Session Ninety - March 10, 2012

[Matt]

Kelen 18, 732

Given his impressive height, it is not difficult for Sir Baris Tyrestal to see above the heads of his betters. Which allows him to ascertain that the doors to the throne room at Caer Elend remain closed, while an earl, several barons, and sundry officers of the Crown mill noisily in the antechamber, discussing the preparations for war. Sir Ewen Ravinargh chats easily with a nearby knight, looking cool and composed, while Sir Baris sweats heavily in his surcoat and gazes around uneasily, acutely aware that, of the two of them, only Sir Ewen has actually been invited to this august gathering. Sir Baris scans the crowd, for once damning his conspicuous height, and hopes not to be noticed.

He has already picked Sir Scina Dariune from the crowd, standing next to his father the Earl of Balim, and then spotted Sir Prehil next to his own sire the Baron of Kobe, when with relief he spies the throne room doors finally swinging open. Sir Harapa Indama emerges as a hush falls over the close-pressed Kaldoric nobility. Sir Harapa surveys the assemblage with a look of haughty solemnity, and then drives the heel of his staff of office a few times into the floor to capture everyone’s attention. A needless gesture, Sir Baris observes, as all eyes had already turned in his direction.

“Gentlemen, the King!”

King Haldan III emerges from the throne room and leads the way down the corridor to a small council room where, Sir Baris recalls, Sir Ewen in the past has been closeted with the Earl of Balim. A guard bows stiffly as they all file in, the King taking his seat at the end of the table. Sir Ewen and Sir Baris, as well as a number of the lesser lords in the room, all stand around the periphery of the council table while the great lords of Kaldor seat themselves. Sir Baris, still acutely aware that he is an uninvited interloper, having slipped in on Sir Ewen’s coat tails, slouches a bit to remain inconspicuous while taking stock of the greatness around him. In addition to the Earl of Balim and the Baron of Kobe, included in the council are the Baron of Ternua, Sir Houla Artona, Sir Scina Dariune, Sir Prehil Firith, the Baron of Kolorn, Sir Hedare Thaelbis, Sir Rindan Caldeth, Sir Haldare Venera, and four knights he doesn’t recognize. After some settling in, the King gavels the meeting to order by asking for a report of the available forces.

Sir Haldare Venera, the Constable of Caer Elend, hears his cue and promptly speaks up. “My liege, the Royal Guard, as Sir Hedare will agree, is at full strength. It can field 48 knights and squires, and 96 men at arms. The army of Chelmarch, presently at twenty knights, ten horsemen, one company of men at arms, one company of foot and a company of bowmen, is being recalled and will protect Tashal in the absence of the royal army.”

The King says, “You will take command of that?”

“I will, my liege,” responds Sir Haldare.

Sir Houla Artona then addresses the King. “My liege, the Order of the Lady Paladins stands ready to defend Kaldor. With a heavy heart, however, I must recount the tale of the recent split which occurred in the Order. Two of our sword chapters housed at Nebulan and Yaltaka have decamped for Melderyn to join the ill-conceived and, in my opinion, immoral Solori crusade. As it is the sword chapter at Yaltako which normally defends the Silver Caravan, the chapter at Vadan has been ordered to take over this duty. This, I regret to report, leaves only Whyce and Jenkald to take the field. But take the field they shall. We can provide 24 knights and squires, and 48 men at arms. We will call upon our manor chapters to provide at least two companies of foot, and perhaps more.”

Around the room, Sir Baris can see many a pursed lip and furrowed brow, evidence of noble consternation at the Order’s travails and the implications for the forces presently at the King’s disposal.

The Earl of Balim steps into the breach, formally asking the King to receive his son’s report of the Dariune contribution. Sir Scina bows smartly first to the King and then to his father, his clear tenor voice ringing proudly. “I and my brother shall take the field with thirty knights, twenty squires, two companies of men at arms, four companies of foot, and two companies of longbowmen. In addition, we have asked the Constable at Fisen to provide additional troops , and hope that he will send at least several knights and two more companies.”

Once Sir Scina has stood down, the Baron of Kobe states, rather less ostentatiously, “I will not call further on the men of Kobing. But I will bring those members of the army of the Oselmarch that are with me. Ten knights and their squires. A company of men at arms. A company of bowmen.”

The corpulent Baron of Ternua clears his throat. As all heads in the room turn to him, he states, “My son, Sir Ansarn, will command my troops in the field. We will provide ten knights, a company of men at arms, two companies of foot, and a company of longbowmen.” The King nods.

The Baron of Kolorn speaks next, and Sir Baris notes a rather subdued, diminished attitude in the man. Recalling the scandal and subsequent ignominious death of his putative son and heir, Sir Baris beholds an older and more careworn Greon Bastune compared with the irascible Baron he had last seen at Minarsas. The Baron speaks slowly and deliberately. “The forces of my lord the Earl of Vemion being so far away, he has ordered me to take the field in his place, along with Sir Stareton.” Kolorn gestures behind his chair at a standing, surcoated knight, one of the knights Sir Baris had failed to recognize. The man’s arms, he notes, bear the three-pointed label of cadency denoting an heir. “Between the two of us, and from the Valador lands, fifteen knights and their squires, a company of men at arms, two companies of foot, and two companies of longbowmen.” From this enumeration, Sir Baris realizes that the standing knight must be Sir Stareton Valador, heir to the impressive collection of manors near Minarsas he had heard so much about from his father, Sir Andro Valador, at the wedding.

Another knight unknown to Sir Baris then speaks up. “On behalf of the Earl of Osel, I will take the field with five knights and their squires, and a company each of men at arms, foot, and longbows.” Sir Baris will later learn that this is Sir Bereden Pawade.

Another unknown addresses the King, later learned to be Sir Ranald Gybsen, who is bringing ten knights and their squires, a company of men at arms, and two companies each of foot and longbow to the war. Then Sir Roloth Delwarne pledges seven knights and their accompanying squires, two companies of foot, and one of longbow.

After this, the King inquires, “What of Sir Kodar, and Sir Eris?”

The Earl of Balim intervenes, “They have not yet arrived in Tashal, my liege.” He then turns in his seat, a slightly supercilious look upon his face. “Perhaps at this point the Lord of Varayne would like to add?”

Sir Ewen steps smartly forward, addressing the King. “My liege, I hereby pledge five knights, one company of men at arms, three companies of foot, one company of shortbow, and one squadron of light horse.” Palpable surprise hangs in the air at this announcement, and Sir Baris notes the Earl of Balim’s eyes narrowing with something only a bit short of overt displeasure.

“Sir Ewen,” the King drawls with some incredulity, “have you left anyone to tend your fields?” Scattered chuckles in the room testify to the monarch’s wit.

Sir Ewen smiles tightly and bows, sidestepping the question. “All for your grace’s cause.” He steps back.

The meeting transitions at this point, the enumeration of available forces complete for the time being. Sir Rindan Caldeth, the royal ostler, takes logistical matters in hand, leading a somewhat tedious discussion of the process of assembling the army at Heru. Sir Baris finds himself daydreaming for a time about ale, and then about innkeeping.

His ears perk up as Lord Balim starts providing a report of the war chest, because this appears to stir up some contention among the assembled great lords. Balim’s accounting is initially seems somewhat short on the details, and he recommends some areas for economizing in the interest of the King’s purse. Much of these minutia highlight for Sir Baris the fact that the King, possessing a realm long at peace, has been pleased to receive much of his feudal tribute in the form of scutage from his subjects, and therefore must now pay for the bulk of the army he proposes to put in the field. The King asks Lord Balim to elaborate on the subject of economy, and Lord Balim suggests, for instance, that hired mercenaries who have already been paid once by their hirers must reasonably be exempt from receiving any additional payment from the King’s coffers. The Baron of Kobe objects, arguing that whoever hires mercenaries for the King’s cause deserves to be reimbursed as for any other force, while Balim in turn contends that the hiring of mercenaries would properly be considered a gift to the Crown. Sir Ewen Ravinargh, Sir Baris notes, appears to take a lively interest in the exchange. But eventually King Haldan bores of it and waves his hand negligently, telling the two to decide the matter between themselves.

The order of march to Olokand is discussed as the next piece of business. This captures Sir Baris’s full interest. The King turns first to the Baron of Kobing. “Cousin, would you be pleased to lead the van?”

Lord Firith, his unpatched eye gleaming brightly, responds, “Ever foremost, my liege!”

The King then turns to the Dariunes. “And Sir Scina. It is our pleasure that you command the rear.” Sir Scina Dariune bows deeply.

His father, Lord Balim, with a voice as smooth as malice, tries again. “My liege. Where should we place the generous amount of troops that the Lord of Varayne will be bringing to the field?” Sir Baris groans inwardly.

A smile curls the mouth of the King as he leans forward. “We would hear the opinion of the worthy knight.”

Sir Ewen Ravinargh steps forward again, head erect. “My liege. This knight is eager to unsheathe his sword in your grace’s cause. If it please your grace, we would join Lord Firith in the vanguard.”

Haldan slaps the table. “Well said! What say you to that, Lord Firith?”

Orsin Firith, whiskers bristling avidly, declares, “I would be happy to have him!”

King Haldan III nods, apparently satisfied. “So be it.”

As Sir Baris reflects upon this, further discussion evolves around him. It leads to a disposition of forces placing the Earl of Vemion, represented by Sir Stareton Valador and the Baron of Kolorn, along with Sir Kodar Maradyne and the Sheriff of Oselshire, in the van with Sir Ewen and Baron Firith. The considerable forces of Balimshire comprise the rear of the march, which leaves everyone else is in the center. This includes Sir Houla Artona and the diminished Order of the Lady of Paladins, who will comprise the central Kaldoric spearhead when, in battle, the van is deployed to the right and the rear of the army to the left.

The question is then raised as to what actually is known about these vikings, and various opinions are proffered. It appears to be generally known that the invaders are from Harbaal, although there is some dispute about precisely where Harbaal might be located. Some argue about where the invaders came from before descending upon Olokand, while others question the need to know this information at all.

“Do we have a report of their numbers?” asks Kobe, getting down to brass tacks.

Sir Harapa Indama replies, recounting the details of the messenger’s account, and the general consensus develops that more than one thousand viking marauders have invested Caer Olokand.

Kobe presses. “What kind of troops? Be they peasants? Mounted knights? What?”

Sir Harapa responds that the invaders apparently didn’t bring any horses with them, and adds that they arrived in large, shallow-draft boats numbering fifteen or sixteen.

As this is contemplated, one of the sheriffs asks, “Could they have stolen horses already?” Murmers around the table, with the consensus being that this is possible.. "So then we could be facing knights?” No one knows. “Bowmen?”

“Yes,” Sir Harapa allows, “there was report of bowmen.”

The Baron of Ternua shifts heavily in his chair, his double chins jutting thoughtfully. “I heard that some of these Ivinians were rapped rather badly on the knuckles by the Thardans these past years. If the Thardans could handle them, then so can we.”

Lord Balim turns to Sir Ewen, his expression placidly ingenuous. “Sir Ewen is from Tharda. Perhaps he can answer that question.”

Sir Ewen again steps forward. “I wish I could, my lord. I have never campaigned against vikings, but I believe my Lord of Ternua is correct in what he says. It is my understanding that King Arren II of Tharda dealt with them with ease, and brought a king of the vikings back from Orbaal in a cage.”

King Haldan abruptly starts forward, apparently alarmed, repeating incredulously what Sir Ewen has just said. “King Alegar? In a cage?” All eyes turn to Sir Ewen for explanation, while Sir Baris endeavors to appear invisible.

Sir Ewen, his face a study in blandness, is noncommittal. “I know not which king rules the vikings to the north, my liege, but that is the story I heard.”

“Ah,” Haldan settles back in his chair, nodding slowly, apparently mollified. “Ah. You heard a story. Continue.”

Sir Ewen frowns slightly, addressing his audience around the table, his voice tinged with scorn. “We are told that these vikings might have stolen some horses. I say, stealing a horse does not make a man a knight!” Murmers of solid approval fill the room at this. Sir Ewen pauses until the commotion subsides. “I have never heard that vikings possess the martial benefits of a feudal society. Our strength is in what we possess, which they do not. Knights, on horseback!” Sir Baris makes so bold as to give voice to a few discreet huzzahs as general approbation is expressed, unsurprising from a roomful of knights.

This all seems to get the Baron of Kobe’s juices flowing, Sir Baris observes with satisfaction, for the grizzled old warrior now lays out a strategy for drawing out and frontally engaging the vikings in the open field, while hitting them with cavalry on the flanks. Sir Baris thinks this to be sound stuff, until he recalls to his mind that he and Sir Ewen are supposed to be helping the forces of Kaldor lose, not win.

Lord Balim oleaginously asserts, “One’s enemies so seldom accommodate one’s desires.”

Inserting himself into the tense silence, Sir Ewen asks how long Caer Olokand might hold out against the enemy forces as understood. It is agreed around the table that the castle is certainly well stocked, that the Caer is not going to be starved out any time soon, and that the matter of greater concern is how effectively Prince Brandis is going to be able to man the walls. Someone suggests that his highness should have, at any given time, sixty or seventy defenders, but adds that the castle boasts many walls to cover. If the prince has been able to bring in more troops to augment his numbers, the consensus is, he should be able to hold out.

On this note, the war council closes with a reminder to all that the army plans to march in a fortnight from Heru Keep, although there seems to be an understanding that this target might be optimistic. If a few laggard troops should cause a delay, the King is resolved to not waste more than a week in waiting for them.


Tora of Sordel arrives at the Elf and the Dwarf at the end of a long and grueling afternoon. She surveys the common room with scowling displeasure and thinks, Maiden take the drunkard who needs a bouncing from her tonight! She hates, hates the White Ravens! Their attitude is all wrong, they are slovenly, out of shape, and disreputable to the man. She snorts, amending her thought. She wouldn’t even call them men! While she has gone through the motions, done her duty loyally, made the appointment with the weaponcrafter near Hag Hall to get blades sharpened and weapons tended, she despairs that Sir Baris has completely wasted his money.

Ignoring the tavern’s regular clients, who are already trying to outdo each other with elf jokes and dwarf songs, the night still being young, and the daily contest yet to begin, Tora wearily steps up to the bar. Barton, considers her blandly, wiping out a leather tankard with a filthy, grimy towel. Tora stares at the tankard in fascination as Barton turns to fill it with ale.

“Gods,” Tora explodes, “did you just clean the privy with that rag?” Barton pauses and eyes her warily over his shoulder. “Give me another tankard or I’ll take your head off!”

Barton slowly selects a different tankard and fills it with ale, carefully sets it down before her, and then edges away. Tora downs the ale in one long swallow, belches, and then waves the tankard in the general direction in which Barton has retreated. The barkeep studiously ignores her, but in short order sends a barmaid down in his stead.

As Tora works on this second ale, taking it slower this time, a man settles in alongside her, leaning against the bar and holding a tankard of his own. She glances at him in disinterest, taking in a stubbled chin and rough, stringy blond hair before she looks away. She studies the particles swimming in her ale and grits her teeth. After a moment, however, something makes her take a second look, and she catches the stranger considering her with a wry, slantindicular appraisal.

“You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

Tora can hardly believe her ears. If this is some sort of pickup line, she thinks with a twinge of regret, it will be an absolute all-time first.

“Do I know you?” she growls.

“You look like you could use a friend.”

Tora sets her tankard down and swivels her solid posterior on her seat, facing the man now. “Not particularly.”

“Mind if I sit?”

Tora shrugs and turns away. “It’s a free city.”

“I’ve been to free city,” he says agreeably. “Not this one. The one I’ve been to, they pull people out of canals every day.”

Tora grunts, wishing he would go away. In spite of her crapulous mood, though, she finds herself becoming intrigued.

“You ever get the feeling that you are in over your head?” the stranger asks.

Images of the White Ravens – undisciplined, buffoonish, shabby – assail her mind. “No!” she barks. “I’m still in complete control of the situation! And I will be even if I kill them all!”

The stranger recoils. “I hope you don’t mean me.”

Her voice lowers. “Not yet.” She rolls her eyes.

“Well. See, I’ve got this problem.”

Tora snorts. “Usually, if a guy ignores it, it goes away.”

The man continues, unfazed. “I’m trapped in this un-free city, in this kingdom of yours. And I know something big. Real big. But I did something I’m not proud of. Something that would … hinder my efforts in this area. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Tora frowns and gives up on the ale, reluctantly turning her entire attention to the stranger. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I need some assurances that I’ll continue to enjoy ale long into the future. See, I can’t get out of this kingdom –”

“You said that. Okay, okay, I’ll bite. What’s the problem?”

“I could get in a caravan, but I would need a good word, an introduction. I have information that might be very valuable to a certain person. If he doesn’t kill me, that is. I want to get to Coranan …”

Tora sighs, wearily confused by all of this. “This has something to do with Sir Ewen, doesn’t it?”

“Um, I’m coming to you, because I think they can provide me certain … assurances.”

“Okay …” Tora considers, then reluctantly takes the bait. “Okay. Let’s say I can provide those assurances. Then what?”

“Perhaps we could set up a meeting. In a very public place. Not this establishment.” The stranger thinks for a moment. “The Coin and Broom?”

Tora shrugs noncommittally. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me some hint as to why they should give you a moment of their time.”

“Um, the vikings?”

“And how do you know something about the vikings?”

“I travelled with them?”

Tora nods slowly, coming to a decision. She meets the stranger’s eye, and nods again.

He looks relieved. “I’ll be there tonight. Eight o’clock.” He gathers up his tankard.

“If this isn’t worth their time,” Tora sighs, her lip curling, “I get to thrash you.”

The stranger pauses, and grins for the first time. “You get to try.”


Later, when Sir Baris comes into the Elf and Dwarf, Tora briefs him despondently on her travails with drilling the White Ravens, and then explains about the stranger she had met earlier. She mentions the city with canals, which seems to make Sir Baris grow thoughtful, and then adds that if the stranger wastes Sir Baris’ time, she gets to thrash him.

Sir Baris shrugs and says, “Save your thrashing for the vikings.”

Tora grunts. “I don’t think it will take that long.”

At the Coin and Broom, Sir Baris and Tora confront the crowded common room and steer toward the leftmost of three round tables on the north wall, the one closest to the door being vacant. Tora eyes the other two adjacent, occupied round tables, which she prefers, but refrains from bouncing their occupants in deference to the spirit of subterfuge. A serving maid brings ale. Tora scans the faces in the crowd, recognizing a few acquaintances from her years in the city, but thankfully no one hails her. She is careful to sip her ale, sharing the table with Sir Baris, who wonders aloud whether he knows the stranger somehow from his days in Golotha.

After fifteen minutes, the door on the far side of the room opens and Tora’s stranger enters the bustling inn. He looks left, looks right, turns full circle in a slow scan of the room, and then slowly makes his way over to the bar. Tora clears her throat and nods. “He’s here. He’s acting coy.” As the man finally wends his way through the crowd and over to their table, Sir Baris catches her eye and shakes his head minutely. He does not recognize the stranger.

The blonde haired man gives Sir Baris the same slantindicular look he gave Tora at the Elf and the Dwarf. “You are Sir Baris Tyrestal?”

Sir Baris nods solemnly. “It is I.”

The man takes a seat without being bidden, which causes Tora to bristle silently. “I have some information that is probably of interest to you. What I would like in return, in addition to my continued existence on this planet, is a letter of introduction from you.”

Sir Baris allows that he might be open to the scheme, but the stranger remains concerned. “I’m going to need your word of honor, if this information is of value to you, that you will not kill me, and will not let another person kill me.”

Sir Baris draws himself up. “This ‘other person:’ they may be due a higher loyalty.”

The stranger shakes his head. “That won’t be … relevant. The Salt Caravan will be coming in any day now. All I ask is a letter of introduction, so they will take me back to Tharda.”

“I understand you hail from Golotha?” Sir Baris asks.

“I’ve been to Golotha. I would rather be there than here. Coranan sounds like a good compromise.”

“I give you my word of honor.”

This seems to satisfy him. “Very well.” He looks around warily. “I understand that you are going off to kill vikings.”

Sir Baris doesn’t respond.

“Fine, fine. I don’t have a need for vikings any more. They got me into this mess. I saw one of them, nearby, the other day. I had travelled with him and his friends a couple of years back. It’s a long story. I kind of got roped into it. Next thing I know they up and left me. Which at first I thought was a great thing, until I got a taste of this city. This soul-draining city.”

This stirs Sir Baris to a Golothan witticism. “You ever hear of an embalmer named Boraga? Now, he was soul-draining!”

The man shakes his head gravely, failing to appreciate Sir Baris’s humor. “No, no. Tashal is soul-draining. Boraga,” he muses. “I know Boraga. Boy, when he lets his hair down… You’ve been to Golotha?”

“What was this viking doing?”

“Having an ale. He and his fellows, they left the city. What would they be doing back, I wondered. They can’t get back north, they need a guide.”

“When did you see this viking?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“Why would he be here?”

“Well, he’s one of those … witchy people.”

“He does magic?”

“Yeah. I think he is here to spy. I know where he learned his witchy stuff. Some city, I think in Melderyn, called Cherafir.”

“What is this man’s name?”

“He’s probably using a different name, but I know him as Dragoran Shengaad. If he’s here, I bet my last penny that the others guided the Harbaalers to Olokand. I think he’s staying at the Tower Inn.”

“And what is your name?”

The man hesitates. “I am Vagnar.”

“Okay, Vagnar. What were you doing in Tashal a year and a half ago?”

He takes a deep breath. “They wanted to get Kaldor to help them fight against Tharda. You’re going to want to be careful of him.”

“What kind of witchy things did you see?”

“Not a lot. I know he wasn’t just off the turnip cart, though. Once, in a tight spot, he muttered under his breath and we were not noticed, we just passed on through. The trouble didn’t see us.”

Sir Baris, thinks about this and suggests that Vagnar lead them to the Tower Inn to help identify Dragoran, but Vagnar strenuously demurs.


“I wonder,” Sir Ewen Ravinargh muses aloud, referring to the recent advent in Tashal of King Darebor of Melderyn’s new emissary, Sir Arren Lydel, “whether our brother’s timing is as contrived as it appears?”

Rahel of Aerth, luxuriating in gravid splendor upon a divan, blithely concedes the point. “He’s probably been in the city a while.” She chuckles softly, watching Sir Ewen pace the floor. “He certainly did not take the arduous journey up the Genin Trail. He most certainly did arrive by portal. Probably via the one in Melderyn House.”

“I assume his manifestation suggests that Uncle Darebor is aware of the Habaalese invasion?”

“I’d be terribly disappointed if he weren’t,” she scoffs. Then a mischievous smile touches her lips. “When I heard of his presence, I sent Elena on a little fact-finding tour. You’d be amazed at what she found out.”

Sir Ewen looks unsurprised. “Don’t keep me in suspense, dear sister.”

She smiles. “It will be just as easy to show you, in rapport.” She beckons to him, and extends her mind to him once he has settled next to her.

Elena travelled to Cherafir, Rahel shows him, hoping to gain some insight into what King Darebor might be thinking. Imagine her surprise when she emerged from the portal in Cherafir to find herself in the midst of some sort of street festival. Out in a city square, she observed a parade of sorts, processing from the Caer to the square and onward toward one of the gates. The brilliant images fill Ewen’s mind, vivid as daylight. In the procession, there were many men at arms, armored knights, much in the way of pennons and pageantry. Some men at arms wore black surcoats with a boar statent argent, well-armored men carrying poleaxes. Following them were soldiers bearing the livery of the King of Melderyn, a rampant argent steed on a field party per bend sinister, gules and sable. Behind them, each mounted on splendid chargers, rode two kings, the elder Darebor II, King of Melderyn, and the younger Arren II, King of Tharda and Darebor’s nephew. Following them in a coach was a young beautiful woman wearing a crown and carrying an infant, her daughter. More troops, knights, noblemen, and they all head northwest out of the city to visit one of the castles of Melderyn. Elena learns that the King Tharda, in Cherafir for several weeks at this point, had arrived at the city in three magnificent karunes, and that he had visited the kingdom of Evael just before.

Rahel breaks the rapport abruptly. “And, all of sudden, Sir Arren Lydel is here in Tashal.”

Sir Ewen ponders upon this, and they talk further of this and other subjects for a time. After a bit, Rahel arises with grace and floats across the room, returning to the divan with a pair of mirrors, each three inches in diameter and bearing no handle. She shows them to Sir Ewen, cupping them in her hands, and explains how they will each attune to the mirrors to facilitate rapport at a distance. She warns him that increasing distance brings lack of clarity. She thinks the rapport between them when he is in Olokand should not be too bad, but will lack depth and take considerable energy to maintain, so he should expect to fatigue quickly. Should a mirror break, Rahel warns him, they will no longer work. Smiling, she shows Sir Ewen a pair of protective leather cases for the mirrors. Taking him by the hand, she frowns at him with mock gravity. And now, brother, trance, and then attune ...

Kelen 19, 732

Cekiya takes a seat against the wall in the common room of the Tower Inn and accepts ale from a barmaid. When two men attempt to chat with her, she stares at them oddly. “The fishmonger,” she says in a voice devoid of inflection, “has shad.” They look at her strangely for a moment and then awkwardly sidle away. She raises her voice slightly, calling after them. “A 739-pound shad.” After a whispered exchange, the two men apparently decide to drink elsewhere and flee the inn.

After a time, another man comes down the stairs, this one matching the description Ugly Tora had obtained from someone named Vagnar. Cekiya smiles. Her target. This man calls peremptorily for a meal, and dines while Cekiya observes. She likes watching his mouth open and close as he eats his food. He doesn’t know she’s here. She watches him until he gets up, grabs an apple, and saunters from the common room.

Cekiya uncoils like a snake and heads to the street. Her target walks down toward Kald Square. As he passes the well near the College of Heralds, he steers toward a malefactor pinioned in the stocks. Cekiya clothes herself in the shadows of a building while her target bends over the prisoner, lips moving ever so slightly. She watches that closely, cupping her bony elbows in her slender hands. The malefactor in the stocks seems transfixed, like a catfish nailed to a dock, whiskers still quivering. Her target nods and straightens, begins to move on, stops, forms his lips into a smile, draws his foot back, and then propels it forward. Dirt sprays across the malefactor’s face. Cekiya, watching, shivers just a little bit. She likes that feeling.

Her target enters the Red Fox. Cekiya stays outside in the square for a few minutes, crafty as a crow. She goes over to the prisoner in the stocks and says a word to him He denies to her that there was a man, and spits on the ground, astounded. Do I have dust in my face, he croaks, incredulous, lips flecked with debris. Cekiya tilts her head and relishes the thought of breaking him, but sighs and walks away, over to the Red Fox. The windows of the inn are shuttered, like a blindfolded woman. She thinks about the crypt, and her eyes.

Cekiya enters. The bar is on the right hand corner, and four large tables. She sees her target right away, standing with his back to the bar, watching the room. Guildsmen, soldiers, some dicing and gaming going on. Cekiya looks around and sits at a table with some soldiers. They seem surprised and make room on the bench. One of them, a tall soldier with a face like a walnut, observes that she has not been in this place before.

She locks her eyes on his, biting the side of her tongue until it hurts. She asks, “Are you ready to head north?”

He looks around at the other soldiers, confused, and then shrugs self-consciously, and grins at her. “Um, maybe. What does that mean?”

“Hey, hey, hey!” the proprietor of the inn comes over, frowning censoriously at Cekiya and shooing her off the bench and toward the door. “We’re not having any of that in here! Out, you, out! And take your so-called business with you!”

Cekiya shrugs. Touching’s bad anyway, she thinks. She doesn’t get to see the soldier with the walnut face react, and she doesn’t look at her target at all. A good bee, she just goes outside. Cekiya finds a nook in the shadows and huddles right down. A couple hours later, her target comes out and heads back through Kald Square. Cekiya limbers and stretches like a cat and eases along the shadows, down toward Formela Way and back to the Tower Inn.

Kelen 20, 732

Tora of Sordel stands under an oak tree at the edge of the common, watching the White Ravens drilling in shabby disarray. She reflects that, three days earlier, Kaelyn of Aletta had taken a Khuzan gold crown at Sir Ewen’s instruction and purchased, from one of the city’s apothecaries, numerous medicaments in small, red clay jars. Six doses of Berilik Balm, she had announced, a potent pain killer to be applied liberally to open wounds, as well as the apothecary’s entire stock of Terrala’s Pillow, a dozen doses in total, which “wards off the puss.” This latter treatment being individual bundles of leaves prepared with honey which one chews and swallows, resulting in a period of profound sleep from which one emerges with significant weight loss, ravenous hunger, and, one must presume, diminished danger of puss. Now, watching two of the White Ravens lunge for the same bale of hay and collide, causing both of them to stagger and then measure their lengths upon the sward, her mind is filled with a grander image of the entire company emaciated and recumbent, felled half by enemy axes and the remainder by Terrala’s Pillow. She sighs. We’re going to need, she thinks, every damned dose.

Tora orders the two men to get back on their feet and redouble their efforts. She takes a few moments to loudly impugn each man’s lineage and execrate his personal proclivities, and then subsides back to her observation post under the oak. She wonders idly what Kaelyn has been occupied with these past days, then recalls hearing from Sir Baris at breakfast that the little scholar had been to the Guild of Arcane Lore to look at maps of the Olokand region, prior to commencing some sort of research into a means of gaining an understanding of the Haarbalese language. Tora is not certain what sort of research this might entail, but Sir Baris had flippantly warned Tora against disturbing the student while at her books and scrolls, and seemed to imply that great feats of concentration were involved in such high-brow endeavors. Tora has little interest in books, as a general rule, but she tends to study her master Sir Baris Tyrestal quite closely. Nevertheless, she was not quite sure what to make of the twinkle in Sir Baris’s eye when Cekiya had told them, at breakfast this morning, that Kaelyn’s studies had culminated in some sort of infuriating failure the night before.

Noticing some spectacularly shoddy swordplay taking place between a few of the White Ravens, and aware now that other groups of drilling soldiers and some lower level knights had joined them on the common, Tora strides forth and barks some vivid imprecations at the men under her charge. At least, she thinks, subsiding again, some of Sir Ewen’s knights have now arrived from his manors to augment the Ravinargh forces, Lady Afaewynn Barthy arriving two days past with everyone’s warhorses, a groom from Varayne, two medium footmen and two longbowmen. And, just yesterday, Sir Sedris Savellce and Sir Catham Savellce had shown up with two more longbowmen, two light foot and the twelve light horsemen, as well as Sir Sedris’s squire. If she can somehow flog these White Ravens into midseason form in a fortnight, she thinks with disgust, they might just manage to hold their own against the northern barbarians and not entirely disgrace her in the process.

At this point a small group arriving on the common catches her eye: five mounted knights and nine footmen with shields, all bearing arms with vertical white and green alternating stripes. The horsemen move to join some of the sparring knights, and the apparent leader of the cadre calls out to them, “Hail, Sir knights! We come in defense of the kingdom!”

One of the knights wipes sweat from his brow and considers the rider skeptically. “And who are you?”

“My name is Sir Kogen, and I lead the White Rays.”

One of the other knights calls out, “I never heard of you.”

“We are a fighting order, dedicated to Peoni.”

At this, all of the knights begin to laugh. One of them calls out, “What, are you going to do, throw seed at the enemy? Go back to your fields!”

The leader bristles at this, and dismounts, hand on the pommel of his sword. “I am as good a knight as you, and will challenge any one of you to single combat.”

Tora then watches with keen interest as the knight who spoke first spars with Sir Kogan, who eventually wins the exchange by landing the first blow. After that victory, Sir Kogan gathers his small force and begins to make for an unoccupied spot on the common.

Tora steps toward. “Sir Kogan. I am Tora of Sordel. That was a good show.”

Sir Kogan reins in his mount and nods down at her. “What Lady do you serve?”

“I’m a Laranian, but that hardly makes us rivals.”

“No it does not.” Sir Kogan smiles. “Blessings of both Ladies be upon you.”

Later that evening, the trauma of the White Ravens behind her for another day, Tora goes to the Red Fox Inn and joins a table of soldiers. Cekiya, she has heard, had earlier obtained Dragoran’s room information from Sepian, the innkeeper at the Tower Inn, and had searched the room but found little of interest. When Dragoran enters the common room of the Red Fox, it takes a moment for Tora to recognize him due to Cekiya’s odd description of the man. Dragoran nurses his ale all night, and Tora finds it difficult to determine precisely how much he is attending to the soldiers she is chatting with, as he appears to divide his attention equally throughout the room. However, once the majority of the soldiers at her table have left, Dragoran finishes his ale and departs, presumably returning to the Tower Inn. Tora, after a few minutes, leaves as well. As she steps out into the night, while she can see nothing in Kald Square, she has the sudden eerie feeling that Cekiya has lingered, strange girl that she is, and has her eyes upon her. Tora of Sordel snorts at her own folly, reminding herself that the girl was supposed to be following Dragoran to ensure that he returned to the Tower Inn. She spits into the dust, surveys the deserted midnight streets of Tashal, and then makes her stolid, lonesome way back to the Elf and the Dwarf, and so to bed.