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DargonZine Volume 16 Issue 02
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DargonZine Distributed: 9/7/2003
Volume 16, Number 2 Circulation: 746
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Measure of a Man 1 Liam Donahue Sy 23-24, 1013
Hidden Talents 1 Carlo Samson and Yule 24, 1018
Rena Deutsch
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
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@dargonzine.org> 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 16-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2003 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>.
DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@rcn.com>
What can I say: we're late. Not "late" as in "expired", although
you might have begun to think so, since we've only put out one new issue
in the past eight months. That's not a very encouraging record for a
magazine that says it comes out every six to eight *weeks*. Neither I
nor our writers are very happy about it.
On the other hand, it's been ten years since we've had an
interruption like that. Since 1993 we've produced 85 issues -- 236
stories -- with an average time between issues of six weeks. That's an
impressive run for any fiction magazine. Yes, it's been a long time
since we last appeared in your inbox, but I can assure you that this
kind of lapse is very atypical. If it happens once per decade, that's
still a very good record.
DargonZine has had a very impressive run, printing almost four
hundred original stories by fifty new writers in its twenty-year
history. However, any magazine that relies completely on unpaid
volunteers for contributions is going to have occasional interruptions.
DargonZine can only print new issues when our authors find time to sit
down and write new stories, and sometimes other things take precedence
in their lives. Because of this, there will always be variances in how
frequently we can put issues out, and sometimes that means you won't see
us for a couple months.
The proverbial silver lining is that after realizing how
desperately DargonZine needed new stories, our writers threw themselves
wholeheartedly into their writing. One of the ways they motivated one
another was to make "pledges", with each person promising a certain
number of stories before the end of this year. As a result, our
contributors have promised to have a prodigious forty new stories
written within the next four months. That's more stories than we've ever
printed in a single year: enough to fill fifteen issues of DargonZine!
If they fulfill their promises, we won't have another long lapse between
issues for a long, long time.
There's another reason why I'm confident that we'll have plenty to
print in coming months. But in order to tell you about that, I need to
begin by telling you about this year's Summit...
The Dargon Writers' Summit is an annual gathering intended to
strengthen our community of writers. This year's event took place in
Austin, Texas in late April. Hosted by Rhonda Gomez and P. Atchley, the
2003 edition had a record dozen writers in attendance, including three
first-time attendees.
Half our time was spent in working sessions, where we focused on
DargonZine and writing. The highlight of this year's working sessions
was the presentation of three "white papers", where three of our writers
gave brief talks on specific writing topics they had done research on.
After the working sessions were done, we had the rest of our days
to socialize and do more touristy things. If you want to know more about
this year's Writers' Summit, a much lengthier write-up and several
photographs are available on our Web site at
<http://www.dargonzine.org/summit.shtml>.
However, the real revolutionary part of this year's Summit, and the
reason why it pertains to the topic of our lack of submissions, was the
"writing retreat" we held.
It might not seem very innovative for a bunch of writers to
actually spend time writing, but it's something we'd rarely done at
previous Summits. We'd had a few short exercises before, but writing
takes a large amount of time, and time at our gatherings is a very
precious commodity. In addition, only a few amateur writers are
comfortable sitting down and writing on demand; it's much easier to
write in one's own environment, at one's own schedule, and without
anyone looking over one's shoulder.
However, in planning this year's Summit we tacked on an additional
two days that would be devoted exclusively to writing. Furthermore, we
polled the writers to determine what they wanted to work on, and it soon
became clear that people wanted to create one large story arc and divide
it up between them, with each person writing one section of it.
Of course, agreement in principle is very different from agreement
in action, and it took several hours of wrangling at the start before we
had a premise and basic storyline that everyone was willing to work on,
and then assigned ownership of individual sections. However, we
eventually got there, and everyone found a quiet spot where they were
comfortable and started banging away at their keyboards.
By the end of the second day, we had a detailed plot and over 38
thousand words written. We'd begun twelve new Dargon stories, and
embarked upon the largest collaboration and the single most ambitious
work this project has undertaken in its nineteen-year history. If all
goes as planned, this one story arc may also provide enough material to
fill more than a dozen DargonZine issues.
The writers, knowing that DargonZine needed material, volunteered
the time and energy necessary to double the duration of the Summit so
that they could launch this massive story arc. Four months later, the
work still continues. At last count, there are ten writers developing 25
chapters, one-third of which have already been circulated internally as
first drafts.
As I stated above, our writers have pledged to have forty new
stories done by the end of the year, plus at the Summit they undertook
an immense collaborative effort that will provide more than two dozen
closely-integrated stories. Our writers have realized that it's up to
them to keep the magazine going, and they have responded to the
challenge. While I won't (and can't) tell you that there won't be
another lengthy gap between issues, I can definitely tell you that there
are loads of stories in the works, and the writers are more committed to
the project than ever. So long as that's the case, we'll keep putting
out issues as frequently as we can.
I hope that you enjoy them, because our writers, all of whom
struggle to fit writing into their busy lives, work very hard on every
single story. And on behalf of all the writers I want to offer our
apologies for how little you've seen of us so far this year. But our
next two issues are already taking shape, so we are looking forward to
spending a lot more time with you this fall.
========================================================================
Measure of a Man
Part 1
by Liam Donahue
<wbdonahue@earthlink.net>
Sy 23-24, 1013
From the steps of a small shop, Taneris strained to see through the
crowd. People pushed past each other on the cobblestone street, rushing
to and from Dargon's busy marketplace. He struggled to see if anyone had
stopped or slowed when his foster-father had entered the shop, but even
from his vantage point on the steps he couldn't tell; he was too short.
Taneris hated the crowded city streets. He missed life on the trail
almost as much as he missed his well-worn and brightly-colored clothing.
The garments he wore to disguise his origin were all uninteresting
shades of brown. They also itched horribly in the Sy heat. The
subterfuge was necessary, though. Without it, there would be little hope
of saving his people from the Bloody Hand of Sageeza.
The Bloody Hand was a secret sect whose members hated and
persecuted those outside their own culture, such as Taneris' people, the
gypsy group known as the Rhydd Pobl, or Free People. Almost a month
earlier, Taneris' foster-brother Gwill had returned to their bantor, or
wagon-group. He had brought word that members of the Bloody Hand were
planning an attack during the annual gathering at Eariaddas Hwl. Gwill
had also reported that a captured member of the Bloody Hand had revealed
an important secret in exchange for his freedom. The prisoner had spoken
of a tome called the Crimson Book of Sageeza, which contained the tenets
of the Sageezan religion as well as the cult's secret methods of
communicating. Taneris' murntedd, or foster-father, Hadrach had agreed
to lead an expedition to the city of Dargon to find this book.
A high-pitched laugh caught Taneris' attention. The crowd had
thinned for a moment. Across the street he spied two boys. They were
around his size, one dark-haired and lanky, and the other blond and
stocky, both dirty from head to toe. The stocky one looked Taneris in
the eye, elbowed his companion, and said something. The tall boy laughed
again, and the blond boy stuck his chin out, as if daring Taneris to
cross the street and fight him. Taneris felt his cheeks burn with anger.
He decided that his watch was over, and entered the shop.
Two men looked toward the door as Taneris entered. One was his
murntedd, Hadrach, a middle-aged gypsy dressed in drab city-dweller
clothing. The other, an older man with a black moustache, had to be the
scribe Genarvus Kazakian, the owner of the shop. He was a swarthy man,
darker than Hadrach, which marked him as a foreigner to northern
Baranur.
Hadrach spoke sternly. "Ah, there you are, boy. Thought you'd
wandered off. I was about to come looking for you. Don't let it happen
again."
"No, father, it won't," Taneris replied, his voice sullen.
"See that it doesn't." Hadrach turned back to his conversation with
the shopkeeper without another glance at Taneris.
The veiled exchange with Hadrach had been for Kazakian's benefit.
Those few carefully chosen words had allowed Taneris to report that he
had seen no sign of anyone following them without alerting the scribe.
Still, Taneris felt his resentment rise at being treated like a child,
even if he did look the part. He thought about Gwill. They were the same
age, nineteen summers, but where Taneris was small and slight, Gwill had
grown tall and broad-shouldered. He was already regarded among the Rhydd
Pobl as skilled and capable. Hadrach would never treat Gwill as a child.
Inside, the sounds from the street were muted. The front of the
shop was well decorated, half-store and half-parlor. Facing the door was
a carved wooden desk, littered with sheets of parchment. Most of the
left-hand wall was covered by an enormous tapestry woven in red, green,
and gold. To the right stood a huge hearth, unlit in the Sy heat. The
two men were seated before the hearth, facing each other across a small
table. Through a curtained opening in the back wall, Taneris could see
the trappings of a kitchen, indicating that the shop doubled as the
owner's home.
Taneris glanced around the room, feigning a young boy's disinterest
in adult matters, and listened as his murntedd and the scribe discussed
details of the Manifest religion. The young gypsy smiled to himself. He
knew that Hadrach could talk for bells on almost any subject if it would
help to improve a deal. It was a part of what the old gypsy called "the
art of the trade".
Taneris moved to examine the tapestry. It depicted what appeared to
be a gigantic mythic beast resembling a serpent whose coils wound
through a countryside, wrapping around a castle, a village, and even a
mountain peak. The creature was being attacked on several fronts by
mounted armies: men dressed in red armor of curious design wielding
impossibly long lances. It was unclear who the victor of the battle
would be, but Taneris suspected the serpent; one small section of its
coils was shown scattering a dozen riders like leaves before a storm.
He moved on, walking across a floor piled thick with carpets,
passing a huge brass urn under which a green flame danced. The urn
emitted a light smoke with a sweet scent that pervaded the room. Taneris
paused briefly to glance at the scribe's desk. It was cluttered with
rolls of parchment, pots of ink, writing implements, and a block of red
material that Taneris concluded was sealing wax.
He stepped away from the desk, being careful not to disturb
anything. Hadrach had warned him repeatedly how protective scribes were
of their scrolls. Taneris pondered the idea of earning a living from the
ability to read and write. He tried to imagine living his life as a
city-dweller, stuck in a dusty little shop with his fingers stained with
ink and his back permanently bowed from squinting over old parchments.
He shook his head. That was no life for one of the Free People.
Taneris listened with mild amusement as Hadrach skillfully turned
the conversation from a discourse on religion back to business, while
making it seem that the scribe had done so instead. This was more of
Hadrach's art of the trade. Taneris never tired of watching Hadrach work
his trader's magic, even if he had no talent for it himself.
"You said you were looking for certain religious texts, did you
not, master Balish?" asked Kazakian. "Evrin Balish" was the name Hadrach
had been using in Dargon to pass as a Baranurian. "Do you seek religious
doctrine, or histories? Is there a particular religion you desire? I
don't have any such books myself, you understand. My own meager
collection consists of a few histories and some reference books. I do
know one fellow whose library includes quite a number of Olean texts. Or
perhaps you are interested in books of the Stevenic faith?"
Taneris found himself smiling as he watched and listened to the
scribe. The man had a strange, almost lyrical, accent. His hands
gestured wildly as he spoke. He wondered where on Cherisk this man had
been born. It was certainly someplace far from Baranur.
"No, I'm not looking for anything Olean or Stevenic," Hadrach
replied. "I seek something a bit more obscure. A text on Jhel, or Shuul,
for instance. Or perhaps a book concerning the worship of Sageeza."
Taneris wondered if Kazakian could hear the trace of bitterness that
crept into Hadrach's voice as he finished speaking.
Kazakian scowled and flapped his hand as if waving away an
unpleasant odor. "Vosh, vosh," he muttered in his own language, shaking
his head. "Why would you want such a book, master Balish? I warn you,
those who appeal to dark gods often wish that they had kept their
prayers to themselves." Kazakian spoke the last sentence with the weight
of a proverb.
Hadrach chuckled. "I do not seek faith, only knowledge. Like you, I
am merely a scholar. To study a religion one need not subscribe to its
beliefs."
The scribe rose from his seat and rubbed his hands together as if
washing them. "I think you follow a dangerous path. Some knowledge is
best left unlearned, and some names are best unspoken. If this is what
you search for, I cannot help you."
Hadrach stood at this obvious dismissal. "Good day to you, then,
master scribe," he said to Kazakian. "Come along, boy!" he called.
"Ts'sutyen," Kazakian said, waving farewell as Hadrach and Taneris
reached the door. "I would like to say that I wish you luck in your
search, but I feel you would be better served if you fail."
Hadrach was silent during the walk back to the Inn of the Panther,
their home for the past five days. Taneris longed to ask Hadrach what
his thoughts were on Kazakian's behavior, but he held his tongue. He
knew that Hadrach would speak of the encounter with Gwill when they
returned to the inn. Taneris had come to expect strangers to think of
him as a child, but it rankled when his own foster-father did so.
Taneris had been taken in by the old trader as an infant after his
parents had been slain. Gwill was Hadrach's son by blood. He and Taneris
were almost the same age, and had been close friends since early
childhood. They had often roamed the forests of Baranur once their
chores were complete. They would race each other up trees, or practice
stalking one another through the woods. They had shared a dream of
becoming hunters, those men and women who provided food for the Rhydd
Pobl on the trail and served as scouts and, when necessary, spies. At
the age of eleven, Gwill had begun to leave Taneris behind. He grew tall
and muscular; his demeanor became more serious.
In their twelfth year, he and Gwill had been fostered to another
bantor and apprenticed to a hunter named Senlin. The boys had learned
quickly, eager for knowledge. Senlin had worked them hard, preparing
them for their trial of passage: the test that marked a Rhydd Pobl
youth's transition to adulthood. It was during his preparations for the
trial that Taneris' affliction first became evident.
He had simply stopped growing. While Gwill grew tall and lithe,
Taneris' body had refused to change. His hopes of becoming a hunter had
been dashed when he discovered that he was too small to use a proper
bow. He barely had the strength to pull to full draw. Senlin had felt
there was no choice but to send him back to his bantor. He had heard
that Gwill had passed his own trial the next year.
He was no taller now at nineteen than he had been at age twelve,
and the shadow of a beard had yet to darken his cheek. He had been
brought to healers, witches, and even a Baranurian wizard. They had
mumbled spells over him, and forced him to drink bitter potions and
inhale strange vapors. All attempts had failed to cure him of his
peculiar affliction.
Taneris followed Hadrach into the inn's common room. An enormous
panther's head looked out from above the cold hearth at the early
evening crowd as they ate, drank, and danced. He followed Hadrach to
where Gwill was seated, waiting for them. As Hadrach and Taneris
approached, the tall hunter rose.
"Father," Gwill said. He used the Baranurian word. Hadrach had
drilled them all in Baranurian language and culture during the journey
to Dargon. Gwill embraced Hadrach, and then pulled out a chair for the
older man. "Tanner," he added with a smile, indicating that Taneris
should sit as well. Taneris knew that there was as much pity as
affection in that smile. Despite the growing rift between them, Gwill
often tried to include Taneris in as many adult matters as possible.
"How did your meeting with the scribe go?" asked Gwill. From the
look on Hadrach's face, he answered his own question. "Not well." His
gaze fell to the table.
"No, not at all well."
"Was he not the scholar you were led to believe?"
"No, if anything, he was even more learned than I expected. He
displayed a great depth of knowledge on the Olean religions. It was only
when I mentioned the darker gods that things turned sour."
"Could he have been one of them, murn -- Father?" Taneris offered,
then silently cursed himself for almost using the gypsy word.
"Will you never learn to read people, Tanner?" Hadrach made no
comment on Taneris' slip, but the rebuke was plain in his expression.
"If he had been one of them, he would have feigned disinterest when I
mentioned their god, and then felt me out later in the conversation to
see if I might be an enemy or a potential recruit. Kazakian is obviously
foreign to this land, his ways as different from the Baranurians as our
own. The Bloody Hand would no sooner have him than one of us."
"He didn't have a copy of the book, then, or know where to find
one?" Gwill asked, relieving Taneris of Hadrach's scrutiny.
"He would not speak of it," Hadrach replied. "I am sure that he has
more books than he claimed, and even more sure that he could aid us in
our search if he chose. But I fear that his door is now closed to us."
Taneris' frustration grew. Gwill's question had been at least as foolish
as his own. Instead of chastising Gwill, Hadrach had answered him as an
equal. As their conversation turned to reviewing prior contacts in their
search and determining which would be most likely to lead them to a copy
of the Crimson Book, Taneris looked away from the two men. He scanned
the busy common room for the fourth member of their group: Rhadia.
Rhadia was two years younger than Taneris and Gwill and had been
fostered to their bantor in her eighth summer. She had often helped them
in their game of stalking each other, or played the prey as they
followed her through the forest. Her passion was not for the hunt,
though. Rhadia was a social being who loved to meet new people, talk
around the fire in the evening, sing songs, and share stories. It was
this that had led to her apprenticeship with Hadrach. Many of the Rhydd
Pobl traveled to the cities of Baranur trading in goods and information.
Among them, Hadrach was considered a master. Rhadia had come with them
to Baranur to learn, although her beauty and vivaciousness had proven
useful as a diversion during Hadrach's bargaining.
Taneris had come as Hadrach's student as well. It was uncommon for
Rhydd Pobl children to be apprenticed to their parent; it was usually
taken as a sign of weakness, unless the child had shown a great aptitude
for the parent's craft. Taneris had no gift for the art of the trade. He
knew that Hadrach had no choice but to take him. After his failure as a
hunter, Taneris had been fostered to a succession of bantors and
apprenticed to several different craftspeople: a woodcarver, a weaver,
and a ropeworker. Each had been initially eager to take Taneris as a
student. His fingers were long and nimble, and he had learned the
rudiments of each craft quickly. However, he had left his more tedious
tasks unfinished to wander the woods dreaming of the hunt. His
unfulfilled desire had ultimately brought failure in every
apprenticeship. Each of his masters had dismissed him, relegating him to
children's chores until he could be fostered to another bantor. Now none
but his father would take him as a student.
Taneris spotted Rhadia among the small group of dancers and
immediately wished that he had not. She was dancing a reel in the arms
of a tall man with a dark blond beard. Taneris' gaze was drawn to where
the man's hand rested casually on her hip. He looked away and tried not
to imagine Rhadia in the blond man's embrace, his beard tickling her
neck as he kissed her.
Hadrach and Gwill were still discussing the relative merits of the
various scribes, scholars, and priests they had visited since their
arrival in Dargon. Each of them owned books, a hobby that could only be
indulged at great expense. Most of them knew each other, and were
familiar with the others' interests. Hadrach, posing as a merchant and
scholar, had managed an introduction to their circle. His inquiries had
been circumspect by necessity. One didn't just ask around for a text
like the Crimson Book of Sageeza without drawing the wrong kind of
attention. His conversations often went like the one with Kazakian. He
would start with a discussion of religion and religious texts, and then
express an interest in a few of the more obscure sects, including the
Sageeza cult. He had enjoyed only limited success. In most cases, he had
been directed to another scholar. He had managed to broach the topic of
the Crimson Book only a few times. Taneris, in his role as a harmless
child, had attended several of these meetings. He remembered some
details that he could add to the conversation, but could not be certain
that what he planned to say hadn't been discussed while he was looking
for Rhadia. Rather than reveal his inattention, he decided to remain
silent.
The music stopped. Taneris looked toward the dancers again, just in
time to see the blond man whisper something in Rhadia's ear. She laughed
and slapped him on the shoulder. Then, looking in the direction of the
gypsies' table, she waved to Taneris. Smiling, she said something else
to her dance partner, and then left the dance floor.
As she approached, Hadrach looked up. "Ah, here's Rhadia," the old
trader said as he stood. "Tanner, be a good lad and fetch us all
something from the kitchen." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a
few copper Bits.
When Taneris returned bearing a large bowl of fish stew and several
smaller bowls for them to eat from, Rhadia was regaling Hadrach with
stories that she had learned throughout the day. When she was not with
the older trader, her instructions were to meet as many people as she
could, both to improve her social skills and to increase her repertoire
of tales to use while trading. She kept Hadrach amused throughout the
meal, while Taneris wondered how many more ways could be found to
prepare fish in Dargon. He longed for the taste of wild rabbit, caught
by his own hand and cooked over a campfire.
As they finished their meal and Rhadia ran out of stories, Hadrach
and Gwill resumed their conversation.
Taneris mustered his courage. "Rhadia?"
"Yes, Tanner?" she said as she turned to face him.
Her eyes, beautiful and dark, almost stopped him, but he forced
himself to continue. "When the music starts again will you dance with
me?"
Her brow furrowed. "Oh, Tanner, it's just that you're ..." She
paused, and then continued, "Well, I am supposed to be meeting new
people while we are here, and I've known you most of my life." She
smiled, trying to make a joke of it. "Besides, I want to listen to what
Hadrach and Gwill have to say."
Taneris tried to return her smile, and then looked down at his
empty bowl. It hadn't mattered to him what she had said after the pause.
In his mind, he had already finished it for her. It could have been any
number of things: "too small" or "a failure" were possibilities, but
mostly he thought it was "not tall, blond, and bearded". He tried for
several menes to follow the conversation, but he couldn't escape
Rhadia's rejection. Excusing himself, he went upstairs to the room that
he and Gwill shared.
When Rhadia had first joined their bantor and Taneris had been a
finger taller than Gwill, she had fallen hopelessly in love with
Taneris. He had been ten, two years her senior and too young to care
about the differences between boys and girls, and the important things
those differences led to. Seven years later, when Taneris had returned
from his last failed apprenticeship, she had blossomed, as had his
interest. Rhadia, however, was still attracted to older boys, and
Taneris had looked little older than when she had first fallen for him.
Taneris shut the door of the small room behind him. He closed the
shutters on the window and stripped for bed. He lay down, listening to
the muffled sounds from the street and from the inn below him. He sighed
in frustrated rage at whatever strange fate had caused him to stop
aging. His child's body had cost him the respect of his murntedd and his
peers. Peers? He had none. Gwill and the other boys his age had grown to
manhood and left him behind. Even the younger boys had passed him by.
Rhadia's rejection hurt him more than anything else. She had loved him
once: a girl-child's love for an older boy. Now that he was ready to
return her love, she fumbled for excuses.
He wished that his true parents could offer him some explanation,
or at least a hint of why this had happened to him, but he had never
known them, or at least remembered nothing of them. Hadrach had told of
how he had followed a plume of smoke to find a ruined Rhydd Pobl ban, or
wagon. From the tracks surrounding the ban, Hadrach had determined that
several mounted men had murdered the young couple, stolen their horses,
and set fire to their wagon. Fortunately they had not remained to see if
the blaze caught. Hadrach had pulled the infant Taneris from the
smoldering ban and decided to raise him as his own son.
Half a bell later, Gwill entered, and whispered, "Brwd?" Taneris
feigned sleep, having no desire to talk to his foster-brother. He
expected to hear Gwill preparing for bed, and instead heard the sound of
the shutters being opened. He risked opening one eye a slit and saw
Gwill, framed in the light of the open window, donning a cloak. The tall
gypsy youth then pulled himself up on the window ledge and disappeared
onto the roof.
Unable to resist, Taneris slipped out of bed and looked out the
window in time to see Gwill hanging off the eave and dropping down into
an alley next to the inn. He watched as Gwill reached the street and
marked his foster-brother's direction.
Taneris dressed quickly, the beginnings of a plan forming. Rhadia
might not have wanted to dance with him, but could she resist
Gwill-stalking? Would indulging in their childhood pastime remind her of
her old feelings? Taneris hoped she hadn't completely outgrown the games
of youth.
He stepped into the hallway, trying to close his door without a
sound. He slipped past Hadrach's door and knocked softly on Rhadia's.
She answered, still dressed but looking tired.
"What do you want, Tanner? I thought you were asleep." Then,
perhaps seeing the mischievous smile on his face, her eyes lit up. "What
is it?" she asked with more enthusiasm.
"Gwill slipped out. I'm not sure where he's gone, but I think he
needs to be tracked."
She returned his smile. "I think you're right, Tanner. We can't
have Gwill sneaking off on his own."
She grabbed his hand and they rushed down the stairs and through
the common room. Once they were out on the street, Tanner pointed in the
direction Gwill had taken. Rhadia released his hand and they took off
running, exchanging gleeful looks. After a few moments, they saw a
cloaked man with Gwill's build ahead of them, and slowed.
"Where do you think he's going?" she asked in a whisper.
"No idea. He and Hadrach didn't say anything about it, did they?"
"Not while I was there, no. I did dance some more before I went
upstairs, though. They might have talked about it then."
Taneris' hand tingled with remembrance of Rhadia's touch; he longed
to take her hand again, but did not want to spoil the giddy mood.
Gwill stopped several times, apparently alert for pursuers. They
were prepared for this tactic, though. Gwill had often used it in the
forest to get behind them. They had learned long ago to stop when he did
and to disappear into the brush. There was no undergrowth on the streets
of Dargon, but there were steps to hide behind and alleys to slip into.
These served just as well.
Taneris began to suspect Gwill's destination when he turned onto
Thockmarr Street. He held his tongue until his foster-brother passed the
now empty marketplace and turned onto Red Avenue.
"He's going to Kazakian's," he whispered to Rhadia.
"The scribe you visited today? But why?"
"Maybe to ask him more questions?" Taneris ventured.
"This late at night? And Gwill?" They both suppressed a chuckle.
Away from close family and friends, Gwill was the least talkative of any
gypsy they knew. It was hard to imagine the taciturn hunter striking up
a conversation with a Baranurian.
"Maybe not," Taneris acquiesced, but added, "No, that's Kazakian's
shop, and Gwill just stepped into the alley. What is he doing?"
They stopped at the alley and Taneris peered around the corner to
see if Gwill was waiting for them. He wasn't, and Taneris motioned for
Rhadia to join him. They reached the corner at the back of the scribe's
shop and peered around it. There they saw Gwill trying to climb up onto
a window ledge. As they watched, the tall gypsy froze and then dropped
to the ground in a crouch. Had he seen them? No. Two men were
approaching from the other end of the alley!
Gwill straightened as the two men approached. From his vantage
point, Taneris could see that the men were dressed in simple tunics and
breeches, not uniforms. They weren't guards, at least.
One of the men spoke. "Straight. What have we here?"
Gwill didn't reply. Clearly he was unsure what to say. Taneris and
Rhadia exchanged a look.
The other man said to his companion, "Looks to me like it's just
gypsy filth doing what gypsy filth does, Erich." He turned to look at
Gwill. "Couldn't get what you wanted by begging at the front door, so
you decided to steal from the back, right, gypsy filth?" Taneris started
at the man's comments. How did these men know Gwill was a gypsy?
Gwill turned to run but the first man, Erich, grabbed his wrist.
The tall gypsy punched him, rocking his head back and forcing him to
release his grip. The second man grabbed Gwill from behind, pinioning
his arms.
Erich rubbed his jaw as he stepped forward. "That hurt, gypsy boy.
I think we need to show the gypsy boy what happens when he strikes his
betters. Hold him still, Garon."
Taneris turned to look at Rhadia again, but she was already in
motion, heading up the alley toward Gwill. He tried to follow but he
couldn't move; fear had turned his legs to lead.
Rhadia reached them just as Erich began to pummel Gwill. She
stomped down hard on Garon's heel. He yelped in pain and dropped Gwill.
As the man dropped to one knee, she began to pound on his head.
Gwill took Erich's next punch on his arm and countered with a blow
to the chin. Erich, surprised that his victim was fighting back,
retreated, covering his head. A voice called out from the shop as Gwill
moved to pursue.
"What is going on out there?" Taneris recognized Kazakian's heavily
accented voice.
Everyone in the alley froze. Erich was the first to move; he
bolted. Garon managed to push Rhadia off and follow, limping. Gwill and
Rhadia exchanged a glance before running the other way. Able to move
again, Taneris followed them as they sprinted past him up the alley and
onto the cobblestone street.
After several blocks, they stopped to catch their breath and
compose themselves. Gwill patted a spilt lip and checked his mouth for
loose teeth.
When they could all breathe normally again, he asked, "What are you
two doing here?"
Taneris, too embarrassed by his inaction, did not reply. Rhadia
said, "Following you, of course. And what were you doing?"
Instead of answering, Gwill looked at Taneris. "Pretending to
sleep, were you, brwd? I suppose I should be mad, but it seems the two
of you saved my life. Still, Hadrach will be angry that you were out
here."
"Only if we tell him," said Rhadia.
"We have to tell him. If I come back empty-handed, he will want to
know why."
Taneris halted and stared at Gwill. "Wait. He sent you?"
"Yes. And I know what you are going to say. How could I steal from
the scribe when he isn't a thief?"
"Do no wrong unless wrong is done first," Taneris quoted the Rhydd
Pobl credo.
"I wasn't going to rob him. Hadrach suspected that the scribe had a
copy of the Crimson Book, since he reacted so strongly. I was going to
see if the book was there, and leave fair payment if it was."
"That's stretching the rules a bit, isn't it?" asked Rhadia. "We
don't know what the book is worth to him, do we?"
"I wasn't about to wake him up and ask him." Gwill said with a
shrug. "Let's get back to the inn. We need to talk to Hadrach."
As they continued down the street, something still puzzled Taneris.
"I do have one question. If Hadrach sent you, why did you go out the
window instead of through the common room?"
Gwill looked down at Taneris smiling and simply shrugged. Taneris
laughed. Grown as he was, Gwill had apparently not lost his sense of
mischief.
Hadrach was initially furious with Taneris and Rhadia for following
Gwill, but once he learned that they had saved Gwill's life, he seemed
mollified. After they told their story, he began asking questions.
"These men knew you were a gypsy?"
"Yes," replied Gwill. "I think they were waiting there for me. They
knew one of us had been to the shop earlier that day."
"Did you recognize either of them?"
"No." Gwill shook his head.
"What about you two?" Hadrach asked Taneris and Rhadia. "Could they
have followed you from the inn?"
"I don't think so," Taneris answered. "We were following Gwill, so
we would have seen them. If they had been behind us, they couldn't have
made it to the opposite end of the alley in time." He waited for Hadrach
to find fault in his logic, but the old trader just nodded.
"Perhaps the scribe told them to expect us," offered Gwill.
"No," said Taneris before Hadrach could reply. "That was the
scribe's voice from the window while you -- during the fight," he
finished lamely, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he had
frozen.
Hadrach nodded. "If not the scribe then who? Someone must have
known that we were at Kazakian's home." He looked squarely at Taneris.
"Are you quite sure no one was following us this afternoon?"
"Y-yes," stammered Taneris, feeling his palms begin to sweat. "At
least, I'm pretty sure. It was hard for me to see over the crowd, but I
looked for everything you told me: someone stopping when we did or the
same person crossing back and forth in front of the shop. I didn't see
any of that. Just --" he stopped, his cheeks flushed, remembering the
two boys.
"Just what?" prompted Hadrach.
"Nothing. It was nothing." He couldn't bear the thought of telling
this in front of Rhadia.
"Out with it, Tanner." Hadrach crossed his arms and waited,
scowling.
Taneris folded under the old man's scrutiny. "There were these two
boys. They ... they made fun of me." He looked at his feet.
"Describe them to me."
"They were ..." Taneris paused, struggling for words, "peasant
children, I guess. Their faces were dirty, and their clothes were
ragged. They were about my size."
Hadrach sighed. "Shadow boys," he said. "I should have expected
it."
"Shadow boys?" prompted Gwill.
"The street children of Dargon. They run errands. Give tours. Steal
things." He sighed again and added, "Follow people. Especially foolish
old gypsies. I've been so long away from Dargon, I'd forgotten them." He
clapped Taneris on the shoulder. "It's not entirely your fault, Tanner.
I should have warned you about them. It's easy to disregard children."
Despite Hadrach's admission, Taneris felt a lump rise in his throat. He
had almost cost Gwill his life.
"Now," said Hadrach to all three of his charges, "we need to get
some rest. Rhadia, pack up your room. You're bunking with me tonight.
Everyone keep your knives handy."
There was a message waiting for Hadrach in the morning. It had
arrived at the Inn of the Panther addressed to Evrin Balish. The gypsies
gathered in Hadrach's room again as he examined the note. It read,
"Master Balish, I have located a copy of the tome you are seeking.
Please enquire with Master Tyrus Vage, at his shop on Murson Street." It
was signed "Genarvus Kazakian".
They descended the stairs to the common room and occupied a table.
A tired looking serving-girl brought them porridge and honey cakes. They
ate in silence while Hadrach stared at the note and brooded. Their
previous breakfasts had been filled with cheerful discussion of the
day's planned activities, and which of the three would accompany Hadrach
to the next scribe or scholar. Despite the seriousness of their mission
and Taneris' misgivings about the city, the younger gypsies had been
enjoying their time in Dargon. The events of the previous night had
changed that. The silence continued as they awaited Hadrach's decision
on who would attend him this day.
Taneris was certain that Hadrach would choose Gwill or Rhadia. His
own failure the previous day would no doubt have lessened Hadrach's
trust in him.
The old man looked up and answered the unspoken question. "All of
us are going."
"All?" Gwill looked surprised. Hadrach had never taken more than
one of them with him.
"We need to stay together. After last night, it is certain that the
Bloody Hand knows we are here. This is their territory, not ours. As we
move unseen on secret trails, so they can make their way through the
city undetected by us." Hadrach gestured, indicating the other patrons
scattered about the inn's common room. "Any one of them could be part of
the Bloody Hand, and we will never know until they strike. If Kazakian
is right, and Tyrus Vage has the book, we can end this business today
and be gone from the city before nightfall. I won't risk losing any of
you before then. Your concern is valid, though, Gwill. We don't want to
look like a band of gypsies." This elicited a tense laugh from the
younger Rhydd Pobl. "Tanner and I will enter first. You and Rhadia will
follow a few menes later."
Taneris felt a wave of jealousy at the thought of these
arrangements. Of course Gwill would be the one to accompany Rhadia. He
could easily pass for her husband, or lover. Taneris was once again
relegated to the role of a child. He was so lost in his own bitter
thoughts that he almost missed Hadrach's next comment.
"We all go armed. Take your knives, but keep them hidden. I don't
want to alarm this Tyrus Vage, but we need to be alert for another
attack by the Bloody Hand. I doubt they will move against us in
daylight, but we must be prepared for it."
The hilt of the knife rubbing against his calf did little to
reassure Taneris as he walked beside Hadrach. All of the Rhydd Pobl
learned to fight with knives through a camp game known as cylel chware.
They would leap and whirl about with knives of hardened leather,
engaging each other in battle. When one player stuck another in a vital
location, the victim would scream in mock agony and fall to the ground,
out of the game for that round. If the Bloody Hand attacked, though,
there would be no getting up for the next round.
Trying to avoid these dark thoughts, Taneris thought back to the
strange little shopkeeper, Genarvus Kazakian. He remembered the scribe's
odd accent, his habit of talking with his hands, and the way he peppered
words from his own language as he spoke. Taneris remembered Kazakian's
change in demeanor when Hadrach had mentioned the dark gods: his abrupt
yet somehow polite dismissal. Something about that conversation worried
at his mind, like a rat gnawing at a sack of grain. He tried to grasp
the thought, but it eluded him.
"Here we are," Hadrach said, interrupting Taneris' train of
thought. They stopped in front of a shop with a small sign by the door.
He managed a quick glance back up the street as Hadrach led him inside,
and wished that he had not; a short distance behind, Gwill and Rhadia
walked together, hand in hand.
The interior of the shop was a disordered mess unlike any shop they
had visited in Dargon. Instead of scrolls and pots of ink, the tables in
this shop were piled high with a variety of trade goods: clay bowls,
bolts of cloth, cooking implements, candles, and dried spices bound in
small cloth bags. The puzzled look on Hadrach's face echoed Taneris' own
thoughts: had they come to the wrong place?
Two customers looked over the items on the tables. One, a matron of
middle years, wore an expression that suggested she smelled something
foul. The other was a young man with stooped shoulders and a slight
paunch. Near the door, a clerk wearing an apron swept together a pile of
dust. A tall man with weathered skin and a dark, well-trimmed beard
surveyed it all: a king in his own tiny realm.
He addressed Hadrach. "May I help you, sir?"
The ever garrulous trader seemed at a loss for words as he scanned
the cluttered shop, and could only stammer in reply, "I, um, that is
..."
The tall man appeared struck by an idea, and stepped toward
Hadrach. "You must be the fellow that Kazakian mentioned to me. Master,
ah, Balish, was it?" he asked with a smile.
Hadrach returned a hesitant smile, still looking a bit puzzled.
"Yes, I'm Evrin Balish. You must be master Vage?"
"Tyrus Vage, at your service," the man replied, extending his hand.
"You look confused, master Balish. You were no doubt expecting to find
scrolls, maps, quills, and ink on display. Writing is not my business,
but books are my hobby. It is an expensive pastime, but trade has been
good to me, and I can afford to indulge myself upon occasion."
Hadrach grinned then, clasped Vage's extended hand, and pumped it
vigorously. "I see, master Vage. You will have to forgive my confusion.
Always happy to meet a fellow scholar ..."
Taneris stepped away. He knew that he was supposed to learn by
watching Hadrach, but he was too distracted by the image of Rhadia's
hand in Gwill's. He knew that it was part of their act; a young married
couple would be expected to hold hands. Even if it wasn't, he knew
Rhadia didn't want him. Why should he be angry if she wanted Gwill
instead? He thrust the thought aside, only to return to his elusive
thought about Kazakian. The rat was back, still gnawing patiently at the
back of his mind. He concentrated, trying to remember every detail of
Hadrach's meeting with the scribe.
The door to the shop opened, interrupting Taneris' thoughts again.
Gwill entered and held the door open for Rhadia. Her fingers lightly
brushed Gwill's broad chest as she walked in past him. Taneris felt his
face redden and jerked his gaze away. He picked up a cooking pot from a
cluttered table and pretended to inspect it.
Tyrus Vage raised his voice to greet the newcomers. "Good morn to
you. I will be with you as soon as I can. Please feel free to look
about." He gestured broadly, indicating the expanse of his domain.
Taneris put the cook-pot down and tried to focus on Hadrach's
discussion with Vage again -- anything to keep his attention away from
Gwill and Rhadia. Vage put his hand on Hadrach's shoulder and gestured
toward a curtain-covered doorway at the rear of the shop.
"I brought a few of my books with me today, master Balish. I put
them in the back, for safekeeping." He turned to look back at the man
with the broom, who nodded as if to say the kingdom would be safe.
"Ah, most excellent. The tome I seek is exceedingly rare, or at
least it has proven most difficult for me to locate." The old trader
spread his hands, indicating helplessness, and laughed.
Tyrus Vage pulled the curtain aside, allowing Hadrach to enter
before him. "Yes," he said, "but I believe I can help you. Master
Kazakian mentioned that you were looking for a copy of the Crimson Book
of Sageeza."
Taneris' eyes widened in surprise as he finally grasped the elusive
memory. It wasn't a detail from Hadrach's discussion with Kazakian; it
was something missing from the conversation. Hadrach had never mentioned
the Crimson Book to the scribe! Taneris' thoughts raced. He had to alert
the others, but his tongue seemed glued to the top of his mouth.
He could only watch as Hadrach, perhaps also sensing something
awry, stopped in the doorway and turned back to look at Vage, once again
wearing a puzzled look. Vage grinned at him, but it was a cold grin,
devoid of friendship. "So, you seek to learn about the Bloody Hand,
master gypsy? There is but one thing you need to know: we are
everywhere."
Taneris managed to free his tongue and shout "It's a trap!" only
after it had become obvious to all concerned. He watched as Hadrach went
for his knife, but the old man's hand never reached it. Someone lurking
in the back beside the doorway chose that moment to attack. The gypsy
trader's head rocked forward with a sickening crunch and he collapsed
onto Vage, who pushed him away with disgust.
The aproned man used his broom to bar the door, and advanced on
Gwill and Rhadia with a knife. The matron, suddenly transformed into a
shrieking harridan, closed on the two gypsies from the other direction.
Taneris heard a sound behind him, and turned in time to see the
stoop-shouldered man swinging a heavy wooden cudgel toward his head. He
ducked, but only managed to turn the attack into a glancing blow. His
vision went black, and his knees went out from under him.
Taneris heard the sounds of a scuffle as he lay on the floor. When
his vision cleared he saw Gwill and Rhadia, knives drawn, fighting back
to back between two of the tables. The clerk and the former customers
had them surrounded, but the two Rhydd Pobl were keeping the members of
the Bloody Hand at bay.
"Get out here," barked Vage into the back room. "Finish this."
Taneris watched as two more men emerged from the back of the shop.
He recognized them. The first was Erich, from the night before, who held
a large axe in his hands. The other was Erich's friend Garon: the one
with the limp. He held a mace; it had blood and hair stuck to one side
of it.
Taneris' head spun from the blow he had received. He willed himself
to stand, but his limbs were cold, leaden. All he could do was watch
from his position on the floor, helpless, unable to draw his knife and
join the fight.
With the odds now five to two, Gwill and Rhadia were hard pressed.
Gwill made a move of desperation, taking the cudgel on his arm in order
to close with the wielder. The man went down clutching at his throat,
blood pouring between his fingers. The clerk grabbed Gwill's knife arm,
but Gwill jerked his hand free, giving the man a gash across the forearm
in the process while ducking a blow from the matron. The delay had been
enough to allow Erich to get behind him. His axe whirled through the
air, striking Gwill between the shoulders. Gwill staggered forward,
dropping to his knees. His knife fell to the floor as his fingers
twitched. Erich reversed his swing, burying his weapon in the young
gypsy's chest.
Rhadia gasped in pain. Taneris looked in time to see her collapse
to the floor, arms wrapped around her midsection. Above her stood Garon,
holding his mace.
Taneris cursed his inability to move. He closed his eyes, unwilling
to watch the end of the fight. He waited for death.
"Hold!" he heard Tyrus Vage say. "Don't kill her. I know some
foreign gentlemen who might be interested in her. Let us see how this
gypsy scum enjoys life as a slave."
One of the other Bloody Hand spoke. Taneris thought it sounded like
Erich. "Branit's dead, Tyrus."
"What of it?" Vage replied. "If he was such a weakling that a gypsy
boy slit his throat, he wasn't a fitting member of the Bloody Hand to
begin with. We can't wipe this filth from Makdiar if we're weak,
straight? Now, take down that sign outside and lock the door. We'll take
the girl with us. You two fetch the wagon. I want everything cleared out
by the fourth bell."
Taneris heard the sounds of Rhadia struggling as she was lifted.
They were silenced by the sound of a sharp blow. He waited for one of
the Bloody Hand to notice him. He hoped that he could find the strength
to move when one of them got close. If he could fight hard enough, they
might have to kill him. He thought he would prefer that to Rhadia's
fate.
He heard the front door open and close. A moment later a door
slammed in the back of the shop. Taneris forced himself to open his
eyes. The cultists were gone.
Taneris reached a sitting position before he realized that he could
move again. He stood on shaky legs and drew his knife, aware of the
futility of the gesture. The fight was over.
Taneris looked toward the back of the shop. He was alone for the
moment, but he knew at least some of the killers would return soon to
carry out Vage's orders. He had neither the time nor the means to take
his murdered family with him, so that he might put them to rest
properly, but he decided that he could take a moment to say farewell.
He walked to where Gwill lay in a crumpled heap, his chest torn
open by Erich's axe. Taneris touched his brwd's face, remembering the
friendship they had shared as children, but also aware that the last
thing he had felt about Gwill was bitter jealousy.
"Gwill, I'm so sorry I wasn't able to help you. I was hit in the
head, I couldn't move ..."
An icy hand gripped Taneris' stomach as he realized the truth of
it. He hadn't been paralyzed by the blow to his head. He'd been able to
stand well enough once Vage and his thugs were gone. He'd been paralyzed
by fear, the same fear that had held him motionless in the alley the
night before. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he buried his hands in
his face. His weakness had cost his family their lives.
Fighting back a sob, Taneris turned to Hadrach's still form. The
old man was on his side, and Taneris could see that the back of his head
had been crushed by the mace. He stood next to the body, looking down.
"What should I do, murntedd?" he said through his tears. Hadrach
was no longer able to guide him. No one could. He would have to make his
own decisions now. He felt a lump form in his throat as his resolve
stiffened. He was the only Rhydd Pobl in Dargon besides Rhadia. He would
have to rescue her, or die in the attempt, but how could he begin?
A noise from the street startled him out of his thoughts. He
realized that his enemies could return at any moment; he had to flee for
now and gather his thoughts. Before he left, he bent over Hadrach's
still form and drew the note from the old man's vest pocket. With a
final glance at the blood-spattered room, he slipped out the front door
and joined the morning traffic on Murson Street with thoughts of rescue
and vengeance flowing through his mind.
========================================================================
Hidden Talents
Part 1
by Carlo Samson and Rena Deutsch
<Rena3@hotmail.com>
Yule 24, 1018
"Allara! Wake up, girl!" My father's voice reached into my dreams
and finally awakened me. I stretched, rubbed my eyes, and slowly sat up
in my small bed. Father looked down at me and continued, "I need your
help this morning to copy the invitations for the Founding Day ball. We
need to get them to the pigeon keeper to send out."
I nodded sleepily and murmured, "Yes, Father." Inwardly, I heaved a
great sigh at the task ahead of me. I hated sitting down, making copies
of notes. I would rather strive through the woods and hunt, but my
father still made me stay inside as much as possible so I wouldn't be
seen.
"Get dressed, have your breakfast, then come to the workroom. Don't
waste time!" With a sharp nod, he turned and quickly departed. I sighed
again, and then pushed myself up and out of bed.
For years Father had kept my existence a secret. No one knew that
fifteen years ago, he had dallied with the maidservant of one of
Dargon's minor nobles. My mother had always claimed that I was the child
of a traveler who had been passing through the city; but then last year,
just before she died, she revealed that I was in fact the daughter of
Rish Vogel, the Royal Chronicler of Duke Dargon. She had given me a
letter and told me to seek his refuge
"Good morning, Allara!" the cook sang as I entered the kitchen a
short while later. I returned her greeting and sat at the large wooden
table in the center of the room. The other servants were busy preparing
breakfast for the keep's residents; I helped myself to some bread,
cheese, and milk. These days, nearly everyone knew who I was, although
at first Father had attempted to pass me off as his niece. The truth
soon became known, of course, and sometimes he seemed to resent my
presence in his life. Even so, he tried to find something useful for me
to do. He taught me to read and write; I'd been an apt student, learning
quickly, and since my handwriting was to his liking he had decided that
I could perform menial tasks such as copying notes while he continued to
work on the keep's chronicles.
As I ate, a thin blonde serving girl came through the kitchen with
a basket of clothes. "Morning, Donia!" I called to her. "Any news?"
She turned to me and set the basket on the table, drawing a few
glares from the kitchen servants. "No news, Lara. It's still missing. I
hear the duke's thinking about having every single house in the city
searched, if they don't find it soon. Can you imagine?"
I shook my head. Two days ago, someone had stolen an engraved
silver plate that was to be given as a prize in one of the contests
during the Founding Day ball, just three days from now. The guards had
scoured the keep, but hadn't found it. Everyone, including me and my
father, had been questioned; the room where the plate had been kept
hadn't been broken into, so the suspicion was that someone living in or
working at the keep had to be involved with the theft.
"And do you know what else?" Donia said. "Last night, someone stole
a pigeon from the weir!"
"Another theft?" I replied, surprised. Wasn't anything safe around
here anymore? "Which pigeon was it?"
"The black one, I think. The one they use for the truly important
messages." Donia shook her head. "Old Fadeyko was nearly in tears when
he found out, so I was told."
I knew that Fadeyko was the duke's Royal Pigeon Keeper, the man
responsible for overseeing the keep's messenger pigeon weir. He was very
protective of his birds, and some said he treated them like his own
children. The black pigeon was the fastest of the keep's messengers, and
was the pigeon keeper's favorite. Small wonder that he should be so
upset over its theft.
"The guards will probably be around again, asking questions," Donia
continued, blowing a strand of hair away from her face. "I'd better
get
working." She picked up the basket of clothes, and I waved to her as she
headed to the door that led out into the courtyard.
After finishing my meal, I halfheartedly made my way through the
halls of the keep to my father's workroom. He would no doubt scold me if
I took too long to get there, but I was thinking about the two thefts
and whether there was any connection between them. Had they been the
work of the same thief? If so, was it someone here at the keep? I cast
long looks at the people I passed in the halls, trying to detect any
hint of guilt in their eyes.
When I got to the workroom, my father was seated behind his
parchment-covered desk. He curtly acknowledged my arrival and told me
that the invitation I was to make copies of was on my table. I started
to tell him about the theft of the messenger pigeon, but he interrupted
me and said that he had already heard the news. "The duke still plans to
hold the ball," he snapped, "and there are still plenty of birds left to
carry the invitations!"
"Yes, Father," I said, yielding my attempt to talk to him. I
carefully stepped past his desk so as not to disturb any of the papers
that stuck out over the edge of his desk.
It took most of the morning for me to copy the words of the
invitation onto the small squares of parchment that the pigeons would
carry to the messenger houses located in various parts of the city.
Couriers would then deliver the notes to their intended recipients, in
this case the nobles and wealthy citizens of Dargon. After Father had
examined each note, he grunted in satisfaction and waved me away to take
the lot of them to the pigeon keeper.
The sun was bright in the sky as I crossed the courtyard to the
section of the keep where the pigeon weir was located. At the top of the
stairs I was stopped by one of Fadeyko's assistants, but the man let me
pass when he saw who I was. The pigeon keeper himself was there, bent
over a table and peering closely at something in his hands. I called out
his name, and he turned and smiled broadly. This was another surprise,
since Donia had told me about his distress over the loss of his favorite
bird. Then I saw what he was holding: it was the black pigeon!
"Ah, Allara!" Fadeyko said, holding up the bird. "Come see, come
see!"
"Is that the bird that was stolen?" I asked, going over to him.
"Yes, yes he is!" the old man cried happily. He planted a kiss on
the bird's head. The pigeon blinked and tried to flutter its wings. "He
fly back home, just right now. And look -- he come back with a message!"
Fadeyko pointed to the bird's right leg, around which was curled a
little scroll of parchment, tied in place with a few loops of thread. He
asked me to remove the message; after I had done so, he placed the bird
in a cage with several other pigeons. Then he took the message from me,
unrolled it, and squinted hard at the tiny letters.
"What does it say?" I asked. The pigeon keeper said nothing, but
moved the little scroll closer to his face.
"I'm thinking it's an important message," he finally said.
"But who sent it? The person who stole the pigeon?"
"Could be," he replied, looking at me. "Could even be the person
who took that silver plate!" He let the message roll up. "I better show
this to the duke. You have something for me?"
I suddenly remembered the messages in the square leather pouch that
I had around my neck. "Yes, they're the invitations to the ball." I
pulled out the messages and handed them to him.
Fadeyko thanked me, then told me to run along. "I go show this note
to the duke," he said. "It's for ransoming that plate back, I'm
thinking!" He turned and called to his assistant.
I quickly left the pigeon weir. My father would surely want to know
about this, I was certain, so I ran across the courtyard and hurried
through the keep to his workroom.
"Father! The pigeon is back!" I yelled, bursting into the room. He
was still behind his desk, and my rushed entry had sent several
parchments flying. Father gave me a stern look; ashamed, I bent down,
gathered up the fallen papers and placed them back on the desk.
"What is so important about a pigeon coming back to the keep,
Allara?" He looked at me as if I was stupid. I don't think Father ever
forgave me for being a girl.
"Don't you remember the break-in last night? The pigeon keeper was
all upset because his best messenger pigeon had been stolen. It came
back just now and --"
"That is nothing new," he interrupted me. "Messenger pigeons always
come back when they're released."
"I know that, Father, but this one had a message attached!" For the
first time this morning, he looked at me with a spark of interest in his
eyes.
"What did the message say?" he inquired.
"I don't know, Father. The pigeon keeper is taking it to the duke
right now -- he said it's a ransom note."
"How would he know? He can't read," Father grumbled. "I should go
see the duke." Turning, he handed me his brush. "You can finish copying
this."
"Father!" I called out in disappointment. "I want to know, too!"
"If you must," he said, shrugging his shoulders. I took it as an
invitation to come along. Quickly, I placed the brush in its container
and followed him.
When we entered the keep's audience chamber, Father gestured me to
stay behind. Duke Clifton Dargon sat behind a long table, conferring
with some of his advisors. Father announced himself and pushed aside the
courtiers who were standing in front of the table. The duke looked up
and greeted my father, then handed him the little scroll that he had
been examining. "What do you make of this?"
Father stared at the note for a long time. I began to fidget,
wanting to see the note for myself. A sigh escaped my lips, and at this
Father turned and gave me "the look". I put a hand to my mouth and
shrank back into a corner.
"I think it was one or more of the followers of Arom-Nok who stole
the prize," Father finally said. "I've heard that there is a group of
them in Dargon, trying to conceal themselves. I'm sure Captain Koren can
find them easily and retrieve the plate."
"That was my thinking at first, yes," Clifton Dargon replied,
leaning forward in his chair. "Yet, I feel there is more to this message
than a simple accusation in prayer form."
My father looked at the note again for a long time. The silence in
the room was making me nervous. I could hear horses being led across the
courtyard and the servant girl Donia singing, as she always did when she
hung laundry. Time passed too slowly for my liking. I was concentrating
on my breathing to stop myself from fidgeting again.
"I don't see any secret message here," Father finally declared.
"It's just unbelievers who think that by stealing the prize, they can
prevent the contest from happening."
Some of the courtiers nodded in agreement. Although Founding Day
commemorated the establishment of the Kingdom of Baranur, it was the
custom in Dargon to hold a contest during the traditional evening ball
in which minstrels and musicians performed an original song about the
life of Cephas Stevene.
"Nothing more?" asked the duke.
"No, milord," Father replied. He handed the note back to the duke
then turned to leave, gesturing me to follow. I ignored him and instead
stepped up to the table.
"May I see the note, please?" I asked quietly. Clifton Dargon
looked up. I don't think he had noticed me, judging from the look of
surprise I saw in his face.
"You're Allara, aren't you?" He gave me a brief smile.
"Yes, milord!" I replied, looking directly into his eyes to avoid
having to see the stump of his left arm.
"So you think you'll have better luck than your father, eh?" He
held out the note in his right hand. I was about to take it when I felt
my father's fingers clamp into my shoulder. I could barely contain a
scream. Not only had he taken me by surprise, but his grip hurt.
"You," he hissed angrily, "were supposed to follow me out!" Father
looked at the duke. "I apologize for my daughter's insolence. I will
make sure she learns her place."
The duke pursed his lips, then gave the note to my father. "Why
don't you have her make a copy? I'll have one of my men take it to
Captain Koren."
"As you wish, milord," Father said quietly, his right hand clamping
down harder on my shoulder, his left hand holding the note. He turned me
around and walked me out of the room ahead of him. I bit down on my lip
to prevent myself from crying.
Back in the workroom, Father gave me a long lecture about
obedience. He then said he had some matters to attend to and would be
gone for a little while, and warned me not to leave until he returned.
When he left, I let out a giggle; I now had the note in front of me and
could take all the time I wanted to study it! Dipping a brush into a pot
of ink, I began to copy the strange text onto a larger piece of
parchment.
Cephas Stevene protect
And save me from the
Unholy men who have
Stolen the prize.
Evil will never prevail
When your light shines
And good men walk in
Your holy path.
As soon as I was done, I read the words over again several times.
After perhaps the fifth or sixth time, something about the verse seemed
to leap out at me, and I felt a burst of inspiration. With a growing
sense of excitement, I realized that if I was right, I knew exactly
where to find the stolen silver plate!
A knock at the door startled me; it was the man the duke had
assigned to bring the copy of the note to Captain Koren, leader of the
town guards. The duke's man was actually a youth, and looked to be only
a few years older than myself. He shuffled into the room, not looking
directly at me, and asked if I had copied the note. He seemed nervous,
and I guessed that he was probably a low-ranking member of the ducal
guard.
I told him that I had some important information for Captain Koren,
and said that I wanted to give the parchment to him in person. I knew I
would be disobeying my father by leaving the keep, but I was willing to
risk his anger if it meant that the plate was found.
The duke's man looked at me uncertainly. "Milord Dargon only said I
had to take the note. Didn't say anything about you."
"Please?" I asked in my sweetest voice. "I truly must see Captain
Koren in person. Won't you take me along?"
He hesitated, so I told him that if there were any trouble about
it, my father would speak to the duke personally. This seemed to satisfy
him, and soon I was riding behind him on horseback through the streets
of the Old City, the parchment safely tucked in a scroll case that I
held tightly in my hand.
Once at the guardhouse, the duke's man helped me down off the horse
and informed the nearest guardsman that we had to see Captain Koren on
the duke's business. In about a mene, we were taken to the captain's
office. Koren himself answered the door and invited us inside, but the
duke's man preferred to wait in the hallway.
I felt a knot of apprehension as I stepped into the room. I had
been rehearsing in my mind what I was going to say to Captain Koren, but
now I saw that he wasn't alone: next to his desk stood a slender woman
dressed in a guardsman's uniform similar to the captain's.
I told him who I was, and explained about the return of the missing
pigeon and its mysterious message as I handed him the scroll case. He
motioned for me to sit in a chair next to the fireplace, then sat down
behind his desk and unrolled the parchment. I waited as he and the woman
looked at the message. When Captain Koren glanced up, I quickly
described to him my idea about where the silver plate was hidden. The
two of them studied the paper again, and after several moments the
captain looked up at the woman and said, "Your thoughts, Lieutenant
Milnor?"
"She could be right," the woman replied. "It's someplace we hadn't
even considered."
Captain Koren nodded. He turned to me and said, "Well, Allara,
thank you for bringing this --"
At that moment the door flew open, and my father stormed into the
room. The duke's man was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is -- ah, there you are!" Father cried. I felt a stab of
fear as he came over and grabbed my upper arm.
Captain Koren rose from his chair. "Milord Vogel!" he said in a
firm voice, but Father ignored him and began dragging me to the door.
Lieutenant Milnor came around the desk and blocked his way. She threw
him a hard look, which to my relief made him let go of me. He turned and
addressed Captain Koren.
"I must apologize," Father said in a tight voice, "for my
daughter's behavior. She was to hand over the note to the duke's boy,
not take it to you herself."
"Calm yourself, Vogel," Captain Koren replied. "She was merely
telling us about the message, and where she thought the plate could be
found."
Father frowned deeply. "Was she, now? I must apologize again. I did
not raise her to waste other people's time with her nonsense." At this,
I almost screamed that he wasn't the one who had raised me, but managed
to keep silent.
Captain Koren was about to answer, but Father abruptly said, "We
will be going now." He stared challengingly at Lieutenant Milnor; the
woman returned his gaze, but after a moment she looked over at me and
asked, "Are you all right, Allara?" I nodded weakly, and she stepped out
of my father's way.
As soon as we were outside, Father shook me and demanded to know
why I had left the keep without his permission. He brushed aside my
feeble explanations, and ordered me to get into the wagon that was
waiting by the guard house gates. When I was aboard in the back, Father
climbed into the seat next to the wagon's driver, whom I recognized as
one of the keep's stable workers. I endured another miserable lecture on
obedience as we rode back to the keep. When he was finished, I mustered
up a spark of courage and asked, "What about that man ...?"
Father made a sound of derision. "I sent him back to the keep, and
will see to it that he is punished. What did you think?" My feelings of
misery increased, and it took much effort for me not to start crying.
As punishment, Father had me assist the scullions in scrubbing the
floors of the gong chambers in our section of the keep. It was hard
work, mainly because the stench from the waste-chutes was so foul. One
of the scullions whispered to me a story about how, a few years ago, my
father had lost an important scroll down a waste-chute and had gone into
the sewers to retrieve it. I enjoyed a huge laugh when she told me about
how Father had encountered the gong farmer, an addled old man who lived
in the sewers, and ended up covered in filth.
When Father came for me late in the afternoon, I could barely
stifle my laughter as I recalled the gong farmer story. Father seemed to
sense my amusement; he glanced back at the gong chamber and his face
colored. I could tell that he had forgotten about that little episode,
and that he regretted choosing that form of punishment for me. So I
wasn't entirely surprised when, after the evening meal, he locked me in
my room after first taking away all my candles, leaving me to lay in the
gathering darkness until I fell asleep.
The next morning, Father shook me awake again, but his manner was
different. He wore a somber expression, and hesitated a moment before
telling me to get dressed.
"Is anything the matter?" I asked.
"There is someone here to see you." His voice had a tone of
puzzlement.
When I went out into the main room of our chambers, I stopped in
surprise. It was Lieutenant Milnor, the woman I had met in Captain
Koren's office yesterday.
"Come with me, Allara," she said, a slight smile on her lips.
"Did I do anything wrong?" I asked, my curiosity building.
"Not at all," she replied. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
She said nothing more as we walked through the halls of the keep.
When we reached the corridors that led to the duke's audience chamber,
my heart began beating faster. Upon coming to the double doors of the
chamber, Lieutenant Milnor pushed them open and led me inside. Duke
Clifton Dargon sat behind the long table, Captain Koren by his side.
"Good morning, Allara," the duke said cheerfully. "We have
something here that you might like to see." He nodded to Captain Koren,
who brought something out from behind his back: a large silver plate
inscribed with the symbol of the Stevene.
"You found it!" I gasped, rushing forward. I leaned on the table
and stared at the plate, then suddenly remembered my manners and took a
step back.
Duke Dargon smiled. "Captain Koren tells me that it was you who saw
the true meaning of the message. I'd be interested to hear how you did
it."
I glanced at Captain Koren, then back at Lieutenant Milnor. Hadn't
they told him everything? The duke was looking at me expectantly;
perhaps he just wanted to hear it from me.
"Well, milord," I began, "at first I thought it was some strange
prayer, as you and my father did. But then I noticed that if you read
only the first letter of each sentence, from top to bottom, it spelled
the word 'causeway'. And since the message did mention the stolen prize,
it seemed clear to me that whoever wrote the note was saying that the
plate was hidden somewhere at the causeway."
Koren set the plate gently onto the table and nodded. "I had
Lieutenant Milnor take some men to search the causeway and the area
around it very carefully," he said, and went on to describe how they had
found the plate buried near the base of the stone supports on the north
side of the river.
"If we hadn't been looking," the captain concluded, "we would have
completely passed the spot by. Allara certainly deserves our thanks."
"Indeed she does," said the duke. "You have a very smart daughter
here, Vogel."
I spun around, and saw my father standing in the doorway of the
chamber. He took a few steps forward and gave a stiff bow. "Thank you,
Your Grace."
"Now that we have the prize back," said the duke, "the contest will
go on as planned. But we still don't know who stole it in the first
place, or who stole the pigeon and sent that note, do we?"
Lieutenant Milnor strode forward and said, "We're still trying to
find that out, milord. However ..." She paused and looked at Captain
Koren.
The captain grinned and said, "If Allara would agree to help us,
I'm sure we could answer both questions quite soon." But before I could
reply he continued, "That is, of course, if her father will allow her
to."
"Well, Vogel?" said the duke.
I turned around and saw Father standing awkwardly in the middle of
the chamber. His mouth worked for a moment, then he finally said, "Why,
why certainly, Your Grace."
The duke leaned forward in his chair. "So, Allara, what do you
say?"
I was sure he knew what I would say, but I replied, "I would be
happy to, milord!" I smiled broadly and looked at my father. He avoided
my gaze, but that didn't matter. I wouldn't be scrubbing gong chambers
again, that was for sure.
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