Session Forty-Eight - July 7, 2007

[Matt]

Agrazhar 13, 731

Sir Baris Tyrestal sits glowering at Cekiya across the breakfast table of Gray House, silently nursing his barked shins and battered pride as the servants bustle about him, placing heaping dishes upon the table. She had neglected to mention the rickety ladder at the tenement being unlikely to support his considerable weight, which the young knight had learned to his cost the evening before in a sudden splintering of wood while attempting to ascend to the garrets above. Dangling from one arm, scrambling madly for purchase, the muttering “rat-catcher” had managed to lower himself in comparative silence to the floor below, casting furtive glances about for any witnesses to his indignity. Finding none, he skulked back to his room at Gray House, and got little satisfaction the following morning in confronting the sneaky little murderess, who laughed in her strange, abstracted manner and cut in front of him on the way to the breakfast table.

Divining the nature of the grievance from the knight’s curt salutation and sour glance down the table, Sir Ewen of Ravinargh calls the morning strategy session to order and brings in Arnys, suggesting that perhaps the older squire would take Sir Baris’ place at the tenement. Deciding furthermore that Arnys’ skills have been underutilized thus far in Tashal, the group suggests that he might determine which of the city wells provide the lion’s share of gossip for the attentive ear. Arnys indicates that he has already heard two things of interest from his conversations below-stairs. The first concerns some documents of interest which might be floating about city due to the poor judgment of a hapless royal official attempting to woo a paramour by convincing her that he works in the castle. Producing a few impressive documents she was unable to read in any event, the potentially embarrassing or important parchments have vanished, along with a mercantyler’s note, and have yet to be retrieved. The other rumor involves a royal official, possibly in the Office of the Exchequer, who has been living beyond his means. This ostentatious fellow, Arnys explains, keeps a grand house in Medrik but might soon lose it all because he owes money to the wrong people. Brightening at the realization that Medrik is where the Temple of Halea is located, Sir Baris half-heartedly volunteers to investigate this line of inquiry, but on further consideration decides that his time would be better spent visiting Halime at the Spurs.

Arnys takes his leave for the various precincts of the city, his canny mind having encompassed the gist of the party’s intent. Sir Ewen, meanwhile, embarks upon a visit to the Baron of Stimos at Tharda House. Striding among the busy stalls of Haldan Square, Sir Ewen catches a glimpse of a cloaked fellow – overdressed for summertime – falling into place a distance behind him and he smiles wryly, thinking of Dickon of Parketh’s concern for his safety. Finding the Baron not at home, Sir Ewen is told that Stimos had left particular word to be sent for should the Thardan knight come calling. A messenger is dispatched while Sir Ewen sips Mrs. Baum’s tea, and the Baron himself arrives not long afterward. Sir Ewen learns that the Baron was not aware of anything regarding the Lady Bresyn aside from what Sir Ilken already knew. Sir Ewen asks whether any embassy from Melderyn is maintained in Kaldor, but the Baron explains that this is not the normal practice, and that the Baron’s own presence over the past year is due to the war in Orbaal, a precautionary measure to keep Kaldor on friendly terms with Tharda.

Stimos goes on to explain that the last formal embassy had been a presence in 728 and, before that, a grand tour of sorts in 726 when Prince Chunel of Melderyn progressed on the occasion of attaining his seventeenth year. The young prince was knighted, processed through Cherafir, on to Thay, and then via the Genin trail to Kaldor. He was reputedly intending to visit Azadmere with his enormous entourage. Returning later via a slightly different route through Kaldor, the prince passed through the small kingdom of Chybisa before ending his journey back in Cherafir. Stimos states that the Lady Bresyn has never been at court in Kaldor, but offers that a few months ago an embassy from Orbaal arrived seeking assistance for the war against Tharda but was refused. Warming to the topic, Stimos explains to Sir Ewen that Chybisa and Kaldor suffer from poor relations due to a war many years back in 674, when the Sword of Calsten, a reputedly enchanted Kaldoric heirloom, was stolen. King Torastra thought the King of Chybisa had taken the relic, and the so-called Treasure War led to Burzyn being besieged. King Balesir surrendered and his country became an earldom of Kaldor for a time. King Balesir eventually recouped and retook his lands with the aid of Melderyn, to whom Balesir swore fealty. As a result, both Kaldor and Melderyn consider the small kingdom their own, and King Darebor refers to the King of Chybisa as “Our vassal the Earl.” Baron Firith’s ambitions are to settle the matter in Kaldor’s favor, but thus far he has been reined in by Haldan III. Eventually taking his leave of the loquacious Baron, Sir Ewen finds himself again followed on the way back to Gray House, although his tail drops back when the precincts of the Temple of Larani are reached.

In the meantime, Sir Baris and Imarë have gone on to the Spurs, which they find sparsely populated at midday with a representative array of riffraff. Neither Halime nor his brother are present, but a serving girl recognizes the pair and brings two ales, explaining that her boss has gone and she can’t say when he’ll return. She offers to pass on a message, but they demur and opt to wait for a bit. Sir Baris eavesdrops on some gossip at a nearby table, learning to his mounting irritation that a rogue named Skabb made 60d off some ‘fool’ yesterday and tried to keep the proceeds, but was roughed up and subsequently accepted the folly of his ways. Imarë eyes Sir Baris uneasily as the young knight reddens, powerful fist closing upon the crumpling leather tankard, and she kicks the knight under the table upon his battered shins. Gesturing with a brief flick of her head toward the exit, she manages to extract the seething knight from the tavern before trouble erupts. Back at Gray House, they report their findings to the others. Word comes, via a raggedy little messenger girl asking for the master of the house, that “A” has found a new home in the building closest to the well across from the temple of the brown people, the “craven ones.” She is given a tuppence after mentioning that “A” is missing some fingers, and is sent along her raggedy way.

Back to the Spurs after a sufficient cool-down period for the combustible knight, and the same serving girl delivers two more ales. Told she is a credit to her profession, she lightly asserts that she’s beaten if she’s not, and explains that Halime has still not returned. While the twosome sip their pale watery brew, two non-descript men approach the table and seem to know Sir Baris, one of them adopting an undue bantering familiarity. The stranger, who eventually identifies himself as Drakel, tells of meeting a stone mason who, in his cups and covered in the fine Gray dust of his trade, damned Sir Baris in absentia, accusing the knight of purloining his honey. Drakel waxes dramatic in recounting the colorful language employed by the rogue in casting aspersions upon Sir Baris. Imarë casts a lengthwise glance at her companion, but finds him wide-eyed and composed, studying his garrulous interlocutor with interest. In a quiet voice, Sir Baris asks him where this mason might be found, and the Coin and Broom is named as a possibility. Drakel asked Sir Baris if he’s up for a game of chance, and Sir Baris plays a few hands of cards but quits after a 6d loss. Imarë is offered a throw of the dice and wins, whereupon the two depart the tavern.

Back to Gray House again, with Sir Baris ruminating upon this revelation that the Baroness is keeping company with a common mason. Changing into more respectable clothing, Sir Baris departs for the Iron Bell, where lo and behold the Lady Peresta Bastune is indeed present, accompanied by a well-dressed man slightly older than Sir Baris, but considerably younger than herself. Sizing up the companion – broadsword, good carriage and bearing, probably a knight – Sir Baris saunters over to their table and inquires after Her Ladyship. Eyebrows raising, irritation crossing her face like a cloud, the lady acknowledges Sir Baris with some coolness as her companion rises politely and introduces himself as Sir Retel, apparently the second son of Uthris Pierstel, the Baron of Tonot. Sir Baris’s place among the final sixteen at the tournament establishes his bona fides for Sir Retel, who admits that his father was not happy about outcome of the jousting, evidently refusing to acknowledge that he is not as young as he once was. Sir Baris, after complimenting the performance of the Baron, accepts the offer of a glass of wine with the pair, the Lady Peresta having somewhat overcome her initial annoyance, and then Sir Baris withdraws after exchanging addresses with his fellow knight. Sir Retel, it appears, has lodgings right around the corner from Gray House, on Chidena Street. Sir Baris, wending his way drunkenly through the streets of Tashal after his busy day of boozing, relieves himself against a wall while keeping an eye out for the town watch, unable to hold his liquor all the way to Gray House.

Agrazhar 14, 731

At breakfast, the assistant cook is overheard to fret over the fate of a Peonian abbey which is burdened with debt. Plans are made for Imarë to recruit a network of city urchins loyal to Gray House for communications and intelligence purposes, with a visit to Eleere at Hag Hall for advice the first order of business. Meanwhile, Cekiya requisitions 60d from Sir Ewen and sets off for Haldan Square, where she purchases a bundle of bright flowers and then makes her way to the tenement. As she slips up the alleyway, an urchin approaches whom Cekiya thinks she recognizes, although not from her vantage on the roof the day before. The boy twirls about her, asking, “Ow much for the flowers, luv?” with a big grin cleaving his filthy face. Cekiya tries to discourage him by offering a single pence, but the urchin proves briefly persistent, claiming that he is looking for a rose, not a penny. The boy proclaims that he might be called a cat, as he can lose a life and still have more, but Cekiya complains that she doesn’t care for his cant because it fails to rhyme, which appears to befuddle the boy, throwing him off his patter, and he withdraws in perplexity.

At the tenement somebody is preparing a pot of gruel in the kitchen. Startling the landlady, who becomes kindly and solicitous at the sight of the waifish girl with pretty flowers, Cekiya asks for a place to stay and is offered a room the landlady thought she had rented to a “deadbeat boozer,” apparently referencing the hapless Karl. Cekiya claims that her daddy was a boozer, which elicits even greater sympathy from the woman, who shows her upstairs, chattering the while, to the room Karl had rented, but not paid for, the previous day. The landlady surveys the room and then turns to the smiling Cekiya with her armful of fragrant flowers, asking whether the girl can afford three pence per week. Looking briefly doubtful, Cekiya glances at the flowers and brightens suddenly, claiming that she thinks she can, and that the landlady reminds her of her mother. Touching one hand to her throat, a generous tear bedewing her eyes, the landlady accepts a proffered flower from the girl with a little gasp and allows that Cekiya can have the room for two pence weekly so long as she helps out in the kitchen. Cekiya nods sweetly at this, and the landlady smiles back at her kindly, gathering her skirts about her and departing down the stairs, leaving her new tenant above in the room. Alone now, the smile fades slowly from Cekiya’s face, her cold, remorseless eyes tracking methodically across the small room, head tilting slightly to catch the sounds from below. Tossing the flowers negligently upon the bed, a cruel twist touching one corner of her mouth, Cekiya gives the room one last appraising glance, closes the door behind her, and slips downstairs to help out in the kitchen.

Sir Baris, appointed temporary amanuensis by Sir Ewen, spends the morning attempting to compose invitations, wasting vast quantities of ink and paper as beads of sweat dapple his brow. The group has decided to apprehend Viktam Arwat at the tenement and stage his confrontation before the Countess Thilisa at a dinner party at Galopea’s Feast, with the Earl of Balim and Baroness of Kolorn as invited guests. Eying the mound of besmirched parchment accumulating upon the dining table before an intensely concentrating Sir Baris, Imarë wisely forgoes commentary as she sweeps past and ventures out on her way to Hag Hall to speak with Eleere.

Finding Eleere overseeing the busy kitchen, Imarë states her desire to develop a cadre of young children to run messages. Eleere is willing to help, recognizing the elf from a visit to dinner at the Hall, and suggests that city children will work for food, but admonishes that if they are given silver they will become spoiled. She herself always makes it a practice to cultivate children, who notice everything and eventually grow up to become … former children … who are helpful as well. Eleere agrees to start Imarë’s network with six children who will appear at the stable door of Gray House on the morrow, expecting to be fed and willing to undertake a job if asked. Eleere instructs Imarë to have marzipan available on some days, as the urchins will likely check back later for it, and that the children should be asked about the events of their day, as they often notice things of interest. Grateful for the assistance, Imarë returns to brief the kitchen staff at Gray House about the impending mendicants.

Absolving the exasperated knight of his labors with quill and parchment, Sir Ewen brings Sir Baris along with him to Dickon House, where they find the men sparring with prodigious betting taking place on side. Dickon spots Sir Ewen from across the room, and they retire to Dickon’s office to discuss the plan to apprehend Viktam Arwat and deliver him to Galopea’s Feast. Dickon decides to allow the four men who win today’s sparring the privilege of the enterprise, his eye gleaming with the prospect of leading his men on an actual mission.

Cekiya, dutifully chopping onions in the kitchen for a glutinous pottage, learns that the landlady’s name is Frasia. Scaring off an urchin trying to steal loaf of bread cooling on the window sill, Cekiya listens to the woman prattle on, getting the distinct impression that Frasia does not herself own the tenement. Inquiring, Cekiya gathers from the landlady’s circumlocutions that the owner must be the madam Perla. A little girl peeps thru the door while they are talking, and Frasia calls her Blondie as she kindly bestows a cookie upon the child and shoos her away. While Cekiya tidies up, a man comes into the kitchen with two bowls; this is evidently “Master Glokas” looking for his supper. The small man croaks in acknowledgment, spoons steaming gruel for himself and Master Dello into the bowls, and returns back upstairs under Cekiya’s watchful eye. Later, a woman comes down into the kitchen, sniffs the pottage critically, and falls to talking briefly with Cekiya, who gives name and learns that the lady does the laundry around here. Sticking to her alibi, Cekiya natters on about selling flowers and liking daffodils the best, the strange light in her eye eluding her two female companions in the busy kitchen. The woman, who turns out to have a son who is a day laborer, lives on third floor and rents the room on the left, subletting part of it to other tenants. The remaining rooms on that floor are evidently taken by day laborers. While they are still talking, another woman comes down whose husband and teenage son on the second floor work as day laborers, and the women gossip for a time about the neighborhood, particularly about gangs of young boys called “the ferrets” who are constantly making trouble. Cekiya gets the impression that this is an oft-repeated conversation. Blondie’s mother asks if anyone heard the fuss the other night made by “that gentleman,” who came in after drinking and yelled something fierce, about people interfering in his ways, at either Glokas or Dello. Cekiya, averring her desire to steer clear of such a rude gentleman, learns that he is called “Master Arwat”, and that he lives with Glokas and Dello on the second floor in the front room across from hers. Arwat apparently comes and goes at all hours, and Frasia ruefully states that, if he weren’t paying more than all of her other tenants, she might get rid of him.
Imarë, Sir Ewen and Sir Baris return to Gray House. Kaelyn, having completed her studies, attempts her spell but the research fails. Sir Baris finally produces an acceptable invitation to the Lady Perestra, while Sir Ewen struggles with a letter to the Earl of Balim, but soon turns it over to Imarë who acquits herself well, producing a socially appropriate invitation in her flowing, graceful hand.

After midnight, in her darkened room in the tenement, Cekiya hears someone tromping up the stairs and pounding on the door across from her, unintelligible shouting followed by a door slam. Ten or fifteen minutes later the door closes again and a different set of footsteps go down the stairs. Cekiya steps into the hall, glancing at the ladder where she notes two rungs missing and signs of freshly splintered wood. Smiling, Cekiya settles into the shadows and waits. One hour later Glokas comes up the stairs, rounds the bend and then stops, backing up and then looking to the left and straight at Cekiya. “What are you looking for, honey?” Glokas growls, eyes narrowed. Cekiya gives an odd tilt of her head, and says that she sells flowers. Glokas grunts, replying that he saw her in the kitchen today, and tells her dismissively to “stick to selling flowers.” He turns and steps away, knocking on the door to his room, which opens and then closes behind him. Muffled voices can be heard, but Cekiya is unable to discern the words. Slipping back into her room, she looks down at the wilting flowers strewn across the squalid bed. In a faint, singsong whisper, she announces to the empty room, “I’m going to put a daisy, over each of your eyes.”

Agrazhar 15, 731

In the early morning, prior to the breakfast conference, six urchins show up at the stable door and are ushered into the kitchen and fed. Imarë goes down and greets the ill-clad children in their grubby rags, beholding two girls and four boys stuffing their faces with bread and poached eggs. They appear to be between the ages of seven and twelve, and are evidently quite familiar with the routines and expectations of urchinhood. Imarë dispatches one to Cekiya, another to Arnys, while two are asked to return later and two are dismissed for the day. Imarë reports on her bedraggled team of messengers at the breakfast table, and learns that Sir Baris is off to Dickon house to spar with the Thardan soldiers there. Arriving there later in the morning, conferencing with Dickon Parketh briefly, Sir Baris learns that the captain has already scouted the tenement and selected his four chosen men for the mission.

Surveying her desiccated flowers in the gathering morning light – she had heard others thundering out into the pre-dawn streets earlier but no sound from Arwat’s room – Cekiya snicks her own door shut behind her and trips down the stairs and out into the alleyway, pointing herself toward Haldan Square to purchase some fresh blooms. An urchin girl finds her, announcing that she has a message for Cekiya. Cekiya instructs the child to return with, “The bad man’s on the second floor, and he lives with two more, a fellow named Dello,” and the two practice until the little girl has Cekiya’s singsong cadence down pat. Off to Sir Ewen, where ample marzipan is consumed, and soon Cekiya has another message from the child, now begrimed with sticky fingers: Package Tonight. Dismissing the child, Cekiya glances over to the head of the alley near Hag Hall, next to the butcher shop, where a man has kept watch on activity to his west for an hour now. Noting that he obviously carries a weapon under his cloak, probably a large sword, Cekiya approaches and asks whether he would like to buy a flower. The man considers her, and inquires how much they cost. Cekiya coyly rejoins that they are free if you know a certain someone. Shrugging, the man claims to not know anyone, and then offers a farthing for a daffodil. Cekiya smiles daintily: I know someone who smells like daffodils. As the man gives her a farthing, settling for a lily, Cekiya says absently, “Ewen knows all about daffodils and pretty things.” Eyebrow raised now, the soldier tilts his head, considering her. “My lord Ewen knows many things,” he answers slowly. When Cekiya simply asks how he knows Ewen, the man admits, “I am privileged to serve him.” “Alright,” Cekiya grins, “here’s another flower.” Turning and skipping back toward the square, Cekiya glances back once, and he is gone.

Sir Baris is back to Dickon House by midday, having sent Quinn off delivering the invitations. Sir Baris finds Dickon and four soldiers belting on swords and armored in mail. Dickon strides over, clasping Sir Baris by the hand firmly. “We got word that the operation is a go!” he says briskly, and then adds, “or at least we think we did,” holding up an object for the knight’s inspection. Sir Baris looks dubiously at the daffodil, and is about to say something to Dickon when an older man interrupts, stepping forward and introducing himself as Sir Harth of Hurlis. Sir Harth, tall, gray, and grizzled, acknowledges Sir Baris brusquely, and goes on to pronounce the impending operation ill-advised and improperly planned. Sir Baris glances at Dickon, who is standing ramrod-straight and appears to be intently studying something far across the room, and mildly asks Sir Harth what he would change. “It is not my purview to say what might go wrong, and I have been told not to interfere,” Sir Harth snaps, “but frankly I think you need more information before you embark.” Sir Baris meets his gaze, and responds evenly, “I’ll take it under advisement.” The trace of a smile crosses Dickon’s face as Sir Harth nods stiffly to them both. “I wish you luck,” he barks, and then stalks off.

Sir Ewen is at the gate to Caldeth House, discovering that instructions had been left that he is among those welcome, but must be introduced first. A guard leads him up the stairs and tells a servant that Sir Ewen of Ravinargh is arrived to see the Countess. After a time an older woman, small and well-dressed, appears and Sir Ewen bows to her curtsey, learning that she is the Lady Elena Valador and that the Lady Countess is indisposed at the moment. The lady retires. Sir Rollard approaches Sir Ewen presently, and as pleasantries are exchanged Sir Ewen admits to difficulty in placing the knight’s accent.

“Ah, Suh Ewen,” Sir Rollard draws himself up, “Ahm afraid it is one of those things, Suh Ewen.” Finding the Thardan knight still quizzical, he goes on, “The truth is, Ah don’t rightly understand myself where Ahm from, Suh Ewen – Ahv found uh home here, and that’s all the home Ah need.” Embarking into deeper waters, Sir Rollard continues, “Ah tell you plainly that Ahm in love with the lady, Suh Ewen, but Ah undahstand the lady does not return mah affections. Now as uh man of ahnah, Ah would not force mah attentions where they ah not wanted. And while anothah man might feel jealousy in the face uh competition, Ahv nothing but admiration when in the presence of uh kindred spirit. Ah appreciate the beauty, and Ahm drawn to it like a moth to the flame. You, Suh Ewen, ah uh man of ahnah, and Ah know you’ll do nothin’ to hurt mah lady.” Considering the knight in some astonishment, Sir Ewen clears his throat and says, “Well I do thank you for speaking manfully on the topic, Sir Rollard. I admit I do entertain hopes of enjoying the lady’s good regard…” Sir Roland shakes his head, “Ah would that it wuh not so, but it is –”

Sir Rollard breaks off as the Dowager Countess Thilisa sweeps into the room, and both knights rise and bow and then Sir Rollard withdraws a few paces, remaining apart but not completely out of earshot. Thilisa, glancing at the retiring knight, tells Sir Ewen the man is an excellent majordomo, but archly adds that he has ambitions above his stations, even if he is too much a man of honor to act on them.

She observes that Sir Ewen has managed to stay away from her door for some time, to which Sir Ewen rejoins that this was “not for lack of pining for your ladyship.” Lady Thilisa states that her father attempted to investigate Sir Ewen’s ancestry at the Heraldic College and found nothing, and Sir Ewen admits that he had recently visited the College as well and found them sadly wanting in that information. Thilisa accuses him of having no ancestry to Sir Rollard’s chuckles – he having not moved that far off. Forging ahead with his purpose, Sir Ewen indicates to the Countess his hope that she would join him at a small dinner at Galopea’s Feast this evening, intimating that she might find the affair to be of interest and that he has a surprise planned. While the Lady avers she likes surprises, she takes umbrage at Sir Ewen for inviting her on such short notice, accuses him of taking her for granted, remonstrates with him in a manner suggesting that here again is another knight behaving well above his station. She suggests perhaps she should attend on Sir Rollard’s arm, and Sir Ewen allows the worthy knight is welcome. Lady Thilisa sniffs, and haughtily says that if she attends, she shall expect the most diverting evening she’s enjoyed in years. Sir Ewen is dismissed and Sir Rollard escorts him out saying that while he does not wish him well he does not wish him ill either. Sir Ewen departs content in the fact that his invitation was not, after all, outright refused. Sir Ewen returns to Gray House from Caldeth House at 6:30pm, hastening to freshen himself as the Countess is due at Galopea’s Feast by 8:00, should she deign to show.

Cekiya gives flowers to Blondie, is later rebuffed by one of the women who weeps because her man has just left her, goes back to the marketplace, and soon returns yet again. Climbing the stairs and rapping upon the door across from her own, she calls within that she has a message for Viktam. A gruff, muffled response indicates that there is no “Viktam” here. Cekiya asks if she speaks to Master Glokas, which results in the door being roughly opened by the same, who stands blocking the doorway while Cekiya discerns someone attempting to remain out of sight near to the bunk bed. Cekiya perseveres: she has a message for Viktam, and after some argument with Glokas in which Cekiya insists someone needs to make Viktam’s acquaintance, a figure steps into view from where he was concealed by the bunks. Viktam Arwat, a large man, coarse of feature, studies the diminutive figure before him disdainfully, demanding to know who it is wishing to make his acquaintance. Cekiya, poised and calm, only insists incongruously that her instructions are to stand right here, which deepens the frown of irritation. Arwat orders Glokas to step aside, fingering the pommel of his sword, and when Cekiya remains obdurate, he rhetorically asks, “Why don’t I end this right now?” and draws his blade. Cekiya, nonplussed, repeats that she is to stand right here, at which Arwat glances to his left at Glokas, and then to his right. He steps toward Cekiya, the point of his sword leveling at her chest.

Only the creak of his tread upon the floorboards, then Cekiya slips sideways and in, slashing upward with a driving fist. Reeling back and gagging, Arwat crumples to his knees as Glokas bellows and lunges past him, knife blade extended. Cekiya deftly sidesteps and the henchman sails past her, out into the hallway, while another man with a short sword emerges stage right and hurtles forward. Cekiya dodges again, and this one slams painfully into the door jamb, spouting curses. Cekiya pirouettes, in the room now, taking in a retching Arwat and, presumably, Dello shaking off his collision just to her side. She sweeps a vicious whipsaw kick in Dello’s direction but fails to connect as Glokas comes raging back in from the hall, calling her a “fuckin’ bitch” as he slashes savagely with his dagger. Timing his arrival with precision, Cekiya lashes out with her foot, driving his privy parts upward with a satisfying thump – Glokas sags speechless to the floorboards, writhing, mouth contorting like a landed fish. Arwat still gagging on the floor somewhere over her shoulder, and Cekiya laughs as Dello sweeps his short sword above her ducking head, lodging it in the wood of the same doorjamb, his nemesis now. She snaps her right foot around and kicks him solidly in the chest as he wrenches vainly at the blade. Spinning around with her momentum intact, Cekiya kicks a rising Arwat a glancing blow to the ribs, propelling him backward, but he manages to retain his balance, pinwheeling his arms. Coming full circle, building to a blinding speed now as she limbers up, Cekiya delivers a lightning kick to Dello as he swings, sword free, coming in under his sweeping blade with a brutal foot to his exposed chest, audibly staving in ribs as he folds over, suddenly coughing sprays of blood.

Exultant, dodging instinctively now as a flash of blade arcs in from the right, Ceyika feels a burning line of flame razor across her upper arm as the full weight of the metal hisses past. Glokas now, lunging over the subsiding Dello with knife thrusting high, but Cekiya punches him in the neck, arresting his progress, staggering him backward. She whirls to confront Arwat, sword weaving between them, bloodshot eyes wide in panting disbelief. “Who are you?” he gasps raggedly, shaking his head at the girl who stands there grinning at him, breathing lightly. “Who are you … what message…” he coughs, shaking his head irritably, chest heaving. Cekiya rocks up on the balls of her feet as Arwat spits and straightens, growling savagely, “Ah you’re just a little girl –” and charges. A blurring shift of feet, a flashing kick past his extended sword arm exploding flat against breastbone, spearing the air from his lungs, and he hurtles backward, crashing against the wall and sliding motionless to the floor. Glokas, spinning and stumbling now at the sight, reels out the doorway toward the stairs before Cekiya, quick as a cat, catches him on the landing, the detonation of her fist to his kidneys smashing him forward against the staircase rail, where he collapses. Hauling roughly on his tunic with both hands, Cekiya drags him heavily backward into the room, spins lightly, and flips the door shut. Silence.

Down below in the street, Sir Baris and Dickon gaze up at the tenement, the four men-at-arms having fanned out to surround the building. Dickon nods to one of the men, Langon, directing him to enter the building to scout the situation, and the man enters and slowly climbs the stairs. Cekiya glances up from the task of breaking Dello’s neck to hear the approaching footsteps, opens the door a bit and tips her head at the sight of the soldier attaining the landing. Letting the door fall open, she steps back into the room to allow the man to enter, and the soldier grunts in surprise, taking in the grisly tableau behind her.

“The flower girl,” he says blandly, “…I’ve come to buy a daisy.”

Cekiya smiles, winsome. “For?”

“The Lady Rahel.”

The smile brightens. Cekiya nods, indicating Arwat. “He’s ready.”

The soldier clears his throat, looking around. “Um, now don’t take this the wrong way, but did you do this?”

“These men are dead,” she sighs in her singsong fashion, as if reciting a child’s nursery rhyme. “They were in the way. This is the man we need to bring.”

Langon stoops down, keeping an eye on Cekiya, and searches Arwat’s immobile form, confiscating a dagger. He ignores the wilted daisies on the eyes of the dead men. Hoisting Arwat onto his shoulders, he gestures to the door. “Maybe you’d like to lead the way?”

Cekiya skips down the stairs, ducking into the kitchen while Langon carries his captive out to a waiting Sir Baris and Dickon. She tells Frasia that she has found another place to stay and pays her for the month; the solicitous landlady ascertains that Cekiya is not bound for a house of ill repute and bids her farewell, regretting the loss of a first-rate onion-chopper.

Out on the main road, Dickon Parketh is waxing incredulous: “I thought you were supposed to do recon?” Langon is laconic, thumb gesturing over his right shoulder as Cekiya emerges from the building. “Talk to her.” Shaking his head, Dickon gives two of the men the night off, no longer needed, dismissing them with the assessment, “the kitten beat us to it.” Hefting Arwat’s insensate form between them, they arrive at Galopea’s Feast at seven o’clock.

Rahel has requisitioned the second floor private room as a staging area. Kaelyn and Imarë loiter, the former relieved to be out for the evening in the wake of her exasperating studies. Rahel, sleek and smug, wonders aloud what Sir Ewen has concocted, anticipating Mak of Ashel’s anxious inquiry a few moments later to a composed Sir Ewen regarding his reservation of the proprietor’s upstairs dining hall for the evening. Sir Ewen explains, a small affair, just a few important personages for dinner, and then enumerates the brief guest list: The Baron of Stimos, Lady Perasta Bastune and guest, the Dowager Countess Thilisa and guest. The Earl of Balim. Mak’s face goes ashen, eyes goggling, staring at Sir Ewen in disbelief. His voice breaks as he looks wildly about the room, his mind briefly encompassing his own doom. Does Sir Ewen mean to say he has invited the Earl of Balim to dine at his establishment, and only given Mak one hour’s warning? Sir Ewen reassures, certain that Mak will come through, just see what you can do, a small affair after all. Completely unmanned, Mak doubles over, emitting inarticulate, whimpered expostulations, writhing in a moment of exquisite private agony. Rahel smirks. Then Mak straightens abruptly, looking wildly around, manic and sweating. Right. Right- right. Oh gods. The kitchen. He bolts from the room, calling in panic ahead of him as he plunges pell-mell down the stairs. The party exchange silent glances, wide-eyed. Well, he needs to change his linen now, doesn’t he, Rahel purrs.

Twenty minutes later, Mak explodes back into the room, hyperventilating. “I’ve managed two pheasants, a lamprey, and there are shellfish in the city. But no beef , not a bit of beef.” Rahel, reflecting aloud on the importance of the evening not failing, whispers instructions and proffers ample silver. There will at least be no shortage of wine for the meal. Mak disappears again, and Rahel makes small talk: Imarë, what a stunning dress you are wearing. The elf demurs, oh this old thing. Seems I’ve seen you wear it before, Rahel adds mildly, her trap snapping shut before she turns, suggesting to Sir Ewen that, for tonight’s purpose, perhaps it would be best if they don’t know each other. Drawing Kaelyn off by the arm, she inquires about her membership in the Shek P’var, speaking of this different approach to the arcane, suggesting that Kaelyn will serve Sir Ewen well. Then abjuring further shop-talk for the evening, she directs Kaelyn to sit with her at the far end of the room, the better to watch and savor the proceedings.

A few moments later Mak returns, strangely composed now, and bids Sir Ewen accompany him to the kitchen. Down below they find scurrying servants hard at work as they wend their way past them. Turning to Sir Ewen, Mak appears chagrined and steps aside as a man emerges from the shadows. “Sir Ewen, perhaps you would accompany me?” the stranger intones, and Sir Ewen follows, eyes narrowed.

“My name is Escalus,” as they step through a curtained doorway into a storage room, alone. “I do not mean to interrupt your little party –”

“Your timing is interesting,” Sir Ewen drawls.

“My timing is premature. We have the same goal – the rationalization of the kingdom of Kaldor. I understand that you have managed to earn a place at the table – this pleases us. It is important to know we support you at your place at the table, as long as your course continues.”

“My course is not always a straight line.”

“No. Cekiya has been of use, I think. I trust she will continue to be so.”

“Yes… I think we act in tandem,” Ewen states, a hint of impatience betrayed in his voice.

Escalus smiles thinly. “I wish I could stay for your entertainment tonight, but I must leave. We will speak again. You know how to reach me.” He takes a step back. Sir Ewen nods, meeting his gaze for a beat, and then turns his back on him and sweeps back through the curtain.

And up to the second floor, where Mak, uncharacteristically nervous, oversees the table arrangements as the four peers arrive in turn, the Lady Perestra accompanied by Sir Retel, the Countess Thilisa attended by Sir Rollard. The Baron of Stimos arrives. Finally the Earl of Balim enters, insisting upon a place of precedence at the tables. Mak directs the first course to be brought in as Sir Baris and Dickon discretely slip in, the knight finding a seat at the far end of the room near Rahel and Kaelyn while Dickon of Parketh stations himself at the door. Oysters on the half-shell, enormous mushrooms stuffed with breadcrumbs and precious spices, a tray of fragrant cheeses, little bits of roasted meat: goat, chicken. Wine flows, and Balim announces archly that surely there must be more to the evening than this. Sir Ewen, raising a glass of wine in his direction, obscurely suggests that he thinks his guests will find it of interest. The Countess Thilisa drolly asserts that she certainly hopes so. Mak, overhearing, sweating profusely but largely unnoticed, frantically signals for the main course as the servants flow into the room: squab, pheasants. Game birds, all delectable in their array. Squab, the Earl of Balim observes simply, considering his plate.

After some time, sufficient for the main dishes to be consumed, and a little social conversation to have run its course, Sir Ewen rises from his seat without comment, and nods to Dickon of Parketh. The soldier turns smartly, opening the door behind him.

“If I might beg your indulgence, my lords and ladies,” Sir Ewen’s voice carries above the murmur of conversation. Heads turn as two of Dickon’s men propel Viktam Arwat, slumped and insensible, into the room. Shoved forward, the man stumbles onto his knees, weaving, eyes closed, barely conscious. The sound of cutlery being laid to rest upon dishes, and then silence reigns in the hall.

“Viktam Arwat, I take it,” Sir Ewen pronounces precisely.

The man remains groggily unconscious. Reaching behind for a glass upon the table, Sir Ewen observes, “I think you need some refreshment,” and dashes water in Arwat's face. The prisoner stirs, but still fails to take in his surroundings.

Reaching a hand down, iron fingers closing cruelly on Arwat’s shoulder, Sir Ewen thrusts a commanding thought into the man’s defenseless mind, peremptory and stern: Attend me! Arwat shakes his head, eyes blinking and bloodshot, one hand planted upon the floor to steady himself. Sir Ewen half-turns to the assembly, his measured voice carrying like a bell, addressing the man at his feet.

“Viktam Arwat. It has come to my attention that you made comments, in Olokand, that touched upon the honor of a lady. Mishandled that honor, I say. You need to make an accounting to that lady.”

Arwat, hunching, looks up blearily at Sir Ewen. “You bastard,” hissed under his breath. The men behind Arwat prod him roughly, forcing him more erect upon his knees.

A stirring from the tables as the Earl of Balim arises, his voice level with authority. “What is it you attend to accomplish here, Sir Ewen?”

Pivoting to face the Earl, Sir Ewen replies. “I intend to extract an apology from this churl, my lord.”

“This man is a member of a noble house of Kaldor,” Balim observes, his tone leavened with incredulity.

The Thardan knight’s voice remains neutral, level. “And I would expect any man of a noble house to know better than to insult a lady.”

Balim turns to the head of the table, eyebrows elevating sharply, considering Thilisa. “Has this man offended you, my lady?”

The Countess raises her head proudly, eyes smoldering, but her voice is chiseled from ice. “Yes, he has.”

A moment of silence. “Then it is none of my concern,” Balim says simply, and sits back down.

Returning his attention to the prisoner, Sir Ewen repeats his demand that Arwat apologize to Thilisa. This time, Arwat appears more cognizant of his predicament, the magnitude of his peril, the station of the persons regarding him from the dining tables. His shoulders slump in defeat, but instead of addressing the countess, he looks upward, meeting Sir Ewen’s eyes, and asks him for forgiveness.

A frown creasing his brow, Sir Ewen shakes his head. “It is not my forgiveness, but that of the lady, which you should be seeking.”

“Will you consider mercy?” Arwat asks hoarsely.

“If that is the lady's desire,” Ewen replies.

Arwat nods and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I hereby withdraw my accusations. I do not accuse milady,” he states distinctly, and then slumps down in defeat.

Balim arises again. “What is it we have witnessed here? Why should not this man be executed?”

Sir Ewen turns to Thilisa. “I leave it to my lady.”

The Countess meets the Earl’s gaze, her voice freighted now with a scathing hauteur. “This man impugned my honor at Olokand, Balim. I was not prepared to accept that,” She turns to consider Sir Ewen, her tone thawing a bit. “This knight, this puissant knight, has defended my honor, at great risk to himself. He has brought this churl forward, and has made him recant his calumny. I would ask that this man, Viktam Arwat, be banished from the kingdom, and this knight be granted the honor and position that he has earned.”

Balim turns from the Countess, wearing his authority upon his shoulders like a set of old robes. “Who here – Ah. I see there are men-at-arms present. To whom do they owe allegiance?”

Dickon Parketh’s voice rings clear now. “To Sir Ewen of Ravinargh, my lord.”

“That,” Balim sighs, “is hardly a surprise. Nevertheless, I think the lady Countess of Osel says true – this man should be banished from the kingdom.” He turns to Dickon. “See to it.”

Sir Ewen gives Dickon a curt nod, and Viktam Arwat is dragged from the room, groaning and pleading. The door closes firmly behind him, absolute and final.

Glancing around, the Earl of Balim lowers himself to his seat, addressing both Mak of Ashel and Sir Ewen of Ravinargh in the sweep of his gaze. “And now, perhaps, we can proceed with dessert?”

As if awakened from a dream, Mak of Ashel straightens and claps his hands discretely. The doors to the room fly open again and the servants issue inward, bearing laden platters of pastries and confections, all piled high and sweet and colorful, impossibly abundant, trays flowing into the room like ships under sail.