Session Sixty-Five - April 25, 2009

[Matt]

Savor 1, 731

Having dispensed with the obvious issue of bastardy, Kaelyn of Aletta dips her quill into the pot of ink. Smoothing the rumpled foolscrap before her with the side of her hand, she obliquely gets to her point. “Now, then. I assume he had a mother as well. Unlike some people we know.” This last she delivers with a conspiratorial wink.

Shunel, the pleasant-faced junior herald assisting Kaelyn at the College of Heralds, grins and shakes his head. Yes, he allows, there always seems to be some talk around here about that employer of yours. He pauses, giving Kaelyn an expectant look, as if hoping against hope that the young scholar might vouchsafe to him some informative tidbit regarding Sir Ewen of Ravinargh’s pedigree. A significant potential coup for young Shunel, if there ever could be one, but Kaelyn disappoints. Having successfully teased the poor herald, she smiles primly and asks again about Lord Maldan Harabor’s mother.

Shunel sighs and folds his hands. Lesel Harabor, he tells her, died in 675, probably whilst giving birth to the present Lord Osel’s younger brother, Sir Koris. Who, of course, served as Marshal of the Royal Guard, until he was slain last year at the tournament, at the hands of Kaelyn’s employer. Lord Osel, he explains, is related through Lesel Harabor to the Harabors of Tashal and Vemionshire. A prominent mercantile family comprised of numerous innkeepers, salters, ostlers, and clothiers. As well as Kaelyn’s new neighbor Worton Harabor, who serves as the innkeepers’ guildmaster for the entire kingdom. Kaelyn contentedly scribbles all of this down, nodding at points to urge the young herald on. Glancing up, she wonders aloud who took a hand in raising the two Harabor boys during their youth, given that King Miginath was presumably encumbered with matters of state and had little time for his illegitimate children, but Shunel admits that he doesn’t know. He jumps ahead, instead, telling her how the elder brother, Maldan Harabor, met Areta Alkinil at the tournament in Olokand and subsequently married her in 697, the union producing two sons of their own, Sir Mirild (b. 699) and Sir Kornuska (b. 702). Shunel explains that the Alkinil family is knightly but not landed, with Areta having a brother somewhere in the royal bureaucracy. The two Harabor sons are currently unmarried, but can certainly be considered past due at their present age. At one time, Shunel recalls, Sir Mirild was interested in one of the daughters of Lady Cheselyne, and the herald dryly observes that Kaelyn’s employer recently put her back on the marriage market as well. But this appears to have exhausted Shunel’s available information on the new Earl of Osel, he admits with regret. Grateful for the information nonetheless, Kaelyn suggests that she’ll be back in a tenday to research the next Earl in her compendium, hoping to eventually attain the complete set. Shunel earnestly expresses interest in seeing her manuscript when it is complete, and while Kaelyn cautions that the research is intended solely for Sir Ewen’s edification, she promises to bring Shunel a copy.

Upon her return to Raven Hall in the afternoon, more time having passed than she would have guessed, Kaelyn is briefed by Sir Baris regarding the morning’s flurry of correspondence. This was initiated by a letter from Sir Ewen to Maldan Harabor himself, suggesting Sir Ewen’s availability to further discuss Sir Prehil’s inflammatory remarks of the evening before. This had been followed just after luncheon by the arrival of an invitation for Sir Ewen and Sir Baris to Lady Cheselyne’s inaugural soirée of the season, scheduled for the fifth of Savor. Finally, just prior to Kaelyn’s return, a response from Harabor had arrived indicating that he will be dining at Galopea’s Feast this very evening, and that Lord Osel trusts that, should Sir Ewen choose to join him, he will select a better dinner companion than he had the evening before.

Therefore, Sir Ewen and Imarë prepare to decamp for Galopea’s Feast, with Cekiya planning to trail behind. A watchful servant announces that Lord Osel has just gone past the house toward Galopea’s Feast around eight of the clock, so they depart shortly thereafter. Entering the venue, Sir Baris immediately goes upstairs to speak with Elsa, who unfortunately knows nothing about the girl mysteriously assigned to Baris at the Courtesans Guild. She provides Sir Baris a complementary back-flip for old times’ sake, and departs for more remunerative activities. Meanwhile, Sir Ewen and Imarë take a table downstairs, a serving girl is tipped, and Sir Ewen, abandoning Imarë to the charms of the dogfighting in the basement, subsequently finds the Earl upstairs in a long room, with Harabor at far end of the table, dining alone. Osel motions for Sir Ewen to join him. A servant pours wine, and Sir Ewen explains Sir Prehil’s reference to Sir Baran Meleken the night before. Harabor, unfazed, expresses awareness that Baron Orsin Firith is harboring the claimants. He further explains that, when he toured his manors upon attaining the earldom, he had found Sir Baran already packed up and departed. Harabor denies being worried about Sir Baran, and dismissively states that he will call the man out and slay him if necessary. When Sir Ewen mentions two brothers of Sir Baran and some miscellaneous offspring, Harabor shrugs and says that he will wait until the others grow up and kill them as well. Narrowing his gaze, he tells Sir Ewen that he expects the knight’s support in these matters, given Sir Ewen’s need for Harabor to confirm the grant of the three manors previously arranged in exchange for Sedris Meleken’s head. Harabor explains that, four days hence, when the King convenes court as he traditionally does on the morning of Savor the fifth, Harabor expects to be fully confirmed in his earldom. If Sir Ewen is present, and in all appearances supportive of Harabor, the grant of the three manors will be confirmed at that time. Harabor confidently asserts that he shall brook no legal wrangling from Meleken claimants, and if the King confirms him in his earldom, he shall in turn complete the business of Inbernel. If not … He trails off, drinks, and shrugs, letting the implication hang in the silence. Sir Ewen smiles easily, and states that he anticipates no difficulties on the fifth. Harabor nods. Good, he says, then our business is done. Let’s eat.

Savor 3, 731

Sir Baris Tyrestal gazes dubiously into his tankard, swirling the pale, sudsy liquid within. Coughing discreetly, he glances around at the others seated with him at the low table in the hall. Each is studiously examining their respective tankard, but none has raised drinking vessel to lips. Imarë, feigning keen interest, holds her tankard up to the light, as if the shaft of sunshine streaming through the high window of Raven Hall can penetrate pewter. Briefly catching Kaelyn’s expectant eye, Sir Baris quickly looks away and resumes his own intent study of the mage’s latest brew. It bears, he can’t help but note, an unwelcome resemblance to straw-colored dishwater. An odd, vegetal smell emanates from the thin fluid, flecked here and there with meager foam. Some further awkward moments around the table consist of busy swirling, cautious sniffing and noncommittal murmurs of disingenuous approbation, until the silence is finally punctuated by an abrupt harrumph of exasperation from the diminutive beer-maker herself. Snatching up her own tankard, Kaelyn of Aletta throws back the entirety of its contents, head tilted toward the rafters above, swirling the concoction extravagantly in her mouth in a pantomime of wine-tasting, cheeks bulging like some gluttonous gerbil. Everyone stares.

The explosion of amber spray comes an instant later, sending everyone reeling backward upon their benches. Green-faced, wincing, eyes watering copiously, a dismayed Kaelyn coughs and sputters, retching. Imarë leaps up and thumps her several times between her shoulder blades. Cekiya laughs in unkind hilarity. Sir Baris, hugely relieved, pushes his own tankard toward the center of the table, exhaling noisily. One of the servants steps forward with a rag, clucking and fussing.

Sir Ewen, shaking his head, arises, his own tankard entirely untouched upon the table. “Capers,” he murmurs to Sir Baris as he passes, “missing from the kitchen since yesterday. I’m going upstairs to meditate.”

“I couldn’t find hops,” Kaelyn plaintively squeaks between bouts of gagging. Groans abound, and the table is quickly abandoned to the ministrations of the servant as various group members flee above to their respective rooms.

Later in the afternoon, Sir Ewen goes out to brief Lord Harabor about the flawed entail. The Earl reacts neutrally, stating only that the information is interesting. Sir Ewen truth-reads him, and his statement appears honest as far as it goes.

Filen of Oppias returns to Tashal early in the evening, accompanied by an older man who appears hard of mien, gruff and competent, outfitted with a sword on his belt and dressed still in his riding leathers. Sir Grogan Savellce is formally presented by Filen, and the visitor gifts Sir Ewen with a bottled wine crafted from the fruits of the Inbernel orchards. Sir Ewen hands off this token of esteem to Walin, and leads the way upstairs to his study. The master of Raven Hall and Sir Grogan pull up chairs by the fire, while Filen stands off at a discreet distance. Sir Grogan, as he himself explains it, has been the bailiff of Inbernel for almost fifteen years, appointed by the late Earl of Osel, Sedris Meleken. The Lady Countess saw fit to keep Sir Grogan on, by his account, and she appointed Sir Grogan’s brother bailiff of Claydon. The three manors form a way-station for the Countess Thilisa on her occasional visits to Tashal, with the lady normally staying at Inbernel due to its comforts, even though it is not on the main road. The present holder of Qualdris, Sir Grogan coldly recounts, sent officials to do an inventory recently, and warned that they should stand by for changes. Sir Grogan stiffly conveys his skepticism about such promised changes, but states that he has no reason for such concerns regarding Sir Ewen at this time, referencing the First Knight’s reputation throughout Kaldor.

At the present time, Sir Grogan goes on, Sir Ewen should know that Inbernel holds a substantial force of cavalry, used by the lady Countess of Osel to patrol her lands, although Sir Grogan does not believe the present holder of Qualdris is aware of this. Apart from the expected yeomanry attached to the manor, primarily the typical footmen and light bow, this squadron of light horse, while not comprised of knights, makes Inbernel’s military assets unusual to say the least. They have, he notes, not patrolled outside the borders of Inbernel or Claydon since Larane, due to the Earldom of Osel changing hands, and it is clear by now in the conversation that Sir Grogan greatly dislikes Maldan Harabor. Sir Grogan admits that substantial upkeep is associated with the cavalry, although feudal dues from Selepan, and revenues from Claydon, where his brother Sir Cathan is bailiff, offset these additional expenses. Meeting Sir Ewen’s eye, Sir Grogan relates that the Countess Thilisa had promised him that his eldest son could be bailiff in future years for his continued good service, and that his younger son would be bailiff of Claydon as well. Sir Grogan frowns, and adds in explanation that he doesn’t expect his brother to have children. Claydon, he states, provides a greater percentage of income than usual to support the light horsemen and, in exchange, the Countess has allowed Sir Grogan’s brother to enjoy a more lavish lifestyle than perhaps is normal, Sir Cathan being quite keen for the hunt. Selepan is an anomaly as well, held by Sir Herrill Lavalgan, and subinfeudated to Inbernel. In older times Inbernel had been held by a knight, with Sir Herrill at Selepan serving as his vassal knight, but when the senior knight had died without offspring the Earl had seen fit to appoint Sir Grogan bailiff. In the resultant arrangement, Sir Herrill now owes fealty to Sir Grogan as bailiff of Inbernel. Sir Herrill provides scutage instead of service, to the tune of £20 per annum paid into the treasury of Inbernel.

Taking a swallow of his wine, Sir Grogan opines that none of the three manors has sufficient labor to make the most of the land, and there is significant wastage in his opinion. The area is long-settled, with little reason for people to move, and Selepan has lost some of its peasant houses in recent years, an old cottar having died and a house having been burned due to fever. At the present time this year, scutage and feudal dues from Selepan, as well as the feudal dues from Claydon, have all been paid. They are presently being held at Inbernel, originally for intended remission to Qualdris, but nothing at this time will be done until the new business concerning the manors is concluded and confirmed. Taking a small piece of parchment out and smoothing it on the arm of his chair, Sir Grogan shows Sir Ewen that the amount presently held at Inbernel is 40,800d, or £170. Each manor, he explains, retains £15 to cover various exigencies each year. Finally, Sir Grogan relates, Inbernel has some unusual tenants. A group of “gentlemen,” he says carefully, who keep to themselves, pay a very nice annual rent to the manor, and are “a trifle strange.” The peasantry has gotten used to them, but generally don’t go near the group if it can be avoided. There are typically three or four of these strange persons, with a few students at any given time as well, who live in a stone edifice, all of them engaged in scribblings and boilings and toilings and troubles, making an awful lot of noise at times. Sir Grogan laughs awkwardly at this. They do pay 1000d a year, though, he adds. They were already present when Sir Grogan took over fifteen years ago, and hold 60 acres in free tenure. Their acreage, he adds, has never had a bad year.

Other than these details, Sir Ewen learns that Claydon is on the Genin Trail, about three leagues south of Ternua, and thus generates more activity than its size would otherwise indicate. Selepan is to the northeast of the trail and Inbernel to the northwest. The topography of Selepan is more forested and hillier than the other two, and a small lake near the village is where local children enjoy fishing and swimming. Sir Grogan thus embellishes his report with these bucolic details, but wraps up by returning to business and asserting that, upon confirmation of the status of the three manors, he will be pleased to release the feudal payment to Sir Ewen on Sir Ewen’s order, but not to anyone else prior to the business being completed. Sir Ewen thanks Sir Grogan for his précis, Filen clears his throat and indicates that Sir Grogan will be remaining in Tashal until the situation of the three manors becomes clear, and Walin solves everything by arranging for Sir Grogan’s accommodation in Raven Hall until the matter is fully resolved.

Savor 4, 731

Filen shows up early at Raven Hall, already in a stew about tomorrow’s advent of the social season. Sir Grogan, perhaps responding to the elevated tension swept in the door with the arrival of the tightly-wound herald, asks permission to take advantage of his available time to see the city. An urchin brings a message from Eleere to Imarë, to the effect that the short one should be told there are seed cakes to be had, and why doesn’t she bring the knight along too? Filen fusses around like an old woman, stressing audibly about who’s going to Lady Cheselyne’s on the morrow, what they are planning to wear, why Sir Ewen still has this old scabbard lying about, and so on. Sir Baris, aggravated with the intrusive herald, goes out for a while and pays for the rest of the weapons he had ordered to replace those lost during his imprisonment by Kryste. Coming in later, having brought his personal armory back up to an acceptable level, Sir Baris returns Sir Ewen’s extra, borrowed sword. A message arrives from Harabor confirming that the King has returned, and suggesting that Sir Ewen present himself at court at eight in the morning. The communication is shown to Filen, who is appalled at the short notice, and he redoubles his histrionic frenzy, spending the rest of the day rummaging frantically through Sir Ewen’s wardrobe, coming up with a black silk doublet trimmed in red, and matching hose, for the occasion. Not content with this ensemble, however, he disappears for a time and returns with a large, black feather for the matching cap. Sir Baris snickers. Imarë writes a belated report to Lord Balim at Sir Ewen’s behest, detailing Lord Osel’s anger at Sir Baran Meleken and his threat to call the man out and slay him, thus meeting the letter, if not the spirit, of Balim’s charge to Sir Ewen. Finally, Sir Ewen and Cekiya visit Hag Hall in response to Eleere’s summons; Eleere had felt Sir Ewen neglectful of the pregnant Rahel. Upon arrival, Sir Ewen leaves Cekiya to loiter downstairs, telling her he needs to “fill Rahel in,” and he climbs the stairs to the lady’s bower above. Cekiya thought Sir Ewen must have been confused, as it was clear he had already filled her quite in.

Savor 5, 731

Sweltering amidst the press of august figures crowding the great hall of Caer Elendsa, Sir Baris Tyrestal fusses with his collar, which is scratching his neck abominably. Filen’s revenge, he thinks sourly, for his switching the hose laid out by the mincing, fastidious herald in the wee hours this morning. Filen had also snatched away his axe at the last minute on the way out the door as well, so Sir Baris’s fingers keep itching for its haft, coming up empty. He sighs. He wishes he had an ale, in all truth, in spite of the early hour. The worst part of these things, Sir Baris muses, is waiting for the bloody thing to get started. He glances over at Sir Ewen, who looks damnably comfortable and at-ease in his black, scarlet-lined tunic and hose, but his friend is busily scanning the various personages in the crowd, so Sir Baris decides to do the same. Hmmm. That’s quite a bit of hair, he thinks to himself upon first examining his surroundings. I can’t see down there alright. He awkwardly sidesteps a bit to prevent a lady’s steepled headdress from blocking his view of the throne. Alright, that’s better, now who’s here? Well, there’s Balim over there, he notes, just to the side of the throne, and the Earl of Olokand – Prince Brandis – just a few paces away as well. And let’s see, there’s that bastard Maldan Harabor of course, standing next to several other noblemen Sir Baris can’t identify. The Baron of Stimos, Tharda’s ambassador of sorts, way off to one side. The Laranian Serekela, Edine Kynn, up nearer the throne. The Lord Chancellor Dariune too, right up there. The Queen, he notes after scanning the vicinity of the dais further, is not present. Too bad, he decides; she seemed to really like that song Ewen sang the last time. Sir Baris shrugs, recalling the event. At least I don’t have to hold that damned lute today, he thinks, but his reverie is interrupted by the sharp peal of a trumpet.

King Haldan III strides into the hall and mounts to his throne, where he is attended by the Lord Chancellor and Lord Balim. Sir Baris shifts on his feet as the business commences, involving mainly local matters at first, Sir Prehil Firith and a delegation of the city aldermen making various tedious requests. Finally, Tashal’s internal politics attended to, things get interesting for Sir Baris when the Chamberlain announces sonorously, “Your Grace, the Earl of Osel wishes to present a petition.”

Maldan Harabor steps smartly forward and bows before King Haldan. Everyone in the hall turns to consider him.

“It has come to my attention, Your Grace,” Harabor begins, projecting his voice for all to hear, “that certain members of clan Meleken have lodged a claim upon my earldom. I beseech you, gracious sovereign, to confirm that which you, through your benevolence and generosity, granted me your cousin in Olokand this past Larane. To whit, the Earldom of Osel, and all the lands, honors, and privileges pertaining thereto.”

The King nods. “We thank you, cousin. It has only recently come to our attention that there are claimants to the Earldom of Osel. Are they here present?”

A young man steps forward, well-dressed and composed. He glances at Harabor before addressing the King. His youthful tenor rings out.

“I am, my liege. I am Sir Baran Meleken. I do claim the Earldom of Osel as my right of inheritance, evenly derived as the true branch and stalk of clan Meleken, through Lothor Meleken, ninth Earl of Osel, and being nearest in blood to the late lamented Sedris Meleken, twelfth Earl of Osel. For which I produce this pedigree.” He holds aloft a scroll of parchment for all to see, steps forward, and hands the scroll to Balim.

Dariune unrolls it, and hands it to his cousin the Bishop. Eyebrows raised, the bishop scans the document for a time and then pronounces, “The pedigree appears most true, my liege.”

Haldan turns back to Sir Baran. “Is this the only claim you bring before us?”

“It is, my liege. That I, son of Rayald, son of Charal, son of Lothor, am the true Earl of Osel, by blood and by right. I beseech Your Grace to grant to me and my heirs my patrimony. And I swear that I will serve you as liegeman and Earl of Osel.”

Haldan nods. “We thank you.” He turns to Harbor. “My lord, what say you to this claim?”

“I say, my liege, that it has little merit. This claim was not pressed for many years. And why?” Harabor glances to the side at his younger opponent. “Because Sir Baran knew that it had no merit. He did not face me like a true and proper knight. Instead, he slunk away in the dead of night, like a thief in another man’s house.” Sir Baran’s young face darkens now with anger as the Earl continues. “He sought refuge with our cousin, the Baron of Kobing. Who, proper gentle knight that he is, granted it.” Harabor turns and gestures to the assembly. “Which of us would not have done the same?” He returns to addressing the King. “For there is more, that Sir Baran has not told us.” He gestures then to his son, Sir Mirild, who steps forward and hands his father a document.

“This is the entail of the Earldom of Osel in its first creation, as stored in the archives at Qualdris. Now, Your Grace, I am no scholar ...” A ripple of chuckling can be heard in the chamber upon this self-deprecating understatement. Sir Baris laughs, glancing around at his neighbors, enjoying the developing spectacle. Harabor continues. “I am a man of action, and a soldier who serves my King. I have been accused of ambition.” He smiles. “Well, I am guilty of that. We are all ambitious men; that is how we serve a great King. This man is ambitious, too, of that there can be no doubt. But what proof is there that he is ready to serve? No matter. Even if he is,” Harabor unrolls the parchment, “this entail clearly states that the Earldom of Osel shall descend from a son or grandson only. But, by his own testimony, Sir Baran, son of Rayald, son of Charal, son of Lothor, is a great-grandson.” Harabor turns to the assembly, raising his voice in defiance. “If Sir Rayald Meleken presents himself, I shall relinquish the earldom to him as the law requires.” He turns to Sir Baran. “Can your father present himself and claim the earldom?”

Sir Baran glowers and mumbles something under his breath, his face still flushed with anger.

“We did not hear you,” King Haldan pronounces, frowning.

“Sir Rayald is dead, Your Grace,” the knight begrudgingly repeats, louder this time.

Harabor nods in satisfaction. “Then I submit to Your Grace that his claim to the earldom died with him.” He gestures at the entail. “There, Your Grace, lies my claim. Having received the earldom from your very hands, I leave it in your hands.” Maldan Harabor takes a half-step backward, fixes the Meleken claimant with a baleful stare, and then returns his attention to the King.

King Haldan turns and confers with Lord Balim privately for a few minutes. The Earl of Balim is seen shaking head from time to time, responding to the King’s words. After this brief conference, a page is called forward and dispatched by Troda Dariune on some errand. An awkward ten minutes of silence ensues, Sir Baris shifting uncomfortably on his feet as the assembled noblemen around him exchange meaningful glances, everyone clearly refraining from unseemly murmuring with some effort. Sir Ewen, Baris notes, occupies himself with studying the King, Balim, and Harabor in turn, and then seems to catch the eye of the Baron of Stimos briefly before returning his gaze to the throne. Eventually the page returns, bearing a small pipe roll.

King Haldan turns to Harabor. “My Lord, the entail please.” Harabor proffers it to Balim. The page unrolls the document he has brought, and the Chancellor, Balim and the King look it over, comparing it closely with Harabor’s entail. Silence pervades the hall.

Haldan straightens up and looks at Harabor. “My lord of Osel, it is our understanding that the entail you have provided matches the document of our own archives.” Harabor nods in satisfaction. “It seems to us that we must say, and in justice, that Sir Baran is evenly derived from his ancestors, and we would see him elevated to some suitable place in the future. But we find, that our dear cousin, the right trusty and honorable Maldan Harabor, is by right of our law and our hand belted first Earl of Osel, of the second creation.”

Harabor bows slightly, while Sir Baran stands rigid and impassive, still facing the King. Harabor speaks. “Your Grace, I thank you, and pledge to you my sword and my honor.”

Haldan acknowledges this with a nod. But instead of stepping backward, Harabor clears his throat and ventures a further remark. “I must now, if it please Your Grace, settle a wager that I made with reluctance. I would ask Sir Ewen of Ravinargh to come forward.”

Sir Baris stifles a broad smile as all heads in the chamber swivel to fix their gaze upon Sir Ewen, who strides confidently toward the throne and bows. Sir Baris glances across the hall to where the Baron of Stimos stands, an expression of acute concern suddenly clouding his features.

King Haldan III frowns slightly, considering the knight now standing before him. “Well do we remember you, Sir Ewen, and your last appearance in this hall. We trust that you have kept to jousting, at which you excel, and have refrained from singing, at which you are lacking.”

Sir Ewen smiles broadly and bows. “I have, Your Grace. Your remembrance of me does me honor.”

“Yes. It does.” The King turns to Harabor. “My lord of Osel?”

Harabor clears his throat discreetly. “Your Grace will forgive me, but I made a most unthinking wager. You see, I had told Sir Ewen of my expectation that other claimants would challenge my claim to the earldom that you, in your august wisdom, had granted me. Sir Ewen felt that those claims had merit.” Sir Baris groans inwardly, glancing again across the hall to where the Baron of Stimos appears now pale and stricken, as if manfully struggling with the sudden onset of a kidney stone. Harabor continues, “I wagered Sir Ewen three manors that I would rely upon the King’s justice. I am not surprised, my liege, that I won the wager, but in so winning, I have lost three manors. It is not important what Sir Ewen wagered to me. I surrender those manors to Sir Ewen, and furthermore grant them to you, my liege, for Sir Ewen to hold from you, and not from me. I name these manors to be Inbernel, Claydon, and Selepan.” With this, Lord Harabor bows, takes a few steps backward, and sardonically says something out of the corner of his mouth, so that only Sir Ewen can hear.

Everyone in the hall looks perplexed, as far as Sir Baris can see, but none more so than the King. Frowning slightly, Haldan gestures uncertainly with his right hand, clearly incredulous. “Sir Ewen, ah, come forward. My lord of Osel … do I understand that you have surrendered three manors, and granted Sir Ewen to me as a vassal?” Harabor bows his head in acknowledgement. Sir Baris catches Lord Balim glancing sharply at the King, and realizes that Haldan has inexplicably abandoned the prerogative of his royal plural. “I … see. Lord Chancellor, what do we know of these three manors? They are of Thelshire?” The Lord Chancellor appears to answer in the affirmative, and Haldan nods, perhaps regaining his bearings. “We know Thelshire. Good sheep land. Sir Ewen?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“We understand that, but a year ago, you were not a resident of our land. Last summer, you became liegeman of his lordship the archbishop. Now, for reasons that we confess trouble us, you appear to have wagered successfully on our injustice for three manors.”

Sir Ewen, cap in hand, spreads his arms wide, his head inclined toward the sovereign, his smile open and guileless. “Your Grace, I had such faith in your justice, that I feared not to wager upon a matter of injustice with my lord the Earl of Osel. For, in truth, is your court not the seat of all justice?”

Nonplussed again, frowning, Haldan says slowly, “I see.” Then, brightening, as if suddenly seizing upon a way out of these brambles, he announces, “We are happy to see justice served in our kingdom.” He turns to Balim, who nods dutifully in agreement, although Dariune appears, to Sir Baris’ eye, as if he has just sucked upon a lemon.

“Sir Ewen,” the King asks, “are you prepared to do homage for your … three manors?” Sir Ewen agrees. “While we would be pleased to have such an illustrious knight manning our battlements, it somehow does not seem appropriate. Therefore, we will grant you these manors, which the Earl of Osel has so graciously gambled into our possession … Lord Chancellor, do we have any idea of the acreage involved? No? Well, ah, my lord of Osel, you must know something of these manors?”

Harabor steps forward. “I do, my liege. They total approximately four thousand acres. Two bailiffs and one vassal knight.”

Haldan nods. “I see. Four thousand acres. Three and one-half knights fees. Well, the circumstances are most unusual. Which is the senior of the manors?”

“Inbernel, my liege.”

“Quite. Then, Sir Ewen, first knight of Kaldor,” Haldan smirks, “we grant you the manor of Inbernel, and its vassals. In exchange, you will remit to us …”

Haldan trails off, clearly musing upon the figures involved. Sir Baris glances over at Sir Ewen during the pause, and catches the faint flicker of an odd expression crossing the knight’s face. He wonders where he has seen that look before, and then it suddenly hits him. Ewen, contemplating Harabor, just the other night, when the Earl sat down in Ewen’s chair. Sarajin’s bloody wounds, Sir Baris thinks, his jaw dropping, he’s trying to humbug the King!

Sir Baris’s eyes snap back to Haldan, who is now musing aloud. “Let’s see, three manors – that should be three knights’ fees, actually. But my Lord Chancellor tells me they are only four thousand acres…” Haldan, his lips moving silently, nods slowly, coming to a decision. “We shall grant you these three manors, Sir Ewen, for a total of twenty pounds scutage to our treasury.” A murmur ripples through the throne room at the unexpectedly low amount. Lord Balim goggles briefly at the King before remembering himself, causing Sir Baris to stifle a wide grin. “Now then, Sir Ewen, step forth and render homage …”

Sir Ewen steps smoothly forward, holding out his hands for Haldan to clasp, and the oaths are duly exchanged. Sir Ewen then steps backward into the front ranks of the gathered audience. Sir Baris sidles over to join him as the commencement of other court matters is signaled by the renewed droning of the Chancellor. Shouldering his way to Sir Ewen’s side, Sir Baris manages to catch Maldan Harabor’s droll comment to Sir Ewen, delivered again from the corner of his mouth. “Well played. You might be more valuable than I thought …”

Later, in a small office elsewhere in the castle, Sir Ewen is made to sign various documents prior to departing. These papers, copies of which will be delivered to Raven Hall by the end of the day, officially convey to Sir Ewen the lordship of Inbernel and its junior manors. Sir Ewen expresses his socially expeditious intention of attending the Laranian Soratir, where the Serekela will be presiding, before returning home. Sir Baris begs off, intent upon getting out of his clothing. He is already beginning to dread whatever wardrobe Filen has selected for him for Lady Cheselyne’s party this evening. Sir Baris returns to Raven Hall, happy to be rid of the castle.

Across town from Caer Elendsa, Cekiya is negotiating her way through considerably less august environs. The maze of alleys she is in could easily be termed a warren, which is simply to say that Cekiya is in her element. Arms akimbo, eyes narrowed, she stands in front of the doorway of a rundown urban workshop. The claustrophobic confines of leaning, disheveled tenements loom above, blocking her view of the sky, only rickety ledges and rotten wooden balconies to be seen canopied overhead. A muted clamor of voices quarrel within the buildings behind her, and a door slams shut somewhere, the sound echoing upward. An acrid, musty stench fills the air. Cekiya stands before a very old man. He is leering at her from where he slumps seated in the doorway, yellow-stained beard spilling to his waist, his lurid grin snaggle-toothed and gruesome. He sits to the side of a heavily stained wooden table, two mongrel dogs dozing fitfully between its legs. One raises its head and bares fangs before lowering its black snout to the ground again. Cekiya, unfortunately, may be starting to lose her temper.

It began with an unsatisfactory interview at the establishment of Haber of Sarlis, clothier. The unhelpful journeyman, eager to be rid of this common street trash appearing upon his master’s doorstep, had laughed at her request to be fitted for clothing, suggesting that he had some canvas in the back with a very lovely nap. His condescending hilarity had increased at her mention of Lady Cheselyne’s affair this evening, and bringing up Sir Ewen’s name had availed naught as well. Instead, the journeyman had accused her of being sent on her mission by Baris, which irritated her because she had thought of the mission all by herself, and Baris knew nothing of it, and she was certainly not going to let a gouty plow ox like Baris take the credit if she succeeded. Which led to an even more confusing argument with the journeyman clothier about ratcatchers, and whether there is more than one guy named Baris living in the city. Getting nowhere, Cekiya had tried a more direct approach, but the fool journeyman had only insisted that “Baris” needed to talk to the dyers if he really didn’t know this year’s color, but if that’s the case, then his business must really be on the skids. Cekiya was unsure if breaking the clothier’s apprentice would greatly annoy Sir Ewen, or Daffodil for that matter, so she departed peaceably enough. But she certainly wouldn’t forget that face anytime soon.

So now Cekiya is deep within the maze of dyer’s alley. The old man squints up at her, his tongue darting visibly somewhere behind his gap-tooth grin. “Ahhh,” he gargles, “just the tight little morsel I’ve been waiting for. There, now, honey, what brings you to dyers’ alley?”

Cekiya patiently explains that she is in search of work. The old man shakes his head, saying work would be a waste of her “assets”. Behind the old man, from the shadowed interior of the building, a slender, dark-haired youth steps silently forward and slouches in the doorway, hands in his pockets, considering Cekiya frankly.

“So, honey, what can you do?” the old man presses, licking his cracked lips.

Cekiya shrugs, scanning the young man briefly before returning her gaze to the old dyer. “What do think my assets would be good for?”
That gets her another cackling laugh, which turns into a long, gasping cough. Recovering, the old man looks over his shoulder. “Koraga, what do you think? You’re young and full of juice.”

No smile from the young man, just a coolly raised eyebrow. “Not for me to say, Master Maral.”

The old man waves his hand dismissively back at Koraga, but appears to lose interest in teasing Cekiya as well. “Well, what you really here for, honey? You’re not here for work, or peddling your assets.”

“I’m looking for the secret you hold.” Cekiya tilts her head.

Master Maral spits into the dust, nodding sourly with understanding. “Ahh, of course. You want this year’s color. Half a dozen of ‘em must come, every Savor. You know, honey, you could give me every asset you have, and it still wouldn’t be worth enough.” He says the last with finality.

Cekiya considers Maral for a long moment, and then shrugs. She peers narrowly at the youth. “Koraga? How long have you been here?”

The slouching young man slowly uncoils, straightening up and stepping protectively in front of Maral. He nods curtly down the alleyway, in the direction from which Cekiya had come. “You heard what Master Maral said. You’re not a dyer.”

Cekiya doesn’t blink, holding his gaze. “No. But most people who stand in front of me like that are.”

Koraga raises an eyebrow, but remains preternaturally still, holding his ground. Cekiya considers him a moment longer, then simply turns on her heels and walks slowly away from the pair. Down the snaking alleyway, turn after turn, leaving the dyer’s stench behind, she makes her way back to the less exotic bustle and noise of Ibuthine Way.

Three strides before attaining the alley’s exit, a pebble is dislodged from its proper place in the dust about four feet to her rear. Cekiya whirls about.

Koraga halts, eyes wide. He glances about, gives a slight nod, and steps toward her.

“Dranatha.”

The word is barely whispered, almost lost to the sound of the city traffic behind her. He places something in her hand, a wry twist to the corner of his mouth, and then turns on his heel and disappears back down the alleyway. Cekiya looks down.

The small swatch of fabric in her hand is a deep, dark, bluish black.

She slowly steps out into the light of the city street, glances up at the sky, and down at the shadow of a nearby cart. About two hours past noon. Just five hours to go.

Cekiya breaks into a run.