Session Sixty-Two - December 14, 2008

[Matt]

Halane 23, 731

Midnight rain over Tashal, the sky split by violent lightning, a half-waned moon backlighting the churning clouds. A line of cloaked figures, clinging single file to the outward-leaning walls of stone and timbered buildings and approaching out of the storm’s murk, are briefly illuminated by the maelstrom. Rivulets of rain streaming from her hood, the elf turns to the knight, several paces behind, and gives the signal.

It began hours before with a stoic Rollach, impassive and stone-faced before Sir Ewen in Raven Hall, the storm already brewing. Grudging acknowledgment of his relative unfamiliarity with Tashal coaxed from him, he suffers the remainder of the briefing in silence and gruffly details Potelc and one of his men to Dickon House to inform Dickon Parketh of the mission. Meanwhile the party reviews the plan by candlelight, Cekiya to lead Dickon’s men through the tunnel system to the Seven Stars Inn while Sir Ewen, Imarë and Kaelyn take the brief walk down Merenos Way to rendezvous at the appointed time. An hour later, the flickering candles long extinguished, Cekiya emerges stealthily from the familiar tunnels and encounters two men coming out of the building across from the clothier at the end of Chelebin Street, manhandling an iron-bound chest between them. They both stop dead, caught red-handed by a waif. Cekiya grins and winks, finger to her lips in absurd pantomime, and they glance at each other, shrug their shoulders, and proceed to haul the loot away. The waif arrives at the end of the alley, where a crouching figure in ragged clothing raps his stick upon the cobblestones as she passes. Raising a hand to knock, the door swings inward before her, a man at arms whom she recognizes by sight stepping aside as she slips in. Dickon Parketh, stumping down the stairs, brisk and perfunctory, vocally dubious of the advisability of the enterprise but prepared nonetheless with the requisite ten of his men. A small knot in a wooden panel triggers a hidden door, revealing a cabinet underneath the staircase and a sturdy ladder going down. He bows: Care to lead, little lady? Down the first ladder to a narrow stone corridor, a torch handed down from above illuminating to the left another hole with a second ladder down. Below this, a rough tunnel of earthen walls and wooden support beams. Dickon points to a door to the left, which opens onto Tashal’s tunnel system proper. They find the sewer more commodious, but more aromatic as well. Sloshing their way through the dank, echoing tunnels, they follow a flowing stream for a time, the men trusting Cekiya’s sense of direction as they wend their way around, the massive enormity of the city suspended improbably above their heads, held up by half-rotten wooden posts and beams, and then stone arches. Arriving at the Peonian crypt, Cekiya jokes to Dickon about an influx of fresh bodies to arrive later this night. Finally, they emerge into a small alleyway, rain and thunder boiling above, and sidle along two buildings until they spy the slender figure of Imarë Taërsi, patiently awaiting their arrival.

Outside the Seven Stars, Cekiya examines the windows, knowing the two doors to be barred. She crawls in the window to the right of the southern door after forcing it open. Seizing the keys hanging next to the front door, she lets the party in, the sound of the storm swelling as the door swings open, punctuated by a crash as one of the men collides noisily with something heavy. She shakes her head ruefully as everyone pauses, the door to the kitchen creaking slowly open in response. Beren, oafish and puzzled and groggy-faced, peers into the common room. Cekiya waves Sir Ewen to stay put and dances eagerly up to the cook, eyes wide with excitement: I need to talk to you! What you doing here, a frowning Beren asks, alarmed, looking over her shoulder at the crowd of cloaked figures standing frozen amongst the tables, scratching the sleep from his head. No, no, he whispers hoarsely, Eamann has returned tonight, this is the worst night for touching imaginable … Cekiya pouts, feigning a little moue of disappointment, and then her blade slashes upward, cleaving him from groin through yielding belly fat to sternum, gutting him like fish. Beren slumps surprised to the floor, sitting like some stunned child embracing his spilling viscera, mouth working silently as tears fill his eyes, his face sheeting white. Cekiya steps past him as he dies.

In the kitchen they find a man asleep in the lower bunk. Sir Ewen gestures efficiently to Cekiya: If he cries out, cut his windpipe. Ewen reads him, hand on his forehead, learning that he is the chief cook, away until recently to the east of Tashal, shopping for supplies in Querina and Kiban. Delving further, Ewen gleans that he knows who Kryste is, but has no concept of where she might stay. Withdrawing, he catches a passing thought in the man’s mind: irritation at finding, upon his return to town, Beren with the still-festering sore on his arm. Aware of an ephemeral flash of sympathy for Eammon as he withdraws, Sir Ewen turns his back on him and walks back out into the common room. Cekiya silently murders the cook, and then follows.

Toward the top of the staircase, Sir Ewen doesn’t perceive the hulking figure until it swings the enormous axe, chunks of wood exploding from the beam inches from Sir Ewen’s face. What are you doing here, skald? The axe is hauled free as the knight dodges, thrusting with his sword: You’re going to wish I was an Ivinian, he parries. Dafydd dodges, retreating a half step, bringing the axe around and laying the blade across the knight’s right shoulder, glancing off the mail. Sir Ewen thrusts again with his sword, confined by the narrow stairway while Dafydd has more room above. He is aware of the men behind him, trapped on the steps below and unable to see beyond to his invisible, bellowing assailant above. Another sword thrust, quick as lightning, but Dafydd nimbly dodging sideways again, roaring at the top of lungs now, another explosion of splinters, the sound of a woman screaming somewhere beyond Dafydd. Sir Ewen lunges and Dafydd doesn’t quite sidestep, the sword blade slicing along his left calf. The innkeeper maintains his footing, however, and hews downward with the axe again, catching Sir Ewen as he attempts vainly to twist away, the shocking impact cleaving the knight’s helm asunder and driving the wreckage down over his eyes, blinding the him with metal and running blood from a gashed skull. Throwing himself against the far wall, clawing the helmet free, Sir Ewen throws up his right arm just in time to deflect the axe’s fatal follow-through, chainmail gouging into his forearm as it absorbs the blow. There are ten men behind me, Ewen gasps as he swings and misses the dodging figure above, but the giant only cleaves downward again, bellowing Bring Them On! Sir Ewen aims for the man’s groin, misses, and in exasperation drives his entire body forward and upward, shoulder tucked down under the axe’s reach, driving a backpedaling Dafydd up onto landing above and around the corner to the left. Bringing the sword around with the last of his momentum, the point of the blade catches the hanging flesh between Dafydd’s legs and Ewen savagely flicks from the wrist, releasing a sudden wet spray of blood, a curdled strangulated scream escaping Dafydd as he drops, like a sack.

Sir Ewen, breathing hard, springs upon him in haste to clutch him by the throat as the men pour up onto the landing, groping mentally for the train of the dying man’s thought. He learns that Dafydd has not seen Kryste in months and that Kryste, whatever her connection to Neph might be, is first and foremost a Jarin freedom fighter who is in it for the money. Ewen finds that Kryste had a companion named Mykin, a swordsman and dandy by Dafydd’s lights, who is apparently Kryste’s paramour, much to Dafydd’s dismay. Ewen mentally notes a visual image of Mykin, gathers that Dafydd is unaware of any message to be left at the Seven Stars, and in fact has no idea that Kryste is back in Tashal. Ewen withdraws as Dafydd’s mind begins to fragment and fail. He stands, distastefully wiping gore from his clothing as he surveys the hallway.

They search the various rooms, finding the bedding disturbed in Dafydd’s chamber, Cekiya’s awareness telling her there may have been touching in that bed. Evidence of female clothing is also present, a dress strewn upon the floor, but the kirtle missing and the shutters wide open. A cowering person in the middle room up the hallway, apparently an older merchant, is dispatched. Imarë examines the mud outside Dafydd’s window, discerning a landing spot skidding to one side, evidently formed by bare feet, the imprint in the process of dissolving in the rain. All return to Dickon House via the tunnels, where most remain to sleep while Sir Ewen detours to Hag Hall. Rahel laughingly lends the knight a half helm with a nose-guard, and presciently suggests that the guildmaster of the innkeepers guild will be in attendance at the Seven Stars by dawn.

Somewhat before then, the group returns to Raven Hall to find a sumptuous breakfast laid out by Walin, who glances at them, betraying only mild surprise to see them come in by the door and not down the stair. The servants divest them of soaked clothing. A whey-faced junior herald presents himself at the door during breakfast, conveying Sir Rohn’s request of the favor of a visit. Upon Sir Ewen’s arrival at the College of Heralds, the gate warden passes him in while Rollach and Potelc are instructed to wait outside. The whey- faced herald is found waiting within for Sir Ewen, who learns the youth’s name as Asord Londel, no more than thirteen years of age. Young Londel directs Sir Ewen into the meeting room, where Sir Rohn subsequently enters accompanied by an older man with a mane of dark hair and a moustache. When Sir Rohn expresses concern at the ugly gash adorning Sir Ewen’s head and the knight attempts to explain the injury as obtained while sparring, Sir Rohn wryly commends the employment of bated swords to Sir Ewen’s attention. Following up deftly in the wake of this bon mot, Sir Rohn introduces Filen of Oppias with a satisfied flourish, complacently notifying Sir Ewen that, when recently faced with the need to place a herald of the college, he immediately thought of Sir Ewen, and of the amount of time and effort the college might be saved by having a herald located within the inscrutable knight’s very household. He goes on to outline the fiduciary bargain being visited upon Sir Ewen’s purse by the expediency of placing Filen of Oppias at Raven Hall, given the arrangement this worthy has made with his college regarding his stipend, and Sir Ewen is obliged to smile thinly at all of this and to bow slightly at Filen. Sir Ewen smoothly expresses his satisfaction with this astonishing news, and with a small twist of a smile ventures so far as to hope that Master Filen might enlighten him at the first opportunity regarding his opinion on the topic of consanguinity. Which, to Sir Ewen’s facetious satisfaction, yields a mutual glance of blank incomprehension between the two heralds before they sweep on with the remaining niceties of introduction.

Which is how Filen of Oppias came to walk back to Raven Hall with Sir Ewen of Ravinargh and Rollach and Potelc. Filen acquaints himself with Raven Hall during an initial tour, and he and Walin of Vastair are found to be comfortable acquaintances.

Meanwhile, Sir Baris has been losing all track of time as he molders in his cell. Following an impossibly long span plunged into clammy, pitch-black darkness, an eternity of variegated miseries etched upon the captive mind by jagged lines of exquisite pain, the cold compression of remorseless irons, heaving waves of cramping discomfort, rank exudations of stinking filth and bodily degradation, bowel-loosening nausea and lice-like crawling skin and scalp sensations drilling through to the very core of his being, the door opens. Light floods in. A man at arms stands in the doorway as Sir Baris, face contorted, blinks and squints. Kryste walks lightly in, pivots gracefully, and shakes her head slowly. Ah, Baris, parting is such sweet sorrow. Your friend Ewen … she shakes her head again. Remember, when next we meet, not only did I spare you, but spared these. Her foot makes contact with Sir Baris’ groin. Some time later, when he regains consciousness, the door opens again and a dirty, grubby, bratty, urchin comes in and hunkers down before the even more malodorous knight, peering quizzically at him, apparently having been notified by Baris’ departing captors that an easy mark remained within. Sir Baris, croaking in desperation, tries to no avail to convince the youth to carry word to Raven Hall, but instead suffers the indignity of being rummaged for cash, stripped of his belt and boots, and generally manhandled before the reprobate cuts one of the knight’s bonds and scampers out of reach and away. Sir Baris, writhing and twisting in his own squalor, manages to wriggle his way free after a time. Knees buckling repeatedly, he staggers to his feet after falling more than a few times, and leans against a wall as the room rotates around him. Lurching through the open door, his eyes straining to adjust, he finds another room, generally abandoned save for a bed and an open chest. Through another door, leading to a corridor, left into a kitchen area, an interminable stumble through six rooms trying to find the way out, each picked over and cleaned out, none of Baris’ weapons or belongings anywhere to be seen. Through one window onto an alleyway he catches a glimpse of grey daylight, the rain stopped, with low hanging fog pervasive. Moments later the unfortunate knight stumbles down into alley itself, staggers past some rough looking fellows who avert their gaze, Sir Baris manifestly not worth robbing. Limping down Ibuthine Way past staring, dirt-grimed faces of the urban poor, each repulsed by encountering such a travesty of humanity loose in their city. Finally, knocking weakly at the door to Raven Hall, the door opens but the servant balks, wrinkling his nose at the specimen before him. It is I, Sir Baris, the knight croaks, arms flung wide. I don’t believe so, the servant avers, recoiling in disgust. Sir Baris stares at the closed door for some long minutes, disbelieving, and then wills his leaden arm to extend again, delivering a feeble second knock upon the door. This time a man at arms answers the door and begins to slam it angrily shut before a second glance arrests the movement entirely, a moment of stunned mutual embarrassment, and Sir Baris is ushered in and attended to, the cries of the horrified servants carrying clear up the staircase.

Much later in the day, Filen of Oppias finds himself seated across from Sir Ewen in the latter’s second floor study. The master of Raven Hall cross-examines Filen regarding his competing loyalties to the college and to his new employer, as well as his conception of his new responsibilities. Sir Ewen learns that Filen of Oppias comes from an old family related to the Caldeths of Minarsis, Sir Declaen being a first cousin on Filen’s maternal side. He has a brother who is abbot of Bromeleon and a sister who married a bailiff. Having dispensed with his own personal background and reassured Sir Ewen regarding his professional discretion as a herald, Filen takes pains to assess Sir Ewen’s expectations regarding the upcoming social calendar, the start of which is only a tenday away with the first party of the season at Lady Cheselyne’s. Sir Ewen mentions his expectation of calling upon the Earl of Osel upon Lord Harabor’s impending arrival in the city, which causes the herald to briefly blanche and fret about how little time he has to prepare. Sir Ewen explains the abduction of Sir Baris and last night’s raid as a means of quelling the herald’s evident curiosity about the recent household tumult, not to mention the gash adorning his own head.

Taking the orientation of the new herald as an excuse to familiarize himself with the new staff at Raven Hall, Sir Ewen speaks with Walin of Vastair, the chamberlain, and his wife Bernethe of Vastair, the head cook. Walin introduces them to the new head maid Lelsa, the assistant cook Fralys, two assistant maids Vivana and Denia, and male and female servants named Holfen and Ygris respectively. Rollach, Potelc, and the ten men at arms are formally introduced to the herald as well. Sir Ewen is apprised of the 720d monthly budget, thirty pence of which is strictly excess but provides Walin with operating flexibility. Sir Ewen gains the impression that Walin is more connected with local merchants than was the late majordomo of Gray House. Holfen, the runner for messages, is sent to Arnys for news of Dregald, while Walin asks for Sir Ewen’s seal. Holfen returns, saying that Arnys will come by.

In the early evening, Arnys shows up and climbs the stairs to Sir Ewen’s study. Arnys thinks Dregald and three men arrived via the Heru gate on horseback earlier that day. They went straight to the Tower Inn, one of the men later walking into the city and returning after about one hour. Arnys also drolly explains that apparently somebody had a beef with the innkeeper of the Seven Stars, who was found dead, “run through his equipment, parts found in two separate places, with nobody left alive at the inn.” Querene of Valain, Arnys says with a smile, is evidently the angriest woman in Tashal, having had to jump out a second story window in her kirtle to save herself, and is vowing vengeance upon the perpetrator. Worton Harabor, the guildmaster of the innkeepers guild, was on the scene with Sepian of Ashel earlier this morning. Arnys narrows his eyes and asks Sir Ewen whether the crime was any involvement of his own. Sir Ewen shrugs and admits that he came by the cut on his head honestly, which causes Arnys to shake his head with a grin. Dafydd had some enemies, he allows, a few vikings that were seen in the city several months ago being one example, but Querene knows that Dafydd fought with someone who had skill at arms, and the Mangai will probably become involved in the investigation as well. Before departing, Arnys mentions that he recently met one of the royal guardsmen, whom he might cultivate, and has learned nothing new about the man who threatened to reduce the Tower Inn to ashes.

Arnys gone, Sir Ewen presents an edited version of this report to the herald. Filen admits that he is, in fact, quite good friends with Querene of Valain, and suggests that perhaps he might pay her a visit in the morning to learn more of where she presently stands and, if possible, smooth her ruffled feathers. Sir Ewen conveys his contentment with this plan, and Filen is escorted back to his lodgings on Ibuthine Way near Hag Hall by Potelc and two of the men.