DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 11 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 05/09/1998 Volume 11, Number 4 Circulation: 682 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Abandoned Treasures Clayton Fair Naia 1015 The Broken Staff 3 Mike Adams Ober 1015 Quadrille 6 Alan Lauderdale 8-9 Sy, 1012 ======================================================================== 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 or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 11-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 1998 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . 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 The dance is over. In this issue we conclude Alan Lauderdale's six-part "Quadrille" series. First envisioned around Christmas 1995, the story took almost exactly a year to research and write. Another nine months later, in August of 1997, after considerable revision and waiting in queue for publication, its six chapters began seeing print. And it has taken another nine months just to print the stories! But with the publication of this issue, the players take their final bow as the dance finally comes to a close. "Quadrille" is a superlative story in many ways; it is also an excellent example of both the advantages and disadvantages of writing in a longstanding collaborative milieu. Perhaps the most interesting part of the story is how it came into being. Alan had been reading one of our early issues (back from the days of FSFnet), and came upon a storyline that interested him: that of Ariel the novice air mage, beset upon by the evil minions of Haargon. As often happens in an anthology where writers come and go steadily, Becki Tants, the author and originator of the Ariel storyline, had left the project back in 1988, leaving behind a three-story series with no climax or conclusion. Alan, finding the storyline intriguing, decided to pick it up where Becki had left off. By being part of a collaborative project, Alan therefore benefitted from a ready source of ideas and material to call upon. In developing his story, Alan rapidly discovered other characters such as Kittara Ponterisso and Terkan, who fit nicely into roles his story needed, and had also been used in the past. Here he discovered another advantage in collaborative writing: a huge collection of ready-to-use secondary characters with plausible backgrounds. While all Dargon stories do this to one extent or another, "Quadrille" is unique in how extensively it takes advantage of preexisting storylines and characters, maximizing the benefits of participation in a longstanding anthology. On the other hand, those preexisting storylines and characters come at a cost. Anyone writing a story that leverages previously-printed material is, of course, constrained by that material. For example, in Becki's stories Ariel is attacked by minions of Haargon; in order to maintain consistency with Becki's story, Alan could not alter the fact that those attacks actually took place. In DargonZine, anything which sees print becomes "canon", and cannot later be changed. It should be apparent that a writer who borrows characters or storylines would need to do some research in order to ascertain exactly what is and is not printed canon, so that he can portray people and events in a manner consistent with previous depictions. In the case of "Quadrille", which recycled at least three storylines and a large number of existing characters, that research task was immense. In fact, the Online Glossary was created primarily as a response to our writers' need for tools to manage and sift through the ever-increasing morass of printed stories. Beyond simple adherence to previously-printed details, a writer who borrows characters or storylines from another writer has a moral obligation to respect the original creator's intentions. If the creator is still an active participant in the Dargon Project, ascertaining the owner's intentions and obtaining permission to use a character may be as simple as a brief exchange of email. However, when a writer leaves the project, one has to extrapolate their intent from the materials at hand. One of Alan's early decisions was to take Ariel's story in a very different direction than it had been going. Although his story departed radically from where Becki might have taken it, Alan expressly retained her presumed intention to have the heroine come through her trial relatively unscathed. Finally, existing characters usually come with existing relationships and entanglements. In Quadrille, Alan borrowed a few characters to play key roles in his story. Yet he very soon discovered that those characters were already involved in other storylines which he would, to some extent, have to portray in "Quadrille". As he included partial portrayals of those tangential storylines, he also wound up bringing in additional characters from those stories, who brought along additional entanglements and further research requirements. Alan found himself having to deal with a continually expanding number of peripheral characters and plots in "Quadrille" which spiraled outward from his central tale. In the end, "Quadrille" stands as an extensive example of the interrelatedness of all Dargon-based stories. Furthermore, it is proof that one can write a story that both integrates the creations of multiple writers, and is a great read. It does an exemplary job of integrating multiple storylines and borrowing other writers' characters, yet is also an example of how much work it can take to do so. And, believe it or not, during the year it has taken to print "Quadrille", Alan has been busy researching and writing his next story, which continues the exploits of Mouse of Kervale. He tells me that it is nearly halfway written, and may wind up being just as long as "Quadrille"... But as editor, I'm used to getting those kinds of threats all the time! ======================================================================== Abandoned Treasures by Clayton Fair Naia 1015 Dargon was less crowded these days. The normally packed streets were now only sparsely populated with the few who had not joined the Baranur armies and the few who had returned from the fighting. G'veldi, a server for Belisandra's, was one of the few who had remained in Dargon. Unlike the less established taverns in Dargon, Belisandra's had only experienced a change in clientele instead of a decline in business. G'veldi left the tavern at the approach of evening; the gratuities of her regular customers weighed down her belt pouch, and jingled with every step. Without Byrne to walk her home and deter malicious eyes, the empty streets played on her insecurities. She began to think of her customers -- maybe one of her regulars would be willing to escort her home. They all seemed to eye her with a male's want in their eyes, but she wondered if any could be trusted to walk her home without further expectations. Barkel Smith came to mind, a blacksmith and a family man. He had remained in Dargon to profit from the countless orders he was receiving due to the war. He was a respected man that a thief would be unlikely to hold a knife to. Then there was Nicholas Greuber; a scribe, he was a scholar who sold his services to the merchants of the city. She smiled as she remembered him standing outside her window, reciting a poem he had written for her. He had been unaware of her relationship with Byrne at the time, but his recital had forced an introduction. Nicholas was not the size of Byrne nor Barkel, but any male presence was better than none and she was not intimidated by his. She came to her door, still turning the possibilities over in her head. Deciding finally that she could protect herself if need be, she fumbled to retrieve her key. As she dug inside her pouch, she felt a shift in the wind and heard a soft footstep behind her. She turned to face the street, only to find herself shadowed by a broad set man in a weathered cloak. Her heart skipped a beat. Her breath shortened. But before she could react, a familiar voice came from beneath the hood. "G'veldi, it's me, Sven," said the man, pulling the hood back to reveal his face. "Sven! You're alive! I'd thought you dead!" exclaimed G'veldi, clasping her arms about him and hugging tightly. She relaxed her grip after a shared moment of reunion and looked questioningly into his eyes. "Why is Byrne not with you?" she asked, dreading the reason, but needing the answer. Sven stood silently, allowing his eyes to reveal the truth. G'veldi swallowed hard, and asked, "How did he die?" "We were attacked by a Beinison scouting party, sent to find us in retaliation for the death of a noble," he explained. "We were on the trail of treasure. We had lost Tristan and Pavo and were determined to see the trail to its end. The map that we were following was written in Beinisonian, but we must have followed the wrong path, for we found nothing. We camped for several days at the location of the markings. It was then that the scouts found us." "He wanted you to have this," Sven said, presenting a scroll case to G'veldi as she stood speechless. "It contains the map. He said you would know what to do with it. It is worthless to me now, for I cannot afford the cost of the translation, and I vowed not to return to Beinison. But if you uncover its meaning, let me know." "I will." Nicholas watched the alluring motions of the barmaid's figure as she jigged her way between the tables of the tavern. Her name was G'veldi and he had admired her ever since she had begun working for Belisandra's, one of Dargon's more reputable establishments. While the other patrons hunched over the bar, staring despondently into their tankards, Nicholas sat upright, transfixed by her every motion. Every day after toiling over a desk piled with scrolls, he would relax at the tavern and revel in the brief time spent in her presence. Every day he spent the two Bits for a meal, a stout ale and a chance to hear her voice. "Good day, G'veldi," said Nicholas, beginning the transaction in same manner as always. "I'm assuming you want the usual?" she asked with a smile, as she filled his goblet with a dark ale. "What I want will never change," he replied dreamily, sipping from the goblet. "Of course, Nicholas," she answered, breaking the lock between their eyes and turning towards the kitchen. He motionlessly waited for her return. The next few moments blended into one as his gaze remained locked on the point of her departure. As he stared vacantly at the kitchen door, his mind recalled life before the war. It had been several months since Byrne had left Dargon. He left on what would have been an ordinary evening. The usual crowd of patrons had all gathered at Belisandra's to relax at the end of a long day. One of the men at the bar mentioned the recent atrocities against Baranur, commenting on the tyrannical ways of the Beinison empire. The words forced a change in Byrne. He stood from the bar, raised to his full height, and stated in a loud voice, "I will take the war to their homeland! They will know the suffering that we have felt, and more. I will take from them what is ours by right! Enough wealth to rebuild the ruin they have laid upon us." As he took an awkward step back to catch his balance, he must have seen the hopeful looks in the eyes that were upon him, for he continued his speech, and strengthened the vision he had manifested. "A toast," he said, raising his tankard to the rafters. "For every man that leaves with me tomorrow, I can assure them each a king's ransom colored with Beinison blood." All their arms raised in unison to the toast, and the tavern broke into cheers. The kegs of mead had flowed freely, for that night was the last that many of them would spend in Dargon. Nicholas' reflective trance was abruptly broken by a movement near the kitchen door. G'veldi returned to the tavern floor, replacing his thoughts of the past with those more promising. Unconsciously, his face returned to a lost expression of hope and love. "Your meal, my dear," said G'veldi, placing the platter of ample portions in front of him. "Don't let me forget, I've got a scroll for you to translate." Nicholas' face did nothing to hide his shock. "Forget?!" he exclaimed. "This is the first time I'll have the pleasure of working for a maiden instead of an overweight noble. I will not forget," he finished, allowing G'veldi to return to her work about the tables. Nicholas had always wanted to be needed by G'veldi. Her daily life did not necessitate calligraphy or a knowledge of foreign tongues, and her dismissal of his skills tore away at his confidence. He had previously given up all hope of impressing her with his talents with a quill, preferring instead to avoid rejection and hold his tongue in silence. The scroll marked Nicholas' first chance to prove his worth to her, and she had come to him. The only other work he had done for her had been a scroll she had never seen and it had led to his introduction to Byrne. It had been shortly after he first met G'veldi, when Nicholas still had confidence in his manhood. He had produced a symbol of his love for her; the act came naturally to him. It had come in the form of a scroll, complete with illustrated dragons bordering a poetic verse. He had waited for her to leave Belisandra's and followed her home. When he was sure that she had settled for the night, he began to read the verse from below her bedroom window. The words rolled from his tongue, as naturally as waves in the ocean. His vision of her glowing face, framed by auburn locks, appearing through the open window was abruptly shattered by the black bearded, scowling face of Byrne that appeared instead. In that instant, Nicholas' aspirations of lasting companionship were shattered by the man's threatening voice. "If you're looking for attention, you've just found it!" he boomed in a low, vibrating voice. Nicholas watched the head draw back into the window, followed by a stir, and then G'veldi appeared. When she recognized Nicholas from Belisandra's, a sweet smile appeared on her face. A frantic turn and a desperate wave quickly replaced it, though, as if she was trying to shoo him away. From the cacophony of noises travelling through the house, it sounded as if Byrne was breaking through the walls to get to the door. Wasting not a moment more, he blew her a kiss and retreated down the street. That was the closest he had ever come to being a part of G'veldi's life, and ever since, he had felt the threaded bond between them. That had been before Byrne left Dargon, and since then, the tavern had become more relaxing. Without the possible chance of confronting Byrne, Nicholas could dine in peace. He enjoyed eating his meal slowly, savoring the atmosphere of Belisandra's and allowing his thoughts to shift from past to present with the coming and going of the patronage. He looked forward to his evening meal -- anything to delay the inevitable return to a cold, lonely bed. While he ate, he would always keep an eye on the alluring jigging of G'veldi. If he ever missed the chance to catch one fleeting glance from the barmaid, he would never forgive himself, and so his gaze was fixed. He sat silently as he ate, gleefully waiting for her to entrust him with her scroll. When the servers began to depart, G'veldi approached without her tray. With the scroll in her hand, she came to his table and sat beside him. "I need you to translate this for me," she said in a hushed voice, speckled with urgency. "Let me take a look," Nicholas said, prompting her to roll out the scroll on the table. "Not here. Others may be watching," she warned. "Nonsense. Everyone here is a regular customer, I can place a name to every face," he countered. "I know, Nicholas," she said, "Be careful." Seeing that he understood, G'veldi left the scroll in his care and returned to the kitchen. He sat there looking at it tightly rolled upon the table. He tipped his goblet back to finish the last drop of ale and scanned the room. There was only a handful of other men in the tavern, but a sideways glance from Barkel Smith sent a shiver up his spine. "Nonsense," he thought, reassuring himself that it was a preposterous situation. Nonetheless, he quickly bundled up the scroll with the rest of his books and left Belisandra's for his home, where no wandering eyes could peek at his work. During the walk back, the scroll burned incessantly at his curiosity. It drew him to consider the possibilities of its contents. Evidence to incriminate Lord Clifton Dargon himself, or possibly a powerful under-lord? Navigational charts to a new world laden with gold? The recipe for an elixir of youth? His pace quickened in step to each new possibility that entered his head. When at last he reached the door to his shop, he abandoned the bundle at his desk and searched for suitable light. He dug out a candle, lit it, placed it on the edge of his work space, and unbound the scroll. It was about the width of his forearm and, once unrolled, it covered twice that length across his desk. He recognized what lay before him. G'veldi had given him a map of the land near the Beinison borderlands. The first thing that caught his eye was a darkly marked cross, pointed to by a downward arrow, along with a prominent grove of firs and a familiar roadway that connected the two empires. A lengthy inscription circled the border of the map twice and half again, beginning from the upper left corner and ending along the bottom, so that Nicholas was forced to rotate the scroll as he read it. He could make out the Beinison words for 'king', and 'wealth', yet many of the words were unfamiliar to him. His heart quickened its beat, matching the pace that his mind had set. He understood G'veldi's need for secrecy and he eagerly pulled his collection of notes on Beinisonian from a stack of scrolls near his desk. He worked around the border of the map, writing the translation in chalk on a piece of slate. The translation was tedious, yet it consumed the interest of his mind. He worked on it until it was complete, lighting new candles periodically. When he had finished, he selected a blank scroll and began transcribing the map, careful to catch every twist and burr of the lines. As the candles burned lower, his thoughts inevitably drifted towards his bed above. Leaving the transcription half completed on his desk, he retired to his quarters above his shop. He was exhausted from the concentration and excitement, and he welcomed the sleep. It took a while for Nicholas' mind to focus. His conception of the day had been distorted by the work of the night before. Someone was knocking, but his need for sleep overpowered him. He rationalized to himself that a couple more moments in bed couldn't hurt. He heard the pounding again. "Who is it?" he thought, dreamily expecting the knocker to answer his thoughts. Groggily, he rolled to one side, allowed his vision to focus, and recalled his work on the map. The promise of a king's wealth and the persistent knocking forced Nicholas awake. Once standing, it took only moments for him to robe and return downstairs. The knocking increased in volume, pounding at his head. Hurriedly, he covered the map and translation, with his notes on Beinison. G'veldi's words kept repeating in his head, "I know, Nicholas. Be careful." Once he covered the map, he rummaged through his desk drawer to retrieve a dagger. He slipped it into his belt, behind his back, and moved towards the door. Taking a deep breath and smoothing his unkempt hair, he cautiously approached. To his relief, he recognized the familiar face of Yarrick Wilcolm's messenger, Matthew Ronnic, through the small opening centered in the door. Yarrick was a merchant that frequently sought his services to transcribe navigational charts for his trade routes, and his business was always welcome. He exhaled, opened the door, and greeted the lad with authority. "Good morning Matthew, how can I be of service?" Nicholas asked, in his most polite and charismatic voice, letting his hand fall to his side, away from the dagger's hilt. "One of my master's vessels will be departing for Miass tomorrow and he needs a copy of each of these," he said, handing Nicholas a stack of scrolls. "That will not be a problem. As you know, my fee is a four Bits per scroll," said Nicholas, thumbing through the stack. "So, tell Yarrick that I will require two Sovereigns on hand when the transcriptions are retrieved." "Of course, of course," Matthew said, in agreement. "I'll see you tomorrow morning then." Nicholas eyed the scrolls in his hands and decided that it would be worth his professional interest to put the lure of buried treasure on hold. He laid the scrolls upon his desk, and began his work. The charts were familiar to Nicholas; he had transcribed them for other merchants before, and copying them again would not prove difficult. As he etched the northern coast of Baranur, he was continually distracted by the lure of G'veldi's map. Every other bell, he would take a break from Yarrick's charts and translate a few more of the place names etched onto the map or copy a bit more of the transcription. When he finally placed the last of Yarrick's scrolls to the side, he reclined and rubbed his aching wrist. His evening meal at Belisandra's would serve him well. Besides, he was anticipating sitting close to G'veldi when he revealed the translation. Eagerly, he gathered the map and translation together with his notes on Beinisonian, and left for Belisandra's. Upon entering the tavern, he was quickly greeted by G'veldi. "Nicholas, I've been waiting for you. Take a seat over there, and I'll be over in a mene," she said, motioning to one of the tables in the back. He took his place at the table with his back to the wall. It was a familiar location for him and he fell immediately into his old routine. He became transfixed by G'veldi's sweet dance about the tables and chairs of Belisandra's with a serving tray in one hand and a pitcher in the other. He let himself become so mesmerized with her work that he didn't notice the well-traveled man that sat down across from him at the table. "Hey! Scribe!" the man said, in a loud whisper. Nicholas immediately snapped out his trance, unaccustomed to having company at Belisandra's. "Sven?" he asked, vaguely recognizing his face. "Did you find the wealth that you sought in Beinison?" "Don't play games with me. I know G'veldi gave you the map," Sven said, motioning towards the bundle of scrolls. "Show me your progress." "These are only for a project that I'm currently working on for Yarrick Wilcolm. You would not find them interesting," explained Nicholas. Sven paused, considering his statement. After a moment, he turned, and looked about for G'veldi. Summoning her over, he spoke into her ear, and explained the situation. She turned towards Nicholas and said, "Be a dear and show him your work." "I've already explained to him that I do not have it with me," he said, initiating G'veldi to pull a chair beside him and drape her arm across his shoulders. "Please show us the map, Nicholas," she said, suggestively. Feeling G'veldi's warmth at his side, he could not resist her request and unbound the scroll from the bundle. Unrolling it and the translation, he explained the meaning to them. "You see, this writing around the borders is in Beinisonian, as well as the writing above the geographic features," he began. "Geographic?" Sven asked. "Yes, the forests, rivers, roadways -- they are all named in Beinisonian. The inscription around the borders reads: 'My name is Giranti Escalde, I've traveled the lands of far and wide, from Beinison strongholds to the eastern coasts, and this map points to what I have found. I have gained wealth that kings can only dream of. To find it you need not stray fruitlessly into forbidden marshes or risk the desert heat. There is only one place to find what you seek and it is marked by the downward arrow on this map, here.'" "You can see that there is only one arrow on the map and it points to the cross marked below it. If Giranti has a treasure, it is there. >From the names and the positioning of these features I would say that the mark lies just within Beinison lands," informed Nicholas. "Yes, that is where I returned from. We spent days upon days roaming the hills near the mark on that map. Byrne refused to return to Dargon without a mountain of gold in tow and we did not question him. We had already lost two men, Tristan and Pavo, gaining the map from the clutches of a Beinison noble. It cost us dearly, but the rumors that had been spread about the riches that the map led to would have been worth the loss if true. Things were going smoothly until we ran into a scouting party in the borderlands. I turned and fled the ensuing battle, thinking only of my wife, Katherine, before the others were overcome. "The Beinison scouts I encountered later paid no notice to a lone traveler on the road and I returned unhindered. On my return journey I heard tales of a maddened giant with a blackened beard and eyes of death, clad in blessed mail, that cut down a dozen men before falling to a well placed arrow. The tales were exaggerated, but they brought back visions of Byrne, as I remembered seeing him when I ran. They could only be of him. Forgive me G'veldi, but it is the truth. I was prepared to leave it in the past, but Byrne must have known of your scribe friend and directed me to give you the map." Sven's mention of Byrne's fall returned a flash of buried emotion to G'veldi, and she gripped Nicholas' hand tightly beneath the table. Nicholas' attention had been distracted by something else, though, as Sven told his story. With the map facing Sven, he could read only the last few words of the inscription '... the downward arrow on this map, here.' It had seemed odd when he had translated it, but now it made sense. From its present angle the arrow pointing at the spot marked by the cross was pointing up. "I think I have the answer that you seek," said Nicholas, turning the map so that he could show Sven what he had just seen. "The last word, 'here' ends at the base of this large fir tree. I had originally taken the tree to be only a marker for the 'Knotted Woods', but it is much more. Notice that the shape of the fir makes an arrow and from this view it is pointing downward. Notice also that it points directly to this word," he continued, pointing at a word placed at the tip of the tree. "Well, what is it?! Tell me, so I may avenge Byrne's death!" exclaimed Sven. "The word is ..." Nicholas began, gripping G'veldi's hand tighter. "... love." "So five great men died for nothing!" growled Sven. "A curse upon Escalde's map!" he shouted, slamming his fist upon the table, standing erratically and storming out the door. "When he returns home to Katherine, his rage should subside," said Nicholas. G'veldi loosened his grip on her hand, reached up to hold his other shoulder, and focused his attention. Looking into his eyes, she saw what she had seen the first time they had met, and had been there ever since. She leaned closer and kissed him. Nicholas tensed in shock; a dream not meant for reality had come true, and he was not prepared for it. "I ... I ..." he stuttered. She put her finger to his lips and said, "Escort me home tonight, Nicholas." "But ..." he began, thinking of his contract with Yarrick that he needed to fulfill in the morning. Yarrick was a faithful customer, and any broken contracts could reflect poorly on Nicholas' reputation, and two Sovereigns could cover his expenses for more than a month. "Please don't question me. Just walk me home." she said. Nicholas did not question her. Yarrick could wait till mid-day, he reasoned, maybe later. Escalde's treasure was within his reach and nothing could keep him from it. ======================================================================== The Broken Staff Part III by Mike Adams Ober 1015 In The Broken Staff II, Bren kel Tomis arrives in Dargon after exile from his homeland. He finds employment with Qanis Jetru, a merchant, as a bodyguard. Jetru has a precious stone which he has sold, and is waiting to deliver. Several days after the incident in the alley, I was escorting Qanis back to the office as day wore into evening. The day had been warm enough for me to forget about being cold, at least for a while, and I had thrown my cloak back over my shoulders to enjoy the sun while it lasted. Qanis had assured me that the weather in Dargon was mild, compared to other places, and that I'd soon become acclimated. I wasn't so sure. We walked down Main Street, heading in the direction of the docks. Qanis was in a jolly mood, having just concluded a deal to supply the Duke of Narragan's household with candles for the next year. Since Qanis had managed to buy up most of the beeswax in the duchy the day before, he was quite pleased. Personally, I was astonished at the number of candles the household was expected to use. My work was undemanding, and the merchant was a pleasant enough fellow. In the past few days we had walked the length of most of the streets in this small city. With all the walking, and observing Qanis in his negotiations, I was beginning to feel like I could learn to live here, and possibly enjoy doing so. As we crossed another street something in my mind whispered for my attention, and I stopped in the middle of the street. "Qanis," I asked, "Isn't that Ramit Street we just crossed?" Qanis looked around, slightly puzzled. "Why yes, it is. I'd meant to turn sooner." He looked uncomfortable. "Maybe we should turn back." I turned, and about twenty paces back stood a scruffy man. At least his fingernails were clean, or they were if the dagger he was cleaning them with was sharp enough. I grabbed Qanis' right arm with my left hand, turning away from the dagger, but stopped again. Twenty paces in front of us stood the deranged mugger from the alley, along with another friend who seemed fond of sharp instruments. I thought quickly, then spoke to Qanis in a low, urgent whisper. "I am going to turn and charge the man behind us. I don't think he will be expecting that. When I charge, you follow me, running as quickly as you can. I will engage him, while you keep running." "But I can't leave you here to --" I interrupted Qanis harshly. "You are no soldier, you are a merchant. Dying here will not serve your purpose, and your escape will certainly serve mine." "Merchant!" The madman was trying to attract our attention. "Now!" I screamed, then I turned, and smoothly drawing my sword, charged at the startled man, who dropped his dagger and reached for his sword. Obviously rattled, and not used to facing a victim with a blade of his own, he had barely gotten his sword out of its scabbard by the time I reached him. A quick slash at his head was distraction enough to let Qanis get by, and I kept the man occupied so that he could not chase Qanis down. A scream of outrage came from behind me, and I heard their boots slapping on the cobblestones as they ran towards me. The man in front of me relaxed, seeing his comrades on the way. I reached down to my left boot and pulling my hidden knife, threw it hard at him. The blade didn't rotate far enough to penetrate, but the handle, sharp enough in its own right, stuck in the mugger's right eye. He dropped to the ground, screaming and clutching at his face, while I spun to face the other two attackers. The short one had a long straight blade ... He slashed at my head, and as I parried I could feel the strength in his wrist. Then the other man came at me, two blades style, and I silently hoped that Qanis could run as fast as he could talk. The only factor in my favor was that it didn't appear as if the two men had fought together before. A good swordsman can defeat two, or even three others, of average ability, but the chances become negligible if they work as a team. I struck at Two Blades, then parried a thrust from the short one. Then they spread apart, preparing to come at me from both sides. I charged at Two Blades, then darted forward into a doorway. I was now trapped, but at least my back was protected. I could hear the shrieks of women coming from the other side of the stout wooden door. The short one chuckled a bit, but Two Blades just grunted and attacked. I managed to hold the two men off for a mene or two, but then my bootheel slipped on a wet cobblestone. I flung my sword arm up in a desperate attempt to stay upright. As I fell Two Blades lunged, and I felt a fierce pain as his blade ripped into my abdomen. I tried to rise, but a boot came from nowhere, and I collapsed to the ground. As I lost consciousness I heard the madman speak. "See if you can find the merchant. I'll deal with this one." A low cackle was the last thing I heard. Dargon, Layman Street Wern sat, huddled, in the corner of his room. Likewise, the mental half of Wern was huddled in a dark corner of his mind, trying to keep out of the way of the Voice, which roared through the battered corridors of Wern's fragile psyche like an enraged animal. Wern had failed to provide a victim, and even worse, had not regained the Eye. Wern had not expected the Guard to respond so quickly, and lost not only the merchant, but the black-haired one as well. The Voice seemed to thrive on the fear and death of those that Wern killed, but when Wern failed, the Voice took his anger out on Wern. Never so far as to damage him, at least not physically, but always more than Wern felt he could endure. Wern had resisted, once. In quiet times, Wern would look for ways to escape, but there was no way, not even total madness, for the Voice was too powerful, and would not allow it. Then the pictures started, and Wern sat bolt upright. The pictures, and the sounds that accompanied them, were hard to understand, and very difficult to decipher, sometimes taking days of repitition and effort. It had always been that way, and Wern had long given up trying to understand why such a powerful being had such trouble making itself understood. Slowly, painfully, the images came, and Wern trembled with near-orgasmic ecstasy, for he knew now that the Eye was almost within his reach. Dargon, Atelier Street I was lashed to the whipping frame that stood on the parade ground of the College of Heralds. The midday sun beat down, and I could taste the saltiness of the sweat that ran down my face. It was silent; I seemed to be alone. Then came a voice, one I knew well. "This is for impersonating a knight of honor," said the King of Mandraka. The whispering sound of the whip was followed by an incredible searing pain across my shoulders. A low moan escaped my lips. "The herald has been judged and found wanting," came the voice of Lord Skel, First Herald. The second bow seemed even more painful, for now I knew what to expect. I bit my lip open, but no sound betrayed my pain this time. The next voice cut me as deeply as the lash had. "My dear boy, believe me, this pains me more than you know." In my mind's eye I could see Kira, my noble temptress, raise the whip. I could see the cruel smile playing on her lips as the whip flew forward ... "Kira, noooo ..." I sat bolt upright, feeling a slight pain near my stomach. A light sweat covered me, but it had only been a dream. Before I could shake the sleep from my head and wonder where I was, the door opened. A woman, bearing a shielded candle, entered the room. Her face was puffy from sleep, and she wore only a loosely belted robe. She held a hand up to forestall me, and spoke. "I am a healer, my name is Raneela S'Dun. You were brought to me two nights ago. You seem to have had a bad dream." "I apologize for awakening you, healer," I replied. "There is no need," she said. "It has been some time since I had a patient wake me in the middle of the night. Actually, it is some time since I had a patient here for this long." She moved towards the bed, and set the candle on the bedside table. "While I am here, let me examine you." She leaned closer, looking intently at the scar on my right side. As she examined me, I did the same to her. Her hair was beautiful, a golden red, cascading over her shoulders, but her face was too somber for my liking. I glanced down into the parting of her robe. If ever she gave birth, I mused, it seemed likely the poor babe was to die from lack of milk. Of course she looked up at that moment, catching me staring at her breasts. Without haste she pulled the robe a bit tighter. "I apologize if I embarrassed you," I said quietly. "I am a healer," she replied. "The body holds no embarrassment for me." The tightness in her lips belied her, but I did not dispute it. "Where am I, by the way, and how did I come to be here," I asked. "You were brought by the guard. I have told your employer that you will be released in the morning," she answered. "Apparently your friend is performing your work while you are here." I began to ask another question, but again she held up her hand. "Hold your questions, sir," she said. "We can speak again in the morning. Good night." With that, she picked up the candle and left the room. It seemed to me that I had offended her in some deeper way than a cursory glance at her bosom. As I had no way of knowing what that might be, I laid back down and returned to sleep. In the morning I woke suddenly, with the feeling of being watched. I opened my eyes, and saw the healer, seated near the bed, watching me. When she saw I was awake, she averted her eyes. By the light from the small window, I could see that her eyes were green. "Excuse my rudeness," she murmured. "You remind me of my husband." She looked at me, but I said nothing. She continued, reluctantly, as if I were drawing a confession from her. "He served as a Ducal messenger. During the war, a group of Beinison soldiers caught him with a message for the King. They tortured him for a very long time before he died." "My sympathies, lady," I said. "In war, men often commit acts that most reasonable folk find detestable." I did not think it prudent to mention that I had done many things in the service of my king that I found distasteful. On a number of occasions my vow of knighthood had been forced to accede to the demands of my vow to the Crown. She turned to face me again and said, "I promised myself that I would never heal another who bore arms for his livelihood. I treat merchants, children, nobleman's wives, but no soldiers. Not until you, that is." She looked closer, inspecting me. "In the light I can see how I was fooled. He had long black hair. His skin was not as dark as yours, but you have the same build." She paused for a moment, seeming to be on the verge of tears. "When the guards brought you, I was too shocked to say anything. By the time I realized you weren't my husband, it was too late." She turned to me and glared, "I would not be fooled the same way again." I had heard enough. It was obvious to me that this woman was blaming me for her emotional state. This is ever the way of women, creating difficulties for themselves, accusing a man, and then expecting him to support and lead her through the crisis. I rose from the bed and stood naked before her. "I feel only sorrow for your loss, healer," I snapped. "It seems to me, however, that you lost more than just a husband." Her eyes came alight with anger, but I spoke before she could. "Now, lady, if you would be so good as to have your servant bring my clothes, I will leave you in your misery." "You listen to me, sirrah! I have good reason to behave as I do." Her mouth open and closed several times, so overwhelmed that she couldn't speak further. She put her head in her hands and began weeping. I was to play my proper role in this little drama, now was the time to comfort the bereaved widow, and reap my manly reward for doing so, but I declined the part. Instead I began searching for my clothes. When she heard me opening the cabinet she jumped up, opened a drawer, and flung a pile of clothing at me. "There are your things, soldier," she hissed, flinging the word "soldier" like an epithet. "Your clothes were not salvageable, so I have given you some of my husband's. You are of a size." Her anger then drained from her in a rush, and she sat limply on the bed. I dressed without another word. Her husband's clothes were all black, like the ones I had worn. As I picked up my cloak, my pouch of silver fell out, onto the floor. I picked it up and finished donning my cloak. I walked to the door and stopped. Over my shoulder I asked, "Has your fee been paid, healer?" "I asked for no fee," she replied between gritted teeth. "And I will not accept your coin." "I would not have it said that Bren kel Tomis did not pay the healer who saved his life." I tossed the pouch at her, and heard it hit the floor as I closed the door behind me. The next thing I heard was a scream of outrage, followed closely by the loud clink of the pouch hitting the door. Two days and several bells later, Qanis, Toran, and I left the office and headed towards Commercial Street. Kultris had sent word that the exchange was to be made at a derelict house there. As we approached the area, I could see that it was very run down. This area of Commercial Street seemed abandoned by business, but probably still saw use by the poorer inhabitants of Dargon who had not yet drifted towards Layman Street. I had brought Toran along because my instincts told me he would be useful. Qanis was not unduly upset; apparently his clients were a nervous lot, and often requested meetings in strange locations. I was still worried about the mad stranger who seemed able to locate Qanis so easily, and I did not trust Kultris at all. As we approached the house, Toran hung back, then slouched in a doorway across the street. Kultris would only allow Qanis one guard, but Toran would come at my call. The house was situated slightly off the street. It looked to have been the home of a wealthy man some time in the past, but for once, Qanis had no pertinent story to tell. I entered first, my senses scouting for danger, but there was no one in the entranceway. Narrow hallways led right and left, but I saw before me two sets of fresh footprints leading straight ahead, through another exit. We stepped carefully through the exit into a large courtyard which was open to the midday sun. "Do you have the stone?" The harsh voice I recognized as belonging to Kultris came from our left. As Qanis moved to the center of the courtyard and started to remove the Eye from its container, I examined Kultris and his guard closely. The buyer was a small man, going bald, but flipped the rest of his hair over the bald patch in a vain attempt to hide it. He wore an expensive cloak, hanging open, and the front of his shirt was filthy with food. His face was thin and pinched, his beard was straggly, and his long nose added to the impression that he was a buzzard waiting for his next meal of carrion. His guard was a huge hulk of a man, easily four hands taller than me. He carried a club instead of a sword, but I did not doubt that the club would do as much, if not more, damage than a blade. Kultris noticed me looking at the guard, and laughed, "Pay no mind to Clod here, he is as thick as a post, and nearly as deaf. He does scare away the ruffians, which is why I keep him around." He then made a gesture at the giant, who retreated to the corner, and stood there, with a blank look on his face. "Now, let me see this stone," Kultris said, pulling a jewelers glass from a pocket in his cloak. He returned to his corner and removed several items from a bag there. While he was using these instruments, I moved to the center, near Qanis, awaiting the results of the inspection. Suddenly, Kultris stood upright, and shouted, "What is this, trader?" "What is the problem?" Qanis asked. Kultris held up the Eye. "This stone has a large flaw inside, which would reduce its value radically. What kind of trick is this Jetru? You didn't think to fool me with this imitation, did you?" Qanis was nonplussed. He was speechless for several heartbeats, the longest such span since I'd met him. Finally he spluttered out a denial. "Master Kultris, this is the same jewel that Corambis examined. There is no foolery here." At the same time, I moved forward, to place myself between Qanis and the giant. "This for your tricks!" shouted Kultris. He then raised the Eye above his head and dashed it to the stones. To my amazement, the stone shattered, spraying red glass everywhere, and a smaller jewel rolled out onto the tile floor. It pulsed with a deep red glow, and the sense of voices that I had heard in the inn was much stronger now. "Ah yes, now I see," said Kultris, the first to react. "The real Eye was inside the other stone. It seems I will have the jewel after all." Kultris then made a gesture in the air, and the giant grunted and moved towards us. Pushing Qanis back into the corner behind me, I drew my sword, and bellowed, "Toran, come quickly!" Clod swung his club at me, much faster than I would have believed possible. I jumped backwards, rolling as I fell, and felt pain as the club grazed my left arm. I tried to flex my left hand, but there seemed to be no feeling in it. As the brute stepped towards me for his next blow, I saw Kultris heading for the Eye. I was not sure what kind of power Kultris possessed, but I did not want him to reach the Eye. I moved to the right, dropped my sword, pulled a knife from my boot, and threw it at Kultris. The dagger stuck in his thigh, and he dropped to the ground, screaming in pain. I turned back to the giant, then ducked and rolled, as the club whistled by, only fingers over my head. The big man giggled like a child as he stood on my sword, ready to make a killing blow. Behind Clod I could see Toran sprint into the courtyard, and taking in the situation with a glance, lunged at the bodyguard. Toran's sword pierced the behemoth's vitals, and Clod let out a shrill, girlish, scream. Spinning around, he swung a fist the size of a ham, catching my friend on the head, and knocking him across the courtyard where he slammed into the wall and fell in a crumpled heap. The giant threw his hands up and roared in triumph. The roar turned to another scream, as I had leapt up, and plunged my remaining dagger into the base of his skull. penetrating the brain. Slowly, the huge man fell, toppled like a tall tree. I remember a very long instant in which I watched the dust raised by his fall sparkling in the sun. Then I turned towards my friends. I picked up my saber, and moved towards Kultris, who was trying to reach for the Eye. "I'd love to cut your head off, you maggot," I said, "So please continue to reach for the jewel." For I moment, I think he was actually tempted, but then he pulled back, and sat against the wall, glaring at me. "Qanis, how is Toran?" I asked. "I think he needs a healer, right away," came Qanis' worried response. "I can't wake him up." "Let's go then; I'll carry him," I said. 'You get the Eye, and then run ahead to alert the healer." My left arm was now tingling with the return of feeling, but was still effectively useless. I would need Qanis' help to get Toran on my shoulder. I sheathed my sword and started towards my friend. "Stay where you are, unbeliever, or I will kill you right now." I groaned as I recognized the voice even before I turned around. As I thought, in the doorway stood the madman. A loaded and cocked crossbow was pointed at my chest. The wild-eyed man stood as tall as he could and spoke, "I am Wern, disciple of Amante. He has spoken to me, told me where to find the sacred stone, and said that I will grasp it in all its power." Wern stepped towards the Eye, but Kultris had crawled towards it while Wern was speaking. "Now the power will be mine," screeched Kultris. Cooly, Wern brought up the crossbow, and put the bolt through Kultris' head. The force of the bolt flung the body against the far wall, where it slowly slid to the ground, leaving a slimy trail of blood and brains. Now, Wern hooted wildly, and took up the stone. It looked as if his mind had gone completely now. I stood in front of Qanis, who was giving Toran as much aid as possible. I didn't know what I would do if Wern could harness the Eye's power, but at least I would die with my sword in my hand. "Now the Power is mine," crowed Wern, flinging the now useless crossbow aside. He clasped the Eye tightly and held it high. For a moment his whole face, then his whole body, seemed to glow with the same demented intensity of his eyes. Then smoke came from Wern's clasped hand. Suddenly, his whole hand took flame. "No master, please!" he screamed. "You said I would have the power!" Something Wern had said a moment ago came back to me. He said that Amante said he would 'grasp' the stone in all its power. He was surely doing that. Such trickery is why I worship no gods. Wern seemed frozen in place by the flames that now consumed his entire body. We watched as the madman's life passed is unspeakable agony, while he was unable to even scream out his pain. Finally the corpse was released, and it crumbled into a small pile of ash. The Eye was nowhere to be seen among Wern's meager remains. "Bren." Toran's voice, weak as it was, brought me back to my senses. I rushed over and crouched at his side. "I must get you to the healer, old friend," I said. "We'll have you mended in no time." "You never were a good liar," Toran replied. "I don't think the healer will be able to mend my shattered insides. I want you word on something." "Save your strength, you fool," I said. "Listen to me," Toran hissed, flinching as a wave of pain hit him. "Promise me that you will forgive yourself. Regain your honor, my friend." "I have no honor, and I don't want to lose my brother. We go now," I said. There was no response from Toran, whose eyes were now shut. My left arm was usable now, if very painful. I hoisted my friend up, and started jogging through the streets of Dargon, almost oblivious to the stares of those that I passed. I was heading for Atelier Street, where Raneela practiced. She probably would not help, but she was the only healer I knew. When I reached her house breathless, I pounded frantically on the door with my foot. In a short moment the door opened, and I brushed past a startled apprentice, and strode into the house, shouting, "Healer, come here, I need you." "What is it?" said Raneela, poking her head out of a door down the hall. "What is all the shouting?" "Mistress -- " I cut off the apprentice sharply. "It is my friend, healer. He is gravely wounded. Help him, please." Raneela started when she saw me, but seeing Toran in my arms, apparently decided to help. She waved the apprentice away, and led me to another room, where I laid Toran on a table. She quickly stepped up, and started to examine him, but then stopped. "Why are you not doing something? I asked. "There is nothing I can do," she said, looking away. "Your friend is dead." I could not accept it. "No, it cannot be," I pleaded. "You are a healer, you must do something." I reached out and grabbed her. "I am a healer, not a god!" she screamed . "I cannot help him. Now leave me." "Help him!" I roared, shaking her back and forth. "He is *dead*," she shouted in my face. "Dead, dead, dead!" With each repetition, she pounded her fist on my chest. "Go!" She pushed me away easily, for now I had no more strength. She shoved me from the room, and shut the door. With my back to the door, I slid down to the floor. My world was shattered. Not only had I lost my honor, but because of that, I had lost my only friend. I turned and sobbed, leaning on the door, shouting my blood brother's name, over and over. A part of me could hear the healer, weeping, as the wound of her husband's death was ripped open anew, and the knowledge that I had caused more pain only made me cry the louder. ======================================================================== Quadrille Part VI by Alan Lauderdale 8-9 Sy, 1012 XXII. The Subtlety of the Woodcock Ariel jumped out of her chair. "Marcus!" she shouted. She stared at Karina's husband, who was also Camron's cousin-in-law and briefly her landlord. Then she ran to embrace him. "What are you doing here?!" "Came for you, of course," Marcus replied. He hugged her. "You do seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble last night. Who were you talking to?" "Who? I was talking to --" Ariel looked over her shoulder and realized that Mouse was nowhere to be seen. "I was --" "Rehearsing a speech to give the Duke when you throw yourself on the mercy of his Court?" Marcus grinned. "I --" Ariel didn't feel like grinning back. "No," Marcus' face quickly became serious. "That's not funny. Your struggle against the forces of Dark Earth is no joke --" "No," Ariel agreed, "but Marcus, how did you find me? I thought I was *hiding* here." "Ah." Marcus' smile returned. "That's part of the good news I'm bringing you. I'd never have known where you were without him. Now, you don't have to fight alone any longer. Cyrrwiddyn Hawkwing, priest of the Seventh Circle, has come to bring you into the Congregation of Iliara's Faithful." "Iliara's Faithful?" Ariel repeated. "Who else?" Marcus grinned. "Come in, Cyrrwiddyn," he called out into the hall. A man came in the door of the library -- and Ariel felt a surge of disappointment. He was quite ordinary, she thought, this priest of the Seventh Circle of the Congregation of Iliara's Faithful. The clothes he wore, the grayish tunic, the darker breeches, the cloak of undistinguished fur, could have been worn by a hundred other men in the city. The face, with all the usual parts in all the usual places and a general smile that looked unimproved by any great spiritual insight, could have belonged to a miller hopeful of her custom. Indeed, the man was short and his glance darted to the corners of the room. He simply wasn't what she'd hoped for from a colleague of Stefan's in the Great Struggle. Her reaction was obvious in her expression. "He doesn't look like much just now, does he?" Marcus quickly said. "Hardly a sight to make you think that he's one of the brave few that keep the world from spinning into the complete chaos that would mark the final triumph of Haargon. Or something like that," he added, when the priest arched an eyebrow at the effusive speech. "We must walk disguised," the man named Cyrrwiddyn murmured, "lest the forces of dark earth find us before we find them. We must be vigilant and alert," he added, continuing to inspect the room circumspectly, "lest they catch us unaware. You're alone here?" "Except for --" Ariel glanced back at the reading table, but Mouse was still missing. "Where is the little one called Mouse?" Cyrrwiddyn asked. "You know about her?" Ariel asked, turning back to the priest. "My dear Ariel," Cyrrwiddyn said smoothly, "you are one of the chosen of Iliara. Do you think there is anything about you that your Mistress doesn't know?" "Then why did she leave me alone all that time while those earth priests were after me?" "Ariel," the priest clasped his hands in front of himself, "Iliara knows you -- perhaps better than you know yourself. She knew that those priests and their assaults were not more than you could handle. See, they have done their worst and you are still whole --" "I am not whole!" Ariel declared forcefully. "I am wanted for murder." Cyrrwiddyn allowed an eyebrow to rise. "But you did not commit --" "Of course not," Ariel said bitterly. "But it'll be hard work convincing the Watch of that." "Hard work, perhaps," Cyrrwiddyn said calmly. "But in time, of course, the truth shall prevail." "How much time?" "That's not important, Ariel," the priest reproved her. "What is important is that you have come through your trial -- as have we in our struggle against Haargon. You have been tempered and are the stronger for it. It is now an acceptable time for you to join with your companions in the fight." "I don't feel stronger," Ariel complained. "I don't feel any relief now that you've finally showed up." Cyrrwiddyn sighed. "You have been separated from your true friends for too long," he declared. "Come. Embrace me." He held out his arms. "And then we can sit down and tell brave tales of our respective parts in the hidden war." Ariel looked at the man, feeling no desire to hug him. He held for her not even a flicker of the spirit that she'd felt Stefan kindling in her when he told her about Iliara. He seemed to her a pleasant man who sighed and smiled and spoke the same language and meant well. But he wasn't anything more -- and something at the back of her mind made her wonder if he might be even less. It occurred to her -- and as she thought it, she realized that this was a shift in her perspective -- that perhaps Iliara wasn't going to get her out of her present mess after all. "Come," he repeated. Reluctantly, she went to him. The embrace was awkward and she broke it before he wanted to let go. He sighed again. "It is as I feared," Cyrrwiddyn said to Marcus. "I have not dealt personally with this Mouse, but it's clear to me that she is an agent for the Other Side. Earth darkness has enveloped this child. She yet struggles against it, but the influence of Haargon already weighs heavily upon her." "What, from Mouse?" Ariel exclaimed. "That's absurd! Mouse doesn't even believe in earth darkness. Or Haargon. Or the War. Or even in Iliara -- at least, not the way you -- we do." Cyrrwiddyn gazed at Ariel with compassionate sadness. "And you see what she has done to you? You're confused now, no longer sure what to think. And whose work was that? The seeds of bewilderment, those are sown by Haargon and by his minions." "But she's not his minion!" "She only says she's not his minion. How do you know what her true purpose is?" Cyrrwiddyn's soft, gentle voice began to harden as he continued to raise questions. "How do you know why she accosted you? And it was just last night. That was awfully convenient -- for Haargon, don't you think? You don't know anything about her, not really." "And where is she now, anyway?" Marcus asked. "I don't know," Ariel admitted. "You see?" Cyrrwiddyn said. "She is actually a follower of the Dark Way. She was trying to trip you out of the Path of Light and make you stumble into their grasp. But she had to flee when your true friends arrived." "I don't know," Ariel said again. "She didn't seem to me to be trying to make me do anything." "The ways of the Evil One may be subtle indeed," Marcus remarked, sounding as if he was quoting something. "Be therefore three times subtler," Cyrrwiddyn responded, "yea, more circumspect than a woodcock." He looked at Ariel. "The Letter of Jamison," he explained. "Did Stefan tell you about it? I don't suppose he offered you a copy of it to read." Ariel shook her head. "Too bad. It would have been a comfort and a help to you after he -- after your loss." "Perhaps," Ariel admitted doubtfully. "But --" "I think," Marcus interrupted, "that you and Cyrrwiddyn should go now to the nearest post of Iliara. You'll be much safer there." "Post of Iliara?" Ariel asked. "House of Zephyrs," Cyrrwiddyn said, as if that should explain all. When Ariel's expression made it plain that the term explained nothing, he added "A place of safety here in Dargon for the followers of Iliara. Marcus is right, though. We should go now." "But -- my friends --" "Are not your true friends," Cyrrwiddyn cut off the protest. "They do not have your real interests at heart. They try to separate you from the love of Iliara. But we are your true friends -- your true family. We only will help you serve Iliara more faithfully and bring the light of Air and Truth more fully into the world. Now come. We need to get to a place of greater safety." "I should at least tell them where I am," Ariel said. "And that I'm all right." "I'll come back and tell them you're fine," Marcus promised, "that you no longer need their dubious help." "I'm sure they meant well," Ariel resisted. "Whatever they may have meant," Cyrrwiddyn told her, "the result was that they were doing Haargon's work." "Unless you're doing Haargon's work," Ariel suggested. "I?!" Cyrrwiddyn exclaimed with clear affront. "How dare --" He caught himself. "But Ariel, Marcus, here finds me genuine." "Perhaps you've managed to deceive him as well," Ariel shrugged. "Ariel," Marcus said solemnly. "I assure you that I have no doubt that Cyrrwiddyn has come from the counsels of Iliara herself. I do think you should accept his advice and counsel. And quickly! We don't know when the Groundlings might mount their next attack on you." Ariel gazed at the two men, watching their impatience become a little more blatant. Finally, staring into Marcus' eyes, she suggested, a little reluctantly, "Or perhaps Marcus is doing the work of Haargon as well." "Ariel, no!" Marcus exclaimed, clearly wounded. Cyrrwiddyn blinked, then cleared his face, becoming again the pleasant, blank man who'd first come into the room. He smiled that chilling smile and said "Of course, child. You have to consider possibilities like that. Iliara herself suggests that you must be subtler than the woodcock. But you mustn't wallow in such speculations. You can raise the question if you must, but Marcus is a good man and trustworthy. And as you twist and turn your way through your part in the Great Struggle, you will find, Ariel, that you must trust someone." "That's true," Mouse said. She climbed back up from the underside of the table. Marcus and Cyrrwiddyn stared at her. "You have to trust someone," the tiny girl said calmly. "There you are!" Ariel exclaimed. The sight of Mouse, unlike the previous arrival of Cyrrwiddyn, did make her feel better. "She *is* small," Marcus breathed. "We can see that," Cyrrwiddyn snapped. "A perfect guise for someone who wants to persuade that she's an agent of Iliara," he suggested. "She's never tried to convince me of that," Ariel reminded him. To Mouse, she asked "What happened to you?" "Strangers barging into my house make me nervous," Mouse replied. "So I laid low until I felt less nervous." "You feel less nervous now?" Ariel asked. "Odd, isn't it?" Mouse said cheerfully. "Here, I've been listening to these friends of yours calling me a nasty little agent of Haargon and no good for you. And I've also heard you declare doubt about whether anyone cares about you -- whether anyone's on your side in this Great Struggle. You know, I think we're not in full agreement about what this Great Struggle is struggling over." She paused for a moment, gazing thoughtfully at Cyrrwiddyn, then shrugged. "Oh well," Mouse continued. "Maybe I'm less nervous because the priest of Iliara finally said something I can agree with. Ariel, there is such an intricate dance of purposes here that it does look as though you'll have to let your heart pick _someone_ and then, just trust that person. I'd vote for Je'en, of course. A very straight arrow. Or Alec, who, however he came to know about you, I think does care about you. But neither's here right now. Perhaps you should wait here for one of them." Cyrrwiddyn frowned. He glanced at Marcus. "You sense it too, don't you?" he asked. "Uh, I'm sorry Cyrrwiddyn," Marcus replied cautiously. "I fear I'm not as sensitive in these matters as you. Uh --" "Something *soiled* has just presented itself to us!" Cyrrwiddyn shouted. "Didn't you notice how it just got a lot mustier in here?" "Oh -- of course I noticed that," Marcus admitted. "I thought you were referring to something subtle." "Well I didn't notice that," Ariel said, feeling vexed by the self-proclaimed priest of Ariel. "I didn't notice anything like that. And I don't think --" "Ariel, she has corrupted you," Cyrrwiddyn said, abruptly changing his tone back to a pretty good approximation of a sweet, conciliatory tone. "She has blunted your sensitivity to the odor of earth. Now please, you're too important to Iliara --" "I am?" Ariel asked. "Every one of Iliara's followers is important to her," Marcus said. "Isn't that right, Cyrrwiddyn?" "Then why did you abandon me for so long when I came to Dargon and needed you?" "We didn't abandon you," Cyrrwiddyn said. "Iliara yet was with you. But her support was more subtle than you might have liked." "Subtler than a woodcock," Mouse remarked. "See how she continues to try to poison your will against the Lady," Marcus said. "Twisting even the sacred words of Jamison." "Please, Ariel," Cyrrwiddyn appealed. "She's likely to summon other minions of Haargon --" "-- if she hasn't already," Marcus added. "We need to get to Zephyrs as quick as we can," Cyrrwiddyn continued. "Please, don't let Iliara down. For Stefan's sake, if not Iliara's herself. Come on!" Ariel flinched at the mention of Stefan. She clasped her hands, stared at Cyrrwiddyn, then asked "Mouse, what should I do?" "Cyrrwiddyn is a wise man," Mouse said. She watched the priest relax a moment at the unanticipated compliment. Immediately, though, the man seemed to doubt whether the words would have only a single meaning; he tensed up again in expectation of an oblique attack. Mouse gave it to him: "He said you have to trust someone and you do. But Ariel, the someone you should trust first is yourself. Go with them if you think that's right." "You're not going to tell me to order them out of my sight?" "I --" Mouse bit back her first answer. Instead, she said "No point. The priest has called me an imp of Haargon. Either you agree with Cyrrwiddyn and anything I say is damnable or you deny him and leave your options open." "My options open?" Ariel repeated. "*My* options open? Yes. That's true. If I refuse Cyrrwiddyn's help and place of safety, then I'm pretty much on my own coping with my problems. Those priests of Haargon, they'll be *my* worry. That murder charge at Camron's, that'll be an accusation against *me* that'll be *mine* to disprove. Mastering the air wizardry, that'll be my subject to study. It'll all belong to me again, won't it?" "But you can hand it all over to Iliara," Cyrrwiddyn suggested, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Cast your burdens before Iliara, for she can carry you on the wings of the morning --" "But they're *my* burdens," Ariel insisted. "What if I don't want to share?" "Then you don't have to," Cyrrwiddyn quickly acceded. But his message was now muddled. "No thanks," Ariel said firmly. "I just don't want to go with you and I'm not getting arguments from you that persuade me otherwise. You might as well leave now." She glanced around at the friend she'd decided to trust. "Mouse, we have to figure out what --" The moment of inattention was a mistake. The priest of Iliara was a whirl of motion for a moment and then Ariel gasped before falling to the floor, a wicked looking dart stuck in her neck. "I would rather have talked her into coming with us," Cyrrwiddyn remarked to Mouse. "It would have gone easier if she'd thought she was doing the right thing. But I had no intention of leaving here without her. And we can change her attitude later, at our leisure, though the process will be more time consuming and painful this way. Now, the only remaining obstacle is you." He and Marcus started walking slowly, casually, toward the table Mouse was standing on. "How are you at vanishing while people are watching you?" "I was thinking I'd like to ask the same question of you," a voice announced from the doorway behind him. XXIII. Don't Call Me That "What?" Cyrrwiddyn spun around. Kittara Ponterisso leaned against the doorjamb. The crossbow she carried with deceptive casualness was pointed at the priest. "I was thinking," she said lightly, "of asking you how good at vanishing you were if someone armed with, say, a crossbow was watching you and that watcher didn't want you to go disappearing until you'd stopped to answer a few questions." "This is none of your business --" Cyrrwiddyn growled. "Oh, I'll be the judge of that, I think," Kittara declared. "After all, I'm the one with the crossbow. But to be fair," she went on, as casually as if this were taverntalk, "I really ought to be putting this question to your colleague -- Hello Marcus." She waved with the loaded crossbow at Marcus. Marcus remained frozen, staring at Kittara, but Cyrrwiddyn, as soon as the crossbow shifted away from him, snarled a filthily misogynous epithet and sprang at Kittara. In a blur, the crossbow was targetted again on the priest, steadied with both hands, and fired. At the same time, Cyrrwiddyn slightly misjudged his spring and tripped over the fallen Ariel. He stumbled and then caught Kittara's crossbow bolt in the neck. He crashed against the reading table and was still. "Saren's spit!" Kittara exclaimed with clear annoyance. "They're not supposed to die unless I mean for them to die." She watched the priest for any sign of life, but the only movement was the seeping blood around the embedded quarrel. Marcus, however, began to ease his right hand under his cloak. "Hold it right there, Marcus," Sylk ordered. He stepped forward from the hall into the library and pointed his loaded crossbow at the man. "It's true that we just wanted to ask you and your 'friend' some questions -- though our list of questions has been getting longer each mene. But, as Kittara here demonstrated --" he nodded to her and she walked over to Cyrrwiddyn to inspect her work "-- we can't promise that if I have to fire, I won't kill you." Marcus looked at the crossbow. He looked at Sylk's grim expression. He looked at Cyrrwiddyn and he looked at the bloody quarrel. He raised his hands over his head. "Guess I should've warned Cleo not to mess with Crossbow Kitty, huh?" he asked. In a blink, Kittara had crossed the two steps to Marcus and her fist smashed into his temple. Marcus collapsed in a heap and Kittara stood over him, wringing her hand. "Damned clod has a really thick skull," she complained to Sylk. "That may be, but --" "No buts, Sylk," Kittara said. "I told you. Nobody *ever* calls me that." "I understand," Sylk said. "But look around." He gestured at the unconscious Ariel and Marcus who were lying on the floor along with the expired Cyrrwiddyn. "If you keep popping people like this, we're never going to get our little list of questions answered." XXIV. But I Never Forget a Footprint The night was almost completely gone, but the passage of time was marked in this interior chamber only by the occasional replacement of tapers with fresh ones. Ariel sat slumped in one chair and Marcus occupied another. Kittara leaned against the only door to the room while Sylk glared at Marcus over one small table. "So that's still your story," he said again. "You last saw Ariel before tonight when you found her at this --" He glanced at Ariel. "Terkan's house?" Ariel nodded. "You last saw her last night when she said good night and gave you to understand that she was turning in." Marcus nodded. "And then this evening, this Cyrrwiddyn - - whom you'd never seen before -- came to you and threatened your life if you didn't come with him and help him persuade Ariel here to go away with him?" Marcus nodded again. "How could he threaten your life? He didn't look so tough to me and you --" Sylk glanced at Kittara's hand. "You, I call a bit more solid than a rock. How'd he threaten you?" Marcus shrugged. "I've got a wife," he said. "I've got a nice little house. He said he had friends. The friends wouldn't stop from hurting Karina or burning things. Anything." "So you helped this Cyrrwiddyn just to keep your wife safe from these friends," Sylk shrugged. "Helped with a lot of enthusiasm, I'd say." Marcus shrugged. "Why did Cyrrwiddyn want Ariel?" Marcus shrugged. "Why did you go after Ariel last night?" "To make --" Marcus stopped. "I didn't go anywhere last night," he corrected himself. "Bad lie, Marcus," Kittara murmurred, coming over to stand directly behind his chair. "I happen to know you were out last night because we had a very close encounter. I found you fighting in an alley with someone else and you ran right over me when I tried to break the thing up. Now, I'm not very good at faces and I do fail to recognize a name from time to time, but I never forget a footprint. I recognized you. I knew you were lying earlier today when you said you'd been home all last night. I knew you were hiding something --" "So is that how you found me this evening?" Ariel asked. "Sure," Kittara replied breezily. "We shadowed Marcus. We sure didn't have anything else more useful to do, what with everyone interesting lying pretty low today. But it wasn't too terribly long before Cyrrwiddyn came to Marcus's house and then the two of them led us to you." She turned back to Marcus. "Now, you were in that alley last night. The question is why?" Marcus licked his lips. "When did you first meet Cyrrwiddyn, Marcus?" Sylk asked. "A few days ago, I guess," Marcus said. "He said that Camron had a bird named Ariel who was going to help take care of an annoying audit. He wanted me to put her up and keep an eye on her." "When you say 'help take care of an annoying audit,'" Kittara asked, "do you mean --" "Marcus, who killed the auditor Jarvis?" Sylk interrupted. "I don't know." "It wasn't Ariel, though, was it?" "A twittering fool like her?" Marcus sneered. Behind him, Kittara nearly let fly with another shot to his skull, but controlled herself. Unaware, he continued: "Think anyone would really trust a job like that to her? Nah. She didn't do it -- but she was set to catch the noose for it." "That, Ariel, is hopefully the most backhanded character reference you will ever get," Sylk grated, glaring at Marcus. "So who could tell us who killed Jarvis?" he asked. "How about Camron?" "Cyrrwiddyn probably could," Marcus mused. "But Cyrrwiddyn's conveniently dead," Sylk pointed out. "Pity." "So how about Camron?" Sylk asked again. "I don't think he'd know about something like that," Marcus replied. "He preferred to keep to clean, legitimate subjects, 'cause he was always talking to nice, respectable people like Duke Jastrik. 'Course, you have to wonder if he was always talking to the Duke about completely respectable, legitimate --" Kittara's fist smashed into his face. Sylk sighed. "Kit," he said. "You expect me to just let him insult both Ariel and the Duke?" Kittara demanded. "Yes," Sylk said simply. "Look Kit, it's an interrogation. We want him to talk. But you're the reason this is taking so long. We keep having to revive him every time he says something you don't like." "*Almost* every time," Kittara said, with satisfaction. XXV. And There Was Evening And There Was Morning. Ariel stood at the gate to Duke Jastrik's compound. Kittara stood with her. "So I'm not under arrest?" Ariel asked again. "No," Kittara shook her head. "We've got Marcus and we've got reason to go after Camron. We don't think you're involved and we'll advise the Watch the same way." "And you don't have to turn me over to the Watch?" "No -- and you should be glad. The Watch -- Ariel, between you me and the gate here -- they sometimes lose people who've been entrusted to their care." "Lose? They escape?" "They die. People connected with certain names. Look, I wouldn't be surprised if, after we've squeezed Marcus a while longer, he coughs up some more of those names --" "More?" "You know that priest named Cyrrwiddyn? Marcus referred to him once as Cleo. That's one of --" "Cleo!" Ariel shouted. "Shh!! Didn't I just tell you that's a name that can get you killed?" "Sorry," Ariel whispered. "It's just that -- I have a friend named Alec. He's sort of a friend. An acquaintance, really. But he was working for a man he called Cleo. Except that he thought that Cleo knew something about Jarvis' murder so he was going to help us trap Cleo so we could ... we could --" She stopped. "Alec's missing," she said. After a pause, she added, "He's been missing most of the night." "But he's just an acquaintance, right?" Kittara asked. "You think he's in trouble, right?" Ariel asked. "Uh, yeah -- no. I think he's probably past just being in trouble. I think you'd better figure he's dead." Ariel nodded. "I see," she said dully, then shoved the subject away. "Well. Thank you." "Sure." Kittara glanced inside the gate again. "Well, good luck to you. I want to see how much 'Cleo' will make Marcus sweat." "Bye." Ariel watched Kittara go back inside. "Back to Terkan's?" Mouse asked. Ariel stared at her. "Where've you been?" she demanded. "Around. I'm uncomfortable about strangers who barge into houses. I told you that." "Kittara and Sylk are on our side." "Well, I know that *now*. We might as well go back to Terkan's." "M-Mouse!" "What?" "I was in trouble and you just abandoned me." "You weren't in that much trouble -- nothing, at least, that I wouldn't have made worse. And I didn't abandon you. I was around, so I know just how well you did getting through it." "But I didn't do anything." "And you controlled yourself very well. And Ariel, if you really had needed me, I would've shown up. I promise. Now --" Mouse danced onto Ariel's shoe. "Shall we go back to Terkan's house?" "Might as well," Ariel sighed. "I doubt I have a job anymore, or anywhere else to stay, for that matter." A Few Loose Ends At Terkan's house, Mouse and Ariel found a note from Cefn pinned to the front door. It advised that the Septent of Jhel was smashed and the last survivor was slouching toward Magnus. A desire for complete finality required the two to pursue. They were not sure when and if they'd be back. "... Please be sure to feed the apprentice," it continued. "Actually, it's probably safe to free him now. Good luck with the dead auditor, watch out for murder investigators, and be careful putting hot drinks in Terkan's brown mugs. They hold the heat extremely well." "Now he tells us," Ariel said. Entering the house, Mouse and Ariel found that someone had already freed Bret. He was gone, as was Terkan's silverware. Kittara and Sylk turned Marcus over to the Watch with a promise that Marcus wished to implicate Camron in the murder of the auditor Jarvis. Within five bells of being placed in the custody of the Watch, Marcus managed to kill himself through the simple technique of swallowing his tongue. Camron steadfastly denied any irregularities in his books. However, several investors in his trading house (led by Duke Jastrik) abruptly withdrew their capital. Camron and his House were both ruined. Karina, though lacking any apparent source of income besides the steady stream of boarders she took in, managed to persist in comfortable poverty. She denied throughout that there was ever any hint of wickedness in either Camron or Marcus. Due to the poor choice of distributor, Rockway House had a bad year in rhubarb relish sales. A set of lovely doll's clothes that had also been shipped with one of the barrels, however, was sold to Lady Katia Rombar (age 6) for a very satisfactory price. Mouse was in the late Terkan's library again, avoiding facing the enormous task of replacing her lost Court dress by trying to make sense of a tome that she'd not ever copied for him. It appeared to be an attempt to describe the mathematics of the motion of magical bubbles, but it was very hard going. She sighed. "Hello Ariel," she said. "Any news?" "I'm supposed to be invisible," Ariel complained. Mouse looked up at Ariel. "So you are," she agreed, technically. Ariel was *supposed* to be invisible, but there was a ways to go yet. "And quite transparent, too," Mouse continued. "But you're still audible. I take it the air magery is going well?" "I suppose," Ariel sighed, giving up her effort and allowing herself to be seen again and taking a seat at Mouse's table. "They posted a notice on the door of the house today." "They?" "Bailiffs. Very official and legal and longwinded. A whole lot of whereases and therefores, but the news is that someone named Valory Westbrier now owns this house and he owes the Duke some serious money." "Valory?" "A nephew or cousin or something, I suppose. It's too soon for the house to've been sold already, isn't it?" "I don't know." "Anyway, it seems to me that it's time to move," Ariel said. "You don't think that every house needs a Mouse?" "That's easy for you to say," Ariel smiled. "You could probably stay on here after this Valory moved in and he might never notice. But that won't work for me. Besides, I've found Dargon just a little bit more exciting than I like. And the way people have come and gone --" "Still nothing about Alec?" Mouse asked. "Nothing. "He had all your spare clothes and stuff. If we work at it we might be able to find someone who knew him and --" "Who wasn't part of this Haargon cabal?" Ariel asked. "Thanks, but there really isn't anything there that I want back." "You told me about a journal you were keeping." "Full of -- of Stefan." Ariel made a face. "Do you think I want to be reminded of that?" "I suppose not," Mouse admitted. The two sat together in silence, burying Stefan. Then Mouse asked "What do you suppose happened to Alec?" Ariel shuddered. "That's another thing I don't want to be reminded of. The way that crossbow woman --" "You said her name was Kittara?" "Yes. The way she described Cleo, I'm sure now that Alec is dead. Beyond that, I don't want to imagine." Ariel sat still, resolutely not imagining. Mouse was tempted to return to the oscillation frequencies of bubbles that were caught in Chalcedensian inversions, but Ariel spoke first: "I'd just like to go somewhere quieter -- at least for a while. Do you think you could write me a letter of introduction to Brother Muskrat at Rockway House?" "You want to go there?" Mouse exclaimed. "Of course! It's a great idea! You'll love them there. They're great." She jumped to her feet, abandoning the bubbles. "Where's a pen? Where's ink? And they'll all love you, because you're a great person too -- even when you're invisible. I need parchment." She jumped to the floor and started running over to Terkan's writing desk. Then she stopped. "I'll miss you, you understand," Mouse said gravely. "I consider you a very good friend, but I do still have business to complete here in the city." "You're my friend too," Ariel replied with a smile. "And I did know about the business. If you don't mind, I'd really rather not go with you to see the Duke. That sounds too much like an adventure and I've had enough of that. That's why I asked for the letter." "The letter. Right." Mouse resumed her sprint to the leg of the writing desk. "Remember to write big." "It's all settled, then?" the master asked after sipping his wine. "Except that we'll need a new trading house, sir," the man standing in front of the desk promised. "And Cynthia is out of circulation the rest of this month and next. Cleo commended her work at Camron's. Everything he asked of her, both eliminating the auditor and dressing to look like the other girl, she accomplished perfectly. It's scarcely her fault that our operation there went down the river." "Whose was it, then?" "Camron's. He was careless, letting his filthy books get anywhere near that auditor." "And has he been dealt with appropriately?" "He's ruined." "That doesn't sound sufficient. See to it. Something slow, I think. I want him to have time to contemplate his failings. And aquatic. After all, if you live by the sea, you ought to die by the sea --" He smiled at a private joke. "I think I have an idea for that." The man took a sheet of parchment and began to sketch. While he drew, he said "As for Cynthia, I think an extra bottle of sherry for the little thief's infirm mother might be appropriate." "Her mother's a lush, you know," the underling offered cautiously. "She's dying of too much drink." "It's the thought that counts. Now, what are you doing about a new trading house?" The man looked up at his underling, but quickly returned to his work, remembering that he disliked having the man standing over him. He was too tall. It was annoying, but the man was valuable in other ways. Sketching delicate wavelets, the master said, "Camron was all right, mostly, but I want no more minority partners from the aristocracy. I don't care how much of an air of respectability they lend. The next one we take over, I want full ownership." He sighed and pushed the parchment across the table. "This is for anyone who disappoints me. Have Camron try it out first. You know, I'd rather looked forward to playing a High Priest of Iliara, spewing all those platitudes, having that wench worshipping me --" "Of course, Liriss," the underling said. "What was her name? Aria?" "Something like that." "You don't think I could've done it, do you?" The man shrugged diplomatically. "Wouldn't you have tired of it after a while?" he asked. "Perhaps," Liriss admitted. "The role would have been so limiting. I shall miss Cleo, though. It was very creative of him, inventing the whole scheme to get himself a pliant assistant and me a loyal mage -- but that bastard Stefan! He owed me that wench -- and more. And so much more." "He *is* dead now, Liriss." "Just makes it a little more challenging to collect his debts, Kesrin." ========================================================================