Session Eighty - January 15, 2011

[Matt]

Peonu 5, 732

The soft sound of weeping awakens Sir Ewen Ravinargh at dawn. He rolls over and reaches out to comfort his wife. Between her sobs, Thilisa admits her grief at having missed her sister Camissa’s wedding the day before. Then, as the anguish wells up strongly within her, she lurches and vomits over the side of the bed. Sir Ewen, contemplating this development, rises and departs to summon Lady Elena Valador.

Later, a chance comment made by a disgruntled Sir Baris at breakfast alarms Tora of Sordel. She pulls Sir Baris to the side after the meal, disturbed to learn that the knight typically declines to attend Laranian Soratir. Sketching the tale briefly, Sir Baris recounts his experience at the hands of the Laranian priest, Barald Palgren, who had misidentified Sir Baris and his comrades as Morgathians and had consequently racked and tortured them in what sounds to Tora like some sort of extended, sacerdotal error. Taking the bizarre story in, Tora allows that the priest had been “hasty.” An incredulous Sir Baris goggles at this but Tora, offering perfunctory acknowledgement of the unfortunate circumstances, nevertheless requests permission to attend Soratir herself. Sir Baris, shaking his head ruefully, grants her the leave requested.

Sir Ewen and Thilisa, attended by the squire Uldis and Tora of Sordel, therefore depart for the temple around noon. Sir Ewen wears his ebon kald outfit after briefly consulting Filen, while Thilisa is in a dress of deep blue and ebon kald and wearing an emerald ring Sir Ewen had presented to her earlier that morning. They climb the broad steps up to the grand doors and file with the other parishioners into the beautifully vaulted chamber. Pews are arranged in a chevron angle to either side of the main aisle, with the surface of the altar dominated by the great statue of the goddess, her sword uplifted, the lion Mendiz and her other attendant, Valamin, close by her side. Sir Ewen and Thilisa politely greet the other attendees whom they know, taking note that a whole section of the pews remains vacant due to those presently in Minarsas. The Serolan Deni Trochi begins the service with the chanting of various invocations and prayers, followed by the taking up of a collection of the congregation's munificence. Serekela Edine Kynn delivers the sermon, a lengthy meditation upon the noble duties of chivalry and personal self-possession, peppered with injunctions to avoid the inflammatory temptations of Agrik. Tora listens raptly, reflecting upon her present blessings relative to last year’s bout of extended unemployment. Even she, however, shifting her ample posterior in the pew, eventually admits to herself that the Archbishop, an awkward orator at best, does serve up one painfully long homily. As the congregants file out in collective relief, Lady Cheselyne swoops down upon the group.

“Oh, Thilisa, I am so looking forward to chatting with you this afternoon.”

Thilisa smiles, still a little green from the morning’s sickness. Lady Cheselyne turns. “Sir Ewen.” Without waiting for a response, she sweeps off into the crowd.

Kaelyn, back at Raven Hall, engages in some studying and beer making, taking advantage of the deserted house. Cekiya follows Sir Rollard, who has been given the day off, out of Raven Hall just after noon, while Soratir is still underway. Outdoors it is warm and slightly overcast, the ground still wet after a brief thunderstorm earlier in the morning. Sir Rollard is dressed in a manner befitting his rank, sword upon his hip. He departs out the kitchen door, takes a left, turns right onto Chidena Street, strides past Lady Cheselyne's and on toward Haldan Square. He does not appear concerned about being followed. Cekiya tails him as he passes through Haldan Square and up Torastra Way. At the intersection of Torastra Way and Chelebin Street, he meets with a man wearing a cloak. Cekiya recognizes the other man as Finbar of Erons, man at arms and huntsman to Lady Thilisa. They exchange some item, Finbar says something, and Sir Rollard moves his right arm a bit and responds. The two set out together down Chelebin Street, turn right onto Ternua Road, and then cross through Mangai Square towards the upper east side of town. Just before the Coin and Broom they take a right onto Torastra Way. At the fourth building on the left after the Coin and Broom they stop and enter a residence without knocking.

Cekiya looks around, noting a normal amount of traffic for this time of day. She looks up and sees three stories surmounted by a flat roof, with an inset doorway off Torastra Way. There are two windows on the street, one in the middle of the wall and one at the end of wall near to the next building over. The windows are shuttered but the left-hand window stands open. Cekiya casually walks past this window and listens, and she hears a female voice humming a merry tune. The building to the left, she notices, has a balcony off the second floor protruding over the street. Three men now come out onto the balcony. They have tankards with them and appear to be rough, urban laboring types. They start heckling the people passing by in the street below, shouting down taunts at them. At one point they heckle Cekiya , calling her “short.” One of them sloshes ale down on some passing guy and they all dissolve in hilarity. Cekiya settles a few paces up the road, across the street in the mouth of an alleyway. From there, she can see two more shuttered windows on each floor of the eastern wall. She walks back over and listens at these windows, but only hears something through the second one, the sound of copulation culminating in a woman’s cry.

Cekiya returns to the alleyway across the street, curling into an unobtrusive ball like some bedraggled cat, peeping up at the hecklers all the while in uncritical amusement. One person scoops up a handful of mud and throws it up at the three, but they only laugh more raucously – he throws like a girl! Cekiya smiles.

The partygoers cross the street at about twenty-five minutes past the appointed hour. They carefully dodge puddles and mud, walking the short distance up Maranos Way to the gate of Lady Cheselyne’s compound. Filen shadows them out into the street, mincing his way around pools of standing water and calling ahead with words of caution. He only peels off in relief after ensuring that Sir Baris has successfully crossed the road without marring his finery. As the foursome arrives at Lady Cheselyne’s property, they see Aethal Atan’s enormous black manservant emerging through the gate. The bald, towering, powerfully-muscled man with coal black skin and an expressionless face is unlike any person Tora has ever encountered. He steps aside deferentially, making way for them with a slight incline of his head, which Sir Ewen ignores while Sir Baris nods and smiles cheerfully, perhaps recalling Atan’s other servant, the buxom and avid housemaid. Up at the door, Sir Baris gives Tora leave to join a group of other retainers huddled about in a semi-circle, dicing and laughing in a small grove of trees at the side of the house. Tora, thanking him, wanders over and watches the dicing for a time.

The two couples cross the threshold of Lady Cheselyne Hosath’s house, and the chamberlain intones, “Sir Ewen and Lady Thilisa Ravinargh.” and “Sir Baris Tyrestal, and Imarë the elf.” The announcement seems unmarked by any of the guests. They merge into the whorl of circulating attendees. Scanning the room for familiar faces, they quickly identify Sir Harapa Indama and his wife, who are standing near a jovial, animated Aethal Atan. Lady Bresyn Risai is seen quietly conversing with Lord Stimos. The Serolan Deni Trochi holds a drink in his hand, beaming blandly but beneficently, while Sir Ewen notes that his own liege the archbishop is not in evidence. They all smile and nod to persons Sir Ewen does not recognize, and then Lady Cheselyne comes over, greeting the newcomers while winking conspiratorially at Imarë. As their host bustles busily away, and each is armed with a brimming goblet of wine, they begin the labor of mingling.

Outside, under the broad canopy of a sheltering tree, half a dozen or so of the retainers chat amongst themselves. One of the retainers seems oddly familiar, but Tora is unable to place him. Finally Tora, peering at him, says, “You remind me of someone.”

He narrows his gaze, considering her. “Were you connected with the Order of the Lady of Paladins?”

“I was,” Tora nods.

“Oh that’s got to be it!” He slaps his knee. “I must have spat on you at least three times!”

Tora suddenly realizes that this man was the drill instructor when she was a raw recruit, a man named Yerick.

Tora laughs. “Aye, that’s me, sir. I deserved it! Who are you with here, sir?”

“I’m with Serolan Trochi,” he says ruefully, “my last assignment before they put me out to pasture for good.”

The others beneath the tree are all household retainers, but Tora does not recognize any of their livery. It comes out in the course of the gambling, however, that two are Dariune retainers, while one is a retainer of the Baron of Yeged. Tora manages to win five and a half pence, and learns to her satisfaction that a number of her fellow retainers know of Sir Baris Tyrestal, readily identifying him as one of the final sixteen champions in last year’s tournament.

Inside, small talk is made and finger food is consumed in an unremarkable manner until the Lady Peresta is announced, arriving on the arm of a younger man. The younger man, all of Lady Cheselyne’s guests seem to realize in the very same instant in time, is her son Sir Lyndar Bastune. Sir Baris, gawking, is heard to mutter, “The balls of that guy!” Thilisa, blanching at the sight of her kidnapper, shoots a sharp look at Sir Ewen. Lady Cheselyne slows in her perambulation about the room, taking in the tableau before her with awakening horror. The energy of the party grinds to a halt as all eyes turn upon the new arrivals. A tense silence reigns for an agonizing moment.

Sir Ewen’s hand moves to the pommel of his sword.

Sir Lyndar, seeing this, does the same.

Lady Cheselyne, stepping into the breach, cries, “Now, now, now! There will be none of that! It’s only supposed to be hilts, no blades attached, remember?” She leans in toward Sir Lyndar, and whispers, “Now, dear, I think under the circumstances, it would best … if you did not stay.”

Sir Lyndar’s lip curls, and he grunts, “Eh. Alright.” He looks at Sir Ewen and adds, “One day…”

Sir Ewen, eyebrow raised haughtily, replies loud enough for all to hear. “Call upon me anytime.”

“Eh,” Sir Lyndar repeats himself, and without another word turns on his heel and stalks out of the hall.

Lady Peresta, apologizing profusely to Lady Cheselyne, can be heard saying, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lady Cheselyne replies, “I didn’t believe you would have him be seen in public, under the circumstances.”

Meanwhile, most of the guests are milling, confused, murmuring amongst themselves in perplexity. Aethal Atan, braying loudly over the crowd noise, guffaws. “Well, wasn’t that damned uncomfortable! Whatever, dear niece, was going on there?”

Lady Cheselyne, slumping for a moment in cumulative dismay as her guests gawk, shakes her head and softly wonders, “Why do I invite you?”

Lady Thilisa nudges Sir Ewen in the kidneys, coughing lightly. Sir Ewen sighs, takes a deep breath, and then addresses Lady Cheselyne and the assembly.

“My dear Lady Cheselyne, allow me take this moment to formally introduce my lady wife, the Lady Thilisa Ravinargh.”

A loud crash signals Sir Harapa’s wine glass falling to the floor and shattering. Someone gasps. From the doorway, unobserved and unannounced, a strong baritone pronounces wryly, “Congratulations. I am glad I didn’t miss the festivities.”

All eyes turn upon Troda Dariune, the Earl of Balim. Lady Cheselyne looks apoplectic at the advent of Lord Dariune in her doorway. In spite of a standing invitation for many years, he has never once graced one of her get-togethers. Balim strides in, guests making way before him as he cuts a swath into the party.

A person accompanying Balim, middle aged and squat, follows him in as well. Well-dressed but strangely nondescript, with only a wisp of remaining hair, the man’s countenance is expressionless, with dead eyes devoid of any spark.

Across the room Lady Cheselyne, desperately trying to recover the situation, gaily points out that Sir Harapa needs another glass. Aethal Atan, continuing to employ his outdoor voice, cries, “Allow me!” He grabs a tray of drinks from one of the servants, carries it over to Sir Harapa, and says, “Here!” Aethal thrusts the entire tray into his hands, and then pivots. “Now, what’s this about a wedding? I thought it was supposed to be the younger daughter who got married! And, wasn’t it supposed to be in Minarsas? This is too precious!” He looks straight at Sir Ewen while everyone else gapes, captivated by these extraordinary developments.

Sir Ewen tilts his head, his voice mild. “Our understanding is that the Lady Camissa was wed yesterday. Lady Thilisa and I,” he turns to his bride, “were married late last month in Minarsas.” Turning back to the assembled company, he adds, “We very much appreciate the support of all of our friends upon our return to Tashal.”

Silence.

“But of course!” says Aethal. “Why wouldn’t we support it?” Glances all around as the question hangs pregnant in the air.

The Serolan, breaking this awkward impasse, wonders aloud, his voice slow and measured, pondering, “Were you married in a church?”

“We were married before the eyes of Larani, Serolan, as any proper marriage should.”

Sir Harapa Indama, heir to a barony and Lord Chamberlain of the kingdom, is still holding the drink tray. The Earl of Balim, taking the room by storm, seizes a goblet from Sir Harapa’s tray and advances.

“So, Thilisa!” Balim enthuses. “What a catch, my dear!”

Thilisa calmly responds, “I am happy with my choice. It wasn’t going to be your cousin.”

Balim laughs, pointedly looks at another man in the room, and says, “I have too many cousins as it is.”

The conversation continues along this line as the room begins to settle down a bit, the guests absorbing all that has just occurred. Sir Ewen takes in the exchange impassively, Thilisa by his side. In the course of it all, it becomes evident that a number of other Dariunes are present at the party, including Balim’s sister the Lady Donesyn, along with one of his cousins, Sir Shorald, the Chief Chancery Clerk. The Baron of Yeged is present as well, an elfin man with a beard.

The man with the dead eyes who accompanied the Earl presents himself. “Sir Ewen. Allow me to congratulate you on your nuptials. I am Sir Fago Rheeder, personal physician to the Earl of Balim.”

“Thank you, Sir Fago, for your congratulations. I hope the Earl is well?” Sir Ewen smiles.

“Oh yes. May I say, Sir Ewen, that I am pleased to meet so famous a knight?” He studies Sir Ewen with his barren gaze. “Do you have trouble keeping up with the expectations of a champion? Do the faces of your kills commune with you in the dark?” he inquires flatly.

Sir Ewen tilts his head a bit quizzically, as if considering this, and says, “I can’t say that I do. We are all knights, after all, and used to bloodshed. And life brings with it so many different kinds of conquests.”

“That is true. Do you lie awake at night, ruminating upon your rising star? Has it reached its apogee, I wonder?”

“Only time shall tell, Sir Fago. I trust my career will be that of a steady star, and not so meteoric as perhaps this last year has suggested.” Sir Ewen smiles complacently.

The corners of Sir Fago’s mouth turn up a little bit, while the remainder of his countenance remains a mask. “All good things to those who wait.” Nodding slightly, he retires back into the mingling crowd.

Some time later, while Thilisa is off in a corner conversing with Balim, Lord Stimos approaches Sir Ewen and says, “The party seems to be going rather well, don’t you think?”

“I am enjoying it so far. How about you, my lord baron?”

“Oh, this may turn out to be the social event of the season. Sometimes I think my reports back to Coranan must read as being fiction,” he laughs.

“Well, a part of me regrets that Lady Cheselyne felt the need to intervene earlier with Sir Lyndar. I am sure that opportunities for satisfaction will come, though.”

The Baron seems unruffled at this eventuality. “I am sure that the Lady Peresta did not intend to bring her miscreant son out into the public eye. He must have insisted upon it himself.” He shrugs. “The man is facing social opprobrium. What can you do?”

Sir Ewen nods and surveys the room for a moment. Then, in a murmuring voice, he inquires whether there is any word on how the King has responded to the news of Thilisa’s marriage.

“I saw him yesterday. He made no mention of it, though I can tell you that it is an open secret in the castle. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting wasted absolutely no time in gossiping about it. Generally speaking, the lady is believed to have married beneath her station and, if you will forgive me, Sir Ewen, that she had been so long without that she picked the first stallion who wandered into her stable.”

Sir Ewen smiles at this, scanning the room. “The Baron of Yeged,” he says, changing the topic, “seems a curious creature.”

“Oh he is. I am sure he will be singing later, as soon as his minstrels arrive.”

“I shall look forward to that.”

“Yes. He fancies himself a poet. Not that you would know anything about that, of course.”

Sir Ewen laughs lightly, while Stimos continues. “As I say, he ‘fancies himself’, whereas you actually are. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sings one of yours.”

Sir Ewen’s brow furrows a bit at this, but then he laughs again. He wonders aloud to the Baron whether Lady Cheselyne will be able to pull her party from the ashes.

“Not if Aethal Atan has anything to do with it.”

At this point, the Lady Bresyn Risai approaches. “Allow me to offer my congratulations, Sir Ewen.”

“Thank you, Lady Bresyn. Kind of you. And how have you been? It has been so long since we last chatted.”

“I am well. I do not change. But you do. Every time I see you, it’s like you have a new suit of clothes on.” She smiles at her attempt at wit.

Sir Ewen returns the smile and says, “Alas, it has been a busy year. Perhaps the coming year will be quieter and more domestic.”

“Oh yes. Just this week I completed a project in needlepoint that I have been working on the better part of a year. I couldn’t get it quite right. Always ripping out the stitches and trying again.”

“You are a perfectionist, then, Lady Bresyn.”

“I find I know when something is finished. Again, my congratulations. Oh, look, the minstrels are here.”

Sir Ewen bows and steps back, noting that indeed a group of minstrels have arrived and are setting up their instruments in a corner of the room.

Lady Cheselyne, bearing a mixture of fortitude and resignation upon her face, as if to say, surely this will not revive my party, claps her hands. “Everyone, everyone! We have something very special tonight. Churus has agreed to sing for us! A new composition of his very own,” she laughs. “I’m sure it will be wonderful! Churus dear, come, come. Let’s applaud in advance, everyone, let’s applaud!” She begins clapping while establishing meaningful eye contact around the room, eliciting a smattering of polite approbation for the singing Baron. Aethal Atan, again taking things too far, whoops and calls out lustily, slapping his backside at one point for added emphasis, causing some of the guests to sidle away, giving him a wider berth. He only simmers down as the musicians strike up the tune.

Take care young ladies and value your wine.
Be watchful of young men in their velvet prime.
Deeply they’ll swallow from your finest kegs,
Then swiftly be gone, leaving bitter dregs.
Aaah-ah-ah-ah, bitter dregs.

Your time hold precious for youth is your gold.
Your beauty like silver will tarnish when old.
Memories and dreams shall comfort you not,
When the flow of your sweetness is gone and forgot.
Aaah-ah-ah-ah, gone and forgot.

With smiling words and tender touch,
Man offers little and asks for so much.
He loves in the breathless excitement of night,
Then leaves with your treasure in cold morning light.
Aaah-ah-ah-ah, in cold morning light.

Thilisa, at Sir Ewen’s side, looks mirthful in spite of the day’s illness, her hand politely covering her mouth as she laughs. Sir Ewen directs a wry but good natured eye at the minstrels and smiles drolly, while some of the other male guests chuckle at his expense.

Shortly thereafter, as the get-together begins mercifully to break up, Sir Ewen and Thilisa take pains to thank Lady Cheselyne for the wonderful party. Her eyes looking a bit feverish and manic, she protests disingenuously, “Oh, you are not leaving so soon?!” She seems enormously relieved to see her guests begin to vacate the premises.

Meanwhile, Cekiya has remained on her lonely vigil. At about four o’clock in the afternoon Sir Rollard and Finbar emerge, smiling and jovial, swaggering just a bit. The hecklers have long since gone inside. Her quarry retrace their morning steps in reverse, paying even less attention to their surroundings now, and Cekiya follows them discreetly. As the two approach the corner of Chelebin Street and Torastra Way, in the Medrik neighborhood, they stop and talk for a few minutes. Sir Rollard, using his left hand, claps Finbar on shoulder and then departs toward Raven Hall. Finbar watches for a few minutes and then goes into a stone townhouse on the southwest corner of the intersection, a three story domicile with a balcony surmounting the third floor. A set of three doors line the Torastra street side of the building, while there is one door on the Chelebin side; Finbar enters by way of the middle door on Torastra Street.

It is just past sunset, with Yael a thin crescent in the clearing sky, when everyone arrives back at Raven Hall. They change out of their party finery. Kaelyn of Aletta is found grimacing over her vat of beer, ample evidence to Raven Hall veterans that the brew is not yet quite right. They steer clear, chary of being offered an unready sample.

Peonu 6, 732

Thilisa is sick again in the morning. Kaelyn prepares to scry before her large stone font, threatening ominously that the household staff are to keep all disturbances at bay.

Imarë, Tora and Sir Baris head over to the newly christened The Elf and the Dwarf Inn. Barton of Gelram the innkeeper is present, as well as two people Sir Baris has not yet met. Barton introduces Gathric of Deschu and Marlyn of Tyne. Gathric’s role is to be serving drinks, fetching and carrying. Sir Baris frowns at this, not finding the man to much resemble a serving wench. Marlyn, on the other hand, is to be the “entertainment.” Tora stands back and glowers censoriously at everyone in the room.

Marlyn, noticing, says, “What do you do, honey?”

“I’m Sir Baris’s retainer.”

Sir Baris, sensing some awkwardness, brightens with visible effort. “You’ve begun the process, Barton, that’s good.” He claps his hands. “Are you excited, Barton?”

“Oh, yeah, yes, yes, Sir Baris, I am excited.” Barton looks over at Gathric. “Gathric, are you excited?”

“Yep.”

“Well that’s just the right attitude that’s going to make this a successful business!” Sir Baris enthuses.

“Maybe, um, we should discuss accounts, Sir Baris. Let’s step into my office.” Barton goes over to the elf table. Tora frowns at the prominent graffiti depicting an elf being assailed by a dwarf with an improbably large set of genitalia. Imarë, sensing the need for explanation, tells Tora about how the old bartender tried to erase the drawing, but found that every time it reappeared, only with larger genitals.

Barton, focusing on the business side of things, says, “Here’s the problem, Sir Baris. The till’s empty. These two are working on spec right now.”

Sir Baris frowns. “Wait. We bought the franchise, and paid for the building. What more do we need?”

“Ale.” At this word, Sir Baris’s eyes begin to brighten with dawning insight. “Serving people. Food. Ale and food. There’s no money, Sir Baris, to get the place started again. Everything went to Worton or Querene.”

Sir Baris asks about Barton’s contribution to this process.

“Well here’s the problem, Sir Baris. I put all of my money into the half of the franchise that I own. I don’t have a farthing left! These two, I know them, they are willing to work until I can pay them, I haven’t been able to pay them yet. And there are no customers, so there’s no money coming in. All the furniture is in place. There are some weird stains on the staircase – I asked Marlyn to see if she could get them out, but she said that’s not the kind of work she does. I said, look, you’re not on your back, what’s the problem? But anyway… there’s no food left. I guess somebody came in an threw it all out, and the ale has all spoiled, so that’s all gone too. There’s a sack of something down below that the rat’s got at, I don’t know what that was – ”

Sir Baris is looking a bit numb. “How much are we talking about?”

“Funny you should ask. The business rent here, well, that didn’t even matter, because Dafydd owned the building and the franchise.”

“As I do.”

“Right. But you own the building and only a quarter of the franchise. Dafydd paid himself a rent from the business, and didn’t actually take any other money from it, which I thought was interesting. His books are here. I went through them. He paid himself 2000d a year for rent, and he lived here. So it occurred to me that maybe you could do the same arrangement. Except, the business would pay you 2000d a year. But you live here.”

Sir Baris frowns dubiously. “That sounds … good?” Tora is staring with a mixture of incredulity and urgency at Sir Baris.

“To get the business off the ground, though, maybe you could forgive the first year’s rent.”

“To myself.”

“Yeah. And then your partner,” he nods at Imarë, “puts in, shall we say, the seed capital. And then I think we could get ourselves going.”

Tora growls in disgust. Barton, ignoring her, goes on to explain that Dafydd’s business netted him about fifteen pounds a year. Barton wants 1200d from Imarë to stock up on food, buy ale from another inn, and then get started brewing his own ale on the premises. Imarë, placid and unconcerned, wants to know when she’ll get repaid, and after some dickering Imarë agrees to pay 1200d as the first seven months rent in advance for a double room at the inn.

They then discuss the provenance of the name of the inn, and Barton becomes enthused about the concept, suddenly understands the graffiti and the two sides of the common room. Baris explains that the dwarf in question is off fighting for dwarven ale somewhere, and some day he will return with the dwarven ale. As Sir Baris sketches his concept of elven ale and dwarven ale, Barton quickly grasps the very pith of the matter.

“Yeah, yeah! I’ll do a dark ale, and the dark ale will be the dwarf ale. And the light ale, that’ll be the elven ale. Who’s the elf, by the way?”

Sir Baris gestures at Imarë, who Barton looks up and down before declaring the notion to be sound.

“That’s great, that’s great! Yeah, you could pass as an elf!”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” Imarë replies blandly.

“So, Barton. Just so you know, I think I’m going to find another employee…” He explains about Elsa, the girl with the backflip in her repertoire. “We’re going to stop by the woodcrafters as well, and get to work on a sign. Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, aren’t dwarves short, and elves kind of tall and thin? Well there you go!”

Tora glowers at Barton before they leave. “I am Sir Baris’s retainer. As long as you are on good terms with him, you are on good terms with me.” Barton shrugs indifferently.

They proceed to Galopea’s Feast in the late afternoon, entering by the side door. The bouncer recognizes Sir Baris, greeting him by name. Tora, new to the place, takes in the glorious expanse of the first floor, heavy oaken tables rubbed with rich beeswax, luxuriant tapestries lining the walls, gold-chased and horn goblets, three grand fireplaces all alight and spreading a comforting glow. A serving wench comes up and offers to serve, but Sir Baris states he is here to see Elsa. She responds that the courtesan is upstairs, and asks if Sir Baris would care to wait in the hall.

She leads Sir Baris and his party up the stairs to an even more opulent hall, elegant oaken tables covered with fine Emelrenian linen and lace, silver goblets set upon the three large tables in the middle of the room. Two chandelier of glass hang from the ceiling, and on the west wall is the hide of a horse-like creature no one has yet identified satisfactorily, white fur with black stripes. Tora, suddenly captivated, strides over to the pelt and studies it intently. The serving girl disappears upstairs while the group take their seats, and after a time Elsa, brown hair slightly disheveled, comes down the stairs with a robe wrapped around her slender figure.

“Sir Baris! It has been months!”

“It has. I have missed you.”

“And, yet you bring,” she surveys the table critically, “two women?”

Tora, reddening slightly, speaks up. “I am Sir Baris’ retainer.”

“Elsa, please, sit,” Sir Baris gestures. “Do you remember the Seven Stars?”

“Yes.” She sits. “It’s a tavern in Medrik. The owner was tragically murdered last year.”

“Yes, and so there was no owner. And so I bought the place, and I am reopening it.”

“Really?”

“It’s going to be ‘The Elf and the Dwarf’”

“Oh. That’s a good name, I suppose. Is Sir Ewen involved?”

Sir Baris frowns slightly. “Not really.”

“You are moving up in the world,” Elsa allows.

“Well, I am looking for employees – ”

“Staff,” Imarë feels compelled to add for some reason.

“Yes, um, staff. That is the right word, Imarë. Staff. And you had, in the past, indicated that you wanted to go into business more on your own – ”

“Sir Baris is offering you an opportunity,” Tora inserts flatly.

Elsa glances at Tora while Sir Baris begins to look flustered. Elsa turns back to the knight. “I am certainly interested in hearing about whatever opportunity you have in mind, Sir Baris.”

Sir Baris blushes. “Um. Well. Why don’t we go upstairs and discuss it?”

Elsa gives a leftward glance of her eyes to Tora, a rightward glance to Imarë, stretches, and then says, languidly, “Yes, why don’t we?”

A bit later, upstairs, Sir Baris offers Elsa a fifty percent of take of the income she would generate at his new establishment.

“Well, that’s better than what I make now,” she admits. “But the clientele at Galopea’s Feast are quite upscale, and the tips are rather good.”

“You would need a higher share,” Sir Baris sighs.

“No, I would need money up front to guarantee my income.”

“How much are we talking here?” Sir Baris asks again, beginning to feel like he has been saying this all day.

“I think I would need to be guaranteed sixty pence a month, and then half the take above and beyond that.” She smiles winsomely. “I’ll make sure some of my clientele follows me.”

Taking this in, Sir Baris reflects pleasantly upon the fact that Elsa has certainly come a long way from her days on the wharves of Golotha. These musings cause him to forget the whole issue of gratuities. It therefore never occurs to Sir Baris that Elsa intends to retain all of the tips for herself.

“That sounds great!” says the knight, eager to have done with the negotiations.

Across town in another bower, Sir Ewen is visiting Rahel of Aerth at Hag Hall. Entering Rahel’s chamber, he notes that she seems recovered from her illness. She throws her arms around Sir Ewen’s shoulders.

“You look recovered, my dear sister.”

“Completely. I am certain that when I banished your fatigue, somehow mine went away as well.”

“I am relieved to hear of it,” Sir Ewen allows. “And how is our son?”

“Waxing.”

“Does he continue restless?”

“No, but I have been famished, so I assume it is he. Now,” she frowns, “I must remonstrate with you a bit.”

Sir Ewen adopts a serious, receptive expression.

“You got Harth’s blood up, got him all excited. Hot and bothered.”

Sir Ewen grins. “Did I?”

“Oh, you did. There he was, all ready to go off and smite Sir Lyndar Bastune, and I had to put a stop to it.”

“He found it offensive that Sir Lyndar was holed up next door to myself and my lady wife.”

She scoffs, “Of course he didn’t. But if he had gone off and had him killed – I believe he said something about a runaway cart – the suspicion would have immediately fallen upon you.” She shakes her head. “Can’t have that. Now, if Lyndar can find a way to do himself in, in a public way with no guilt attaching to you, that would be grand! But until that can happen, no. He’s untouchable. It would be out-and-out murder.”

“Well, have you heard of the little mise-en-scene that took place at Lady Cheselyne’s?”

“I am beginning to have my sources. Oh yes, I heard. I am stunned that his mother was so weak as to allow him out of the house.”

Sir Ewen points out that Lady Cheselyne had to restrain Sir Ewen and Sir Lyndar from engaging in an effusion of blood at her party, so he doubts it will surprise anyone if someone gets called out in the very near future.”

“Well, of course you had to defend yourself. And she, of course, had to prevent such bloodshed because it would never do. No one would ever come to another of her parties again!”

“And we can’t have that,” Sir Ewen smiles. He does add that Rahel will have to do something to relieve poor Harth of the frustration of not having had the opportunity to kill anyone since his arrival in Tashal. “You must allow him some outlet, sister.”

Rahel looks serious and pensive. “There are people who need killing. I just can’t think of anyone right now, but this is the time... Perhaps I should send Harth to the courtesans, let him work it out. But I can’t let him kill Sir Lyndar when it will put you under a cloud, that simply will not do.”

“I bow to your wisdom, dear sister.” Changing the topic, Sir Ewen asks, “Any news of our father?”

“What do you mean by news? Where is he, what is he doing? Who is he doing?” She smiles wickedly.

“I am more curious about the anticipated events of this spring.”

“Oh, I believe he has completely moved on from that. He has no involvement in it whatsoever. Last I heard, he had decided to go to Berema. Father considers things such as Harbaal as mechanical devices. Set it in motion, and then you don’t have to worry about it again.”

Sir Ewen nods, considering for a moment. “Berema, that is on the continent?”

“Yes it is. The capital of the kingdom of Emelrene. Our royal brother was born there. If I am not mistaken, father maintains a palace in the city, under some interesting name. He is very fond of the city, although King Anavras, I believe, disapproves of his presence there. The king is willing to tolerate it, as long as it is not perfectly clear who father is. Father has also been talking about mounting an expedition. He didn’t say where, but it sounds to be something long term.” She says this last with a touch of sadness to her voice.

“He knows of your pregnancy?”

“He does. He visited me while you were still in Minarsas. That is when he told me about Berema and his expedition. He intimated that he might not be here … at the time of the birth.”

Sir Ewen uses the opportunity to mention his apparent success in getting Thilisa with child as well. Rahel haughtily cocks her head at the news. “My child will still be first.” Sir Ewen bestows a reassuring kiss upon her lips, and describes Thilisa’s morning sickness in some gratuitous detail.

“Oh the poor dear, I wish I could commiserate, but I have no experience with that.”

As Sir Ewen departs, he encounters Dickon Parketh awaiting him in the small hall. Parketh asks whether the time has come for him to detail men to protect the Lady Thilisa, and Sir Ewen indicates that it is, and provides the location where Finbar is staying as her apparent domicile.

Dickon nods. He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then says, “Perhaps I should detail two men to watch that location.”

“Yes, do that.”

“It shall be so. I shall detail two men to watch the Countess tomorrow morning at daybreak, to Raven Hall. And, if you will forgive me, Sir Ewen, I would like to take the … that is to say, I shall take the first watch myself, to make sure all runs smoothly.”

“As you see fit, Dickon. I thank you for taking care with the assignment.”

“The stakes seem high, sir.”

Sir Ewen nods grimly. “They are incredibly high. The lady may be with child.”

Dickon absorbs this. “Then I shall be all too happy to see to it personally, sir.”

Sir Ewen nods again. “Oh. And Dickon?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You are not to repeat that last statement.”

“I have no idea what your lordship is talking about.”

Sir Ewen smiles at him. “Good night, Dickon.”

Sir Ewen heads back toward Raven Hall, turning right out of the alleyway onto Valdan Way. Near Haber of Sarlis’s establishment, four street toughs emerge from the shadows and block Sir Ewen’s way.

“Evening, guv’nor.”

Sir Ewen draws his sword.

“Oh, now, guv’nor. There no call for tha’. We’re just the local toll, see?”

“Knights don’t pay tolls, scum.”

They look at each other, and one says, “Ee’s got a point …” Another one shrugs and says, “Right. Pass!”

Sir Baris has returned to Raven Hall and instructed the servants to move his chests to The Elf and the Dwarf. Raising his voice a bit as he directs the servants, Sir Baris then descends below to supervise the remainder of the operation from the great hall. Kaelyn emerges from her room, nine hours of scrying preparation having culminated in a blank font full of unremarkable water. She stares incredulously at the servants knocking and bumping the heavy chests about. Kaelyn considers casting a rather aggressive example of the esoteric art, but then shakes her head in bitter resignation, thinking the better of it. She slams the door to her room.

Meanwhile, Cekiya follows Thilisa and Sir Rollard out. They proceed straight to the house Finbar went into, Thilisa entering by the right hand door instead of the center. They come out a few hours later and turn in the direction of Raven Hall. As Cekiya begins to follow them back, she notices Finbar and the big, tall guy she saw at the peasant feast in Minarsas head out the same right-hand door and head in the opposite direction, toward Mangai Square. Cekiya changes her mind, backtracks, and follows them instead. They take a left turn off Torastra Way, left onto Medrik Way and past the Temple of Halea, and on past the granaries. Down by the arc of houses lining the river wall, they go into the third building before the tower. They knock and are admitted, disappearing within. Cekiya, glancing about her, approaches and examines the windows, finding them shuttered and locked. She is unable to hear anything. She settles in for a wait again, curled up catlike at the side of the road, resembling a ragged, grimy, slumbering street urchin. The two emerge after thirty minutes. The tall man goes up the street toward the granaries, while Finbar heads southbound along Medrik Way. Cekiya, limbering herself in the shadows, hesitates and then follows the tall man, who returns all the way back the way he came and lets himself in through the right hand door with a key. Cekiya walks back to Raven Hall in disgust.

Elsa moves in to The Elf and the Dwarf earlier that evening. Finding the place basically deserted, she knocks upon Sir Baris’ door and says, “I’m bored.” Things, quite naturally, take their course from there.

After she has fallen asleep in their bed, up in the master suite at Raven Hall, Sir Ewen touches Thilisa and reads her, probing her memory of the assassination attempt on her father in Minarsas. Sir Ewen’s impression is that she was not expecting what had happened, but was also not completely surprised. His sense is more that the moment and timing and method of the assassination attempt were a surprise to her. Replaying the chaos of the event in the tent, Thilisa saw what was happening, but was distracted by Sir Ewen’s table upending. Ewen detects no appreciable emotion one way or another toward himself in her memories. When he tries to determine whom the Earl had chosen to marry Thilisa, it is clear that she knew that Sir Toren Curo was her intended, which is accompanied by a sensation of mild disgust in Thilisa’s brain. Sir Eadril Dariune was apparently running a close second in her father’s deliberations, and Thilisa would have been content to marry him if Sir Ewen had failed to win her. As for her current feelings about her father, Thilisa is clearly frustrated by him: his arrogance, his stubbornness, his unwillingness to see things the way they are. As for Sir Ewen’s claims of his parentage and Deryni blood, she appears to believe this, but it is difficult to tell much beyond that. Sir Ewen gets the impression that there is something else that he is not quite able to access on that topic. Before exiting, he tries to touch mind of her child, in the same way Rahel has helped him touch theirs, but detects nothing.

Peonu 7, 732

Thilisa, sick again, is now convinced that she indeed is pregnant. Her attitude seems to be to thank the goddess that the ordeal of conjugal intimacy is over. Sir Ewen, watching her heave, offers his congratulations and asks if there is anything he can do. She looks up, green about the gills, and gasps, “Go away.” Sir Ewen smiles tightly and takes his leave without a word.

Sir Baris and Tora return to Raven Hall for the morning meeting, Tora having dragged him out of bed and chivvied him along. Making himself free with the breakfast larder at Raven Hall, Sir Baris wonders aloud why Sir Ewen does not call Sir Lyndar out. Sir Ewen explains his sense of the niceties of honor in such a situation, and suggests that Sir Baris instead begin to publicly wonder when Sir Lyndar will call Sir Ewen out.

Urchins are dispatched far and wide to spread word that the Seven Stars is open under new management as The Elf and the Dwarf, with Elsa of the famed backflip as the star attraction of the new franchise. On his way out, Sir Baris spots Dickon and another guard loitering by the wall near to Lady Cheselyne’s compound. Sir Baris hails them loudly and, perceiving their reaction, adds, “Oh! You are trying to be incognito!” He winks and walks on.

Sir Baris having vacated the premises for the entire day, Kaelyn finally succeeds in scrying the Earl of Neph, her font displaying the image of Neph having a party, with lots of people milling about and the sounds of laughter and chattering and music emanating eerily from the glowing scene. Kaelyn catches a glimpse of a suckling pig being carried in, dancers and minstrels entertaining around the periphery of the hall, and Neph himself focusing single-mindedly on the succulence of the dish before him, a soused pig’s face. No concern about marauding invaders from Harbaal seems evident in the scene, and Kaelyn lets the image dissolve, relieved to have enough to report to Sir Ewen without having to subject herself to the full extent of the Earl of Neph’s appetites.

Sir Ewen, ensconced in his study after dinner, attempts to envision the Baron of Tonot’s current activity. His success falls upon him like a thunderclap, an image rushing at him of a large, open mouth, a full set of large teeth framing it, a cacophonous torrent of feminine screeching and abuse barraging his mind’s ear. The image pulls away, perhaps as the Baron takes one step backward, and Ewen feels the unpleasant sensation of just having been excoriated by his shrewish wife. Sir Ewen hears himself angrily responding, “I shall put that where it belongs, m’ lady!” He leaves whatever room he was in. The scene then changes, with a crescent moon hanging overhead on a clear, cloudless night, and Sir Ewen feels himself looking down over a sleepy town from quiet battlements. The image fades, and Sir Ewen sits back in his chair. He is forced to conclude that Uthris Pierstel, the Baron of Tonot, is presently fighting an entirely different type of battle at his northern keep.

Steepling his fingers, he smiles to himself. For the time being, he thinks. For the time being.