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DargonZine Volume 21 Issue 04
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 21
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4
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DargonZine Distributed: 12/06/08
Volume 21 Number 4 Circulation: 644
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Contents
Editorial Victor Cardoso
Knight of Castigale 3 Dave Fallon Yule 30, 1018
The Game 4 Mark Murray Firil 15 - Naia 20,1018
and Pam Atchley
The Farewell Tour Ornoth Liscomb Seber 1, 1018
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
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DargonZine 21-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright 06 December, 2008 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Jon Evans <thegodling@verizon.net>,
Assistant Editor: John White <john.white@DREXEL.EDU>.
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========================================================================
Editorial
by Victor Cardoso
<godot10012@gmail.com>
The Changeling Known
Hello folks, allow me to introduce myself: my name is Victor Cardoso,
and I'm DargonZine's marketing lead. While I've been known to write a
story here and there, today I'm writing the editorial piece for
DargonZine 21-4, the final issue of the year.
The closing days of 2008 bring with them several important milestones,
both for the ezine and for the country where most of its current writers
live: 1) we are, thankfully, one step closer to the end of the first
decade of the new millenium, getting us past the awkward "aught" years
and well on the road to defining a solid identity to the 21st century;
2) the United States is receiving a change in leadership which will
hopefully allow further healing of this nation following 9/11 and the
series of political decisions and actions which, while attempting to
help protect the American people, mainly resulted in isolating us from
the world community; and 3) the DargonZine publication looks to
celebrate 25 years of existence.
Now, out of those three, the zine's achievement seems somewhat trivial.
And yet, for its members, it's something of a minor miracle. Twenty-five
years is a long time for an organization that started out as a college
student's dream to connect with other science fiction and fantasy
afficianados, reaching out across a computer network that's as far
removed from today's Internet as Ford's Model-T is from the latest
Toyota Prius. With boom and bust cycles of readership and membership,
this little zine has managed to continue, more or less, with its
original purpose intact: to help authors improve their writing skills
through collaboration and contact.
And while DargonZine's continued existence is due as much to one college
kid's stubborn insistence over the years, an important part of its
survival is that it focused on its member authors. That's not an easy
thing to do. Writers tend to be stubborn individuals with a burning
desire to express themselves. And once they become comfortable, it can
be hard to get them to change their ways. If you've never gotten the
chance, peruse the requirements of some publishing houses or small
presses: most still want printed copies of material sent to them.
Double-spaced. In envelopes.
In this age of plasma displays and fuel-cell cars, the idea seems as
anachronistic as a rock band relying solely on acoustics to deliver
their music to the far reaches of a football stadium.
DargonZine began as an experiment that used cutting edge technology to
reach out and unite a disparate and underserved group of people. And
yet, as time went by, its own members grew comfortable with certain
technological aides and refused to move beyond them. Because of that,
the zine lost some of its edge -- some of the excitement that comes with
doing something in a new way that few others do. In 2009, we plan to
change that. If you've followed us over the last 6 months, you've seen
changes in our design, changes in our distribution, and behind the
scenes, there have been changes to our communication and recruitment of
new writers.
Change is coming to DargonZine.
We invite you to become a part of that change. Become a fan of
DargonZine's Facebook page or subscribe to our RSS feed. Perhaps you'd
like to help us out (immensely) by donating to our web-hosting fund,
knowing that you're helping to support an institution that carries the
title of the longest running fantasy ezine on the internet.
And, by the time you read this, our first Kindle issues will be for that
revolutionary device.
2009 will be an amazing year for DargonZine. As we look to reinvent and
reinvigorate ourselves, we invite our readers to help us with the
process. E-mail us at dargon@dargonzine.org if you wish to offer
feedback, suggestions, or even birthday wishes.
We look forward to hearing from you.
========================================================================
Knight of Castigale
Part 3, Sandia's Story
by Dave Fallon
<dfallon23@yahoo.com>
Yule 30, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 16-5
Part 2 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 17-1
The streets of the township that surrounded Castigale Keep were
quiet at night. Though a few taverns kept a light in their windows to
welcome revelers in for ale and companionship, the people were properly
somber in respect to the recent death of Baron Kelleman Castigale's
daughter, Evelain.
Sandia gazed at the silent houses without much emotion as she
walked along next to Sir Maligard DuVania. She had heard rumors of
Evelain's death back in her village a few days ago, but it had always
been a far-and-away affair to her. What lay closer to her heart was both
the death of her mother at the hands of mysterious marauders and then
her forced exile by the other villagers.
Her mother had never been overly popular in Aerberry, and by
extension, few of the villagers cared for Sandia. After the senseless
attack that had razed many of the village's humble buildings, the
village elder had been only too happy to give up care of the girl so
that they wouldn't have another mouth to feed. She resented the elder
and the villagers for their decision, but she hated the knight for
giving them the option by offering to take her.
DuVania gave her another sidelong glace as they walked along.
Annoyed, Sandia met his eyes and glared at him. He looked away, as if
embarrassed. She could not fathom why the knight had taken her, and what
angered her more was that she guessed he couldn't fathom it either.
After leaving the village, the knight had ordered her tied to his saddle
so she could not jump off the horse and escape. He and the villagers had
all ignored her protests and crying. They had ridden for the rest of the
day and stayed in a local noble's house where Sandia had slept in the
barracks surrounded by soldiers. The next day, she hadn't bothered to
complain, knowing that it would do her no good, and so the knight had
allowed her to ride her own horse -- albeit with its bridle tied to his
saddle, so she couldn't ride off. They had ridden all day and into the
night, finally stopping at Castigale Keep, where DuVania had gone to
make a report to the captain of Castigale's guards that he suspected the
marauders were from Gribbane Barony.
Sandia had only heard of Gribbane from stories. She had been told
that Gribbane was a mountainous land to the west, beyond the Darst Range
and in the neighboring duchy of Narragan. She had heard some say that
the people there were demons and the baroness was a wicked temptress who
was jealous of Castigale. Of course, her mother had told her not to
listen to the people -- or rather, to listen to what they're not saying
-- and so she had heard that none of the people who spoke ill of
Gribbane had ever actually been there. A few who had been there years
ago simply said that the land was as just as Castigale was, but harder
to live in: with thin soil, poor for growing crops or feeding livestock.
While Sir Maligard was giving his report, Sandia and one of the
soldiers were sent to the keep kitchen to wait. Two scullions were
working there -- children just a shade younger than her, perhaps ten or
eleven years old. They had told her the prevailing rumor: that Evelain's
death had been the result of an assassination plot by the baroness of
Gribbane.
So now it seemed that the far-and-away affair of Evelain's death
was somehow tied to the death of Sandia's mother and this journey
against her wishes. Her mother had taught her many things, but most
prominently she had said to control one's destiny. "You only need to
lose control of your life once, child," her mother had said. "You let
someone else make a decision for you, and you regret it. Then you'll
never want it to happen again. Learn from me: make your own decisions in
life or you'll live like a string puppet at a festival." Sandia hadn't
understood her mother's words then, but she did now.
As they walked through the streets, Sandia thought of her mother.
She had loved her, and she missed her now, but she knew their
relationship had been different than the relationship between most
mothers and their children. Her mother had been aloof to her, almost
cold at times, and always teaching and training and drilling her. She
had tirelessly manipulated the other people of the village, finding ways
to wheedle coins and food from them, playing one against the other,
making enemies here but allies there. If her mother were here now, she
would not hug and comfort her daughter, but would say, "What have you
learned from this? How can you control this?" Still, Sandia would have
given anything for that harsh love against this unknown fate she had
acquired.
She was thinking of this when the knight stopped and turned towards
one of the houses. They had walked from the main gate of the keep and
around its outer wall to a street filled with houses much larger than
most of those in the town. And of those houses, the one at which they
stood was the largest, standing three stories tall with high, vaulting
rooftops that looked like mountains to Sandia. There was a high wall
around the house and yard, mostly covered with ivy, and an imposing
looking gate made of black iron and wood. The knight stood at the gate
for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts and courage, then pushed it
open. They walked through the darkened yard to the main door of the
house which DuVaina pounded on. For several moments, nothing happened
and Sandia looked up at the knight quizzically. He had a particular
expression on his round face that she had seen before when he had tied
her in his saddle: one of stubbornness. Without looking at her, he
knocked again.
They waited after the sound had echoed through the home for several
moments until the door was opened by an old man in a mauve vest. "Yes,
what --?" he said, then stopped, his eyes widening. "My lord," he said,
more respectfully. "We had not expected you to return so soon."
He opened the door fully and stepped aside, then closed it with a
boom when they had entered. "I'll have the cook fetch food for you, if
you are hungry," the man was saying as he hurriedly lit several candles.
"Let me have your bedclothes set out. And a suit for tomorrow morning, I
presume?" He spoke in a panicked rush as he took DuVania's bags and
dashed off.
The room Sandia stepped into was larger than her whole home had
been. It was filled with curious antiques on shelves, including an
ornately carved sword, a cloth with the crest of a swan beneath a
crescent moon, and a jeweled helm. All of the walls around the room were
filled with doors, and in the center a grand staircase led up to a
balcony on the second floor.
After the butler had disappeared into one of the doorways, DuVania
and Sandia were alone for nearly half a mene. Then, servants began to
fill the room, many of them with hair a mess as if they had just woken
up. They curtsied or bowed to the knight and welcomed him back. A moment
later the butler appeared again. "All is arranged, sir. Welcome back to
DuVania manor!"
"Have a guest room set up for Sandia," DuVania said with a nod to
her. She realized she had been gaping at the display and quickly closed
her mouth with a scowl. "And bring her food and drink if she desires it.
We've had a long ride."
The man looked Sandia up and down with a slight frown. She returned
his look darkly. He reached for her hand as if to lead her away and she
pulled back. He looked defensively at DuVaina, but the knight was busy
asking another servant, "Is my wife awake?"
The voice that answered him came from above and boomed through the
room like the voice of god. "She is."
DuVania and Sandia looked up in unison, but the servant quickly
lowered her eyes. On the balcony, wrapped in a pink shawl, stood an
older woman, a scowl of deep displeasure on her slightly plump face. "So
the errant knight returns in much the same manner as he left."
DuVania sighed and began climbing the stairs. "Friana," he said. "I
had hoped not to disturb your rest." The servants scattered under the
woman's gaze like frightened forest animals. The butler grabbed Sandia's
hand quickly. He led her stumbling down a dark hall and then up a
staircase where she stubbed her bare toes several times. She could hear
the knight and his wife talking loudly even across the house. The butler
did his best to talk to her over them as he lit the room's few candles,
"Well, young madam, would you care for anything to eat?"
"No," she said defiantly.
If the butler was offended, he didn't show it. "I will send a maid
up in a few menes to see to you. I've much to do. If you'll excuse me?"
And without waiting for her answer or giving any clue that he cared what
it would be, he turned and disappeared out the door.
Sandia looked around a room finer than any she had ever imagined. A
bed with a straw mattress filled one corner, and a table with a large
bowl filled another. There was a tall window against one wall opposite
the door she had entered. Fancy sconces with candles in iron holders lit
the room against the dark of night.
She could still hear DuVania and his wife talking, their voices
raised in argument. Curious, she stepped out of the room and into the
dark hall to hear better. The voices came from around a corner.
DuVania's wife was saying, "All of my sisters have homes larger than
this, Maligard. All of them. I'm the laugh of the family. They said to
marry a noble; they said to marry a man from a rich family."
Sandia walked down the hall in the direction of the voices. She saw
an open doorway roughly at the top of the stairs. The voice of DuVania's
wife bellowed from within the room. "But I married the dashing knight
with no family, not even a *name* that anyone knew!" Sandia reached the
edge of the doorway and peeked in. DuVania faced his enraged wife with
his back to the door as she poked him in the chest and shouted in his
face. "I gave you a name! I gave you a family and a home and some
*dignity*! And you just keep running off to sleep in tents with soldiers
and commoners and horses. I'd think you'd rather live in the stable."
DuVania grabbed his wife's wrists roughly. Sandia could hear him
snarl in anger and for a moment she thought he would hit the woman. Her
chin was tilted upwards at an angle as if she dared that abuse, her blue
eyes flashed angrily and she did not turn away from him. Sandia suddenly
wondered what her mother would do in that situation. She had never known
her father, and her mother had never spoken of him, but Sandia was
fascinated by this argument as if she were watching a piece of her own
history.
The woman twisted out of DuVania's grip with a grace that belied
her girth. She paced across the room, her steps short and heavy, as if
trying to trample her frustration underfoot. Finally, when she reached
the opposite wall of the room and stood framed by the huge window
between flowing white silk curtains, she spun around again. "So tell me,
dashing knight, why you've returned at this bell if not to wake me and
throw my servants into an uproar."
"There's no uproar necessary, Friana," DuVania said. "Every bloody
servant in the place doesn't have to come out just because I've come
home."
Friana threw up her hands. "Just what do you expect them to do?"
she asked. "Ignore you? You are the lord of this house, Maligard. My
father granted you holdings when you married me; the baron of Castigale
granted you this house to settle in this forsaken wasteland of a barony.
All this you've received, and you have no respect for your duties
towards it! Servants have a place, and that place is to greet their lord
every time he returns. They are here for you! Do you want them to treat
you like a guest in your own house?"
"I have other duties, wife!" DuVania's voice was finally raised in
open shout. "I am a knight! I was a knight when you met me, and I am a
knight still. This is what I've always been and all I've ever wanted to
be. All this noble rot is yours, not mine. Your father and Baron
Castigale may have granted this house to me, but when I'm here I *feel*
like a guest."
"Fine," Friana DuVania said. "Then if we are agreed that you are a
guest in this house, I will have a guest room set up for you, for I
won't have you sleeping in here."
"Fine." DuVania's posture looked stern and final, but the word had
come out sounding more weary and relieved than anything else. "I'm
leaving on the morrow anyway --"
"And while we are on the subject of guest rooms," his wife said,
"may I ask why you've decided to install a peasant in one of them? Is it
not rustic enough here without you bringing farmer's children to live
with us?"
"She is my ward," DuVania said. With a start, Sandia realized they
were talking about her. The illusion that this was her mother and
unknown father arguing shattered, leaving her feeling lonely rather than
angry.
"Then I expect she'll be leaving with you tomorrow?" the woman
Friana asked.
"No. I have to go alone. She will stay here until I return."
"What?" she screeched. "You pick up some orphaned peasant girl and
bring her back, then you dump her on me while you gallivant off to herd
sheep or whatever it is knights do in this backwater squandry. I won't
have it, Maligard! I won't! You take that trash from my home or I'll
toss her on her ear the moment you leave."
Her fury seemed to surprise the knight, but he stood his ground.
"You'll do nothing of the sort, Friana!" he shouted. "The choice to take
her as my ward is my own. I'll be back in four fortnights to retrieve
her and then you'll never see her again."
For her own part, Sandia felt a strange detachment from this
argument over her fate. She didn't like being called trash, but she
could no longer summon any anger at the situation. Decisions on her life
were being made by others, and she knew her mother had been right. She
would rue whatever they decided, whether she stayed here or was left in
the streets or journeyed with the knight, it was all the same.
"This is outrageous; shameful!" The woman was screaming in near
hysteria. "Of all the madness I've endured as your wife, this is by far
the worst. Take that creature from my home or so help me --"
Sandia had had enough. Stepping forward into the light, she said,
"I'm not a creature," in a small but firm voice. She could not control
what they decided, so she would not shout, but she would make herself
heard.
The two adults fell silent as Maligard turned away from his wife to
look at Sandia standing in the doorway. The surprised woman stared at
her for a moment. Sandia met her eyes without flinching.
Finally, DuVania's wife spoke to her husband in a much quieter
voice, "And what of your own child, Maligard? What of the daughter you
haven't seen in months? Have you forgotten her and just procured a
peasant as substitute?"
DuVania sighed. "Go to bed now, Sandia," he said with his back
still to his wife. She looked defiant for a moment but he said, "Go,"
again more firmly and she walked reluctantly down the hall.
A young woman in a plain dress, whom Sandia took to be the maid
that the butler had promised to send, was waiting at the corner of the
hall with a candle. She reached for Sandia's hand but the girl shied
away. "Be at your own, then, girl," the maid said with a shrug. Her
voice was rough despite her youth. She led the way back down the hall to
Sandia's guest room. "That was right foolish, interrupting the lady of
the house like that. You'll learn better in days to come."
Sandia ignored the woman, straining to hear the rest of the
conversation now that they were speaking rather than shouting. She could
hear DuVania say, "Where is Emegrie?"
There was a moment's pause before his wife answered. "She is
staying over in the keep with other noble children from the area. Tutors
there instruct them in court manners." Her voice rose slightly. "It was
Dagny's idea since there aren't enough knowledgeable people in this
region to supply each child with her own tutor."
"Give her my love, then," DuVania said. "I won't be able to seek
her out in the morning, there won't be time; hopefully I'll see her more
during the winter months."
"So that is it, then? So you go and find yourself a peasant to
carry your sword, then you leave her here under my foot while you
abandon your true daughter completely." Her voice rose again with anger.
"I'll return in two months," DuVania said forcefully. "No one is
being abandoned, Friana. During that time, I'm sure my daughter will
fare just as well as she has during the past two months. As for Sandia
..." There was a long pause and Sandia wondered if they were now
speaking too quietly for her to hear. The maid hummed slightly as she
set out clothes on the bed.
Straining, Sandia heard DuVania's voice like a growl through the
thin walls. "If I return to find you've turned her out or harmed her,"
he said, "I'll spread word of your cruelty across the city. It won't
take long, I assure you, for everyone in the barony to hate your name."
"Scandal," Friana said, her voice also hard to hear. "You wouldn't
dare."
If there was any more to the conversation, Sandia could not hear
it. The maid, with a sardonic glance at the girl, blew out the candles
in the sconce and walked out of the room, closing the heavy door and
bringing utter darkness.
========================================================================
The Game Part 4
by P. Atchley <deepartha@yahoo.com>
and Mark A. Murray and <wv_mark@yahoo.com>
Firil 15 - Naia 20, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 21-1
Part 3 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 21-3
"I just don't see how anyone could find you innocent, Delex," Nusa
told the prisoner. "You had the dead man in your arms, you had his blood
on you, and the knife in your hands. Jande looked as if someone tried to
rip her clothes off."
"I work as a prostitute at the Lucky Lady," Delex said. "I have
women paying me willingly for sex. I've never hurt anyone before. Jande
killed that man, not me."
"Let's go over things one more time," Nusa said. "Tell me again
what happened."
"I was returning from the bath house about the seventh bell of the
day, when I met Vennie -- Vennie is the runner of my long-time client,
Grana Baugar." He glanced at her as he said the word "client" but Nusa
concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression on her face and
motioned him to continue.
"Grana is a merchant. I've never been to her house because, for the
longest time, Eliza Tillipanary, the owner of the Lucky Lady, would not
allow her workers to visit clients' homes.
"Vennie told me that Grana wanted to see me. In the past, she had
always visited me at least once a sennight, but of late, she hadn't come
for about a month. In fact, she had stopped visiting me right about the
time she brought and introduced her friend, a woman named Jande Tes. Her
husband is a gem merchant -- was a gem merchant, I should say. Grana
brought Jande to see me because she had recently been widowed. Anyway,
when Vennie told me Grana wanted to see me, I went with him. He took me
to a house, and a young man opened the door, invited me inside, and left
me to wait in a room. Jande came to see me. I --"
Nusa interrupted, "Jande? I thought you said Grana's runner took
you to her house."
Delex nodded. "That's what I thought too. I still don't know whose
house it is. Jande came into the room and asked me if I would quit the
game of pleasure. When I refused, she asked me to wait a moment and
stepped out of the room. When she came back, she was pushing the young
man who had opened the door to me in front of her; he was desperately
wounded and there was blood everywhere. She shoved him at me, and the
next thing I knew, she had torn her clothes and was screaming.
"Grana came in, and sent off her runner to call the guard. When
they came, they arrested me and brought me here."
There was silence while Nusa thought through his story. It
certainly sounded implausible, but he told the story twice and both
times were the same. Her instinct that had been honed through years of
being a guard came alive, making her wonder why anyone would make up a
story with so many holes. Reluctantly she came to the conclusion she
would have to speak with the others in this little drama, the two women
and the runner, before she could make up her mind to believe or
disbelieve.
She turned to leave.
"Nusa."
She faced him again, and she was close enough to see the minute
tremble in the knuckles that clutched the bars of the small window in
the door to his cell.
"Nusa, do you believe me?" To his credit, his voice was the same
neutral tone as before.
She sighed. She could not lie; she would not lie, even if she
thought he was a despicable creature. "I came prepared to believe your
guilt," she said thoughtfully. "Now I am willing to consider other
options. I have work to do." She turned and went upstairs.
Later that day, Nusa went to the house of Jande Tes, accompanied by
Lieutenant Caisy. He had been waiting for her after she had interviewed
Delexand, and Nusa had recounted all relevant details of the murder.
When she had announced her intention of speaking with both women, he had
agreed to go with her.
They approached the house, which was not very big. It did have two
glass windows on the top floor. The front door was an affair in dark
oak, with a knocker that shone with polish. A rather pale young woman
with dark bags under her eyes answered their knock. She was neatly
dressed, but was obviously poor, for her dress was faded and patched,
and her hair was pulled back and tied with a piece of dirty string.
"Yes, what do you want?" she asked in a pleasant voice.
"We're from the town guard and we want to see Jande Tes," Caisy
answered.
The girl's face paled even more when she heard the word "guard" but
she said with some hard-won composure, "Please to come in and wait." She
led them into a room that had doors that were open to the back yard. The
afternoon sun lit up the room with a brilliant orange glow.
The inside door clacked, and both Nusa and Caisy turned to face the
newcomer. She was relatively tall, with colorful, arresting blue-green
eyes. Her pale hair was pulled back but fell unconfined to her
shoulders, and she wore a plain, dark gown that was buttoned all the way
to her neck. "May I help you?"
Caisy went through his introduction again, and the woman, Jande
Tes, invited them to sit.
"Could you tell us what happened?"
Jande sighed, and her face took on a patently sad expression. "My
friend Grana took me to the Lucky Lady. I've never been to a place like
that, but my husband had died, and I was so lonely. I just ... I knew it
was wrong, but I didn't want to offend Grana. And then afterwards ...
Delex was so nice to me, so kind. I never thought that he would do this
to me." She dropped her face to her hands and began to weep.
Caisy motioned Nusa with his eyes, and she moved to the other
woman. "Don't cry, madam. We don't mean to distress you, but we need to
know, if he is to be punished appropriately."
Caisy nodded and added, "Indeed, madam. You must be brave if he is
to get his due."
Nusa wondered what Caisy really thought of the whole affair. She
felt so sorry for Jande; at least the woman knew what was right and what
was wrong.
Jande lifted her face from her hands and wiped her eyes. "I will
never go back to such a place again," she vowed. "I was well served for
doing something so ..."
"Tell us what happened that day," Caisy encouraged when Jande
paused.
"Actually, it was what happened before that," Jande said with tears
in her voice. "See, I went to the Lucky Lady more than once. Oh, my God
forgive me. I went to a man of pleasure."
Nusa thought she saw Caisy roll his eyes, but wasn't sure. She
said, "Madam, please. We understand how upset this makes you, but you
must tell us what happened so that we can take the right action."
This time, Jande straightened her shoulders and began to speak.
"I'd gone to see Delex before that at the Lady, and the first few times,
he was nice to me. Then he started being mean to me. I didn't know what
to do, so I told Grana about it. She wouldn't believe me!"
She said the last sentence with such a tone of injured surprise
that for the first time, doubt rose in Nusa's mind. She had believed
Jande so far, but for some reason, the dismay in her voice seemed
overdone.
Jande continued, "She said she'd known Delex a long time, longer
than she'd known me, and she simply couldn't believe that Delex would
hurt a woman. So I told her I'd prove it to her." There was a hard tone
in her voice as she spoke the last sentence.
For Nusa, that little, first doubt grew a little as she recognized
hostility among the nameless negative emotions in that voice.
"I borrowed Vennie from Grana and sent him to invite Delex here. I
knew that when he saw me away from the Lady, he wouldn't be able to stop
himself from trying to hurt me. I took precautions, of course. I had my
husband's assistant watch everything from just outside this room. When
Delex came and he saw me, he tried to molest me. And when my assistant
came in and tried to help me, Delex killed him!"
Again, the horror in Jande's voice seemed forced, and tinged with
something stronger. Nusa focused on it for a moment, and it sounded very
much like satisfaction to her. She wanted to hear the other woman speak
about the events again, so that Nusa could hear those emotions again,
but it seemed Jande had finished. So Nusa asked, "Then what happened?"
Jande said softly, "I was all hurt, and my dress was torn. I
screamed and screamed, and then Grana came in. Then she sent for the
guard and they took Delex away."
After a few moments of silence, Caisy asked, "Tell us about your
husband's assistant, madam. Did you know him well?"
"Yes," she said carelessly. "He was my husband's nephew. His
parents died in the Beinison War. He always spent most of his time here,
and after the war, he moved into our house."
"I see. What was his name?" Caisy, it seemed, was very interested
in the victim.
"Boling."
"Boling Tes?" Caisy asked again.
"Yes, yes. And Delex killed him. Delex hurt me." Jande began to
weep. "He will be punished, won't he?"
Caisy motioned to Nusa again, and she soothed the other woman.
"There, there, madam, don't worry. He will be punished."
With that, the two of them took their leave. Once they were on the
streets, Caisy said, as if they were still continuing the same
conversation from inside the house, "Don't you mean: he will be punished
if he's guilty?"
Nusa frowned. "Don't you believe her?"
He glanced at her and did not answer. The chatter of the passersby
seemed unusually loud to her. The late afternoon sun felt pleasantly hot
against her neck. "We should speak with Grana Baugar also," she said
slowly.
Caisy laughed. "There." He pointed to a house close by. They walked
to the next street and knocked on the door.
The interview went differently. For one thing, the two women were
as unalike in appearance as they seemed to be in disposition. Everything
about Grana was brown: her dress, her hair, and her eyes. Grana's eyes
were as arresting in their own way as Jande's had been. Grana's were
large and wide with long eyelashes. Her pupils were dark with rings of
honey that resembled nothing so much as a stone thrown into a pond.
Despite her lack of height, she had a presence that Jande, for all her
beauty, had lacked.
Grana, voice dry and businesslike, confirmed every aspect of
Jande's story. The only time when that aloof voice wavered was when it
first spoke of Jande's accusations. "I couldn't believe what she was
saying." Grana paused as if reliving that conversation, a sad expression
in those beautiful eyes. "I told her that I'd known Delex for a long
time, and I wouldn't believe her without proof. So she asked me to her
house and sent off a runner to get him."
Nusa frowned. She remembered Delexand's words about the runner, so
she asked, "Whose runner did she send?"
"Mine. She doesn't have a runner; she uses any runner in the city."
"What happened after that?" Caisy asked.
Grana continued, "He must have come, for the knocker sounded. I was
waiting in the dining room, and the boy Boling was waiting in the little
alcove outside her drawing room where Delex was. I heard screaming and
when I ran into the drawing room, I found Boling dead in Delex's arms.
Jande's dress was torn and she was bleeding. She was screaming so loudly
I thought it would bring back her husband from the dead. I slapped her
and she stopped. Then I sent Vennie -- that's my runner -- to get the
guard."
"What could you see from the dining room?" Caisy asked.
Grana frowned, her brows drawing together in an expression that
combined surprise with puzzlement. "I had the door ajar so that I could
hear, but I couldn't see into the drawing room."
Nusa had caught on to what Caisy was after, and she asked the next
question. "Could you see the alcove?"
Grana shook her head, still frowning. "Why are you asking?" She
paused briefly.
"We'll be in touch, madam," Caisy stood without answering Grana.
Three days later, the knocker sounded loudly at Jande Tes' house.
It was mid-afternoon and she was alone for the moment. After her
husband's nephew, Boling, had been murdered, she had not employed a
replacement. The cook was not yet returned from the marketplace, and the
parlor maid was gone to the seamstress, Leana Mudge, to pick up a dress
that Jande had commissioned.
She rose from the armchair in her drawing room where she had been
trying in vain to total some receipts, glad of the interruption. She had
never been good with numbers, and she knew that she needed to find an
assistant who was. Her husband had been a gem merchant, and if she were
to maintain her present standard of living, she needed to make sure that
the business stayed successful; her own lack of understanding of both
gems and currency precluded doing that on her own.
The knocker sounded again, and she raised her voice, "I'm coming;
I'm coming."
She flung open the door. There was only one person outside, a man
probably in his thirties, well-built, tall, maybe a hand taller than
her. He wore the ordinary breeches and tunic of a dock worker. He was a
good-looking man with a bald pate, narrow face, pointed chin, muscled
forearms, and slender hips. His hazel eyes bored into her, and as she
gasped in utter shock, he smiled. It was not a pleasant one.
"Well, hello, Jande. Aren't you pleased to see me?" His voice was
deep and low, just the way she remembered. It was his voice that she had
first fallen in love with.
"Invite me in," he said, and put his hands on her waist and pushed
her back gently. Then he stepped inside and kissed her bruisingly. She
responded with equal force, and only when she tasted salt did he release
her. There was red on his lips and she leaned forward to lick it off.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, staring up at him, knowing
that he could see the hunger in her eyes. How could he not recognize it?
It was his job, after all.
He smiled down at her, and for the first time since she had met
him, there was something in his face. No, she corrected herself;
something had gone from his smile. The gentleness with which he had
always regarded her was missing. A thrill of fear ran through her and
she shuddered. His eyes narrowed, the only recognition he gave of her
trembling, and he continued to smile that ugly smile as he turned her
around and pushed her toward the drawing room.
She obediently walked to the room, but turned to face him once she
was inside. He moved his hands to her waist and began caressing her body
a little roughly. She did not stop him.
"What are you doing here?" she asked again, a little breathlessly
this time. His actions were very distracting, for he had untied the
bonds that kept her dress up.
"I am here to do what you want," he murmured, his eyes glittering.
By this time, Jande could barely think. He knew all the secret
places of her body, what she liked, what she loved. "What I want," she
said between harsh breaths, "is for you to leave the Lady and be with me
forever, to do this ..." Her voice was suspended as she drowned in
sensation, all coherent thoughts lost.
"Is that what you really want?" he asked, still watching her with
that unnervingly bright gaze.
Her breath still came harshly, but she could open her eyes now and
maybe think a thought or two. "Yes," she said, between slowing pants. "I
always ask you that, and you always say 'no'. I need you beside me,
Delex. I need what my husband couldn't give me. What he went elsewhere
for. Tell me you love me and I'll tell the guard to let you go."
"The young man is dead," he reminded her, his hands caressing her
gently now. The air in the room was cool against her bare skin, despite
the sun shining through the open doors, and his palms were warm.
"Ah, don't worry," she muttered, throwing her head back, enjoying
the sensation of his fingers gliding all over every bit of exposed skin.
"I will tell them that it was an accident. I will even have the parlor
maid say that you are innocent, that she saw the whole thing."
He bent to kiss her, and this time it was gentle, sensuous. "Did
she see everything?" he asked between gentle nips at her lips.
"No, but she will say what I tell her to." Jande opened her eyes,
looking into his with a smile. "They will all say what I tell them to.
Or they will feel the pain. That stupid husband of mine never understood
the way that you do. Will you come to live by my side?"
"Only if you tell the guard the truth will they release me," he
said. Then he ran his gaze down her mostly unclad body. "You are so
beautiful, Jande. So ... very ... beautiful." He punctuated his last
sentence with a kiss on her lips, then one on each breast. "I will live
with you if you promise to tell me the truth. Always."
She shuddered. "Truth. I promise to tell you the truth."
He kissed her lips again, and his hands wandered, searching to
incite her passions once more. She caught and held his wrists and said,
"Do you know how much I love you? You give me everything that my husband
didn't. What a small thing you ask of me!"
Delex smiled as he rotated his wrists gently. He was holding her
hands rather than the other way around. Then he bent and his mouth
created sensations that made her feel as if she were about to climb out
of her own skin. "Tell me the truth," he growled, lifting his head to
meet her gaze.
Jande opened her eyes, her breath coming fast. "The truth is that I
love you. I love you so much that I would do anything to keep you. I
first came to you because I wanted to get back at my husband for his
visits to another house. Even though he's dead, I wanted that taste of
revenge. He stopped sleeping in my bed. But you, you liked everything we
did. I needed you and you wouldn't leave that stupid house," she
screamed. Her eyes were afire and it was as if another woman had taken
her place. Her face twisted in hatred. "I killed Boling for you and tore
my own clothes so that you would understand what I could do, what pain
you would feel without me!"
He straightened, more out of fear than anything else, all traces of
passion gone from his face and eyes. Then he pulled up her gown, and she
frowned. "What are you doing?" She was back to the loving woman,
pleading with him.
Suddenly the room filled with people, and Jande shrank back,
holding her gown to her bosom. Delex stepped behind her and began lacing
up the ties.
Jande looked around, eyes wild, and she saw Grana Baugar. Behind
Grana were the Town Guard. "What are you doing here?"
"I left the door open so that they could enter behind us," Delex
offered. "You're not the only one who believes in truth, Jande; the
guard does too. So they released me to help you speak the truth."
"We heard you say that you did it all yourself," Grana sounded
shocked.
"Delexand, you are free to go," one of the guards said in a formal
tone. Then he turned to face Jande and said, "By your own admission, you
killed Boling Tes. You will have to come with us, madam."
"Grana," Jande wailed. "Delex, stop them. I only did it because I
love you. You have to stop them."
The female guard -- Jande remembered her name was Nusa -- moved
closer, saying, "Don't cry, madam. You have to come with us now." She
began pushing Jande to the door.
Jande wept loudly as she was led out of the house.
I began to follow them out when someone put a hand on my arm. It
was Grana.
"I'm sorry, Delex," she said, looking up at me. Her eyes were sad
and she looked like I'd felt when she had first refused to believe me:
betrayed.
"It's fine, Grana," I didn't bother to hide the bored tone in my
voice. I couldn't forgive her for her lack of faith in me. Granted, we
had been seller and buyer in the past, but we had known each other for a
long time, and I had been her friend and confidant. She knew me very
well indeed, and her lack of faith in me, her easy belief that I was
capable of doing something so base as violating a woman, had hurt me
beyond measure.
She sighed and turned her eyes away. "I should have trusted you.
I'm sorry I didn't. It's just that Jande told me that she would prove
it. You should have heard her --"
"How could you believe that I would do something like that?" I
asked, unable to stop the bitterness within me. "You've known me for a
very long time, Grana. I almost thought you were my friend."
Grana barely waited for my sentence to be completed. "I am your
friend. Why do you think I am here? The first day when those two guards
came by to talk to me, I guessed that they were suspicious of her, or at
least Lieutenant Caisy was. Who do you think convinced them to agree to
this trap? The guard may believe in the truth, but do you think they
would have released you to come here if I hadn't come up with this plan?
I spoke to Jande and I became suspicious myself, so I spoke to the
guard. I made them agree to let you come here."
"You did nothing," I yelled. "It was Nusa Abarris, Masian's sister,
who arranged the whole thing. If it hadn't been for her, I would be in a
cell, waiting for the noose. I was dependent on the good nature of a
bleeding Stevenic who thought I was less than a bug for my choice of
profession. Tell me, Grana, would you have found it so easy to believe
Jande if I'd been a merchant, if I'd been anything other than a toy?"
She came to me and put both hands on my face, cupping my cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Delex." Her eyes were swimming in tears. "We are friends,
and I did what I could to help you. You can believe it or not, your
choice." She raised herself on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against my
lips and then retreated from the room.
I went out after her and pulled the door behind me absently. My
mind was full of relief on the one hand and turmoil on the other. I knew
that it behooved me to go back to the Lucky Lady where my friends would
be waiting for me, but I needed some solitude to calm the whirligig in
my mind.
A few menes later, I walked down the Street of Travellers. As I
passed the business district, Masian waved a hand at me. When another
hand waved, I noticed Nusa standing next to him. I waved back. Then they
turned together. But the small joy of seeing brother and sister together
didn't find its way into me. I continued onward until I made my way to
the port area and set my face out to sea. I'd chosen my profession for
stupid reasons, but I'd stayed in it because I'd enjoyed giving joy to
women, seeing the start of pleasure in their eyes.
I felt betrayed not only by Grana, someone whom I'd begun to think
of as a friend, but also by my profession.
========================================================================
The Farewell Tour
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@dargonzine.org>
1st of Seber, 1018
The door closed. The latch fell into place with a click that was no
different than any other morning, but to Butler, it rang within his ears
like the tenth bell that heralded the oncoming night. With a sense of
finality, he slowly turned away from the home he'd known for twenty
years and began his long journey into the unknown.
He'd grown up in Dargon, three blocks closer to the docks. When
he'd come of age and become a journeyman over at the old chandlery on
Atelier Street, he'd moved into this small town house outside Foxmarten
Square. Although he'd eventually inherited the shop, he'd never been
rich, but had made enough to pay the rent, his necessities, and his few
indulgences. Now all he owned was the small sack on his back, which
contained little more than a cheese and some dried meat and fruit.
He smiled to himself, knowing he was going forth on a long, arduous
journey without even carrying a knife. Certainly, if he was waylaid on
the road, the brigands wouldn't get away with anything more valuable
than his boots, and he could even make do without them, although it
would make the journey slower and more painful.
Not that the journey wasn't painful enough already. The first few
steps away from his home weren't easy. He had a nagging feeling that
he'd forgotten something, but he didn't need to bring anything on the
journey he was about to make. He felt like going back and checking to
make sure everything was settled properly, but he knew there was nothing
left to settle.
In truth, his life was more settled now than it had ever been
before. He'd said his goodbyes to all the people at the chandlery who
used to look up to him for leadership, and the shop was now running
under Donagal's tutelage. He still felt like going back for one last
look, but he knew that the memories of his forty-four years were carried
inside his heart, not in his empty residence or the tiny shop he was
leaving behind. Still, he was going to take a few bells to walk around
the city that had been his home for so long. After all, he would
probably never see it again. He paused and looked back at the house one
final time before he set his feet on Traders Avenue toward Foxmarten
Square.
As he crossed Foxmarten Square, for a moment he could see the rise
of Temple Street on his left. Above the close-shouldered buildings, the
red-tiled roofs of the churches to various gods shone brightly in the
crisp light of the autumn morning. Instinctively, Butler's eyes found
the cornice of the Olean temple. The statue of Ol was too distant to be
seen clearly, but Butler raised its image in his mind, and pictured its
upraised hand wishing him safe journey and the fulfillment of his quest.
Butler only had a vague idea where that quest would lead him. Until
a year ago, he'd been happy living out his life running the chandlery.
He'd learned all there was to know about candle making and waxworks, and
had shared that knowledge generously with his co-workers.
When he was young, he'd thought that bringing light to the people
and passing on his knowledge and passion for candle making were noble
ways of contributing to the community. However, at forty he'd begun
asking himself if there might be something more meaningful that he could
do with his life than merely dipping wicks.
And so he had found himself doing what he'd always thought
unthinkable: going to temple. The rote chanting and singing and rituals
hadn't impressed him, but the sermons had. He'd begun to see how traits
like compassion, generosity, and self-restraint weren't just platitudes,
but a way to live that could help him feel good about himself and take
satisfaction from his life.
It wasn't that he necessarily felt bad being an everyday chandler,
but he'd never felt like he was really helping people. He'd done his
best to nurture his apprentices, but teaching chandlery to a handful of
journeymen just didn't constitute a meaningful contribution to society.
He had begun quietly donating money to local healers, and even if it was
sometimes difficult for him to spare the coin, he could see the real
difference it made for people. That had given him a deep feeling of
accomplishment and satisfaction that no amount of candlelight could
provide.
The more time he spent at temple, the more he realized how
important it was to him. Then, one day, when the priest was giving a
sermon on a topic that was already familiar to him, Butler happened to
look around the chapel and was amazed at what he saw. He saw someone
asleep during the sermon! And one woman was paying more attention to her
knitting! Another woman was preoccupied trying to keep her children
quiet, and two men were actually playing paquaratti in the back! Butler
felt like he was the only person in the whole temple for whom the
priest's words meant something. It was then that he knew that he had to
do more than just sit and listen; he had to actually practice the
precepts he'd learned.
That had led him to where he was today. In practical terms, he was
leaving his old life behind and journeying to faraway Magnus to join the
monkhood. There he'd learn the Olean teachings from a great master, and
perform the good works so desperately needed in that crowded metropolis.
But it was much more than that; he was embarking on a quest, seeking
something incredibly powerful but utterly insubstantial: wisdom.
But both wisdom and the Olean temple in Magnus seemed awfully far
away as Butler walked slowly down Traders Avenue toward the Rogue and
Quiver, which dominated the corner where Traders met Tanner's Street.
Butler stopped and considered his old haunt, which seemed eerily silent
and unfamiliar in the bright morning light. So close to the docks, it
might have been a rowdy place but for owner Malcom Shortclip's
connections with the Town Guard and the skill with which his girls plied
the customers.
After a short walk, Butler reached the northern end of Dargon's
seaport. He'd come this way to take one last look at the Valenfaer Ocean
before his journey took him far inland. He wasn't a man of the sea
himself, but Dargon was wedged between the ocean and the river Coldwell,
so he'd never been more than a short walk from the water.
Taking a path that turned away from the docks, he climbed a steep
little rise up to the Sailors' Shrine, a quiet little patch of green
amidst a quiet copse of cedar and spruce. The granite outcropping served
as one half of a natural seawall, protecting the harbor sheltered in its
lee. The harbor was also protected by Havensight Island, a hilly, wooded
islet just offshore, uninhabited save for a solitary lighthouse that
faced the open ocean.
Butler stood there for several menes, staring out at the distant
horizon, which seemed so still when compared to the thunderous surf
crashing into the rocks below. It drowned out all the noise of the city,
save for the piercing cry of a screegull that soared and wheeled
skillfully in the stiff ocean breeze above Butler's head.
As he left the Sailors' Shrine, Butler fancied that he was that
screegull. At the top of the hill, he could see much of the city of
Dargon spread out below him, much as a bird in flight might regard it.
Way up there, he could see so much that it made him feel like he was
bigger than the city. But as he descended the hill, the town got bigger
and he felt smaller and smaller. Soon he was no higher than the masts of
the ships docked at the piers. And then, after the calm, quiet heights
of the shrine, the road dumped him unceremoniously into the absolute
chaos that was Commercial Street.
Commercial Street was simultaneously both the biggest open space in
the entire city, and the most crowded. Even calling it a street was a
misnomer. On the seaward side of this great open space were Dargon's
dozen-odd piers, with all manner of trading vessels from throughout the
kingdom and beyond, all loading and unloading cargo just as fast as the
steeves could work.
With the recent closure of the causeway that connected the two
halves of the city and the resulting need to ferry goods across the
river, Dargon's shipping firms were raking in money ... except for poor
Tyrus Vage, whose dozen-odd ships had somehow all been lost at sea in a
single freak storm just days after a rogue barge had caused the
causeway's collapse.
Opposite the piers, the landward side of the square was a
near-solid wall of massive warehouses where those goods were received
and distributed. The one exception was the Harbormaster's Building,
where all the harbor traffic was coordinated, and where the manifests
and taxation of all the cargo was overseen. As Butler reached the first
set of piers, the bell atop the Harbormaster's Building rang out thrice,
indicating midmorning. On the south side of the river Coldwell, the time
was marked by the bells in Dargon Keep, but the New City -- which had
been called that for many generations -- took its time from the
Harbormaster's Building. Butler must have missed hearing the distant
bells from Dargon Keep while he'd been up at the Sailors' Shrine.
Between the docks and the warehouses was a great open space, paved
with huge granite setts the size of coffins which had been used as
ballast aboard ship. Or it would have been a great open space if it was
ever free of people and merchandise! Even at this early bell, the plaza
was a beehive of activity, with cargoes piled in huge stacks or being
lugged by man, horse, and ox. Many foodstuffs were brought right from a
ship to permanent stalls and sold, making Commercial Street the second
biggest marketplace in the entire city. The people who came to buy
produce drew other merchants, who sold everything from firewood to
horseshoes to yarn from makeshift tables, jostling one another for the
best location each morning.
The spectacle of the ships and the foreigners also drew countless
spectators, eager to satisfy their curiosity. Because of that,
Commercial Street became a place where friends and neighbors met to
exchange news, goods, and gossip. Just walking the length of Commercial
Street could take all afternoon, and the hubbub hardly subsided at
night, when the loading and unloading continued while locals and
visitors alike found refuge in the pubs that lined the streets just
behind the warehouses.
The Town Guard did what they could to maintain order, but more
often than not they were so outnumbered that they gave up or grew
indifferent to it all. Seeing a pair of guards doing their rounds,
Butler recognized Liat, one of the more cranky veterans of the service.
He didn't know the man who accompanied him, but judging by his youth and
the cleanliness of his accoutrements he was probably a new recruit who
would soon become equally jaded and negligent.
As Butler walked toward the southern end of Commercial Street, he
came upon the three wooden wharfs that had been burned when an enemy
fleet arrived in Dargon during the Beinison War. That had been several
years earlier, and rather than dredging the debris from the bottom and
sinking new pilings, a public bathhouse was going to be built on their
ruins. The bathhouse was going to be the first stone building ever
erected on the seaward side of Commercial, and he wondered whether it
would be boon or bane.
Finally Butler reached the end of Commercial Street, or rather the
place where it turned sharply eastward. As the road narrowed, the huge
paving stones gave way to cobbles of a more familiar size, and the way
became known as Dock Street. This was where the mouth of the Coldwell
emptied into the Valenfaer. Some people thought this was where the
river's fresh water met the sea, although locals knew that the ocean
tide actually kept the water brackish several leagues up the river's
estuary.
Dock Street was still a major thoroughfare, seeing a lot of
commercial traffic in the form of carts and sledges driven by teams of
oxen. This was because Dock Street was the shortest path between the
seaport and Dargon's river port. Naturally, the deep-water sailing
vessels couldn't navigate up the narrow and much shallower river
channel, and the shallow-draught river barges would be swamped by an
ocean swell, even within the comparatively protected harbor. And forcing
goods to travel those four furlongs overland allowed Duke Clifton
Dargon's men to tax the goods passing
through the city both as they
arrived and as they departed. Dargon profited greatly by being the
intermediary in all trade between the towns and villages of the interior
of northern Baranur and the distant ports that could only be reached by
oceangoing ships.
Because it was located halfway between the ocean and river ports,
the neighborhood around Dock Street was the roughest part of town. Most
of its old townhouses had been converted into sketchy little bars and
rooming houses for itinerant sailors.
Butler paused at a corner and looked down the length of Layman
Street, toward Coldwell Street and Dargon's Lulling District, as it was
called. On this side of Coldwell Street was the Lucky Lady. Its
proprietress, Madame Tillipanary, had purchased it fifteen years before,
and turned it into the most profitable and reputable brothel in Dargon.
Across the street was the Mother of Pearl's, where all the girls
were named Pearl ... at least while they were working. However, these
two large establishments were the exception; the further you went up
Layman, the smaller and sketchier and less differentiated the doorways
became. Knock the wrong way on the wrong door, and your body would wind
up nourishing either the rats or the compost pile out back. Butler shook
his head and walked on, wondering how anyone could find fulfillment and
lasting joy from a surfeit of drink, drugs, flesh, and violence.
Butler shortly reached the docks of the river port section of
Dargon, where a dozen barges were tied up. As he watched, a bargeman
poled a craft full of people toward a hastily-erected wooden pier. After
the Causeway had been closed due to its near-collapse a fortnight
earlier, several barges had been converted into makeshift ferries to
carry people and goods across the river to Dargon Keep and the Old City.
Turning away from the river, Butler walked up Division Street, past
Grey Talka's -- yet another seedy bar -- and between more rows of
warehouses. On his left was the long, low warehouse that was the
headquarters of Dargon's Fifth I merchants. Fifth I was one of the
biggest businesses in Dargon, and Master Percantlin was one of Dargon's
wealthiest commoners. To his right were several warehouses that once had
been owned by Camron; Camron's Shipping had gradually declined in the
years since his death.
Butler turned right, parallel to the river, and hustled down
Coldwell Street toward Market Square, eager to put the Lulling District
behind him. The next street on the landward side was Ramit, which Butler
thought was an apt description for a street where sex was bought and
sold. The only openly displayed sign on Ramit was the pictogram of the
Shattered Spear, one of Dargon's worst establishments. Butler had heard
that the only reason why peace was kept in the small tavern was because
of the threat of violence from its two owners, Jamis and Jahlena, who
took delight in also being the bouncers. Butler believed it; he had seen
Jahlena in the marketplace, and she was a strong, physically
intimidating woman with arms like a sailor, and she haggled with the
skill of an assassin. But the Spear looked even more run-down than
Butler had expected. There was broken lumber piled high all around the
entrance, nearly blocking the dark alley that was usually referred to as
simply "Ramit".
Another block further down Coldwell and Butler turned left onto
Nochtur. Beyond the borders of the Lulling District, the taverns looked
a bit better kept. Partway up Nochtur he spotted the elaborate red and
green statue that marked the entrance to the Inn of the Serpent. The
Serpent was best known as a carding pit. Although fights weren't unheard
of, the proprietor of the Serpent, Ballard Tamblebuck, was well regarded
by most.
At the other end of the block was the weather-beaten sign for
Belisandra's, which bore large, red lettering above a buxom serving girl
hefting a huge tankard of ale. Set on the busy corner where Nochtur met
Main Street, the tavern got plenty of foot traffic, and the hot food,
live music, and dancing girls helped draw travellers in. Butler thought
the tattered sign was at odds with Belisandra's reputation as one of
Dargon's most stable and reputable taverns.
He followed Main Street down to Murson, his steps growing a little
slower until he finally came to the Street of Travellers, which was
Dargon's biggest main thoroughfare. From the shadows across the
junction, Butler looked over at the familiar storefront of his
chandlery: Trills Candles. His journeyman, Donagal, was talking to one
of the monks from the Stevenic temple, and it was obviously trying his
patience. However, Butler saw that while the journeyman was occupied,
one of Dargon's shadow boys crept up from the side and pinched a pair of
candles.
Butler instinctively looked around for the Town Guard, and found
Sergeant Cepero talking to a produce vendor and enjoying a quomo fruit
from his stand. Butler twisted his face up as he watched; they were
shipped down the Coldwell from the wilds of the Darst Range as
delicacies, but Butler found their bitterness not worth the effort of
peeling their tough, spiny skin.
While he debated with himself whether to go get Cepero's attention,
the shadow boy dodged into the crowd and disappeared. Butler thought
about going over and pointing out to Donagal what had happened, but he'd
already said his goodbyes, and even if he told Donagal about the theft,
what would happen tomorrow? It was a lesson Donagal would learn soon
enough on his own. And there'd been plenty of times that Butler had
intentionally looked away when one of the underage thieves pilfered a
taper. That kind of give-and-take was just a part of what being a
merchant was about, after all.
He turned onto Travellers and after crossing Thockmarr plunged into
the melee that was the Venilek, Dargon's largest marketplace. It always
produced a sense of amazement and revulsion at the same time, as
merchants hurried to sell strange, rare foods from across the land and
sea before they spoiled and went bad. It was as if the vendors hoped
that by increasing the chaotic din of fervent haggling, they might drown
out the stench of overripe produce and the day's haul of fish.
Butler held his breath and wandered across the market to the point
where the Street of Travellers merged with Traders Avenue. Yes,
Traders ... His home, where this journey had started, was near the other
end of Traders, and this morning he could have just walked its length
and saved himself a lot of time. But with no particular agenda, Butler
had dallied, looking upon the sights of his home town for what would
probably be the last time in his life. And if he wanted to take his time
leaving town, there was no living being that he had to answer to.
However, even having dawdled, his perambulation of town was nearing
its inevitable end. Behind him, Travellers ran from the docks on
Commercial Street and straight through the heart of the New City. Before
him, after passing the Venilek, it continued out the landward side of
town, passed the city walls, then turned south, where it went around a
swampy area before ending at the causeway that carried traffic across
the river to the Old City.
As it turned south, Travellers skirted a small but steep hillside
whose town houses gradually cut off his view of the rest of the New
City. With nothing but fields and a small brook to his left, it really
felt as though Butler had left town.
He stepped across an old wooden bridge over that brook, which, he
knew, came from the old flooded granite quarry a few leagues to the east
of town. As a child, he'd gone swimming there, jumping into the cold,
spring-fed lake from the many rock ledges surrounding it. The brook
paralleled the Street of Travellers -- now little more than a broad dirt
road -- for a while before emptying into the swamp.
The swamp was a marshy area near the tidal estuary of the Coldwell
that no one had built upon, because it was regularly flooded by the
brook during heavy rains, or by the river during extremely high tides.
During low tide, it reeked, but it also was something of a boon: it was
the only place where people could dump offal and refuse without having
to cart it leagues away from town.
Finally Butler climbed up the embankment that had been built above
the River Coldwell. Here a stone causeway -- really a bridge, but
Dargon's residents had called it "the causeway" for generations -- had
connected the commercial part of the city with the older, wealthier
districts like Coldwell Height, spanning the river at a narrow point
between two bits of outcrop that protruded into the river.
Butler walked a few steps up onto the causeway before stopping,
letting his gaze go over the river to fall on the familiar stone tower
of Dargon Keep, atop its high granite crag between the Coldwell and the
sea. The keep was the center of Dargon's history, having been founded
centuries ago by explorers from the long-fallen Fretheod Empire who had
called this place Wudamund.
Only a hundred years ago, Dargon had been a remote part of
Narragan, another duchy within the Kingdom of Baranur. During the Great
Houses War, Baranur's Queen Dara had fled to Dargon all the way from
Magnus. Shortly thereafter, she'd rewarded Duke Sumner Dargon's loyalty
by giving him authority over a large duchy bearing his surname. Butler
wondered what Dara's capital would be like when his own journey ended
with his arrival in distant Magnus.
He regarded the crenellated towers of Dargon Keep, which stood
majestically over the Coldwell estuary. The river's channel ran deepest
right next to the rocky outcrop that the fortress was built upon. The
castle that had once sheltered Baranur's besieged queen was now home to
the court of Clifton Dargon II, including his wife Lauren and infant
daughter Myrwen.
Butler didn't go further than the approach to the causeway, for his
path didn't cross the river, and just as well. The causeway had been
severely damaged when a barge coming downriver had slammed into it a
fortnight ago. Since then, all traffic and goods had been shuttled
across the river by ferry, and the lack of boats to do the job had
spawned long work days, dockside wares piled high, price gouging, and
fisticuffs.
He turned around and looked toward the Duke's Highway: the road
that skirted the river's edge, heading inland. Beyond his sight, it
followed the Coldwell upstream until it came to Kenna and the foothills
of the Darst Range. From Kenna, Butler would keep the mountains to his
left and follow a trail three hundred leagues straight south through the
crossroads village of Tench, fording the Grenweir at Sharwald, across
the hills of Narragan to the town of Wachock, and on to Port Sevlyn,
where he'd finally meet the mighty river Laraka: all just names on a
scrap of parchment he'd gotten from the Olean priests. From Port Sevlyn,
he would follow the river another hundred leagues upstream to Magnus,
where he would begin his new life as a monastic, a life that would
hopefully be wholly fulfilling and rich in meaning.
But it all began with leaving Dargon. He stood there, immobile,
knowing that it would be easy to quietly watch the city all afternoon.
Turning away from the causeway and the rest of Dargon, he set his
footsteps upon the dusty path and set himself to pondering life, its
many mysteries, and whether his footsteps would finally lead him to the
wisdom he so earnestly sought.
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