypsy-styled multi-colored clothes, with his long, wild brown
hair, and his olive-toned, handsome face. Stepping in front of the pair,
he had bowed low and said, "Praise to the gods of the roads, that I have
been brought into the presence of such loveliness! May I know your
names, so that my evening prayers may be properly attributed?"
The shorter woman had giggled, but the taller had just looked at
him with a stone-face that would have made a temple idol proud. The
giggling one had said, in a voice that was thin, yet shrill, "I'm
Merilee and this is Shandly. We're apprentice weavers --"
The stone-faced Shandly had interrupted with, "And we're late.
We'll just be on our way."
Rhonwn had quickly stepped in front of them again, saying, "I won't
take up much of your time, oh fairest of all apprentices. But, if either
of you have some free time this afternoon, I could use a guide to show
me around this marvelous town of Beeikar. And who better to show me
around this most wondrous city in Welspeare, if not all of Baranur, than
one of the most lovely women I have ever met?"
Merilee had giggled again, but to Rhonwn's delight it had been
Shandly who had asked, "If we should decide to spend our afternoon break
like this, where might we find you?" Her lack of facial expression
hadn't put him off; likely she simply hadn't wanted her friend to know
of her own interest.
Rhonwn had pointed back to the sale table and said, "My murntedd
... ah, my foster-father has set up our selling table right over there.
I shall spend my afternoon there, eagerly awaiting your arrival."
And, with mutual bows, and more giggling from Merilee, they had
parted.
Rhonwn had spent the morning walking around the town, getting a
feel for the people and the place. He had returned to their selling
table after his midday meal, allowing Bobere some freedom. And, when
Merilee had arrived at about sixth bell, he had sighed to himself,
debated whether or not to go through with it, and then set about
seducing the mousy woman.
It had been a challenge at first, but once Merilee had understood
what Rhonwn was offering, the arrangements had been swiftly made. That
evening, Rhonwn had slipped up the back stairs at an inn only a few
blocks from the market square, and into the room that Merilee had given
him the key to. The candles had been placed around the room and lit, the
bottles of wine had been set on the table, and one opened, and Rhonwn
had waited for Merilee's arrival. And the rest had followed much as it
usually did.
Rhonwn looked down on the slowly stirring Merilee, and thought that
the old adage was certainly true: in the darkness, all cats become grey.
Merilee was no beauty like Shandly, but in bed those differences had
disappeared. He reached over and stroked a bead of sweat off of her
breast, and then slipped his finger down her torso and over her hip. She
giggled dreamily, and shifted her legs slightly apart -- which was when
Rhonwn saw the blood.
He leapt out of bed and looked down at himself, seeing it there,
too. There wasn't much, so it could only mean one thing: Merilee had
been a virgin!
In a panic, Rhonwn dashed over to the washstand and cleaned himself
up with a cloth. Then, he made a beeline for the table and the wine,
gulping down a healthy swig of the potent, not to say raw, vintage. A
virgin! He should have known! Her naivete, her response to his flattery,
it all added up.
He looked back at the bed just as Merilee turned languidly on her
side, her eyes shining with the last emotion he wanted to see: love. He
swiveled back to the table, and swallowed another large gulp of the
cheap wine. He knew he should have listened to his instincts, and just
spent some nice time with Merilee. Beeikar wasn't a small town, and he
knew that he wouldn't have had to spend the night alone if he hadn't
seduced the apprentice. Instead, he had taken the easy route, and had
ended up with all of the worst complications his nightly assignations
could possibly conjure up.
He knew he couldn't just run, even though his instincts were urging
just that. He had to let her down easily, make sure that she knew his
intentions before they went their separate ways. Steeling himself for
what was sure to be a long night, he took another healthy swig of wine,
opened the other bottle and filled a mug. Carrying both his bottle and
the mug, he turned back to the bed, and staggered a bit as the room went
fuzzy for a moment as the alcohol in the wine went right to his head,
unhindered by the evening meal he had skipped. He mentally chalked up
another mistake as he walked back to his lover.
Several bells later, Rhonwn had finished his bottle of wine and was
working on the second one. They had passed the time between drinks by
talking -- he now knew more about apprenticing to a weaver than he had
any desire to -- and making love again. That second engagement had just
concluded, and Merilee was once again lying there, glisteningly golden
with sweat, now running her hand possessively across his chest. She was
still working on her first mug of wine, reaching across him to the
windowsill from time to time to take a sip, and press her breasts into
his chest. Rhonwn just wondered when that tenth bell was going to ring,
so he could stumble back to his murntedd's wagon and be free of mousy,
golden Merilee.
"So, what's it like, being a gypsy?" she asked, tracing the ridges
on his stomach and being just short of tickling on the way.
Rhonwn said, "It's ... I don't know, it just is. We travel, we sell
things, we travel some more. That's about all ..."
"Traveling," said Merilee in a wistful tone. "You're so lucky,
traveling. It must be so wonderful to see new places day after day, year
after year. I've never been out of Beeikar, you know. Not even to the
next town. And you've seen the whole kingdom! How exciting!"
Merilee's voice made his ears hurt, and Rhonwn took another swig.
He popped the bottle out of his mouth and gulped loudly, wiping his
mouth on the back of his hand. "Oh, it's nothije ... um, nothing. Most
places are alike -- people livin' in houses, people plowin' the ground,
people lordin' it over other people. We're not like that, ya know. Nope,
we're not. No kings, no houses 'cept our wagonsss, hunting and fishing
and trading for shtuff. That'sh the life."
Merilee said, "Ooh, it sounds so wonderful!" She hugged him and
kissed his neck, then bit it playfully. "Just wonderful," she murmured,
her hands moving down his sides, again just short of tickling.
Rhonwn continued his own ramblings, keeping the wine bottle steady
throughout. "Yep, wondiful, wondiful. Been to Pyridain, been to
Narragan, been to Dargon and back. Just follow the map from place to
place, never go wrong."
Merilee propped herself up on her elbows and said, "Map? I thought
gypsies didn't need maps."
Rhonwn blinked in confusion, and then took another swallow of wine.
Looking her in all seven eyes, he said, "Of course gypsies don' need
mappppssss! Never be caught dead with a map! Unless you're forgetful,
like my tedd Bobere. Yep, big secret, big big secret, our map. Shameful.
Don't tell, straight?"
In answer, Merilee kissed him, guiding the wine bottle to the
window sill next to her mug. Then, she climbed on top of him and
proceeded to engage him in their other pastime.
Tenth bell finally rang, but Rhonwn was too exhausted and hung over
to even hear it. It wasn't until two bells later that he opened his
eyes, stirred out of his slumber by Merilee getting out of bed in a
rush. "It's the 8th, right?" she asked, but Rhonwn didn't think she was
asking him, and he didn't know the answer anyway. "The 8th of Yuli, yes,
of course it is." Rhonwn watched as she darted about the room getting
dressed again. "Shandly and I will be going out with Mistress Jeesp to
gather dye-stuffs, and I have to hurry." Fully dressed, she dashed back
to the bed and kissed him. "Have to go. When will I see you again?"
Rhonwn realized that, between the wine and her energy, he hadn't
made it clear to her that he wouldn't be "seeing" her again. "Ah, about
that ..."
"Tonight? Here again?"
There was too much emotion in her face, and he was too hung over to
deal with it. "No. Merilee ... I ... well, I ... we can't ... ah, see
..."
"What do you mean, Rhonwn?" Bewilderment had chased the happier
emotions from her face, and that hurt him worse.
"I meant to let you know last night, but ... "
"You have someone else?"
"No! No ... well, not exactly, no. I don't have anyone else right
now, but ... you see, by tonight I will. I'm not ready to ... settle
down ..."
Tears filled her narrowed eyes as she said, "Shandly was right! She
told me she only asked you where to meet you so that we could be sure to
avoid wherever you would be. I didn't listen to her warnings, but she
knew exactly what you were about.
"Well, thank you for last evening, Mister Gypsy," she said with a
scorn-heavy voice. "I hope I entertained you. Fare ill in our fair
town!" The door sla
mmed behind her, causing Rhonwn to wince for two
equally good reasons.
Merilee hadn't been the first complicated assignation Rhonwn had
ever had, and as much as he hated hurting the girl, he knew that he
couldn't do anything about it now. So he put her out of his mind and
continued on his way through life.
Recalling the adage about horses and falling off of them, he wasted
no time arranging companionship for that evening. His experience with
Merilee only gave him a momentary twinge as he agreed to meet a pretty
young shopkeeper in the same inn, and when they parted the next morning
with amicable words and thank-you kisses, his confidence rose another
notch.
He didn't see Merilee until the next day, when he was spending the
morning at the selling table in the market. His attention was centered
on the current customer, a tall, handsome man with blond hair cut short
and high over the ears. The man wore a well-cut tunic and leggings, and
the guild braid on his shoulder indicated that he was some sort of
crafter. His hands went with that assessment; they were finely shaped,
with long, slender fingers. The ring on his right hand, a thin oval of
some red stone set in gold, was very distinctive.
Unfortunately for Rhonwn, the wares on the table in front of him
were absorbing all of the attention of the handsome crafter. No matter
what suggestive comment Rhonwn made, the man just nodded noncommittally
and kept his eyes on the carvings on the table. As was often the case,
the large stone semi-circular carving caught his attention for a moment,
and was thereafter ignored.
When the crafter walked away, Rhonwn's gaze followed regretfully.
Halfway across the market square, the crafter was stopped by a
distinctively dressed stranger. Rhonwn had certainly never seen the
gentleman before, and he would have remembered someone dressed all in
green from his hat to his boots. The two blond men talked briefly before
walking away together, which is when Merilee walked through his field of
vision, attracting all of his attention.
She looked his way and frowned, only it wasn't a frown of anger but
of hurt. She immediately turned away, changing direction and walking out
of the market, leaving Rhonwn with the impression that whatever errand
had brought her there would have to wait until later.
The next time Merilee's path crossed Rhonwn's was also linked with
the man in green. Rhonwn was walking along Chandler Street the next
morning when the green man and another man walked out of an inn right in
front of him. As distinctive as the man in green was, his companion was
equally so: he was stocky and rugged, and his hair, eyebrows and full
beard were red. He had a scar on his left cheek, and he wore the hood of
his cloak covering the back half of his head, such that his ears were
fully hidden by it.
The pair were talking earnestly, but all Rhonwn caught of their
conversation was "... has decided to join our ..." from the scarred one
before they moved out of his line of sight. Behind them was Merilee,
just about to enter the inn they had left. This time, she turned away
with no expression on her face, and continued on her way. Strangely
enough, Rhonwn didn't feel all that much better about it.
Later that afternoon, Rhonwn was walking Chandler Street from the
other end, and he thought that he saw the red-headed, scarred man
leading Merilee into that same inn, but he wasn't sure. He entertained
the notion of finding out for sure, before remembering that he was
supposed to be forgetting about the apprentice.
Rhonwn encountered the man in green again on the morning of the
11th of Yuli. He was strolling down Rainmaker Lane, heading for the
market square, when a hoarse voice called out from behind him, "Ho,
Master Gypsy!"
Rhonwn turned around, and saw the green-clad man striding briskly
toward him. As the man drew nearer, Rhonwn noticed that he was indeed
dressed completely in green, with every article of clothing -- gloves,
belt, boots and all -- exactly the same shade. The gypsy chuckled
silently as he realized that the approaching stranger looked, with his
very yellow hair, like a ripe ear of corn.
"Well met this morn, Master Gypsy!" rasped the stranger, coming to
a stop in front of Rhonwn. "And how do you fare this fine day?"
The automatic responses of courtesy helped Rhonwn through the
startlement of noticing that even the strangers' eyes matched his
outfit, and he said, "I'm well, good sir. And you?"
"To be honest, Master Gypsy, well and not well. Before I expand on
that, however, let me introduce myself. I am Lacsil, once a sailor, then
a merchant, and now a supplicant, at your service."
"Greetings, Lacsil," replied Rhonwn, extending his hand before
continuing, "and I'm Rhonwn of the Rhydd Pobl."
Lacsil, after looking at and then ignoring Rhonwn's hand, said, "I
have a proposition to make to you, Master Rhonwn. Upon occasion, my
dealings as a merchant have been less than, well and well, above-board.
Minor transgressions only, of course -- I am not an immoral man, I'll
have you know. But every now and then, the authorities become aware of
my activities, and I have to evade their so-called justice."
Rhonwn could tell that Lacsil was an accomplished orator, and only
his voice detracted from his presentation. His raspy, grating voice
sounded like an ill-tuned viol, or a shawm with a cracked reed. It made
the hair stand up on Rhonwn's neck, and set his teeth on edge, but out
of courtesy, he continued to pay attention.
"I am currently in the middle of such a situation, which is where I
hope that I can solicit your help. I need to get to my friends in the
north, to settle this business. Unfortunately, the authorities know this
as well, and are sure to be watching the roads. However, I have heard
that you, well and well, are traveling that way as well, and everyone
knows that gypsies can go from place to place, town to town, without
being seen. So I thought that we might be able to do each other a favor
under the circumstances. I can pay, and pay well, and even gypsies need
gold now and then. Believe me, I can make it worth your while, my
friend. And in return, you can get me out of Welspeare without
attracting the notice of the agents of the duchy."
Rhonwn's instinctive response was negative, and he gave it to
Lacsil without hesitation. "I'm sorry for your troubles, Master Lacsil,
but gypsies don't take passengers. Our trails are our secrets, and we
don't give up our secrets lightly."
"But surely you see the injustice here. What I've done has hurt no
one -- just a few people with lighter purses than they might have had.
Yet I am being hunted like an assassin, and denied the freedom of the
roads that my taxes have helped to build. Does that not, well and well,
strike a chord with you? Can you not feel for my plight?"
Rhonwn frowned, and wanted to back away. He was insulted that this
stranger was insinuating that the free ways of the gypsies were in any
way similar to his own mercenary transgressions. But again, courtesy
forbade him from being rude -- another aspect of his Rhydd Pobl
heritage, that wrong not be done unless done wrong first. He replied, "I
do not equate the misunderstandings your kind has of my way of life with
your own larceny. I have, indeed, run from those authorities you speak
of, but that doesn't make us tillanda, or family. I must still say no,
Master Lacsil."
The man in green's eyes narrowed, and his lips parted to show his
teeth in an avaricious grin. "Well, then, would two Crowns change your
mind?"
Rhonwn's own thoughts changed from affronted dignity to visions of
profit. Gold wasn't something that most gypsies sought to hoard, but as
Lacsil had said, even one of the Free People needed it sometimes.
Calculating what he thought the shady merchant might be worth, and the
dire straits he was in, Rhonwn said, "I don't think so," in a voice that
indicated it wasn't his final answer.
"Would three be a more reasonable offer?"
"Perhaps," allowed Rhonwn, thinking about what three Crowns could
buy, "but I have to be honest when I say that it isn't my decision. My
murntedd, Bobere, is pinwban, or wagon leader, and it is for him to
decide the merits of your situation and your ... offer."
"Fair enough," said Lacsil, his grin softening into something more
casual even though his eyes remained narrowed. "Do you think you could
persuade him?"
"I think you could make your plea better than I could, Master
Lacsil."
"Perhaps you are right, Master Rhonwn, perhaps you are right. Might
it be convenient to meet all together this evening? Matters are
somewhat, well and well, pressing ..."
Rhonwn knew just the thing. He had heard the ale at the Boar-Ring
Inn recommended several times, and he had been assured that even a gypsy
would be a welcome customer. He said, "Come to the Boar-Ring tonight,
halfway between second and third bell. You know where it is, out by the
river? Good. I'll bring Bobere, and you can put your proposition to him
then."
"I thank you for your help, Master Rhonwn. Until tonight?"
Rhonwn extended his hand and said, "Until tonight." Instead of
shaking it, Lacsil gave a strange salute, turned, and walked away.
Rhonwn watched him leave, wondering whether Bobere would accept the
dishonest merchant's offer, and if so, for how much.
The two gypsies, blood father and son as well as murntedd and
murnmib, foster-father and foster-son by Rhydd Pobl custom, walked down
the road by the Renev River, the light and noise of the Boar-Ring Inn
leading them toward it. It was somewhat after the evening's second bell,
but the walk from the clearing where their wagon was parked had been
long.
Rhonwn had told Bobere about Lacsil and the merchant's proposition.
He had also been asking questions about the man all day, but had gotten
little information for his trouble. No one knew much about the man in
green, and, strangely, no one seemed to be looking for him either. At
least, not yet.
Bobere looked every inch the typical gypsy, with his
neatly-tailored, multicolored patchwork clothes, black hair and hooked
nose. Rhonwn knew that the family resemblance was strong, though his
hair was longer and brown, his nose was not so pronounced, and his
clothes were not patchwork, though they were multicolored. All in all,
there was no mistaking the pair for anything other than proud members of
the Rhydd Pobl, the Free People of the world, or, more commonly,
gypsies.
So, Rhonwn understood when Bobere asked, "Are you sure we'll be
welcome in there, Rhonwn?" Gypsies tended to be driven from many
establishments with varying force, from shouts to sticks, simply due to
their mostly-undeserved reputations. But Rhonwn knew that such would not
be the case here.
"I'm sure, Bobere," Rhonwn said. "I have it on good authority. I
wouldn't have asked Lacsil to meet us here if I thought we'd get tossed
out. So stop worrying!"
The door under the sign bearing a circle of swine opened, and three
figures staggered out of it. Rhonwn noted their distinctive dress --
leather vests wide open across bare chests, leggings tightly wrapped
from the knee down in braided, beaded straps, and the half-circle hats
worn sideways -- and took the opportunity to further reassure Bobere.
"See, murntedd, the Boar-Ring serves bargemen! Any place puts up with
bargemen will be overjoyed to see the likes of us, yeah?"
Throwing a companionable arm around his father, Rhonwn made a path
toward the door, detouring wide around the raucous bargemen on the way.
He ushered Bobere through the door and then followed him to the only
empty table in the place.
A lively crowd filled the taproom that evening. Rhonwn gave his
most charming smile to the barmaid who came to take their order. She was
attractive but with a worn-down air, and Rhonwn could tell that it
wasn't just because of the hectic atmosphere in the taproom. She had
raven-dark hair piled up on the top of her head, and her green gown was
tight at the waist and laced to press her lush breasts together and
present them invitingly in the white undershift she wore. She
acknowledged the young gypsy's flashing-toothed grin with barely a
twinkle of her brown eyes and the slightest hint of a smile on her full
lips. She introduced herself as Aivney and took their orders. On the way
to the bar she took three more orders prior to vanishing behind it to
fulfill them all. Rhonwn noticed that the only other server on the floor
was a sour-faced and bald old man, and he knew that what he had heard
about the excellent ale had to be true to attract so many customers in
the face of such a disagreeable server.
The door opened to admit a handful of people into the already
crowded room, drawing Rhonwn's attention from the swaying hips of the
serving wench. He recognized one of the new arrivals, and stood to
gesture Lacsil over. The green-clad man strode across the room, a broad
smile on his face.
"Welcome, Lacsil, and well met," said the young gypsy, extending
his hand, and then gesturing toward his father when he remembered that
the man in green didn't like to shake hands. "May I introduce my
murntedd, or foster-father, Bobere of the Blue Valley band of the Rhydd
Pobl. Bobere, this is Lacsil, the gentleman I told you about. He has a
business proposition for you."
Bobere nodded to Lacsil and gestured to the bench on the far side
of the table. Lacsil swept off his felt hat with a curious right-handed
motion that Rhonwn didn't quite catch, and stuffed it into his belt as
he sat down. Rhonwn followed suit. As everyone got settled, the curvy
barmaid returned with the drinks the gypsies had ordered and took
Lacsil's order before departing. Rhonwn tried not to fidget as he waited
nervously with the others for the last ale to arrive before beginning
their discussions so that they wouldn't be disturbed later. Finally, the
leather jack of alcohol was set in front of the man in green. Lacsil
immediately took it in his left hand and lifted it high. "To profitable
business!" he proposed in his raspy voice, and Rhonwn echoed the gesture
and the toast along with his father before taking a healthy swallow of
the cool, brown ale. Rhonwn grinned as he contemplated the refreshing
beverage. One of the Boar-Ring's secrets must be its location -- it was
easy to keep ale cool in running river-water.
Lacsil said in his raspy voice, "And now, to business. I'm sure
your ... son? ... has told you of my situation, but let me put it in my
own words, shall I?"
Rhonwn found that the gravely voice of the green-clad man still
grated on his nerves. It was the kind of voice that made one look for
noose-scars, though what showed of Lacsil's throat was smooth skin. As
Lacsil put forth his tale, Rhonwn turned his attention elsewhere. He had
heard it just that morning, and with the way that voice was making his
eyeballs and fingernails vibrate, he was sure he didn't need to hear it
again.
He let his gaze wander over the wealth of people in the taproom.
The Boar-Ring seemed to attract all different types of people. Rhonwn
saw laborers relaxing alongside merchants, crafters drinking with
farmers, scum like the two bargemen in the corner sharing the room with
the aristocrat that had just walked in the door.
Rhonwn stared at the young man with the long brown hair who had
stopped a few paces inside the room. He wore his rank like he wore his
very fine clothing: easily and naturally. He was handsome, with clear
grey eyes, a fair complexion, and a full beard and mustache cropped
close to his face. Rhonwn didn't usually mix with the gentry -- they
tended to have even stranger ideas about land-ownership and peoples'
places than the ordinary folk. And this man looked like more than a mere
lord. But Rhonwn was prepared to make an exception for that fine-looking
individual.
The young man's gaze swept across the room, resting on the very
table that Rhonwn sat at for a moment before moving on without
acknowledging anyone who sat there. Rhonwn watched as the curvy barmaid
worked her way across the room until she stood next to the noble with
the ease of one long known. Rhonwn couldn't hear their brief
conversation, but the handsome man didn't seem to be looking for a
drink, but the answers to some questions. All too quickly for Rhonwn's
liking, the man kissed the barmaid on the cheek, turned and left. The
barmaid just stood there for a few moments, until the catcalls from the
crowd and a few growls from the male server got her moving again.
Rhonwn returned his attention to his table companions, hoping that
the negotiations were almost finished. He was disappointed to find that
little had yet been decided.
"What interest might my, well and well, crimes be to you then?"
asked Lacsil.
"Only so that I know what level of risk I would be undertaking were
I to accept your offer, my good man," answered Bobere. "Will I be
risking the wrath of every baronial reeve between here and the north
shore of Baranur? Or will the pursuit end at the border of Welspeare, if
not Bindrmon?"
"I assure you, that the matters were not worth an entire kingdom's
wrath. You will be safe and safe once the border of the duchy has been
trampled upon in passing. Is that little enough risk for you?"
Rhonwn shook his head and went back to ignoring them. He let his
gaze wander around the room again as he sipped his ale. He was delighted
to recognize one of the customers: the crafter he had seen talking with
Lacsil on his third day in town. He was sitting companionably with a
woman of about Bobere's age, making her a good handful of years older
than the crafter. She was good looking in a solid way, the few strands
of grey in her brown hair not very noticeable. The cut of the tunic she
wore told Rhonwn that she was probably a merchant. Perhaps she sold the
wares the gentleman produced.
Rhonwn flashed his smile at the couple, trying to make eye contact
with either one of them. To his delight, he received a meaningful look
from both along with a sly smile from the woman and a broad wink from
the man. He nodded once in return, since he noticed that neither of them
was aware that the other had also responded to him, and continued to
scan the room.
Another empty jack of ale later, Rhonwn returned his attention to
his father in time to hear the deal being closed.
"Seven full Crowns," said Bobere.
"Six and eight Rounds," offered Lacsil.
Rhonwn watched his father's eyes narrow as he studied the man in
green. Rhonwn knew that the deal was almost closed; his father was
calculating just how many more Rounds he could squeeze out of Lacsil.
"Six and fifteen," was Bobere's counteroffer.
Lacsil hesitated, and Rhonwn caught a glimpse of something he
wasn't sure he liked in the man's green eyes. Finally, the rasping voice
said, "Six and eleven, and not a Bit more."
Bobere paused for a moment, and then said, "And if I accept that
amount, what guarantee do I have that you are good for it, then?"
Lacsil's eyes narrowed further, but he dipped his left hand into
his belt pouch and set a Crown on the table before Bobere. Rhonwn
watched with admiration as his father tapped the golden disk with a
practiced fingernail, and nodded briefly in confirmation that it was
real. Then, he turned his practiced 'expectant gaze' on the man in green
and waited.
The wide smile thinned under the green eyes, and Lacsil produced
another Cue to go with the first. Bobere said, "Thank you. I'll expect
the rest when we leave, which will be soon. We'll let you know the
location of our campsite the night before we depart. Will that be all?"
"I thank you for graciously agreeing to help me out of my, well and
well, situation. I will await eagerly your summons. Fare well!"
Lacsil rose, bowed to each of them, and left, pulling his hat out
of his belt with his left hand and placing it on his head. Rhonwn
noticed that the man in green hadn't left any payment for the ale he had
consumed.
Once Lacsil had left the room, Bobere said, "I wonder whether that
was wise, Rhonwn. I've done well in the markets of Welspeare these past
months, though six Crowns is nothing to toss to the frogs."
"It'll be fine, murntedd. Lacsil's a donkey's behind of a man, but
as long as his gold is hard, I think we can put up with his ways for a
few fortnights. And if he really becomes bothersome, we can put a dagger
in his ribs and leave him by one of our hidden gypsy trails, straight?"
Rhonwn laughed as his father rolled his eyes at the joke, followed by a
nod of agreement.
Bobere stood and fished for some Bits to pay for the drinks. When
Rhonwn remained sitting, he said, "Coming?"
"Not just yet, murntedd."
"Well, anything more is out of your purse. Be safe, murnmib."
"Of course, of course. Don't wait up."
Rhonwn waited until his father had left the inn, and a little more
until the crafter with the long fingers had left the merchant woman
alone for a few moments. Then he rose and slipped over to her table,
plans for the night already forming in his head.
Two mornings later, as the Baranurian calendar turned from the 12th
to the 13th of Yuli with the rising of the sun and the tolling of the
first bell of the day, Rhonwn stepped quietly out of a doorway into a
shadowed back yard. He was cinching his belt and straightening his
clothes while he looked around to be sure that he was not being
observed.
A finely shaped hand with long, slender fingers reached from the
shadowed back door, handing him his cloak. The long, thin, oval red
stone set in the gold ring came into view as Rhonwn took the cloak from
the crafter and swirled it around his shoulders. He smiled fondly at the
dim shape within the house, but neither of them said a word; their
heartfelt goodbyes had been given over the past bell.
Rhonwn turned away from his last conquest in Beeikar and made his
way toward the alley that cut through the block at the side of the next
house over. It turned out that the crafter owned both homes, and had
recently rented the house that Rhonwn was sneaking behind to a newcomer
for a sennight or so.
Rhonwn was long familiar with slipping stealthily away from his
nightly assignations in the dim light of the first bell of the day. He
had repeated the actions in town after town, city, and hamlet across the
land the rooted folk called Baranur and beyond, and he hadn't been
caught yet.
He didn't have the time to be leisurely about his departure,
either. His father was planning to leave for the north today, no later
than third bell. He enjoyed traveling, even if it didn't provide quite
the same kind of diversions as the time he was able to spend in a town
and among its inhabitants. But traveling was life to a gypsy, and he
heard the road calling to him just as strongly as the diversions of
civilization.
Rhonwn was creeping under an open window glowing with light when he
heard a sound he recognized. It was a voice, and a very distinctive one
at that. He had last heard it the night before, when he had delivered
the message of their departure time and the location of their campsite
to Lacsil. But this was not the address that he had met Lacsil at.
Curious, Rhonwn stopped beneath the window and waited. His stealth
was almost for naught when he caught sight of a curious rat sniffing at
his boot, but he stifled his instinctive shout and just kicked the rat
across the yard. His attention was drawn back to the window by a deep
voice saying, "I think we're ready, boss."
Rhonwn was rising slowly, with the intent to peek in the window,
when Lacsil's rough and raspy voice said, "Are you sure? Well, there are
supposed to be eight here and I only count six sitting. Where are the
others?"
The deep voice, sounding gently admonishing, said, "Boss, you're
not counting us. Six there, two here, that's eight. Straight?"
Lacsil's voice sputtered, and Rhonwn dropped back into a full
crouch. Eight people gathering? Lacsil being addressed as boss? What was
going on? Rhonwn's curiosity was more than idle now: he needed to know
what their fellow passenger was up to.
Suddenly, the deep voice boomed out, "Quiet!", even though Rhonwn
hadn't heard any other talking going on. After a moment, Lacsil's voice
filled the still dawn air, just as raspy and annoying as before. Rhonwn
just clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from vibrating, and listened
closely.
"Welcome, my friends, welcome. My associate, Hissek here, has
gathered you all together for a, well and well, noble purpose. You all
have reason to hold a grudge against the gypsies that call themselves
the "Reethe Pobul", the 'Free People'. Well, I do also.
"A year ago and more, I was in the wrong location at the worst
possible time. In a small barony in the south of Pyridain, I was
apprehended following a series of minor but destructive and, well and
well, disruptive incidents. The reeves had laid the crimes on the 'Free
People' and I was taken to be one of them.
"None of the gypsies could actually be found, and the reeves wanted
someone to practice their justice on. Their justice was this!"
There was silence for a moment, and then gasps. Lacsil continued,
"Yes, my friends, the reeves took my right thumb to satisfy their
justice. And it was all the fault of the gypsies!"
A babble of comments rose in the room, and Rhonwn thought back to
his few meetings with Lacsil. He remembered that the man in green had
never removed his gloves, and had only seldom even used his right hand,
despite hanging his sword and belt pouch on his left hip as if his right
hand was his main hand. Rhonwn recalled that strange hat-removing
gesture that, he now realized, had used only fingers, no thumb.
The young gypsy wondered how much of Lacsil's story was true. He
doubted that any of the Rhydd Pobl had actually been involved in any
kind of concerted series of disruptions. A wagon-group of 'Free People'
might undertake one or two acts of revenge, but only when they had been
done wrong first. But they well understood both the danger of rousing
the public uniformly against them, and the results of too much mischief
on the by-standing innocent. He also found it incredible that anyone
would take Lacsil for a gypsy, though he did dress oddly. And, he
supposed, there were many who lumped all who were strange together in
the same wagon.
"My friends, please!" rasped out Lacsil's voice again. When quiet
had returned, he continued, "We all have been hurt by the gypsies. But
soon will come an opportunity to avenge our hurts. An opportunity
heralded by the heavens themselves!
"In two months' time the Reethe Pobul are having a gathering in the
northern forests of the Duchy of Dargon. At the same time, in the night
sky above us, the Sword of Sageeza will move into the Caravan. The signs
are clear, and all the Bloody Hand of Sageeza, a group I am a proud
member of, needed was a way to find that hidden meeting place."
Rhonwn's imagination leapt ahead of Lacsil's speech, and he knew he
had to warn his father: they couldn't take Lacsil north with them! He
was just about to creep away when Lacsil's next words froze him in place
again.
"Our cause must be just, my friends, for that way has come to us in
our, well and well, time of need. The great Sageeza guided my steps to
Beeikar at just the right time. My aid, Hissek, who also does the
bidding of Sageeza, found our key. And that key is right here. Straight,
Merilee?"
Rhonwn's eyes grew wide. He could understand Merilee holding a
grudge with him and, by extension, all of his kind. But what could
Merilee possibly offer to the Bloody Hand that was so valuable?
Merilee's voice, almost as annoying as Lacsil's, drifted through
the window over Rhonwn's head. "I met a gypsy not very long ago. He was
nice to me. We talked, and ... and other things. But after that, after
all we did together, he said he didn't want to see me anymore.
"We talked about all sorts of things," Merilee continued. "I asked
about what it was like being a gypsy, traveling all over. He told me
tales that made me wish he would take me away with him. I asked in all
innocence how his people found their way across pass-less mountains and
through trackless forests, and he told me that most gypsy wagon-masters
memorized the routes, but that his 'murntethe' had a secret ..."
Rhonwn gasped, and slapped his hand over his mouth to silence
himself. He didn't remember much about their conversations, especially
later in the night when he had been drunker than a lord, but if he had
mentioned Bobere's secret, they were both in great trouble indeed.
Merilee's next few words caused Rhonwn to panic. "He said they had
a map."
Rhonwn needed to get home even more, now. Lacsil had very dangerous
knowledge, and he mustn't be allowed to profit from it. The young gypsy
had heard rumors of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza, a group of purists
dedicated to wiping out all wanderers, all those considered outsiders.
They were cranks, malcontents, and small-minded fools, but dangerous for
all of that. If they were able to find the annual gathering, it would be
disaster.
Rhonwn slipped back to the alley, leaving the Beeikar chapter of
the Bloody Hand of Sageeza to their further planning. He had to warn
Bobere. They had to leave immediately, or at least before Lacsil
arrived. They just had to!
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