Session Seventy-Four - April 17, 2010

[Matt]

Nuzyael 23, 732

Sir Rollard D’Audrieu
Minarsas Castle

Nuzyael 23, 732

My dear Sir Rollard,

Thank you again for the care you took yesterday in conveying the Lady Thilisa’s wishes regarding our invitation, previously tendered, that she might honor our table at the Green Dragon Inn.

I find it my regretful duty to apprise you that an attempt was made upon my life at that same inn, in the small hours of yesterday night. While you will be pleased to hear that I emerged from the ordeal unscathed, you will no doubt share my concern that such an underhanded assault upon my person bodes ill for the perfect tranquility of the upcoming happy occasion. I am distressed, as well, to contemplate the possibility that this ungallant behavior might be instigated by the esteem in which I hold the lady you serve, and directed by the hand of someone who considers my devotion to the lady less than convenient. I feel that I would be remiss in not acquainting the captain of my lady’s guard with the possibility that an inclination toward manslaughter may reside within the breast of someone who might aspire to future intercourse with the lady.

While foremost in my mind is the necessity that the present festivities be in no way discommoded by my misadventure yesterday night, I must say that, should my inquiries into the matter bear fruit, I do intend to seek satisfaction to the fullest extent afforded by my present station and the dictates of honor. Any words of counsel regarding the matter from yourself would be, as always, greatly appreciated.

I remain, yours &c.

Sir Ewen of Ravinargh
Green Dragon Inn
Minarsas

Imarë Taërsi holds the parchment up to the light, examining her flowing, elegant script with a critical eye. Satisfied, she waves the sheet lightly in the air to help dry the ink and then hands it over to Sir Ewen for a final proofread. The knight nods, and nods, and then bids that it might be dispatched. He keeps his voice low to avoid disturbing Kaelyn, who has been assiduously scrying within her adjoining room since the aftermath of the intrusion in the early morning hours. Poor Filen of Oppias had reluctantly decamped for the Ravinargh pavilion on the Wool Common to provide Kaelyn with some peace and privacy, while Sir Baris had been prevailed upon to do the same upon awakening at dawn. The latter had grumbled and griped a bit, but ultimately seemed content to depart with stone and strop to sharpen and hone his axe blade amongst the more tolerant soldiery. Sir Ewen, taking advantage of the subsequent rare quietude, had tranced successfully but subsequently failed in his attempted clairvoyance. The process has left him wan, fatigued, and mildly discouraged. As Imarë looks into sending a runner to the castle with the letter, Sir Ewen instructs Cekiya to fetch Arnys to him, and to summon Filen back in as well, and then returns to his chamber to recuperate from a most troublesome and taxing evening.

Cekiya therefore makes her way in the springtime morning mist to the Minarsas Wool Common, where she locates Filen tidying up in Sir Ewen’s tent. She sends him back to the Green Dragon Inn with a typically cryptic instruction, but the herald has become accustomed to reading these utterances like some obscure blazon, and is no longer perturbed. Cekiya then slips over to the Stock Common, where laborers are already beginning to set up the grounds for this afternoon’s peasant feast. Slaughtered pigs are slow roasting on turning spits over open flames, while florid, sweating women bustle about in a flurry of preliminary activity. Tables and benches are stacked up to one side of the clearing, not yet ready for placement. Cekiya sees no sign of Arnys, nor the very tall man who had caught her attention the other day.

“You, there! Come here! I need you to run and get bread!” A stout, matronly woman gestures urgently in her direction.

Cekiya tilts her head, treading slowly over to the woman, her expression bland and guileless. “Okayyy… Just one?”

“No, no, no. We need at least ten bushels of bread! The baker’s waiting!”

Cekiya frowns intently, considering the perspiring woman as she would an uncarved haunch of mutton. “I’m just Me,” she states definitively, as if reciting some important fact from memory. “How do you expect me to carry ten bushels of bread?”

“See here, are you touched in the head?” the woman asks, frowning, hands planted upon her hips now.

“Touching’s Bad.”

“Touching’s … oh, no matter. You’ll just have to make ten trips. Now run along!”

Cekiya shrugs and walks away, wending her path through the busy village to the market square. Singing to herself a little nonsense tune, she attracts some wary looks from various villagers. She stops to watch a man juggling hand axes, thinks of Sir Baris, and then scans the crowd unsuccessfully for Arnys. She wanders, peering up at guild signs and following her nose until she locates the baker southwest of the market square.

Into the bakery she goes, which is accessed via the residence next door. She spots a large, open oven and smiles. Many bushels of bread are stacked, all neat warm and ready, off to one side. Meat pies and other baked goods cool on a nearby rack. An obese baker with double chins steps into view from behind one of the racks, wiping flour from his hands onto his crusty apron.

“Are these the bushels for the big feast?” Cekiya asks.

The baker nods, dimples appearing in his cheeks.

Cekiya thinks of mutton again. “She says you have to run them up there! Right now!”

The baker frowns and then laughs. “Well she is mistaken, young lady. She needs to send some people to get them.” He peer down at her. “Can you carry a bushel, do you think?”

Cekiya contemplates the stacked loaves, a veritable mountain of freshly baked bread. She shrugs indifferently. “You have to deliver your own bread.” She spins on her heels and walks out, brushing up against one of the racks on her way out the door.

Imarë, meanwhile, having sent Filen with Sir Ewen’s note to the castle, walks over to the market square and comes upon Cekiya, who is munching contentedly upon a fresh scone. Imarë proposes joining Cekiya in her search for Arnys, provoking a smirk of irritation from the little priestess. Cekiya sighs and tells the elf that she has already searched the village, resisted the urge to go over to the graveyard, and looked around near the docks by the river. She announces that she is now going to walk through the village of Runuld, and Imarë insists on accompanying her.

Sir Baris, having achieved an edge on his axe keen enough to shave upon, happily ambles through the array of tents on the trampled Wool Common and approaches the pavilion of Sir Tulath Kaphin, Sir Baris recognizing the coat of arms from afar. Recalling to mind Sir Tulath’s performance during the tournament, Sir Baris makes a mental note that the sheriff, on the king’s side, was eliminated on points in the very first round. Sir Baris knocks upon the tent flap, feeling a trifle foolish. A man-at-arms presents himself and informs Sir Baris that Sir Tulath is to be found at the White Horse Inn. So Sir Baris thanks him and heads back through the maze of tents and toward the inn, noting as he passes through the village a number of blond-haired men with beards, mostly portly merchants and such, but none who much resemble Sir Ewen’s interloper.

Sir Baris enters the bustling common room of the White Horse Inn and carefully scans the busy establishment, finding all of the tables occupied with chatting members of the superior classes. Casting about for a familiar face, his eye falls upon the bearded, neatly groomed countenance of Sir Rohn Sarlis seated at one of the tables, who looks up over his mug of ale to find Sir Baris grinning amiably at him from the entrance. A look of extreme weariness briefly passes over the face of the chief herald, but he quickly recovers himself and calls out, “Sir Baris, how nice” as the large knight closes in upon his table. Sir Rohn is seated with two other knights, both older men appearing to be in their mid to late fifties: Sir Indial Ubael, and Sir Rindan Caldeth. Introductions are made by Sir Rohn, and Sir Baris is invited to join the table. As they begin to chat, it becomes apparent that Sir Indial is a fellow herald, while Sir Rindan, bearing a slight resemblance to the Earl, is Lord Caldeth’s younger brother. Sir Rindan, bestirring himself, enquires, “Sir Baris, were you not amongst the final sixteen in Olokand?”

“I had that honor,” Sir Baris states. Groping about for a sequel to this admission, he unfortunately goes on to opine complacently that, “It was a good day to be a knight. For all involved.”

Sir Rindan stiffens. “You’ll forgive me if it was not such a good day for my nephew,” Sir Rindan replies, a trifle austerely.

“Oh, well ...” Sir Baris reddens.

“Strangely,” Sir Rindan goes on, “it was probably the way Urien would have liked to have died. Although I must say, he showed no interest in his responsibilities as heir to an earldom.”

“A man of action,” Sir Baris attempts, battered but still game.

“A man of leisure,” Sir Rindan harrumphs.

“Well. He certainly died well.”

At this, Sir Rohn almost chokes on his ale, while Sir Indial looks on with growing incredulity.

“So, um, how about that ale?” Sir Baris asks Sir Rohn, desperate to change the subject.

Sir Rindan smiles and allows Sir Baris to retrieve his dignity. “I actually prefer the ale at this inn.” Sir Baris briefly considers asking if this ale has a nicer head on it, but thinks the better of it in the nick of time. A mug is brought over and Sir Baris samples his ale, detecting a taste of sage and bitters, finding the drink to be a bit more bracing than the other fine ales he has sampled in his day.

“Mmm. Do I detect a hint of sage?” Sir Baris looks around hopefully after his first sip, smiling.

Sir Rindan nods gravely. “Indeed you do. How fortunate, that your palette has such acute judgment.”

Sir Rohn says, “Tell me, Sir Baris, over the winter, did you manage to unearth more parents for Sir Ewen?”

“He has but two,” Sir Baris states definitively.

“Ah, that is the very crux of the issue, Sir Baris.” Sir Rohn sighs, but then his eyes brighten suddenly. “Have you by any chance met Sir Ewen’s parents, Sir Baris?” Sir Rohn goes on optimistically to suggest that perhaps, knowing Sir Ewen as well as he does, Sir Baris might be able to fill in a few of the details that continue to elude Sir Rohn in his research? Such as who Sir Ewen’s father might be?

Sir Baris coughs and looks around evasively. “Well, you know,” he begins vaguely, “the details escape me. I’ll tell you what. I’ll ask Sir Ewen, just so I don’t give you any bad information, and perhaps I can get back to you?”

Sir Rohn smiles easily and chuckles, then gazes into his ale – he has certainly ridden this horse before. He shakes his head and then looks up. “I tell you truly, Sir Baris, I have resigned myself to never knowing who Sir Ewen’s father is. For all I know, Sir Ewen is not even his real name.”

Sir Baris laughs uneasily while Sir Indial asks a question or two, and it gradually becomes apparent to Sir Baris that Sir Indial is actually herald to the Baron of Uldien. Sir Baris turns back to Sir Rindan.

“Sir Rindan, where did you spend the winter?”

“Tashal, of course.”

“Ah. I’ve not seen you in Tashal…”

“I do keep rather busy, as the Royal Ostler, you know.” At this, Sir Baris becomes keenly interested, finding himself finally on firmer footing, and they launch into a more successful conversation about horseflesh while a couple of rounds of ale are quaffed.

After a bit of time, a man comes into the common room wearing an eye patch over his right eye. As he passes by, he acknowledges Sir Rindan, who looks respectful but not particularly friendly toward the newcomer. Sir Rindan simply inclines his head, murmurs “Sir Coreth”, and the man passes on to another table. The conversation continues. Sir Baris mentions a story about his squire, briefly alludes to an untimely demise, and broaches the topic of his present search for a replacement. Sir Rindan states that Sir Coreth may know a lad, and offers to introduce Sir Baris.

Sir Coreth Lothlar, upon being introduced to Sir Baris, says “I don’t believe I know your name.” One of the other knights at the table snickers at Sir Coreth in a not very nice way. Sir Rindan then introduces Sir Eres Tereneth, constable of Baseta Keep, and Sir Gorbar Elorieth, heir to the barony of Nubeth. Sir Gorbar is the one who snickered. Sir Gorbar orders a round and suggests that Sir Baris must lift a glass with the table, which Sir Baris is pleased to do.

As they chat, Sir Gorbar refers to Sir Ewen as “infamous”, acknowledges that he himself is staying at Green Dragon Inn as well, and says he will be interested in Sir Baris’s opinion of the play actors. “It’s got to be the first time I’ve ever seen a joust performed on a wagon. I understand it’s playing for the peasants this afternoon.”

Sir Gorbar goes on to reference one troupe, called The Cloudy Mountain Players, and a second group from Tashal called The Wolves, the latter being responsible for the jousting skit. Sir Gorbar adds, for Sir Baris’s benefit, “You are in it too.” This causes Sir Baris’s brow to furrow, recalling his brief melon-encumbered glory upon the Peonian stage, and he racks his brain to no avail to recall whether he saw Sir Gorbar in the audience on that hectic occasion. Sir Gorbar, meantime, obscurely explains that Sir Baris appears only in a “bit part”, while Sir Ewen is evidently rather more prominent, albeit not in name, as one of the jousters. It eventually dawns upon Sir Baris that Sir Gorbar is describing a play depicting the decapitation of Sir Urien Caldeth, and his stomach sinks. He declares this to be a strange choice for a play, and Sir Gorbar frankly concurs, labeling it to be in bad taste, serving as it does as an unpleasant reminder for his lordship. Sir Baris ascertains that the skit was performed about two days ago, but clearly not at the last peasant feast, which his companions had attended without reporting anything theatrical in nature.

The conversation meanders for a while, Sir Rindan withdrawing to his original table at one point. Sir Baris continues to get the distinct impression that Sir Gorbar has some sort of issue with Sir Coreth, perhaps harboring some disrespect toward the knight. Sir Baris returns to the topic of horseflesh, tells his same story about Quinn, mentions the squire’s untimely death, and asks if anyone knows of a lad in need of squiring, but none of them do.

“Perhaps, Sir Baris,” says Sir Coreth, “I can make a discreet inquiry or two. If you wanted to swing by my tent on the Wool Common the day after tomorrow? In the early afternoon, before the archery contest,

Sir Baris thanks him, and indicates that one of Sir Ewen’s retinue will be competing in the contest, being rather adept in her bowmanship. Sir Coreth states that he looks forward to seeing her, and the conversation winds down. As Sir Baris takes his leave and departs from the common room, Sir Rohn calls out to him. “Oh, Sir Baris, do give my compliments to Sir Ewen.” Sir Baris assures the herald that Sir Ewen would certainly reciprocate the regards, and Sir Rohn smiles and says, “I am staying here at the White Horse, if Sir Ewen would like to do so in person.”

Sir Ewen, back at the Green Dragon Inn, finally emerges from his self-imposed recuperation and descends to the common room. The large table in the corner is again occupied by the Bastunes, along with Sir Eadril and a knight Sir Ewen does not recognize. Sir Lyndar invites Sir Ewen to sit with them, and introduces him to Sir Anzarn Verdreth, eldest son of the Baron of Ternua. Sir Anzarn opines that Sir Ewen has certainly cut a broad swath through Kaldor, and is likely now setting his sights even higher. Sir Ewen admits that he is probably as ambitious as the next man, and Sir Anzarn laughs heartily at this. The Baron, taking this all in, seems more subdued today, possibly nursing a hangover, and he mutters into his ale while Sir Lyndar considers his father with some concern.

Sir Eadril enquires, “Sir Ewen, have you enjoyed your time so far? How did you sleep, Sir?”

Sir Ewen turns a delighted gaze upon Sir Eadril. “So interesting you should ask me that, Sir Eadril. I believe somebody mistook my window last night for their room, and attempted to climb through it.”

“Is that a fact?” Sir Eadril exclaims, appearing genuinely taken aback. “You have my apologies, Sir. I had in mind something completely different. I understand the ladies of this house are most comforting.”

Sir Ewen smiles. “It was actually a man who was climbing through my window, and not, I am afraid to say, with the most comforting of intentions.”

“And what did this fellow look like?”

“Oh, medium height, blond hair, beard. Being unarmed at the time, I had to give him a bit of a buffeting.”

“Well,” Sir Lyndar exclaims, “soundly deserved!”, and Sir Eadril chimes in with, “Indeed!”

At this precise moment, the door of the common room swings in and Sir Rollard d’Audrieu enters, alone, armed and armored. He walks directly over to the table and looks at the assembled notables.

“Mah lord baron. Gennelmen.” He pivots on his heel. “Suh Ewen. I have this verrah day received yoah most alarmin missive.”

Sir Ewen smiles. “I was just discussing my interesting evening with the gentlemen at the table.”

“Well. That gratahfies me. Ah am not too late.”

“Will you join us, Sir Rollard?”

“Ah am afraid that will not be possible. Howevuh, allow me to extend to you, Suh Ewen, despite whatevuh differences of opinion we may have, mah sincere condolences upon yoah travail. It is mah sincere hope that you do not suffah such an outcome uh second tahm.”

Sir Ewen leans back, his smile lingering. “How interestingly worded, Sir Rollard.”

“You must forgive me, Suh Ewen. Hahnic is not mah native tongue.”

“It was not the outcome that alarmed me, Sir Rollard. It was the offense.”

“You have, Sir Ewen, mah complete assurance that Ah will investigate this outrage, and give it the attention that it is due.”

Sir Ewen nods.

“Ah am sure that it has crossed yoah mind, Suh Ewen, that this dastardly attempt on yoah life might have something to do with yoah interest – and Ah don’t believe that Ah speak out uh school in frunnuh these worthy gennelmen – in the hand uh the Lady Thilisa. Ah would like to say, in frunnah this august company, and to you, Suh Ewen, that we will put out the word that there is nothin for you to worry about in the fyoochah. For the Lady herself has already made her choice. And it is not you, Suh Ewen. Yoah life is perfectly safe. Is there any message you would like me to convey to huh ladyship?”

Sir Ewen considers him for a moment, his face devoid of expression. “Not at this time, Sir Rollard. As always, I appreciate the pains you have taken in the execution of your duties.”

“Ah assure you, Suh Ewen, there was no pain on mah part. Good afternoon, gennelmen.”

Sir Rollard departs, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake. Sir Ewen turns back to the table. “Well, gentlemen. You have heard my fate pronounced. It appears that I shall wear a hair shirt for the remainder of the wedding. I wonder who will be the lucky man?”

Sir Eadril says, “Well, Sir Ewen, I cannot say that I am disappointed to hear the news. But if the lady has chosen me, that would be news to me.”

Sir Anzarn says, “And to me as well.”

Sir Lyndar shakes his head, frowning. “Odd that he should announce it so, here. I do not believe the Lady would like that.”

Following further subdued and rather awkward conversation, Sir Ewen excuses himself to the vast relief of the table, and goes to the Temple of Larani to contemplate.

Cekiya and Imarë, having been through Runuld and Lothlarny without catching sight of either Arnys or any man closely matching Sir Ewen’s description of the assassin, repair to the stock common and join Kaelyn amongst the peasants feasting on roasted pig and fresh bread in the overcast but warm afternoon. Sundry entertainments abound, including mummers and jugglers, the seven foot man to gawk at, the strange older man telling his story about Agrik again, and a game of pigball being played. At some point, the peasants gravitate to the northeast corner of the Stock Common where an odd, two-level wagon, opening out on the bottom with a balcony above, is set up. As the three drift over with the rest of the crowd, the play begins, with a handsome man emerging from the wagon onto the makeshift stage.

In a stentorian voice he calls out, “Greetings, gentles,” and snickers, mugging outrageously for applause, and the crowd laughs in agreeable self-deprecation. “Today, I and the Wolfmen bring you a Dark Tale of Knightly Ambition, from the far-off castle of Olokand, the Home of our Sacred King! Follow with me, the ruthless tale, of “Sir Forren!”

Some scrambling takes place behind the wagon, and the players come out wearing knights and horsey costumes, and they begin to joust with broom poles to the uproarious amusement of the peasants. Knights fall from their horses, various lewd pratfalls take place, buttocks are swatted, and the fun seems innocent enough until the first actor reappears, apparently playing the title role, and loudly announces, “Now, Shall I drink Hot Blood!” There is another joust, and Sir Forren kills his knight and turns to the audience and pronounces, “Huzzah! I have my First Kill!”

Imarë, misliking the direction the tale seems to be taking, nudges her companions, whispering. The players come out and perform an odd little dance, and then Sir Forren jousts again, this time against a knight clearly wearing the arms of Caldeth. Kaelyn, having goggled unbelieving at the stage up until this point, starts frantically murmuring an incantation soto voce amidst the noisome press of the peasants. Out of nowhere, a little fog bank appears and floats over toward the wagon just as Sir Forren begins to joust. The fog bank engulfs the wagon and the players, obscuring the crowd’s view of what happens, but there is a clattering noise from the stage and then a straw head comes rolling into audience from the mist as Sir Forren cries, “Huzzah! I have Killed the Son of the Earl! I will Drink His Blood!” But some confused consternation at the sudden pea soup fog can then be heard from up on the wagon, as well as some stumbling about and a muffled oath. But then a booming voice, recovering, cries, “Huzzah! Whom will I Kill Next?”

Cekiya weaves her way through the clinging mists, past the craning peasants and, taking advantage of the poor visibility, leaps into the wagon, where she can make out two figures groping about, cloaked in mist. One of them gestures at her, hissing, Hey, hey you, get off the stage! Down below, Imarë attempts to float the head back to where it came from, but only manages to bobble it a bit, causing some nearby peasants to start away from it. One lady shrieks. Up on stage, Cekiya cries out in an absurd, girlish soprano, “Sir Forren! You have Killed my Brother, but I Know there is Good Within You! Change Your Wicked Ways for Me!” She then dives off the rear of the wagon before the other players get to her and works her way back around the wagon and into the crowd. Up on the stage there is a long, confused pause. After a few moments, the lead actor, still obscured, cries loudly, “I am the Winner of the Tournament! I have Beaten All who Came Against Me! Now … I would Feign … Win the hand of my … my lady love who has … forgiven … my shameful, errr … has forgiven … the death of Her Brother!” And then the actors possibly take a bow, but the crowd murmurs discontentedly. Imarë overhears one man complain, “And people said this was good?” The peasants start to drift away, while Cekiya has returned to her companions. She claps ostentatiously, hopping up and down like a demented child, and sings aloud, “I love a good ending! Love triumphs, Love triumphs!” while the peasants cast strange glances at her and give her a wide berth as they disperse in disgust.

Later in the evening, back at the Green Dragon Inn, Kaelyn takes Sir Ewen’s purse, goes upstairs to the inn’s garret level, and peers around uncomfortably, clearing her throat a few times. From the first curtained-off alcove on the left, a girl pops her head out. Kaelyn breathlessly explains that she and her friends are going out for the night, can she buy the girl’s clothes? She jingles the purse. The girl shrugs, what do I care? Two shillings later, Kaelyn has the requisite costume to allow Imarë to pass for a strumpet, and an agreement to recoup one of the shillings if the clothes are duly returned.

Sir Ewen leaves the Green Dragon, chatting with Sir Prehil in the common room on the way out. Sir Prehil invites Sir Ewen to have a pipe and mug with him, but Sir Ewen begs off, stating that he has a man to talk to, but that later he would be up for a bit of drinking. Sir Prehil says that he will either be in the common room later, or perhaps upstairs, and he winks.

Imarë dresses and heads to the Stock Common in search of the leader of the acting troupe. Finally finding the actor, she flirts with him, saying she saw the performance but missed the ending, asking if he might provide a private performance, and adds that she wants to join the theater. Imarë thereby lures him by pretense down through Runuld and toward the graveyard, ostensibly in search of a family member’s house where they might dally a while. Sir Baris, Rolloch, and Potelc, having concealed themselves in the underbrush along Imarë’s intended route, emerge and Sir Baris presses the point of his sword into the small of the actor’s back.

“Not another word. You’re coming with us.”

The actor looks frightened and seems about to make a run for it when he sees Rolloch and Potelc also behind him, and then Cekiya stepping toward them out of the darkness ahead. “Okay, okay,” he says, resigned, hands upraised, “I’ll go with you.”

Cekiya glides up uncomfortably close to him and sniffs him around his neck and collar, eyes wide, panting slightly. “I smell your blood,” she whispers, and he flinches away from her, breathing faster now. Sir Baris grabs him by the arm and roughly propels him, stumbling, in the direction of the graveyard, where two more men-at-arms await. Ahead, the headstones are thickly cloaked in more of Kaelyn’s eldritch fog. Sir Baris brings the actor to an abrupt halt, and then Sir Ewen emerges slowly from the roiling mists like some lean, dark specter.

“Good evening, thespian. Do you know who I am?”

“Uh, uh. Afraid I do not – “

Sir Baris cuts him off. “He is the man you wrongfully maligned.”

“Oh. Um. Sorry!”

“What is your name, thespian?” Sir Ewen intones.

“My name is Bors.”

“Well, Bors. I have heard tell of your performance on the common this afternoon.”

“Did you like it?” he asks hopefully.

Sir Ewen’s voice is flat. “No. I misliked it.”

“Oh. Sorry,” he shrugs.

“Where did the idea for this performance come from, Bors?”

“Oh, um. A little birdy told me?” He makes a rude sound of negation.

Sir Ewen, unsmiling, takes a step closer to him. Sir Baris cracks the actor on the back of the head with his open palm.

“I’ll ask you again, Bors. Where did the idea for this performance come from?”

“Well,” he stammers, looking around the murk-swaddled headstones, as if hoping for some sort of deus ex machina. “It came from the tournament in Olokand?”

“Did you write the script, Bors?”

“I did, I did,” he responds, truthfully as far as Sir Ewen can sense it.

“Do you have a patron who supported this performance? Perhaps encouraged its writing?”

“Well, um, one always needs a patron,” he whines.

“Did you have a patron who supported this performance, Bors?”

Sir Baris is becoming impatient. “Answer the question.” Cekiya begins juggling her dagger from one hand to the other, her creepy grin widening. She licks her lips.

“Um. Yes!” he squeaks.

Sir Ewen nods slowly. “Tell me the name of your patron, Bors, and things will go … okay for you tonight. Not well, but okay…”

“Well, this is the problem,” he says, pleading. “They might go not well tonight, but they will go really badly tomorrow.”

Sir Ewen takes another step toward him.

“Alright, yeah, you’re very close to me! I, I mean, just suppose I were to tell you – “

“Just suppose? You are going to!” Sir Baris interjects menacingly.

“ – who suggested this particular theme to me. Um, I’m all alone here. I thought I was going to get lucky with this waif. I need, like, a guarantee. That, you know, the patron? He doesn’t bring me to a graveyard.”

Sir Ewen reaches out with one hand and takes Bors by the chin, forcibly extending himself into the mind of the thespian. The patron whom Bors is attempting to conceal is Sir Toren Curo, who hired him months ago in Tashal specifically with the idea of undermining Sir Ewen’s candidacy. Bors doesn’t know much more beyond this, has never seen the blond-headed assailant, but is aware that Sir Toren is staying at the Green Dragon Inn. Sir Ewen plants a latent suggestion in his mind, to be triggered by a command word spoken by Sir Ewen, that Bors confess his story of having been hired by Sir Toren Curo to create a play to specifically undermine Sir Ewen’s candidacy for the hand of Lady Thilisa, and that he deeply regrets having committed such a slander against the First Knight of Kaldor.

Sir Ewen then ensures that Bors will not recall the rapport, withdraws from his mind, and then audibly asks him a third time whom the patron might be. When Bors prevaricates one final time, claiming to have been inspired by the tournament, Sir Ewen peremptorily raises his hand, silencing him.

“Bors, I will be at your next performance. Think well on that. And think, as well, that this night, Sir Ewen of Ravinargh spoke with you, but you … are free … to go.”

“Um, thank you, Sir Ewen! I – I’m sure you’ll enjoy that performance!” he gulps.

Sir Ewen smiles thinly. “I hope to.” Sir Baris nods to the guards, and Bors the thespian scampers off into the night.

Nuzyael 24, 732

During the breakfast meeting, held in their private suite at the inn, Arnys presents at long last and reports on his recent activities. Sir Ewen observes that the party has been looking for him, and Arnys blandly replies, “Is that so?” He glances pointedly in Cekiya’s direction, to her acute annoyance. Arnys tells Sir Ewen about The Wolves acting troupe, but is disappointed to find this to be old news. He then reveals that the little group they observed in Whyce, comprised of three men and a woman, presumably employed by the Earl of Neph, are now here in Minarsas, staying at the Cask and Flagon Inn on the other side of the Vemion River. The proprietor of the Cask & Flagon, Arnys goes on to reveal, is one Mald of Harabor. When briefed on Sir Ewen’s account of the nocturnal assassin, Arnys indicates that he has seen someone who meets that description, recalling that the man met with the local physician, a reputed quack, and then fled town. The physician in question is located just north of the market square. Sir Ewen, edified, instructs Arnys to carry on as he has been, and to keep especial watch upon the acting troupe. Arnys nods, and adds that Bors is no amateur, and may in fact be the best actor in Kaldor. Sir Ewen replies drolly that Bors may have taken on one too many roles, and Arnys smiles in a not-so-nice way. Arnys understands that the next planned performance of the Sir Forren play is to be three days hence, on the twenty-seventh.

Some time after Arnys’s departure, the innkeeper knocks upon the door to the suite and asks if Sir Ewen and Sir Baris might repair to the common room. The two knights exchange glances. Sir Baris tells the innkeeper that they will be right down. As they descend the staircase, with a curious Imarë following behind them, they find an older man-at-arms, armed and armored, wearing the livery of the Earl of Caldeth, awaiting them in the common room along with four other soldiers. The older man steps forward smartly, looking between the two knights questioningly.

Sir Ewen steps forward. “I am Sir Ewen.”

The older man nods. “My name is Sir Morgal. Sir Ewen, Sir Baris. In the name of the Earl of Vemion, I ask you to accompany me to the castle.”

Sir Ewen nods. “We will follow you willingly, Sir Morgal.”

“Sir Ewen, Sir Baris. I must request that you either surrender your weapons here, or leave them behind.”

Sir Ewen, his face impassive, silently turns and hands his sword and scabbard to Imarë. Sir Baris glares over at the innkeeper, who is assiduously polishing a mug behind the bar, pointedly avoiding looking in their direction. Scowling, Sir Baris truculently hands his weapon over to Imarë as well.

Sir Morgal and the four men-at-arms then take the two knights directly to the castle. Cekiya follows them at a discreet distance behind, making it all the way to the castle walls where she is forced to stop and helplessly observe as Sir Ewen and Sir Baris are escorted in through the portcullis. Kaelyn, briefed by Imarë regarding these developments, resigns herself to another tedious day and immediately begins scrying for Sir Ewen at about an hour before noontime.

Sir Ewen and Sir Baris are brought through the gatehouse and into the castle bailey. They are then marched over to the keep, located in the southeast corner of the castle, up the main stairs, through the gate, and into the great hall on the second floor. They turn to the left off the great hall into one of the towers, climb up the winding spiral staircase two floors, and emerge in a corridor on the fourth floor of the keep. They travel along this passageway, turn left, and are brought into a sizable room which bears the appointments of a counsel chamber.

Declaen Caldeth, tall and severe, stands awaiting their arrival along with several more castle guards. As they enter, the Earl of Vemion, livid, stalks straight up to Sir Ewen and gets right into his face.

“Where is my daughter, you son of a bitch?”