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DargonZine Volume 12 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 12
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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: 4/17/1999
Volume 12, Number 4 Circulation: 705
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Talisman Zero 4 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Late Fall, 2216 ID
Cords that Bind Rhonda Gomez Firil 1016
On the Prowl 1 Max Khaytsus Yule 16Yuli 2 1013
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 12-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 1999 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
If you're a loyal reader of DargonZine editorials (and I know you
are), you probably realize that they fall into two styles: me telling
you about recent events and improvements in the magazine, or me
pontificating at length about some esoteric aspect of what we do.
After two consecutive issues of the latter, I think you'll be
pleased to know that today I have a lot of great news to relate, and
won't have to resort to the angry old man schtick that encouraged our
writers' sprichwort: That's just Orny -- don't encourage him!
The first bit of news is the debut of our first new writer to
appear in 1999, Rhonda Gomez. Her "Cords that Bind" appears in this
issue, and is a delightful short piece, written with sincerity and a
wonderful tone. If this story is representative of Rhonda's work, I'm
sure there'll be many folks out there who'll be anxious to see more from
her!
The second bit of news is that we've made more than *thirty* more
back issues available in HTML format on our Web site. Previously, any
issues prior to 1994 were available only in ASCII format via ftp. Today
our HTML archive goes as far back as mid-1988, when FSFnet became
DargonZine. Although we have not yet converted our fifty FSFnet issues
to HTML, it's definitely in the works for later this year. All can be
found on the "Back Issues" page of www.dargonzine.org.
As if that wasn't enough, there's still another big announcement;
but this one will take some explaining.
If you receive your issues via email, you know that about a week
before each issue comes out, we send out a brief email announcing the
coming issue. For the most part, we do this so that we can identify
subscribers whose accounts have expired, so that we don't get a lot of
bounced email when we send the huge issue out a week later.
As you know, we've been gradually putting issues out more and more
frequently lately. And since there's less time between issues, there are
fewer accounts expiring and less need to send out that preliminary
mailing, because there will be fewer bounces. Because of that, we're
toying with the idea of eliminating that announcement, or only sending
it out when there's four weeks or more between issues.
With that in mind, we've decided to do two things: send our next
issue out *without* the usual pre-issue announcement, and conduct a poll
of our readers to find out whether they want to receive pre-issue
announcements or not.
If you receive full issues via email, DargonZine 12-5 will arrive
in your mailbox just three weeks from now, with no pre-issue
announcement. For us, this will be something of a test run to see how
feasible it is to distribute issues without a preliminary mailing. If
you don't receive full issues, but only a brief announcement of the
issue's availability when it is distributed, you will receive that
mailing just as you always have.
In addition to this, we would like to hear your opinion about the
pre-issue announcements and whether we should keep them or not. We
originally thought we'd just stop sending the announcements until we
heard that some readers like to receive them so that they know what's
coming.
To facilitate this, we've put together a Web page which will allow
you to quickly and easily express your preference. We'd really like
everyone who receives full issues via email to cast their vote, even if
the question doesn't matter to you (yes, that's one of the possible ways
to vote), so that we can get an accurate idea of what our readers want
us to do.
So please take the time to vote; it's quick and painless and will
help us better understand what you want. The voting page can be found at
<http://www.dargonzine.org/ping_vote.shtml>.
========================================================================
Talisman Zero
Part 4
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Late Fall, 2216 ID
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 12-1
Orlebb stood at the end of the causeway and watched the bustle of
activity at the docks. The _Typhoon Dancer_ had finally made it into
port, and it was unlikely that the ship would leave again before late
spring. Which meant that it was up to him, as castellan of Wudamund, to
find places for the senior crew among the limited rooms in the keep, and
arrange housing for the rest of the crew, as well as an extra squad of
teraehran.
Fortunately, there were not likely to be any hardships over the
winter due to these extra people. Wudamund was sparsely populated at the
moment, but Orlebb kept the storehouses full to capacity, in case of
emergency. Of course, no one would bother to actually thank him for his
foresight. They would all just go on eating through the months of
winter, never really thinking about where their food was coming from.
Why should they, after all? That was Orlebb's job.
The chaos on the docks began to sort itself out, and a small group
of people began to walk toward the causeway. Orlebb turned to the aides
clustered around him and pointed to one. "You, run and alert the
cleaning staff that they should start readying the rooms in Green Tower
for long term occupancy. You," he pointed again, "I need to know about
accommodations in the village -- how many people can the inns house?
You, go get Barracks Three in shape for the new squad of teraehran, as
well as the _Typhoon Dancer's_ alkaehran squad."
Orlebb twisted around for a moment and verified what he thought he
had seen earlier. He turned back and said, "And you, go to the hospital
and alert the healers that they will have a patient very soon." He
watched each of his ordered aides running back toward Wudamund,
seemingly dashing across thin air, following several faintly glowing
lines that arced across the river between the keep and the docks.
It had taken Orlebb quite some time to get used to the invisible
causeway created by the magic of the arrogant Fretheodan who owned the
keep. When he had asked why such a profligate use of magic went for a
simple bridge, he had been told that there had been no choice. The docks
had been located on the east side of the mouth of the Coldwell, while
the watch-keep was on the west side, a short distance from the mouth.
Which meant that with even Fretheod building methods, it was impossible
to build a stone bridge between those two points. Orlebb privately
thought that it had actually been meant as a display of the might of the
empire here in one of its most remote outposts.
He looked upriver, where the beginnings of a stone causeway were
beginning to climb up over the Coldwell from each bank. Instead of
running northeast directly to the docks as did the magical bridge, the
stone version ran due east from the keep. Now that their magic was
failing, the people of the empire no longer completely trusted the first
causeway. If the awesome power of the Yrmenweald and the anhekovel could
cease, then it stood to reason that so could the magic of the causeway.
The new bridge probably wouldn't be finished for a year or more, but it
was a definite sign that the empire was growing more and more troubled.
Another sign was the late arrival of the _Typhoon Dancer_. In all
his years as castellan, no ship had ever been a week late before. Orlebb
smiled a secret smile -- he had no love for the empire, even if it did
give him a roof over his head and an important job to do. They were
conquerors. While they had not yet conquered all of this land they
called Cherisk, his own people *had* succumbed to their might. Maybe now
their expansionist ways were over. It was too late for his own people,
but at least no one else would be conquered and absorbed.
Orlebb laughed to himself at that thought. It wasn't as if he held
any altruistic feelings for the rest of Makdiar's people. He actually
couldn't care less for them; he was just glad that the empire was
finally getting a taste of disaster.
He turned around and found that the group of people from the
_Typhoon Dancer_ had almost reached the causeway. He found himself
staring at the three who walked in front -- a most intriguing trio of
people indeed.
In the middle walked a woman of about average height, dressed in a
sailor's tunic and brief leggings, but wearing the vest of an officer.
He had never met the captain of the _Typhoon Dancer_ on the ship's
previous visits, but he realized that this must be Captain Eldinan. She
was quite a handsome woman -- a bit weathered, but it looked good on
her. Her hair was long and reddish brown over a round face, and her eyes
were an interesting shade of dark grey. Her mouth was full and set at
the moment in a somewhat grim line, despite the fact that she was
finally ashore. The body under the sailor's clothes was fit and trim,
and well rounded in all the right places. She moved with grace and
assurance, qualities that Orlebb found himself admiring.
He expected her companions to be her officers, but neither wore
vests; instead each wore military arm bands. The man to the left was
almost the same height as the captain, and his arm band was that of an
alkaehra, a ship-board soldier. His hair was short and dark brown, and
his eyes almost exactly matched that color. His swarthy face was
handsome and rugged, and nicely toned muscles showed in his arms and
legs. Besides the strength that was to be expected in his movements,
there was also a vitality present, and he smiled broadly as he walked
beside the captain.
On her other side was a dazzling specimen of manhood. He stood much
taller than the captain, and was thinner than either of the other two.
His long blond hair and very prominent nose were distinctive, but his
light green eyes were arresting. His arm band revealed that he was a
teraehra, a land-based soldier, one of the new squad stationed here at
Wudamund most likely. Yet he was walking beside the captain as if he
were one of the crew.
The group arrived in front of Orlebb, and he said, "Greetings. I am
Castellan Orlebb, and I would like to welcome you to Wudamund."
"Thank you, Castellan. I am Captain Eldinan, of the _Typhoon
Dancer_. As you can see, we have grave need of your healers." She
gestured to the stretcher being carried by two sailors. "This is our
stone-wizard, Maka'arn. He has been worn beyond exhaustion by the severe
storms we have encountered the past week and a half, and needs the
services of your healers."
"Yes, of course. I have already alerted them." Orlebb turned to one
of the few aides that still stood by him. "You, escort the stretcher to
the healers.
"And now, Captain, rooms for you and your officers are being
readied in the keep, and preparations are being made to house the rest
of the people from your ship. I take it that you will not be sailing out
again until spring?"
Eldinan shook her head. "Even if the weather held off for long
enough, which it doesn't look like it will, Maka'arn won't be fit for
duty for a fortnight or more. I hope that our presence over the winter
will not inconvenience you, Castellan.
"Also, these two will be staying in my quarters with me. Could you
see to installing extra storage chests, and, if possible, the largest
bed you have available?"
Orlebb's professionalism was such that his face never wavered from
its customary neutral expression, even though he was both startled and
intrigued by the request of the captain. He turned to his last aide and
said, "See to the captain's wishes." As the young man ran off, he said,
"It will take a short amount of time to complete the arrangements. If
you are hungry, I could have the cooking staff prepare a tray of cold
meats and cheeses."
"No thank you, Castellan," said the captain. "We should get back to
the _Typhoon Dancer_ and make sure it is properly unloaded and secured.
That should leave your staff plenty of time to get everything ready.
Thank you for your hospitality, Castellan."
They turned and started walking back toward the docks, and Orlebb
stared after them. When he lost sight of them amongst the bustle around
the newly moored ship, he turned and started walking across the
invisible bridge back to the keep. His thoughts were centered on the
possibilities the new residents brought, especially the captain and her
pair of men. He decided to keep his eyes on that trio -- such a
fascinating arrangement -- but he wouldn't neglect the other newcomers
either.
He knew, and was known by, all of the current residents of the keep
and its village, which was something of a problem. He had risen to the
second highest position -- only the Lord Keeper was a higher authority
-- and that meant that starting a relationship was difficult. Most of
the permanent residents only saw him as the castellan, and not really as
a person. But a whole shipload of new people and just arrived, and none
of them yet saw him as only a functionary. And for the most part, they
would be leaving when the weather turned in the spring, which opened up
all sorts of possibilities.
And then there was the captain, who had already praised him for his
hospitality, and had been thoughtful enough to have considered the
inconvenience the grounding of the _Typhoon Dancer_ might put on the
keep. Yes, there were definitely possibilities with the captain and her
pair -- pair! -- of men. Very exciting possibilities, indeed.
Kendil stood still for a moment at the center of the causeway and
just let himself be impressed. He looked down between his feet to the
Coldwell river thirty or forty feet below and laughed to be standing on
'air'. He lifted his head until he saw the thin dark lines that traced
out the arc of the bridge. On either side of the bridge ran a set of
thicker lines about four feet above the surface that marked the presence
of the invisible guard rail.
None of the places he had traveled in the empire had had such
extravagant uses of magic on display. Of course, his travels had mostly
been in the south of Duurom, which had been under Fretheod sway for more
than 1500 years, but which had been a well developed civilization before
then. Any bridges that had been needed in his home province had been
long since built by the time the Fretheodan teraehran marched in and
conquered everything.
Still, for this outpost to boast such a construction was just
amazing. He wondered what the imperial province must be like. Or even
the imperial city? Surely the heart of the empire had the best and most
magnificent magic on display. Eldinan was right beside him, so he asked,
"Elin, do they have wonders like this in Frethemak?"
She grinned and said, "Oh, yes. There are bridges there that span
leagues, from one opulent palace to another. The streets are pure
diamond, with flowing wine on every street corner and massive fountains
in every square spraying wine, honey, and gold coins. It is a paradise
on Makdiar, my love!"
Kendil had certainly heard stories about the abundant riches of the
homeland of the Fretheod, and was almost ready to believe Eldinan's
tale. But he noticed the teasing look on her face, and said, "You!
Talespinner! I'll bet it's really no more than a bunch of clay huts next
to a muddy stream, right?"
Eldinan said, with a laugh, "Not quite that crude, no. Really, it
is not much more impressive than your own province. Different
architecture, different style of city planning, but all in all very
mundane. By the time the empire was rich enough to squander its
resources on extravagances, the city was pretty much finished.
"As for this causeway, it was built from necessity, since it proved
to be impossible to build a stone bridge between the keep and the only
place extensive dock works were feasible. Poor planning really, I
suppose. I've heard that the original plan was to build a town a couple
of leagues up river, but somehow that never quite happened. Wudamund was
never meant to be an actual port."
Nikkeus said, in a quavering voice, "Elin ... Kendil ... could we
please continue on? I don't like this standing on nothing. It's a little
easier when we're moving, because at least we're getting closer to solid
ground, but just standing here with nothing under us but rushing river
is very unnerving!"
Kendil smiled indulgently and walked over to his lover. "Sure,
sure, Nikk. Let's go see what that strange man Orlebb has made of Elin's
quarters." The captain moved to Nikkeus' other side, and the two of them
wrapped their arms around the nervous musician. "Just keep your eyes on
the keep, Nikk, and don't look down. Right?"
"Right. Thanks," said Nikkeus as they started to walk forward
again.
The trio walked toward the watch-keep of Wudamund. Kendil thought
it looked much like the several watch-keeps he had seen before, which
were large, roughly square, and possessed of towers. This keep had three
towers, but fit the type in all other respects. It was a pretty basic
design for a pretty basic function: house soldiers and keep a guard over
a strategic location. In this case, that was the mouth of the Coldwell,
presumably to ensure the safety of that settlement further up the river
that never got started.
They arrived at the end of the causeway, stepping onto the plaza
surrounding the keep with an audible sigh of relief from Nikkeus. Kendil
looked around with interest, trying to learn the lay of the land. The
top of the rocky outcropping had been leveled with stones, and what
wasn't supporting the keep itself had become a ledge of varying width
surrounding it. A short wall, lower than the rampart of the causeway
because it was visible, ringed the outcropping. It offered no real
defense -- that was the keep's job.
They walked along the river edge of the plaza looking for the
entryway, allowing Kendil a good look at much of the area around the
keep. On the far side of the river there were few structures apart from
the docks themselves, and two large buildings that were probably
warehouses. Since Wudamund wasn't a trading port, there was really
little need for more storage than that. Kendil did note that there was
some kind of construction going on a hundred yards or so upriver of the
keep. He didn't know much about stone construction, but he thought it
looked a lot like the beginnings of another bridge.
Occupying a couple of acres along the same bank as the keep and
just upriver of it was a small village comprised of maybe a score of
wooden buildings surrounded by a wall of earth and wood. Kendil noticed
that there were two stone structures built against the flanks of the
keep's outcropping, and that there were half a dozen buildings clustered
around the outside of the single gate in the village's wall. As he
understood it, there hadn't been an attack on Wudamund in two hundred
years or more. By the looks of things, even the empire's fanatical
adherence to its own strict rules for outposts was liable to be worn
down over years and years of peace. It had probably come to be too much
trouble to keep expanding the walls every few years.
A short switch-back ramp connected the plaza around the keep with
the village, and on that side of the building the trio found the
entrance. Stuck to the side of the keep like an afterthought was a small
gatehouse. It had a crenellated platform on top, with two small
enclosures at each front corner that might have been called towers if
they hadn't extended only four feet above the top of the crenellations.
The large double doors of the gate were wide open, and the portcullis
was raised. After a short pause to look around, the trio walked inside.
Eldinan seemed to have an idea of where to go, so Kendil followed
her lead. She took them through the gatehouse and then down the left
hand fork of the corridor that it gave on to. Kendil thought they were
heading for the side of the keep that was opposite the river, and when
they turned left again, he was pretty sure of it. They walked down a
short corridor to another set of double doors, which Eldinan opened
after saying, "This is the great hall".
Kendil stepped into the huge room behind those doors and looked
around, his mouth gaping. The room was both large in floor space, and
very tall. Looking up, Kendil saw that the ceiling of the room was
covered with a huge mosaic, the individual pieces visible even this far
away. The scene depicted was the night sky over Duurom, with both moons
in the sky. He saw the familiar constellations picked out in different
colored tiles, and the sight made him smile even while he felt a slight
pang of homesickness. A month ago, out in the middle of the Valenfaer
ocean, the smaller of Makdiar's two moons, Celene, had dropped below the
horizon and never risen again. He had heard that the continent of
Cherisk never saw Celene, only the larger moon Nochturon, but it was
unsettling to have the night sky change so fundamentally. Compounding
that was the way that even the stars were different, half a world from
where he had been raised. Up there on the ceiling was a comforting
reminder of that home.
The room was heavily decorated, and looked more like it belonged in
some imperial palace than a watch-keep on the fringe of the empire.
Statues stood along each wall, and paintings hung between them. The
windows were flanked by heavy blue curtains, and blue-tinged marble
covered the floor. The tables that ran along the walls in one half of
the room were heavily carved from dark wood.
People moved through the room constantly, most of them in keep
livery -- a surcoat that was half magenta and half a checkered pattern
of grey and white. One of these staff members came up to them and said,
"Pardon, you are Captain Eldinan and ... company?" Kendil nodded with
the others. "Your room is ready, Captain. It is on the sixth floor of
the Green Tower. Would you like me to escort you?"
Eldinan nodded, and the young man, probably a page, scooted past
them into the corridor. They followed him as he turned left and walked
along the long corridor, eventually taking a diagonal turn to the left
that quickly opened into a large, empty room. The wall opposite the
entryway was curved inward and in the center was a door painted emerald
green.
The page walked over to the door and opened it. A stairway started
upward just beyond the door, and they all started to climb. As they
neared the third floor, the page said, "The quarters for the rest of
your ship's officers start here, Captain."
Eldinan said, "Good, good. Glad they could be lodged nearby."
They kept walking up three more flights of stairs, and the page
stepped onto the landing on the sixth floor. "There's only the one suite
on this level, Captain. Above are some storage rooms, and then the roof.
The kitchens serve three meals a day, but you can have food brought to
your room at any time. If you need anything, just ask anyone in the
livery. Any questions?"
Eldinan shook her head, and the page left. Kendil opened the door
and led the way into their new home for the next several months.
The front room was almost as opulent as that large hall downstairs
had been. Here, rugs covered the floor, except for the hearth around the
fireplace. Massive, comfortable furniture was clustered around that
hearth, while in another corner was a table similar to those downstairs,
surrounded by smaller chairs. Two doors led off this main room. One led
to a space with the furnishings of a craft room: tables, storage bins,
tools. The other led to a bedroom as comfortable as the main room. A
large bed and several chests for storage, plus rugs on the floor. The
bedroom had another door in it, which led to a bathing room. All the
conveniences of civilization!
Only one thing worried Kendil as he sank into the cloth-covered
couch beside Eldinan and Nikkeus, and that was the prospect of spending
a northern winter cooped up in this keep. He had a feeling that even his
two lovers weren't going to be enough to keep him from going crazy!
Eldinan's first real encounter with Castellan Orlebb was not a good
one. It happened about two weeks after she had arrived in Wudamund. She
and her lovers had settled into a routine that was already wearing thin
-- there wasn't much of the keep left to explore, and the village was so
small that the three of them had exhausted its mysteries within two
days. There was ample forest land to explore, and from the stories told
by the teraehran who had been stationed here for the past half-year,
there were mysteries aplenty therein. But it was getting a little too
late in the year for such explorations. Even though it was still a week
until Lu-midarvorse, the winter solstice, it felt like winter had
already arrived. If not for the excellent hypocaust system within the
keep, she would have been very uncomfortable in the cold. As it was, the
weather just limited her choices of how to pass the time.
She was sitting in the Great Hall that afternoon, nibbling on some
cheese and staring through one of the decorative statues. Kendil and
Nikkeus were off in one of the barracks trading stories like fighting
folk did. She was wondering just how long it would be before Kendil and
Nikk would tire of hearing the same stories repeated again and again.
There was movement beside her and she looked up, startled, to find
that Castellan Orlebb had settled into the chair beside her. He said, "I
hope I didn't startle you too much, Captain Eldinan, but I've been so
busy lately that I never got to ascertain how your lodgings were working
out? Everything to your satisfaction?"
For the first time, Eldinan noticed that Orlebb's eyes were
different colors. One was blue, the other was brown. It was an odd
feature, and she couldn't quite figure out whether it made him slightly
more or slightly less attractive. There wasn't a great deal of
attractiveness there in the first place -- a very plain face, clean
shaven, nothing at all distinguishing about it except for those eyes.
His hair was raven black, and cut neatly; that was advantageous. He was
tall, almost as tall as Nikkeus, but slightly overweight which negated
that advantage.
And then there was the way he spoke. As she mulled over his words,
she could have sworn that he had added a certain emphasis on the word
'satisfaction' that made it almost seem suggestive.
"Your hospitality has been exemplary, Castellan," she said. "Our
quarters are excellent, and we have not lacked for anything, save for
excitement lately."
Orlebb's eyes sparkled at her last comment, and he seemed to almost
leer without his mouth ever moving at all. He said, "Excitement, eh? I
should have thought you were well stocked for excitement."
Eldinan was sure he couldn't have meant that quite like it sounded.
She was just about to try to clarify his comment when he continued. "I
mean, you and your companions have been very thorough in exploring our
little world here at Wudamund. Surely you have found something to amuse
yourselves?"
Doubting that that was what he had first meant, she said, "How do
you know what we have been doing? Have you been following us?"
"Oh, no, good Captain. I am far too busy to follow you. But it is
my business to know what goes on in the keep. So I have heard about your
explorations, among other things. Like the whipped cream and fruit ..."
She felt the heat rising into her cheeks, and she leapt to her
feet. "How dare you!" she demanded, but Orlebb held up his hands to calm
her down.
"My dear Captain, what ever are you upset about? I was just
referring to your ordering food late at night. I get hungry late as
well. What did you think I meant?"
How could he possibly be smirking like that without ever moving his
mouth? It was all in his eyes and his tone, or maybe just in her mind.
Eldinan apologized, and sat back down. She reflected that she was
getting a little touchy. So not all of her and her lovers' attempts at
staving off impending boredom had involved leaving their rooms. They
*had* eaten the whipped cream and fruit, just not from plates. The fun
had certainly been worth the resultant mess. What she wasn't sure of was
why she had assumed the worst when Orlebb had mentioned that particular
late night feast. There was no reason that he should have known to what
use that food had actually been put.
"Now, Captain, I want you to remember," said Orlebb. "If you
require anything, *anything* at all, to help pass your time here, please
just ask me. I am sure that all of your needs can be met.
"And now, I must return to my duties. I am glad that you are happy
with your accommodations."
He stood and bowed to her, but Eldinan almost didn't notice as she
was trying to figure out whether 'accommodations' had been subtly
underscored. He reached the other side of the table, and turned back.
Leaning toward her, he almost-whispered, "If you wish, I could have a
page bring you more whipped cream and all sorts of fruit every night."
Eyes smirking again, he left in a perfectly composed hurry, while
Eldinan blushed and fought with her temper.
A full day later, she was still trying to determine whether Orlebb
was spying on her, or whether he was just making deductions. She
recalled that they hadn't done a very good job of cleaning up after that
particular feast. It was certainly possible that the cleaning staff had
seen the evidence, and the information had eventually reached the
castellan's ears. That was probably it. There was no reason to suspect
some kind of malicious intent when simple gossip could explain
everything.
She was walking down a corridor as she came to this conclusion,
once again alone. She was beginning to feel better about the castellan's
spying that wasn't spying when she heard a cry of panic from nearby. She
looked around for the source, and saw a door just as another cry came.
She rushed over to the door, flung it open, and saw Orlebb standing over
a young boy, ready to strike him with a lash.
"No!" she shouted and hurried to interpose herself between the
castellan and his target while both of them were startled by her
presence. When she was safely between the boy and the man, she said,
"What do you think you are doing, Castellan?"
"What business is it of yours, Captain Eldinan?" She saw that he
was actually frowning, the first expression she had ever seen his mouth
make.
"My business as a human being, and a citizen of the empire. There
is no excuse for beating a child, Castellan."
"The child is under my employ, Captain. He is one of my pages, and
he is not fulfilling his duties properly. Now stand aside, Captain, and
let me discipline my own staff."
Eldinan looked over her shoulder and said, "Boy, is the castellan
right? Have you been shirking your duties?"
"Y ... yes, Captain, I ... I guess I have."
"Why, boy?"
"Please, Captain, my sister ... she's sick, and I ... I was just
worried ..."
She turned back to the castellan and said, "Do you not think that
this is a good reason for this boy's lack of attention to his duties?
Did you even bother to ask?"
Orlebb's frown deepened, and he said, "How I handle my staff is
none of your business, Captain. I leave no room for excuses -- duty is
paramount. There are tasks to be done, and I only have so many hands to
accomplish them. Derill's sister is sick, yes, but the healers say she
will probably get better. And even if little Preda *is* Derill's only
family, and even if she *is* his twin sister, that's no reason for the
water jugs to remain empty in this quarter of the keep!"
"Find someone else to fill the water jugs, Castellan. Let Derill go
be with his sister until she recovers. Find some other way for him to
recompense you -- go without a meal, or work some grimy task or other.
But I will not allow you to whip this boy. We don't whip children in the
empire, Castellan. Grown men, yes, but they are paid for the service
they give. Am I understood?"
"This is not your ship, Captain, and you have no authority here.
This may be the empire, but it is *my* part of the empire. And here,
discipline is enforced with a lashing!"
"My authority rests in my rank, not my ship, Castellan. I hereby
take these children under my protection, and if even one lash falls on
the back of any one of them, each one of my crew will give you the same
number. Am I understood?"
"You can't ...!"
"I can and will. Try it, Castellan. Have you ever been lashed? I
guarantee you won't like what my crew will do to you. And don't bother
going to the Lord Keeper, either. I'm sure she will feel such matters
are beneath her notice, don't you?"
She knew that the current Lord Keeper was something of an officious
fool, given to delegating authority for all of the mundane details of
running the keep, while she worked out strategies in her map room for
defense of the keep against enemies that did not exist.
Obviously, Orlebb knew it too. He grimaced, and said, "It shall be
as you say, Captain. Discipline among my staff has become your concern.
If my workers fail to complete their duties, I shall send them to you."
He stalked to the door, and then said, "I only ask, Captain, that you
fully consider my situation. It is my responsibility to keep this keep
running from day to day. I need staff to do that, just as you need a
crew to sail your ship. If the keep suffers, I will go to the Lord
Keeper with what you have done. I think that she can be convinced to do
something in those circumstances."
He left, and Eldinan turned to little Derill. "You can go visit
your sister in the healers' rooms, Derill. But I also want you to tell
all of your fellow pages what went on here today. If anyone is
mistreated by the castellan, they need to get word to me. I will look
after you and your fellow pages, but you still need to get your work
done. Understand?"
Derill nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Captain," he said, bowing. He
then hurried off, and Eldinan stood up. She hoped that this wouldn't
turn into a disaster. She knew how to keep her crew in line, but could
she do the same with a collection of children? Only time would tell.
Nikkeus got the idea while he and Eldinan and Kendil stood arm in
arm in arm in the perimeter, watching the krovelathan ceremony with the
other spectators.
The krovelathan ceremony was held on a solstice or equinox, and
outdoors if possible. This winter solstice, four couples were to be
bonded in the ceremony, and hereafter would be legally and spiritually
bonded in the eyes of the empire. It was a beautiful ceremony, though
the form differed from province to province. The scene set before them
this solstice was one of elegant simplicity, which Nikkeus found very
appropriate. But he had heard whispers comparing this ceremony to the
much more opulent one last season, on the fall equinox. Rumors said that
Orlebb had almost forgotten about the ceremony this season, which
accounted for the simplicity.
There were ceremonial purifications by all of the appropriate
priests, imperial blessings by bureaucrats, exchanges of promises, and
finally the invocation of the krovelathad that bound the couples
together. Each krovelathad was handmade by the couple, so that each item
was a unique symbol of their union, and formed a physical representation
of the bond between them. The invocation was the most important part of
the ceremony -- the rest was just for show and from tradition. The four
couples kissed over their krovelathads, and the circle of friends and
onlookers cheered and swooped in on them to get and give congratulatory
kisses and slaps on the back.
The party in the great hall after the krovelathan ceremony was not
at all simple. Orlebb had been unstinting in the preparations and there
was more than enough food and drink to go around. All of the traditional
post-krovelathan things were done -- most of them even happened before
the guests were too drunk to perform or remember them. In short, a great
time was had by all.
Nikkeus brought down all of his instruments from their room, and
played for most of the party. He was joined at various times by a varied
number of people with a varied amount of talent, but no one cared all
that much about just how good the music was as long as they could either
dance or sing to it. And as the drink flowed, the dancing and singing
got worse and worse, so that the music was really irrelevant. But they
all still had fun.
Since he was playing, Nikkeus wasn't drinking. He watched his
lovers Eldinan and Kendil dance, drink, eat, drink, sing, drink, and
enjoy themselves greatly. And he decided to tell them about the idea he
had had earlier that evening, but he would wait 'till morning. Late,
once they had recovered from tonight.
He found himself up early the next morning, very excited about his
idea. He let the others sleep, knowing that they would appreciate every
moment they were allowed to stay in bed. He had already secured two
phials of hangover remedy: the keep's healers had had quite a supply
available at the party last night. So it just remained for Nikkeus to
wait until they woke up.
By the time Eldinan and Kendil rolled out of bed, still groggy and
very hung over, Nikkeus was just about ready to burst with excitement.
He gave each their remedy, and waited while each used the bathing room.
Finally all three of them were sitting in front of the fire, and Nikkeus
said, "Ready?"
Eldinan nodded, and Kendil said, "Sure, what's your great idea,
kid?" Both looked much improved from when they had woken up to Nikkeus'
exuberance.
Nikkeus let Kendil's 'kid' remark pass, even though he was actually
a year older than the alkaehra, and started right in. "Well, last night
I had a thought. Watching those four couples get bonded was just so
moving, and they will be together forever now. I know that, come spring,
you two will be sailing back to Duurom. And as dull as these days have
been at times, I treasure them. Because we are together, and that will
end in just a couple of months, at least for a time. So what I thought
was that maybe we should be bonded at the spring equinox.
"Now, I know that imperial law won't recognize the bonding. But I'm
sure that Reesera would bless it, and that's maybe even more important
-- the spiritual over the legal, right? We would be bonded in our own
eyes anyway, and that way we would be together even when you went back
home.
"So, tell me what you think. Do you want to be bonded?"
Kendil and Eldinan just sat and stared at him for a moment. He knew
they were just absorbing what he had said. It was a pretty radical
concept, after all.
Eldinan smiled first, and reached over to hug him. "You are just a
genius! Our own little genius Nikk! I love the idea. It's perfect!"
"You're both right," said Kendil. "We can say the words, we can do
the invocation, and with the talents among us we will have no problem
creating the krovelathad."
He stood and knelt in front of Nikkeus. He said, "I accept your
proposal, Nikk." He held his hand out toward Nikkeus as Eldinan copied
his position.
She said, "I also accept your proposal, Nikk. And thus yours,
Kendil." She extended a hand to Nikkeus, and a hand toward Kendil.
The alkaehra took Eldinan's hand while Nikkeus took both the hands
offered to him. "Accepted," said Nikkeus, as Kendil said, "I accept."
They all three laughed and pulled each other into a three-way hug.
"Yes yes yes!" crowed Nikkeus. "I've already got ideas. We'll build
a wonderful krovelathad, and then have the best bonding ceremony that
anyone has ever had."
Eldinan said, "It's the spirit and the symbol, and it's all we
need. Let's get building right away!"
========================================================================
Cords that Bind
by Rhonda Gomez
<abrashonor@aol.com>
Firil 1016
Five tattered and agitated cats rubbed five tattered sides against
the door of a tiny seaside cabin. The frigid wind blowing off the
Valenfaer Ocean was insulting to the temperament of the smallest kitten
-- an orange dappled tabby -- and she hissed her frustration. Normally,
she could have easily slipped under the hide-covered door, but today the
invisible barrier that kept her from her mistress' domain was
inexplicably solid.
A woman's sobs spilled from the cabin and four of the cats
surrendered their vigil, darting away into the gathering gloom. The
little tabby refused to abandon her post and, with hackles raised,
crouched courageously next to the wall.
A shroud of death enveloped the cabin and inside the last fire
faerie danced the last blazing pirouette as the hearth smoldered to
closing. A desperately ill woman lay on a bed in the center of the room.
Her voice was muffled, smothered under mounds of blankets. "When the
wind is in the east, 'tis good for neither man nor beast." Had Bracie
known, she would have been horrified at the ragged state of her kittens;
but Bracie was dying and beyond the realm of catly concerns.
The cats were the only living things to which she was attached. Her
contact with other people had always been seasonal and understandably
limited due to the remoteness of her cabin -- a good day's wagon ride
from the village of Shireton, on the northwestern coast of Cherisk. This
season's pilgrimage of anxious villagers -- eager for the weather
reader's news of the coming year and the portents for their crops -- had
never materialized. The locals had shunned her, in spite of their
confidence in her weather reading abilities. Bracie understood the
isolation; death was an evil that was contagious and, in the rudimentary
language of all small villages, was never a particular thief.
Bracie had survived the previous winter well enough, ending it with
a quarter of her supply of salted meat intact -- no small feat for those
poor souls who were unfortunate enough to inhabit the remote regions of
Dargon. With spring had come the anticipation of her annual trip to
Shireton for the Melrin festival; Bracie's favorite festival,
symbolizing birth in the cycle of life. The focus of Shireton's Melrin
festival was the wheel of the year. The rise and fall of the seasons
governed life in this part of Makdiar. The land sustained them; what
couldn't be hunted or gathered had to be grown on the tiny parcels of
land allotted by the local lord. The wheel of the year included Bracie's
weather predictions for the future. Only the weather reader, and her
knowledge of the signs, stood between the villagers and the devastation
of a ruined crop.
Bracie had left for Shireton excited to be on her way and anxious
as always to be, at least temporarily, in the company of more than trees
and sea birds. Leaving the cabin, she had knelt down to examine a black
and brown woolly worm -- whose wide brown stripe foretold of a harsh
winter -- when a brief jolt of fire clenched her chest. The suddenness
of the assault had been numbing and had caused her vision to cloud and
the tips of her fingers to burn. Fortunately, the discomfort had quickly
faded and Bracie had dismissed the incident.
Throughout the rest of the journey, Bracie had noticed all the
usual weather signs. The plain of grass that marked her halfway point to
the village was waist high, bearing the same tidings as the woolly worm.
The yellowed moss hanging on the eastern side of the ash and the flies
tormenting her naked arms forewarned her of a sudden afternoon shower,
giving her plenty of time to take temporary shelter. These were all
observations that came without conscious thought for Bracie, just as a
swordsman knows naturally when to thrust and when to block.
Unfortunately, Bracie had never developed the ability to interpret her
own inner voice and the secrets of immortality had been foolishly
ignored. The voice of Makdiar dominated Bracie's heart.
Upon her return from the Melrin Festival, Bracie noticed that her
skin had begun to hang on her bones and that twin circles of death
darkened her eyes. By Yuli, she had known she would not survive the
year.
The wind battered against the walls of the cabin and Bracie's body
trembled, struggling against the invading darkness. She was no longer
able to rise from her bed and she knew that death was near. Bracie
struggled to turn onto her side, believing that any movement was better
than stillness. Lying still frightened her. The dying embers of her
fire, whose smoke had begun to blow back down upon itself, frightened
her as well, but she hadn't the strength to rise and stoke it. She
muttered, "Smoke curls downward, bad weather is on the way." Her
uncontrollable babbling frightened her most of all and as these last
muttered words slid over her cracked lips, her back stiffened. Suddenly,
a bright blue spark exploded inside her head and the ping of separation
-- which was quite distinct -- propelled her from her body. Bracie
floated, climbing like a bird on the wing up to the smoke-hole at the
top of her cabin. Just before spiraling out of the hole and into the
night, Bracie caught a glimpse her body lying on the bed, her chest
slowly rising and falling with each breath.
In an instant, she began to thrash around in nothing, in what felt
like the space between space. Her pain was gone, as well as all other
sensations except those of speed and -- even though her mind rejected
the notion -- the feeling of growing backwards. Suddenly she was
plummeting through warm sunshine and air, hurtling downwards at a trio
of figures below her: a young girl, an old man and an even older woman.
She realized she would hit the child a moment before the collision. With
bone-jarring force, Bracie slammed into the girl and looked out through
her own seven year-old eyes.
Bracie's father whispered softly, "Go on now lass, show some of
those manners your ma taught ya," and he eased her forward with a huge
hand placed squarely on her back. He addressed the old woman kneeling at
her feet, "She's a good girl, Alia. Always was a wanderer, but a good
girl."
Alia was northern Dargon's most respected weather reader and she
had recently petitioned the villagers for a fosterling, having not borne
a child of her own to carry on the weather lore. The villagers had been
somewhat reluctant but their reliance on the weather reader was strong.
The thing that Bracie had feared for an entire year had finally
occurred. Her father had decided to foster her to Alia.
Bracie knew nothing about the old woman who lived by the sea and
had never before seen anyone whose face was so marred with wrinkles.
Bracie was prepared to hate her, but Alia's smile was infectious.
"Is that right, young'n? You've taken a liking to Mother Makdiar,
eh?" Alia asked, looking directly into the young girl's eyes.
Upon closer inspection, Bracie decided that Alia was cute, in an
old mother sort of way and she gave one quick nod, "Aye, I suppose."
Bracie's small hand reached out instinctively and slipped into Alia's
gnarled fist. "Can you teach me about the faeries who live in the
forest? Before Ma died, she used to tell me there weren't no such thing,
but I am nae sure." Bracie's face brightened as a torrent of words began
to spill from her mouth, "Ya know, I saw night weeds," Bracie continued
as she bobbed her head rapidly. Deep in the forest, it was. They were
all tramped down and blood red; squashed like. It was the faeries
dancing on 'em made 'em that way and you know what they say about that.
Faeries dance when the weather is fair." She smiled then, a bright beam
of pride. "So, I reckon we'll be having some good weather, eh?"
Bracie was a beautiful child, with hair the color of harvest wheat
and eager eyes that were the same color as the dark fertile land.
Whatever reservations the old weather reader had, soon evaporated and
she stood slowly, addressing Bracie's father, "Thank you, Zar. I know
this is not easy for you." Alia flashed Bracie a quick, reassuring
smile, "And yes, you're right, she'll make an excellent weather reader".
With a blink of her third eye, Bracie separated from the memory and
was transported to another, later time. Taking stock of her
surroundings, Bracie quickly decided that she was in the forest. It was
night-time and judging by the full moon at its zenith, it was the midway
point of Cahleyna's rule. She knew immediately that she was not alone.
Upon the tail of that thought came the whispered evidence of someone
close by, as if imagining it had brought it somehow into reality. The
voices were coming from the opposite side of a huge grandfather oak and
she willed herself to stillness as the voices grew louder. Bracie
recognized the steady cadence of Alia's ritual voice and her mind
automatically picked up the rhythm, "Squirrels gather'n nuts in a
hurry?"
The reply was immediate, "Causes snow to gather in a flurry".
"When an ox scratches his ear?"
"A rain shower is near." It was then that Bracie recognized her own
voice.
"When he thumps his side with an angry tail?"
"Look out for thunder, lightning and hail."
Bracie's spirit was irresistibly drawn to the two corporeal beings
and she witnessed their exchange like a thief spying on an unwary soul.
"Very good lass. Now the vow."
Bracie's speech grew loud and solemn, "Goddess Cahleyna, to thee I
pledge," she lifted her face to the brilliance of the moon. "As our
forebears did, so do I now and so shall my children do after me. This I
vow forevermore." With perfect precision Bracie continued, "Grant me the
power to stand mighty as the tree, old as the land, strong as the sea.
Reaching to the sky, to the moons and to Kisil-Doon."
Alia continued the consecration, "Great Goddess, take this maiden's
unspoiled hands, these lips, these eyes. Guide them in your ways,
empower them with your honor."
Again, Bracie picked up the steady beat, "In return I pledge to you
my children and their children to come. Never shall I allow the rule of
Cahleyna to be broken."
"Grant her the roots of eternity. Cleanse her with the waters of
life and bind her, now and forever, to Mother Makdiar who sustains us,"
Alia chanted, concluding the ritual of knowing.
Now it was Firil and the wind wailed. The brave little tabby defied
the veil of death and slithered inside the cabin. Moments later, the
physical contact of the cat rubbing against her face forced Bracie into
the present and served as a siren calling her spirit back to the flesh.
With a massive intake of breath that convulsed her body, Bracie
jerked upwards into a sitting position. The kitten was flung aside and
scampered over to crouch in the corner, staring at her mistress with
huge eyes.
The ritual of knowing still rang in Bracie's ears and she felt
Alia's presence in the cabin as she had not since the old weather reader
had died, twelve years past. Alia had given Bracie everything: her home,
all of her possessions, all of her knowledge. In exchange, Bracie had
promised to carry on the weather lore.
Under Alia's tutelage, Bracie had become known as a gentle, yet
powerful reader who took little in exchange for the knowledge that she
gave. Slowly the locals had learned to trust Bracie as they had trusted
Alia and with each new season had lined up at her door, eager for news
of the changes to come.
She had cared for them for many years, helping to predict the best
time to harvest, saving them from harsh winters and warning them of dry
summers to come. All those years, Bracie had thought she was fulfilling
her promise to Alia, but she knew now with a frightening certainty that
she had done no such thing. She would die today or tomorrow and there
would be no one to take up her craft.
Alia's last words to Bracie rang silently in her mind, "There are
lines all about us lass, lines that join every living thing; you are the
knot that binds one to another."
A sudden, vivid image flashed across the field of her mind; the
land spread out below her in all its glory with tiny lines glowing
beneath its skin, radiating in all directions, flowing through
everything.
Suddenly, a tingling in the pit of Bracie's stomach jolted her back
to awareness. She scrambled frantically, shoving the covers from her
body and her gut clenched at what she saw. The ghost of a transparent
green rope wound its way from the dirt floor of her cabin, through her
body and out again. The point where the rope exited her body was the
vibrant green of intrinsic life, but as it grew further from her, it
changed rapidly to a lifeless brown, until it reached its dead black
end. The rope had no anchor, the circle was broken. Everything that she
had ever been, all of her passion, all of her knowledge, all of her love
of the weather lore ceased to exist at the end of that inch-thick rope.
The rope began to shrink, the blackened end approaching her body
and Bracie knew the most abject of horrors. The weather lore was the
cord that bound her to the natural world. When it died
Bracie's last mortal thought was that the wind had shifted and now
blew from the south. Fair weather was on the way. How pleased her orange
dappled tabby would be.
========================================================================
On the Prowl
Part 1
by Max Khaytsus
<khaytsus@cs.colorado.edu>
Yule 16 Yuli 2, 1013
Note to the Reader: This story takes place in Magnus in the
summer of 1013, before the beginning of the Baranur-Beinison
war. This is a prequel to "Rifts" (DZ v7n6). For a better
understanding of the Bardic College and the bards, it is
recommended the reader explore John White's "A New Life"
(FSFnet v5n3) and "Treasure 1" (FSFnet v7n5). The history of
Codex Araltakonia can be followed in Carlo Samson's "Unwelcome
Encounter" (DZ v2n3), "Reluctant Revelation" (DZ v3n9), "Take
From the Tower" (DZ v6n2) and "Resolutions" (DZ v6n5).
Yule 16, 1013 -- Fort Point, Magnus
As far back as history remembered, there had always been a bridge
across the Laraka at Magnus' Eastgate. It was always called Kheva's
Bridge and each time it was rebuilt, it was made taller and wider and
stronger than the incarnation before. Even history had forgotten Kheva
-- man or woman, commoner or noble -- but the bridge had always
remained, a monument to the city of Magnus, spanning the mighty Laraka.
The contemporary incarnation of Kheva's Bridge stood for nearly a
full century and was among the most famous landmarks in Magnus,
extending the width of the Laraka. It was an arch bridge, of stone
blocks that in three spans bridged the entire thousand-foot width of the
river. It was taller and wider than the other bridges that united the
two halves of Magnus and was tall enough to let all but the largest of
cogs and galleons sail beneath it without taking down their masts. The
other bridges on the river were of bascule design, opening at one of the
ends or in the middle, to allow ships to sail through. Such disruptions
were not allowed to happen often and it was not at all unusual to see a
row of merchant ships waiting for morning light, when the traffic across
the river would be halted, so that the traffic in it could move.
But Kheva's Bridge was unlike any other in Baranur and some said it
was the highest and longest in all of Cherisk. It had stood across the
Laraka for many generations and was seen as a symbol of Baranurian
architectural skill. The west end of the bridge was anchored at
Eastgate, the main entrance to the city of Magnus for over five hundred
years. Beyond the gate rose the walls of the Magnus garrison and the
towers of the Crown Castle, and below it, at the foot of the bridge,
Fort Point, a small fortification to oversee and support the naval
docks.
Ships of all sorts lined the water's edge, crowding for precious
space along the piers at the edge of the river. Some piers bravely
extended far into the river, where they were subject to damage from the
heavy spring runoffs and unskilled pilots trying to guide their boats
through the disorderly currents.
"Lord Master!" a man's voice rose from the outer ward of Fort
Point. "The _Storm Challenger_ just crossed the outer marker. She'll be
ready to dock by half-derk at the latest!"
On the Fort rampart, the Harbor Master, a bearded man in his
fifties, himself a veteran of many sea voyages, glanced northward, just
past Kheva's Bridge. A galleon could just barely be seen making the bend
in the river. It fought the current and the wind, the lateen sails set
to catch the wind abeam. Even though it complicated the maneuvering in
the crosswind, the deep square sail of the foremast majestically
displayed the crest of Baranur, heralding the return of a capital ship.
"She's one of the ones that won't make Kheva's Bridge, lord," the
man below said, announcing the obvious.
The Harbor Master turned to his companion, a young skinny man
dressed in an elegant robe. His bookish features betrayed his calling,
as did the ledger in his arms. "What have we?"
The scribe opened the book and traced some text in the ledger. "The
_Storm Challenger_ is Captain Hellriegel's ship, based from Port Sevlyn.
She's not due in."
"Is there a north dock ready to take her?"
The man again scanned the book. "The leeward dock at pier two is
free, but I understand it still holds the cargo from the Welspeare
merchant run."
"Signal them to take the leeward side at pier two," the Harbor
Master yelled down. "And have the ship lashed with all tethers. The
currents are too strong."
The man below disappeared into the crowd working the docks and the
Harbor Master walked down the rampart to where the battlements of the
Fort cast a sheltering shadow from the evening sun. He took out a pipe
and inattentively shook out the nonexistent ash over the fortification's
wall. "Those men up there," he motioned at the bridge above, putting a
few pinches of tobacco into the pipe, "how much longer do you suppose?"
The scribe glanced at the repair crew working on the weathered
stone on the bridge. They had been working there since after Melrin,
intending to have the repairs complete for Founding Day, but with the
holiday soon approaching, there was no indication the work would be
completed on time.
"I hear, sir, that more men were hired to do the work. I fear, too,
that we shall disappoint the King when he watches the march of the
Hussars."
The Harbor Master lit his pipe, absentmindedly nodding at the
scribe's chatter. He did not care about the bridge or the King's
personal guard or Founding Day. He simply feared that another stone
would tumble down onto the docks. It was pure luck that the first one to
fall in a century did not crush anyone below it, but given the number of
ships going through port and the masses of people on the piers, a true
disaster was only a matter of time. Perhaps if they got lucky and a
stone fell on some peasant, no one would really notice, but the demise
of a merchant or a noble, even a minor one, would be the makings of a
scandal Magnus had not seen in a long time.
Pike drew himself upright, holding onto the wooden rail that
separated him from a drop into the river below. As a citizen of Baranur,
he had to admit that the restoration of Kheva's Bridge was the
restoration and enlightenment of the country, but for him personally, it
was a high perch to see far into the distance and down below, to where
the night would ultimately take him.
"Come along, lads," the foreman's voice boomed up above. "I want
all of you off the bridge before sunset. Bad enough we've got stone
falling. I 'd hate to explain to the good folk below why men are
dropping out of the sky!"
Pike shifted his weight and moved further down the outer walk, a
ledge a mere foot in depth. He now slipped beyond the wooden rail where
masons toiled during the day and holding on to the jagged stone, lowered
himself out of sight of the bridge walkway above.
A stray rat squeaked its displeasure at his intrusion and ran down
the ledge towards the Old City, leaving him to wonder how it got up on
the crumbling ledge of the bridge and how it would ever get off.
The perch Pike selected lay over the northern docks and he had an
excellent view of a warship coming into port below. He had hoped that
particular pier would remain empty for the night, but it was too late to
change his plan. He would simply need to adjust to the circumstances he
found himself in. The sun, setting in the west, over the Crown Castle,
cast the last of its light on the bridge, illuminating the spot where
Pike had hidden. For a moment he permitted himself to relax in the last
warmth of the day. Up above he could hear the last of the workers
clearing out, but hardly leaving him alone on the bridge. By now, he
expected, the lamp lighters were making their way across the bridge,
just ahead of the coming darkness.
The people of Magnus were pr
issy in this way. They could not stand
the dark across the river and oil lamps across Kheva's Bridge would be
lit each night, so that the stray people who would brave the night were
able to cross between Eastgate and the New City -- not that there were
many people crossing between the Old and the New, unless it was someone
from the Fifth Quarter, up to no good in the dark of the night.
The last of the sun's rays disappeared behind the walls of Magnus
and the only remaining trace of day was the red light still visible in
the western sky. The chill in the wind was now easily detectable and its
gusts high above the river became strikingly noticeable.
As the darkness settled, Pike reached up for the ledge above him
and pulled himself up. Once on the narrow walkway, he slowly scooted
over to the stone pile and pulled loose the rope he had secured there
earlier in the day. The wind would make his descent challenging, but
that, too, was an adjustment that could be made to the plan. The biggest
danger, he figured, was a curious fortress guard below looking up and
seeing a rope dangling off the bridge. The people below, on the docks,
would not see the rope without sufficient light and no one on the bridge
would have cause to look down in the middle of the night.
Pike gave the rope one last tug, making sure it was securely
anchored. It would be a shame if he tumbled onto the docks below due to
personal carelessness. He wasn't particularly thrilled with the approach
he had chosen for his project, but he wanted his ways in and out to be
fully distinct, to make evasion of the guard easier. Scaling great
heights certainly wasn't his first choice, but it was the easiest way of
getting in and he was confident of his climbing abilities. He had often
joked with his grandfather that rather than follow family tradition, he
would join a performing troupe and travel the country, and had he been
lower born, perhaps he would, but this day his athletic prowess was put
to use in a completely different trade, of which his grandfather would
equally disapprove.
Taking a deep breath, Pike wrapped his legs around the rope and
pushed off from the ledge. Hand over hand, he descended down the fifty
foot length of rope to the tower sitting almost directly below Kheva's
Bridge. It took an effort to swing the rope into position, overcoming
the strong gusts of wind. Pike breathed a sigh of relief as his feet
touched the merlon of the battlement. He tied off the bottom of the
rope, making sure it did not swing about aimlessly in the wind.
The top of Fort Point, Pike knew, was deserted in the night. He had
watched it for days to make sure that was the case. It was an old
fortress that barely had any staff stationed inside. For the most part,
it existed to supervise port operations, give a base for the guards
assigned to the docks, and as luck would have it, store things ship
captains did not want to hold aboard their ships or leave out on the
dock overnight. There were a half dozen men patrolling the Fort outside,
which was what made that route extremely unattractive.
There were three levels to Fort Point and four walls, situated
about a main courtyard. The top level, below the three towers, was open
to the sky above. Four catapults sat on this level, clearly unused, but
well maintained. The middle level held unoccupied barracks on the city
side and a ballista facing out to the river. The bottommost level
contained the administrative offices for the port and what few guards
were assigned to spend the night outside the city. That was also the
level Pike was determined to get to. He followed the stairs of the tower
he had descended onto, going two levels down, and cautiously opened the
door onto the only populated level of the Fort.
Torchlight illuminated the bottom level, but there was no evidence
of anyone being in the area. Keeping to the wall, Pike made his way to
the inner wall and stopped to listen for movement. Although he expected
a guard in the inner courtyard, he detected no evidence of one and
continued to advance towards the office he had visited the day before.
A lone guard sat in a chair, tipped up against the locked door to
the storeroom. His head, tilted back, implied that he was lost in a nap,
his chest rhythmically moving up and down. It was the middle of the
shift and Pike did not fear additional troops coming now, but he did
fear the ones that might be in the Fort already. After a moment's
thought, Pike removed the large key ring from the guard's belt and
silently inserted a key into the lock. It turned, clicking softly as the
pins fell into place.
"Sorry to make this so abrupt," Pike whispered and pushed open the
door.
The guard's intent of propping the chair up against the door was,
no doubt, to prevent people from going in without waking him up, but the
sheer act of leaning on something that may give way placed the guard in
jeopardy. As the chair slid down, having been given the space to fall by
the opening door, the guard lazily rolled his head, failing to even open
his eyes before the back of his unprotected head impacted the floor and
cleanly knocked him out.
Pike took a moment to glance up and down the corridor. The racket
the falling guard made did not seem to attract any attention and
satisfied that no one took notice, he went about his business.
"They really should raise their standards for hiring guards," Pike
muttered, pulling the body into the dark room. The guard should have
slept during the day if he had to stand night duty. Had he been awake,
Pike's job would have been significantly harder, but far from
impossible. A handful of plain guards never created much cause for
concern. Pike closed the door and fumbled about for a candle, lighting
it as soon as it was in his hands.
Inside, the room was uncomfortably small, but built into the
opposite wall was another door and this one was heavier than the first.
Pike tried the set of keys he had liberated from the unconscious guard,
but none would work. He had expected as much. A more thorough search of
the guard revealed no other keys, forcing Pike to pull a pair of picks
from his belt pouch and get to work on the second door.
This second lock was of high quality and required an effort to be
undone. Working in the dim light was no easy task, but Pike figured that
in the short term, time was on his side. Not being able to see into the
lock itself, even if there had been plenty of light, Pike continued to
work without looking at his hands. Working slowly and with a high degree
of precision, he undid the lock and pulled open the second door. Now his
search was only a matter of finding the right box and he needed to
complete it before anyone grew suspicious over the missing guard. He
closed the door and set his candle on a table, then proceeded to rifle
through a number of boxes, some too heavy and some clearly empty, before
coming to one that appeared right. The label across it indicated the
contents were from the _Ganness Pride_.
The lid came open to reveal a smaller velvet box and within that,
set carefully in the padded interior, a small silver chalice. Pike
carefully picked it up and turned it over to examine the underside. As
he did so, a fragment of parchment fell from the cup. He frowned. That
could have been a fatal mistake. Care was absolutely critical in this
job and that required time be taken to note everything. No harm done,
but it was a warning he needed to heed.
Pike glanced towards the door, then checked the underside of the
cup. The etched cross of the House of Kiliaen melted away his doubts and
Pike knelt down to pick up the note that had fallen from the cup.
My Dearest,
I hadn't the heart to take your prize before you reached it.
We have a new contract. Meet me on the morrow.
-M
He chuckled. Not only did he lose the bet, but the chalice had been
left for him as a reminder that today he was second best. That's why the
guard was sleeping in the first place - he had already failed in his
job, having allowed someone else access to the storeroom earlier in the
evening. He placed the prize in an empty pouch hanging off his belt and
retreated back to the door. There was no point in cleaning up the small
vault, as the unconscious guard would have no doubt in his mind as to
what had occurred. Perhaps a clean storeroom would mislead the guards,
or delay the search by a fragment of a bell, but ultimately, if Pike did
not make a hasty departure, it would do him no good.
Closing the inner door behind him, Pike checked on the unconscious
guard. Finding no indication that the man was anywhere near
consciousness, he proceeded through the small room to the door and
pulled it open. He intended to replace the unconscious guard back in his
chair, still leaning against the door, but to his surprise, Pike saw two
armed guards talking directly in front of him. Their presence was
definitely not in the plan and for a moment, Pike froze, trying to
formulate a new course of action.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
The two soldiers turned to him, confused at first, then suspicious.
Pike guessed they might have already been suspicious due to the guard on
duty being gone. His sudden exit from the storage chamber clearly did
not alleviate their concern.
Pike gave the two men a solid shove and dashed past them for the
closest tower, running through the open doorway and rushing up the
stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Somewhere behind him he
heard the yell "Stop, thief!" and a frenzy of running feet coming after
him.
So much for the plan.
Pike took leave of the stairwell on the second floor, charging for
the next closest tower. He figured that to formulate a new plan, he had
about as much time as it would take to cross the fifty feet between the
towers. If there was no activity below, he would go down again,
expecting that he could miss the guards before they began their ascent
and exit through the Fort's front door, as he had originally intended.
Failing that, he would continue upward, hoping to find an alternate
escape route above.
The Fort's open center was empty, but as Pike reached the next
tower, he heard the tolling of a bell in the courtyard, signaling an
alarm. He was not going down.
On the third floor, Pike paused to look around. There was nothing
here except for the catapults. Perhaps he would have risked launching
himself into the river on one, had they been loaded, but the ropes lay
limp along side the siege engines, and preparing them would take far too
much time. Pike's gaze froze on one of the two guards who had ruined his
plans. The man stood one floor below, across the open inner courtyard.
He clearly realized Pike had abandoned the stair, but had no idea where
he was headed and was now hopelessly behind. Pike smiled and waved.
"Stop!"
With a bow, Pike turned back to the Fort wall and headed for the
only escape route he could imagine -- the rope he had used to descend
from the bridge. By now the courtyard was busy with activity and there
was no doubt in his mind that going down by conventional means was long
since out of the question.
On the edge of the battlement, Pike pulled out his knife and cut
the rope where it was secured. Now he needed it to move. "Stupid, stupid
idea," he muttered, looking across the dock area at the galleon that had
come in earlier in the evening. It was now dark and from what little he
could see below, Pike did not think there would be too many people to
confront him in his escape on the outside of the fort. His real worry
was regarding making it outside. Instead of staying to face the royal
army, it appeared he would be trying his luck with the royal navy
instead.
"Stop!" a voice called out to him and without any hesitation, he
leapt forward, swinging across the outer ward and letting go when the
rope reached its length. There were several moments of an uncontrolled
fall and he collided with the partially lowered square sail on the
ship's foremast. The knife in his hands caught on the fabric and he slid
down across the crest of Baranur, coming to an abrupt halt against the
crossbeam, the knife irretrievably stuck in the wood.
Pike grabbed hold of the crossbeam and lowered himself onto the
rigging, taking a moment to assess his situation. On the wall of Fort
Point far behind him, he could see three men contemplating what to do.
They could yell, and in a moment they probably would, but not right away
and given the confusion they would create, Pike felt he could easily get
away. He looked about on the mast, finally noticing an astonished
crewman, who had probably been in the process of collapsing the now
ruined sail.
"Bet you've never seen anything like this before," Pike said,
finding his footing in the rigging.
The sailor shook his head, dumbfounded and speechless.
"You probably won't ever again, either," Pike said. "You won't find
many idiots willing to do what I just did. Good night!" And with that,
he slid down the rope and onto the deck of the _Storm Challenger_.
The main deck of the galleon was empty and in the light of a
handful of dim lanterns, Pike made his way towards the gangplank.
"Hey!" someone called to him from the poop deck when he was almost
at the rail.
Pike stopped and turned, trying to identify the voice in the
darkness. "Sorry! Wrong ship!" He crossed the gangplank to shore and
blended into the night. Within moments all traces of his presence were
gone and the guards on his trail had nothing left but to admit to having
been outwitted by a thief in the night.
Yule 17, 1013 -- Magnus, New City
The common room of the Fighting Unicorns Inn remained customarily
empty in the early morning hours. In spite of how hard the proprietor
tried to attract business, being east of the river and west of the Fifth
Quarter did a lot to discourage customers from spending the night. A few
would, now and again, because they heard of the good reputation of the
Unicorns and their proprietor, Sir Hawk, but ultimately the setting and
the occasional scream in the night drove business away.
The Fighting Unicorns was a good establishment. The few customers
who stayed were pampered and tended to and at a very inexpensive price.
Sir Hawk owned the land and the building, and the taxes so close to the
Fifth Quarter were low, allowing him to turn just enough profit to live
comfortably and pay a small staff. He could, perhaps, move the tavern
and inn, but why? The undesirables knew his reputation and who he had
been. They preyed on the unfortunate souls caught outside, not on those
who stayed at the inn.
This particular morning Sir Hawk was up making his rounds later
than usual, but the business of surveying his domain went on as always.
As the pattern had been set in years past, he would walk around the
building on the outside first, looking for damage or trash. That used to
be a problem years ago, when the locals tried to convince him to pay for
protection, but as time went on, he discouraged such behavior on their
part. Given the desire, he could probably make *them* pay protection
money to him, to avoid incurring his wrath, but this was a business
practice he did not understand and preferred to avoid.
The second examination occurred in the small stables adjacent to
the inn. It was a small enclosure, just large enough for six horses. One
stall was always reserved for his stallion. This morning two others were
occupied by plain riding horses of the customers he had met the day
before. Things hardly ever changed in the stables. Most people either
tethered their horses out front, where they could be easily seen, or
simply chose not to bring a beast of burden into this neighborhood. It
would be a greater burden on them should the animal be stolen or hurt.
The last part of the ritual was walking the common room and making
sure the furniture was intact and the bar was stocked. This, too, was
hardly ever an issue. The slow flow of customers did not put a great
toll on the supplies and the quality of patrons that he did manage to
get did not create a great fear of damaged property.
Approaching the last stop on his daily tour, Sir Hawk spotted one
of his patrons sitting on a barstool at the far end of the bar.
"Good morning Lord Janos," the proprietor nodded. "How are you
enjoying your stay?"
"I heard some screaming last night," the young man said. "A woman?"
"We're the border marker of a rough neighborhood," Sir Hawk
explained. "We hear things we wish we did not. The advantage we offer is
the level of service and the low prices. The scenery and entertainment
are our only detractions."
"I suppose it's all fine so long as the inside is safe," Janos
said.
"I suppose that's so, too. May I ask how you chose us? I don't
recall you staying here before."
"A friend advised that this inn was quiet and out of the way,"
Janos answered. "I suppose he was right on one count. You are quite out
of the way."
Sir Hawk laughed. "It's the price of doing business here. I keep
hoping the area will improve."
"Doesn't the town guard make an effort to keep the royal city in
the best of possible conditions? I'd imagine that with so many troops
stationed here, the King could even have the army make this a better
place."
"He could, I imagine," Sir Hawk answered, "but the Fifth Quarter
has always been this way and for some reason the people in power, who
could make a difference, stop counting quarters at four. We're forgotten
here, left to our own devices. Perhaps that is to my advantage, too, as
the tax collector does not always brave coming to visit."
Janos Arstead chuckled. "Then my compliments on the selection of
the location for your place of business."
A young woman made her way down the stairs from the second floor
rooms. She paused part way down, looking about the common room, then
giving Janos a smile, continued downstairs.
"Ah, Lady Miriam, good morning to you," Sir Hawk exclaimed. "I
trust your night was fine?"
"Quite restful, thank you, Sir Hawk. The view out the window may be
lacking, but the comforts inside can not be overlooked."
"Why, thank you, my Lady. So few nobles visit and fewer still have
the refinement to say kind words. I shall cherish your opinion of this
establishment. May I bring the two of you something to eat?"
"A light breakfast, if you would."
Sir Hawk retired to the back to retrieve the food, leaving Janos
and Miriam alone. They relocated to a small booth and engaged in
conversation.
"I hear there was some trouble out on the docks last night," Miriam
said.
"Was there, really?" Janos asked.
"I walked this morning, before you were up," Miriam said. "Out to
Kheva's Bridge -- it's just about a half league. It's beautiful out
there, before all the fish vendors stink the place over. A lot of guards
around and about, all looking for anyone who knows about a thief from
last night."
Sir Hawk emerged from the back room, carrying a tray with bread and
cheese and a pitcher of mead. "Enjoy your breakfast. Call if you need
anything."
"So what about this thief?" Janos asked.
"The strangest thing," Miriam went on. "They said the _Ganness
Pride_ sailed in from Kiliaen, with a present for Baranur from their
antiquities collection. It was stored overnight in Fort Point and ... a
thief broke in after nightfall and took it!"
"I imagine there'll be a furious monarch, when word reaches the
palace."
"And imagine how angry Kiliaen will be when he discovers he has to
replace the gift."
"This might be for the better," Janos said. "Fort Point is
outdated. It's an old building that'll never again do the job they
intended it do. Perhaps a century back, when the walls of Magnus were as
tall as the fort's, there was sense in Fort Point, but now Magnus will
do a better job defending itself than the Fort ever could. It's
laughable that they considered it a safe place to store important
things." He took a sip of mead. "So any clues on the thief?"
"A young man. Perhaps an acrobat. A sailor on the naval ship _Storm
Challenger_ said the man leapt off the wall of the Fort and crashed down
on his sail below."
"The Fort isn't that close to the water, as I recall," Janos said.
Miriam laughed. "I measured it. Forty feet. And probably another
twenty down. They said he tied a rope to Kheva's Bridge and swung across
on it. No one knows when it could have been done. Even the construction
crew on the bridge say they never saw anyone out there."
"Sounds like a daring thief."
"Foolhardy, I'd say. Had he missed, he'd be fish bait now."
"But because he didn't," Janos said, "there will be a bard who will
write a song."
Yuli 2, 1013 -- Bardic College, Magnus
The quiet steps of two figures walking down the center of the
chamber cast shallow echoes in the Memorial Hall of the Bardic College.
The corridor was some fifty feet wide, rising up to a lancet point
equally high. Deep windows were set along the voussoirs stones,
alternately touching either the crown or the haunches of the corridor
arch. The scenes etched in the glass, if one could remain with their
head upturned long enough to study them, portrayed history from the
Bardic association with the Kingdom of Baranur. Bards here were the
deliverers of legend, the masters of history and dreamers of the future.
Their guild was as powerful as any other, rivaling the strength of the
Stevenic Church and the Nar-Enthruen. And unlike the other two, the
Bardic College carried the protection of the Crown. Bards made Baranur,
the legend said, and they kept it whole in the Great Houses War. The
bloodline of the House Tallirhan owed its ascension to this very
institution.
Miriam Arstead paused and looked up, evaluating the art that
allowed light to shine through. Multicolored shadows fell on the north
wall of the hall, imprinting a much larger scene across the bleached
stone surface. Below the transferred images that lasted the length of
the hall sat portraits of men and women and beneath them, stone
sarcophaguses with the names of the tenants inscribed across their
faces.
Miriam's companion stopped, then returned back to where she stood.
He brushed aside the edge of his ceremonial cloak and waited for her.
"You're really not up to date on history," Miriam noted.
"Only important events make it up there," the man explained. "I
believe the last time there was a major modification is fifty years ago.
Something big would have to happen in Baranur before another window is
added."
"A good thing, I suppose," Miriam said. "It must be a chore getting
artisans up there. What do you do if hail or wind breaks the glass?"
"That never happened," the young bard said. "All glass up there is
enchanted -- hardened against being broken."
They walked on down the corridor with Miriam stopping now and again
to examine a scene or read an inscription on the wall or the face of a
sarcophagus.
"I hope you don't mind me lagging behind," she said at one point.
"I' ve never been here before; it's all very new and exciting."
"That's no problem," her guide answered. "Few get a chance to walk
our halls and when they do, it's like reliving history. We receive
constant requests for tours from the nobility and to study the glass and
the frescoes from scholars. We have to limit access, naturally, but it's
not at all unusual to find someone in this very hall, sketching the
chronicles of time onto their own parchment."
"And what about the tombs?" Miriam asked, walking further down the
corridor. "These aren't all bards buried here, are they?"
"Buried here, of course! Only the greatest of the Master Bards, the
best leaders and teachers, are allowed to be interred here. Although,
any bard who has reached the ranks of Journeyman is assured eternal rest
within the walls of our sanctuary, should they so desire."
"I'm really impressed by what you have here," Miriam said. "Thank
you for taking the long way around."
They reached the end of the Memorial Hall and having passed through
a series of smaller doors, entered the Bardic Library. The room was
sufficiently large to disappear into the distance, with shelves upon
shelves of books creating even rows of a ceaseless maze. Wide bookcases
eight and ten shelves high ran down the room in four rows. Above them,
on a balcony overlooking the main room sat a number of scribes, busily
transcribing books and documents both for the Bardic Library and for
external customers of the College.
"Oh, my ... I thought my grandfather had a large library. He has a
whole room in his keep dedicated to books."
"This isn't all of our holdings, I must warn you," the bard said.
"These are just the common tomes in our collection. We have a separate
manuscripts room one level below, where the more unusual and arcane
works are stored, and beyond that wall is the area you want -- the
scroll room, where the histories are kept. I can't accompany you
further, but one of our penmen will assist you from here. I hope you
find what you're looking for."
"I'm sure I will," Miriam smiled. "Thank you for your time and
indulgence."
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