Session One Hundred - April 6, 2013

Wherein the ongoing story of the FtF campaign may be found ...

Session One Hundred - April 6, 2013

Postby Matt » Fri Apr 26, 2013 1:31 am

Larane 5, 732

The gargoyle perched atop the wall overlooking Chidena Street might have been carved from stone. Hunched and impassive, the small figure presents only the faintest of silhouettes when viewed from the street below against a backdrop of low, curdling clouds. Now and then, the slightest of predawn breezes touches the gargoyle’s hair and shifts it, and dark hooded eyes scan vigilantly back and forth. Aside from these grudging concessions to humanity, the figure has not moved in a very long time.
The chaos of city rooftops, grey and stately in the foreground and indistinctly promiscuous further to the north, presents a grotesque landscape for the patient consideration of the immobile figure. As dawn begins to spread like a contusion across the eastern sky, however, limning the surrounding rooftops with blood, isolated sounds begin to drift toward the figure, unwelcome. The clatter of shutters thrown open by a servant. A dog barking in the distance. The spattering of a chamber pot emptied onto cobblestones. Somewhere beyond the high city wall to the south, a dunghill cock crows raucously.

Stirred by a mirthless, silent laugh, considering the tableau of the city one final time, the gargoyle uncoils without a sound, turns, and disappears from sight.


Tora of Sordel, breaking her fast at The Elf and The Dwarf one final time, wolfs down a scone and sticky bun compliments of the talented Amelia. Tora announces that she will be leaving the establishment, but opines cheerfully that Amelia has a bright future at Sir Baris’s inn. Having dispensed this optimistic prediction, Tora crosses town over to Eastside and walks past the Coin and Broom to the building where the White Ravens have been housed. She strides down the alleyway and knocks on the door, but receives no answer after a brief wait. Tora scowls, looking around at the neighbors bustling about, merchants with bundles of goods headed for their stalls, a team of laborers hauling lumber from one point to another. She attempts to listen for activity within the building but is unable to discern any. As she starts to walk away, however, the door finally opens and a bleary-eyed soldier squints against the watery dawn light. Tora asks after the White Ravens, specifically Smoak, Tynder, and Flynt, and the doorman identifies them, to Tora’s startled amusement, as sergeants. The soldier invites Tora in while evincing uncertainty as to whether these worthies are in fact present. He gestures for Tora to have a seat in the antechamber, however, and after a time the three come out to her. Tora greets them.

“Have you heard that we are sergeants now?” one of them inquires eagerly. Tora allows that she has, and the veterans seem pleased that she is aware, informing her that Garvo is hiring back the force. Tora counters by indicating that she has come with an offer from Sir Baris, who has acquired land and is in need of sturdy men at arms to garrison the “castle.” Tora lays out the details of salary and upkeep, and the three confer amongst themselves for a few moments.

“Are there any orcs nearby?” Smoak wonders. “Bandits?”

Tora shakes her head dismissively. “Peasant girls, hopefully. I expect life will be generally peaceful.”

“We accept!” they aver in unison, without any further deliberation.

“Note that I will be the steward of the manor.”

Their faces become instantly downcast. “Oh ...” They look at each other in some apparent torment, but then a modicum of collective resolution takes hold, and they nod. “Okay. We’ll see it out.”

“Stout fellows! We’ll be leaving today. There will be lunch at The Elf and The Dwarf, and then we depart forthwith.”


At Raven Hall, a written message in verse arrives for Kaelyn of Aletta from the Coin and Broom, penned by someone named Sotor of Pelanby. The epistle occasions a furrowing of the scholarly brow.

As fair Larane climbs, in mildest summer heat
Then longest kindred minds in symposia to meet
I, the meanest Sotor, a stranger on this shore
Have tarried in my way among the Guild of Arcane Lore
In that learned group, a name was oft proclaimed
One Kaelyn of Aletta, a mind of favored fame
Rich in knowledge, quick in wit, a font of lore sublime
Set I verse to paper to request a night to dine
With her at some lodging in this newfound Tashal town
The sign of Coin & Broom, a inn of some renown
That my poor brains her skillful talk might edify
And my reply perhaps some entertainment could supply
This Sotor remains your servant of obedience
Please send me your reply at your leisure and convenience


Kaelyn ponders the turgid missive for a time with suspicion, and then sighs. She calls out to no one in particular that she is going to the Guild of Arcane Lore. As she crosses the threshold onto Chidena Street and begins to pull the door closed behind her, Sergeant Potelc scrambles out and stands there in the street, earning himself a withering glare from the young mage. “No one goes out unaccompanied, Miss. Sir Ewen’s orders.” Kaelyn grunts, complaining that the Guild Hall is but a matter of yards away, but Potelc is implacable.

Moments later the seneschal at the Guild greets her and she is allowed to pass into the reading room, where various scholars labor, bent over their tomes and scrolls. Master Wybert of Graon is there, so Kaelyn approaches and greets him. After the briefest of social niceties she mentions the strange invitation from Sotor of Pelanby. Master Wybert nods sagely, evidently unsurprised.

“He just arrived here a few weeks ago. We have had dinner a couple times. An interesting sort, inquisitive, rather knowledgeable. Not worth your time for his poetry, mind you, but his conversation is enjoyable. I believe he came in with the Genin Caravan.”

Kaelyn considers this, and expresses some satisfaction that Wybert can vouch for the stranger.

“Vouch for him?” Wybert chuckles. “Well now, let’s not get carried away. Vouch is a very strong word. But I doubt he’s harmful.”

“It is a dangerous world we live in, Master Wybert. One can’t be too careful. So many people carrying swords these days.”

“Yes … funny you should say that. I seem to have developed a positive phobia about swords of late. I can’t explain it.”

Kaelyn’s eyes grow wide with disingenuous concern. She strongly suspects that she knows precisely the source of Master Wybert’s inexplicable phobia, but only expresses bland condolence and thanks him again for his précis on Sotor of Pelanby. She stops by a writing desk to pen a brief message, and leaves it with the seneschal to deliver to Sotor on first opportunity.


Sir Baris Tyrestal, meanwhile, is obdurately reluctant to attend Soratir, even though Sir Ewen has censoriously suggested that it would appear singularly odd for the new Lord of Selepan to fail to observe Soratir but to show up at the post-Soratir soirée at the Earl of Balim’s immediately thereafter. As they are debating the matter, Sir Aeomund Legith details one of the men-at-arms to watch for the Baron of Kolorn to emerge from his domicile next door. After a time the man at arms pokes his head in through the door and says, “They are coming, my lord!”

But “they” turns out to be the Baron of Kolorn all by himself, a forlorn figure stepping out unescorted onto the cobblestones as Sir Ewen and his men mill about in the street, shooting their cuffs and brushing imaginary lint from their surcoats. As Bastune draws abreast of them Sir Ewen manifests an expression of delight and cries out.

“My Lord Baron, what a delightful day for Soratir. How very nice to see you!”

“Eh, yes, Sir Ewen, a very fine day indeed.”

“My lord Baron, I have been meaning to call upon you. I fear I owe you a bit of an apology.” Sir Ewen approaches with a broad smile. “I believe that myself, Sir Baris, and Sir Aeomund here may have inadvertently slain a tremendous number of your men the other night.”

A brief frown of confusion passes across the Baron’s face, followed by a look of abject terror. “Well, now that you mention it, they have been missing ...”

“It is as I feared!” Sir Ewen cries. “We were dining at the home of Sir Danyes Bernan, always a mistake, when our host excused himself to avail himself of the privy, and the next thing we knew a body of men had let themselves in and were laying about the place with swords, endeavoring to kill everyone in sight.” Tarien Bastune, his face blanching, crosses his arms and looks about the street, for all the world like some cornered animal, while Sir Ewen continues. “Of course we defended ourselves, and toward the end of it all I had occasion to ask one of the ruffians whose body of men he belonged to. And do you know what he said, my Lord? He said they were yours! Unfortunately, as he was already mortally wounded, we were unable to offer him assistance, as would have been the neighborly thing to do –”

“Sir Ewen,” the Baron croaks in a strangled voice, his eyes darting in alarm in the direction of Vemion House, “not on the street, if you please. This is perhaps not the best place …”

Sir Ewen invites the Baron to step back into Raven Hall with him, and when inside calls out to Walin. “Wine for his Lordship!” The door to the street is secured. When the glass is proffered the Baron takes it gratefully and drains it in one convulsive swallow.

“I didn’t know what to do, Ewen. I didn’t know how to get word to you. After we spoke, he summoned me. He was at Vemion House.” The Baron inclines his head, gesturing across the street. “He told me he knew what I had been up to! He said he was going to dispossess me, and worse. Then he told me I didn’t have to do anything personally, but that he would have to borrow my men.” He looks wistfully at the empty glass, so Walin steps forward and replenishes it. “I kind of guessed what had happened, especially when they didn’t return, and then when Vemion left town … I knew I had been had. What I am telling you is the truth, Ewen. One of my men did escape –”

“Yes,” Sir Ewen observes brightly. “An oversight on our part!”

“Um, yes. Well, this fellow was telling the most improbable tales. There were giants, he said, each wielding two enormous swords. He thought maybe there were a dozen of them. Those of the men who were not outright beheaded, he said, had their heads burst inexplicably, like ripe fruit. I assumed he was young, of course, and in any event Vemion took him away …”

Sir Ewen nods. “If Vemion took him away, his fate is not to be envied. What do you believe your current status to be with your liege lord, Tarien?”

The Baron gulps. “He said to me, ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ I didn’t take that to be good.”

“What day did he leave town?”

“Yesterday, but I was not privy to the exact moment.”

Sir Ewen considers for a bit. “Have you taken steps to replenish your retinue?”

The Baron’s shoulders slump. “It’s like this, Ewen. You might recall that we suffered terrible losses at Ovendel Field. That company that was here with me, other than a few men still at my castle? That was it. And Father didn’t leave the coffers over-brimming. It’s going to be hard to hire even a chambermaid until the harvest comes in, and then there are all the debts …”

“So what are your plans now?”

He laughs bitterly. “To tell you true, Ewen, I have no plans.”

Sir Ewen nods. “Well, Tarien, I can offer you four of my own men at arms, who can accompany you at all times, and assure your personal safety. I’ll have them start immediately. And then, I think, we should all attend Soratir, and hope that the Lady grants inspiration.”

The Baron of Kolorn, as if realizing that some previously unseen trap has just this instant snapped shut upon one of his limbs, considers the First Knight of Kaldor with a haggard dullness of the eye. “Your generosity,” he says sardonically, “overwhelms me, Ewen. How can I say no?” He sighs wearily, and then straightens. “Sir Ewen, I was planning on attending Soratir, and after that the Earl of Balim’s gathering. His invitation was the first such offered to a member of my family by the Dariunes in many a year. And yet, I don’t feel up to it somehow. If anyone asks, please give my apologies.”

Sir Ewen nods. “As you see fit, my lord. In that case, if you will excuse us? I think the rest of us should be making our way to Soratir.”

“Of course.” He casts one final, regretful glance at the wine glass while Sir Ewen murmurs some brief instructions to Rolloch. As they leave Raven Hall for a second time that morning, Sir Ewen and his retinue proceed toward the Laranian Temple while the Baron of Kolorn turns left and heads straight to his own house next door.

The church services on this pleasant Larane morning are unremarkable, the Archbishop Edine Kynn, the Serolan Trochi, and Bishop Dariune presiding along with a number of other concelebrant priests. The usual suspects are in attendance, but so is Maldan Harabor, the Earl of Osel, long absent in Tashal and presumably having travelled from his extensive holdings in the kingdom’s southeast precincts to present his feudal obligations to the King. The Archbishop delivers a halting, mumbled, inaudible lesson, again prompting the congregation to marvel at how this execrable public speaker could ascend to such a rarified pinnacle of ministry within the church. When the proceedings mercifully conclude, the congregants depart in order of their rank. Osel, in passing by Sir Ewen’s pew, vouchsafes a minute nod of the head and slight smirk.

At the Coin and Broom, meanwhile, Sir Baris has just departed for Balim House, having wiled away the morning drinking ale while his comrades strained to discern the Archbishop’s message. Rolloch and Potelc nurse their own ales at another table, having duly delivered their message to Dickon House, and they banter and rib each other from time to time but otherwise remain unobtrusive. Cekiya is stationed across the common room from them, slouching on a bench. Other people, mostly merchants from the summer fair, come and linger and leave, some venturing for a time into the private alcoves along the north wall of the common room. Shortly after Sir Baris has departed, six rough and garrulous knaves enter, accoutered in ring armor and short swords.

“Ha!” they opine. “We’re going to own this place. Barkeep, ale! We are the White Ravens! Up Garvo!” Further puerile rowdiness along these lines ensues, much to the disruption of the other patrons. Kaelyn, stationed alone at a table with numerous papers related to Sir Ewen’s estates spread before her, trying to reconcile the figures while keeping a weather eye out for the assassin Longhals, casts a baleful eye upon the rumpus at the bar. The White Ravens, she notes bitterly, are Sir Baris’s mercenary outfit, and she can’t help but wonder if the knight, not content merely to disrupt every coherent thought she might entertain at Raven Hall, has dispatched mercenary troops to continue the distraction here.


At the grand mansion of Troda Dariune, the Earl of Balim, guards in livery are stationed at the gates and more are posted at the main doors. Within the hall the aged chamberlain announces the guests as they arrive. About half of the attendees are already present when Sirs Ewen, Baris, and Aeomund arrive. The Earl of Balim and his sister Lady Donesyn can be seen working the crowd, as well as Lord Scina, his lady wife Erlene, and his younger brother Sir Karison. The Laranian clergy are all there, including Serekela Edine Kynn and the Rekela Dariune. Lady Peresta Bastune, mother to the new baron, is present, as are Sir Fago Rheeder and Aethel Atan. Sir Scina greets Sirs Ewen and Baris but then turns away, pointedly ignoring Sir Aeomund. Servants circulate bearing trays laden with ale and wine. Sir Aeomund, brought to mind of his earlier years living in this household, recognizes the old chamberlain, as well as a kitchen maid named Filya, weak of chin and bulbous of nose, who bashfully catches Sir Aeomund’s eye and bobs. As they set about obtaining their beverages, they hear the Earl of Osel announced.

Some time later the Baron of Stimos arrives, accompanied by Lady Brevlyn Meleken, a small attractive woman with brunette hair and lively brown eyes, petite of frame but full of the bloom. Sir Arren Lydel and Lady Alyce Dulye enter as well, the latter being blonde of hair and gray of eye, boasting a pleasant figure as well as an ineffable emanation which catches Sir Ewen’s attention. Sir Aeomund leans over and whispers that Lady Alyce is a cousin of the King of Melderyn, adding that she studied at Vil Abbey under the Save K’norians. At that moment the very same lady catches sight of Sir Aeomund and gives him a slight curtsey. Sir Arren Lydel is already steering for Sir Ewen, approaching with a sardonic curl to his lip, and Sir Aeomund steps aside.

“Sir Ewen, I am so pleased to be able to make your acquaintance at long last. Things have been so busy since my arrival in Kaldor.”

Sir Ewen considers his older half-brother carefully, having no idea whether the other is aware of, or even suspects, the relationship. “Thank you, Sir Arren. I have been looking forward to meeting you. Many have commended your name to my attention.”

“I should very much like to know who has done so,” he drawls.

Sir Ewen raises an eyebrow. “The Baron of Stimos was one, certainly. When you arrived, of course, we were all getting ready to depart for war with the vikings, and so the opportunity to meet never arose.”

“Well, I got as far as Heru, as part of the royal entourage. Of course, under the circumstances it would have been inappropriate for me to become involved in any derring-do. When I draw my sword, it will be in service of my king.”

“Ah. And how long do you plan to stay in Kaldor, Sir Arren?”

“Well, I have no specific plan to leave …” And so Sir Arren Lydel spars with Sir Ewen for a time, consistently smarmy and instigating, before becoming bored and wandering off in search of a beverage replenishment.

By this time Lord Harapa Indama and Lady Udine have arrived, as well as Asorn Firith, his wife, and his nephew, Sir Prehil Firith. Sir Ewen is approached by the Baron of Stimos, who greets him and introduces his companion, the Lady Brevlyn Meleken.

“I imagine matters at court have been keeping you busy, Lord Stimos, when forced from the company of such a charming lady.”

The Baron allows that his time has indeed been precious. After a few remarks, he informs Sir Ewen that the King has fully recovered from his injuries sustained at the ambush at Ovendel Field, and is determined to avenge the setback for the cause of His Grace’s arms. He remarks that certainly Sir Ewen noted the presence of Sir Arren Lydel. He then asks, “If it is not too much trouble, perhaps we might attend to my lady here at some point, if you get my meaning.”

Sir Ewen bows and says, “I would be honored to do so.”

“I shall send word, then. Hopefully we can find a time convenient to you. I would hate for there to be a breach. Oh, you must excuse me Sir Ewen, I must attend to Lady Donesyn …”

Meanwhile, Lady Alyce smiles at Sir Aeomund as she steps up to him. “I did not expect to see you here, Aeomund, although I am pleased.”

Sir Aeomund bows slightly. “How have you found your time since Vil Abbey?”

“It has been quite a whirlwind, especially since I was sent away to attend court. I must say I find Sir Arren a complete bore.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

“I assure you, it is no pleasure. His family has some unimportant manor - I had never heard of him before I came to court.”

She and Sir Aeomund talk for a time of the changes which life has brought to each of them, and Lady Alyce expresses polite interest in the knight’s Dariune connections, his father having been a Laranian chaplain in the household of the Earl during Aeomund’s boyhood. He remarks on how curious it is to return to see the household again through the eyes of a grown man, and Lady Alyce observes that he has accumulated not only age, but status as well. Sir Aeomund responds with a rather stiff remark about the transition to Laranian knighthood and the opportunity to lend assistance to the poor. The comment is made in his typical fashion, direct and clipped and perhaps over-serious, and Alyce laughs kindly and suggests, “You really must learn to relax, Aeomund. Let the events flow over you.” She gestures at the people around them, and then touches his arm lightly.

“Behold ... look at my Lord Balim and the archbishop,” she says. “Both are agitated about something, are they not? Then there is the Lady Peresta, very much on the prowl. Observe how she has looked at every man here ... save Sir Baris, I believe.” She smiles slyly. “That one over there, “ indicating Sir Fago, “standing alone, scrutinizes everyone around him. And that one,” indicating Aethel Atan, “thinks everyone in this room is a horse’s ass. A most fascinating assemblage. You would not find as interesting a room in Melderyn.”

Sir Aeomund laughs. “Your grasp of the situation matches mine on the battlefield.”

“There you go. Now, if we spend any more time together, that young man Scina will feel the need to challenge you to something. Where are you lodged?”

“I find myself in the service of the First Knight of Kaldor, in Raven Hall.”

“Sir Arren has said much of him, most of it lies. I am lodged at Melderyn House, and while you should not call upon me there, you may certainly send a discreet word ...”

Sir Prehil, gazing around at the milling throng, claps Sir Baris on the shoulder. “By Morgath’s crepuscular buttocks, this has got to be the dullest party in town! By the way, who’s the wench Aeomund is talking to?”

“I don’t know, but I just met the man, and he’s quite the player.”

“If I didn’t have a pregnant wife … He has dibs on her, you say?”

“Looks like he does.”

“Ah, and there is no one else in the room worth looking at. Although that one there with Stimos is not bad. But she looks shackled to him.”

Sir Baris shrugs. “Well, some people enjoy that, Prehil.”

The younger Firith appears momentarily flabbergasted, and then changes the topic.

“By the way, and you didn’t hear this from me. The King’s council plans to make good on the paper that’s fluttering about the city.”

“Really? Where’s all the money going to come from? We just fought a war.”

“The King put some up himself, taking a portion of what the great nobles have provided as their annual scutage. And then they are taxing the guilds which are not directly associated with the Silver Caravan, to make them share the pain. Of course, some of the same guildsmen bought up some of the paper, so they will just be transferring money from one pocket to another …”

Later in the afternoon, the Earl of Balim makes an announcement confirming Sir Prehil’s news. Approbation amongst the attendees is general, save for the Earl of Osel, who shows no reaction. On the other hand, Sir Harapa Indama seems to be almost unduly pleased.


At the Coin and Broom, around midafternoon, Kaelyn sees Kerl enter and sit down at a table along the northern wall. He takes an ale and gives a coin to the serving girl, and then sips nervously. He does a double-take when he sees Kaelyn, and then looks quickly away. After two hours and only one ale, Kerl gets up and leaves.

An urchin then comes up to Cekiya where she lurks in an alleyway and tugs upon her sleeve. He has a message for Cekiya, but insists that he was instructed to demand a treat or money first. Cekiya scowls and gives him a penny, and he bites it.

“This is the message,” he pipes. “You’ll Have to Try Harder Than That.”

Cekiya glares at him, and asks where he received the communication. The urchin points back up the street, two doors down along Torastra Way. He gestures to a tenement with a thatched roof. Another penny produces the information that the source of the message was wearing a gray cloak and was barefoot. A third penny confirms that he had no sandals on. Two more pennies uncover the fact that the message was actually exchanged up on the roof, where the urchin was hunting the rats which feed on the roofing thatch. Going all in, four additional pennies nets Cekiya the knowledge that the urchin saw his employer go into the Coin and Broom yesterday, and that he used the opposite entrance to the one Cekiya had been watching, having emerged from the other alleyway.

Cekiya considers all of this, and realizes that the urchin is talking about the “knight’s house” behind the Coin and Broom. Dismissing the enterprising youth, Cekiya walks eastward down Torastra Way. At the entrance to a large alleyway she dodges a shambling tatters cart, its owner crying rags to passersby. She slips into the warren of narrow passages and follows them back westward. She shoulders her way past a few of the local denizens jostling through the muddy alleys and comes to an intersection, where she peers up at the sky bracketed narrowly by the uneven heights of the surrounding buildings. Cekiya eyes one tenement to the south, profuse with open windows and laundry wives cackling in crude gossip, and notes a latched wooden door on the right and an external staircase to the second floor on the lefthand wall of the building. She climbs the staircase, steps nimbly over feces befouling the wooden landing, and opens the creaking, unlocked door. She peers down a dimly lit corridor with a low, damp ceiling. She bypasses three closed doors on the left, registering distinct sounds of activity behind one of the doors, and finds a ladder at the far end of the hallway. She climbs. It is a rickety ladder, but Cekiya swarms up it, thinking with satisfaction that clumsy Sir Baris would certainly crash right through these rungs. She swiftly doubles back along the corridor one floor up, finding only a single door on the left along its entire length. Cekiya approaches this door and listens, hears nothing, and then silently lets herself in. She dispassionately scans the filthy, windowless garret of modest size adorned with a bare table, bench, two chairs on the right, a hearth and battered water butt, and a bunk bed on the far wall next to a curtained-off privy area. The domicile, she observes, is crawling with vermin. Unconcerned, Cekiya eyes the rafters above, her route to the thatched roof space beyond. She hoists herself up onto the bunk, leaps upward, and gains purchase on one of the rafters. She flips herself smoothly upward and crouches there for a moment, then she burrows upward, hand over hand and through the straw thatch.

Emerging onto the windswept, filthy rooftop, Cekiya sniffs and crawls carefully to the peak of the roof, careful to keep hand and foot on the solid, regularly spaced supports hidden beneath the thatch. She gazes west at the next building over, one storey greater in height than this one. She effortlessly attains the roof of the next building, crouches for a moment upon its wooden shingles, and then climbs to the apex, where she beholds urchins diving for cover on another roof farther west. She climbs a small stone tower on this roof and gazes about her, but finds herself thwarted, unable to see down to street level from this vantage, nor does she see any sign of her quarry. Cekiya backtracks all the way in disgust and climbs back down the external staircase to the alleyway. Resorting to more direct methods, she lurks beneath another exterior staircase across the way and waits for someone to come along.

An unlucky laborer passes by and Cekiya grabs him by the scruff of the neck, her blade pressing lightly against the stubble of his throat. She hisses at him, “The icky tricky spider hunts a man with a gray cloak and sandals. A man with a long neck.”

“What?” the captive croaks in panic. Gibbering, he denies that he knows someone of that description.

Cekiya threatens him darkly, obscurely, and then asks him about harpers. Stammering, the man admits that he knows a harper named Ornald, but knows of no other harpers. She reluctantly lets him go, calling him worthless and worse as he scampers to safety.

Undeterred, Cekiya pushes her way through a latched wooden door, ignores three doors on the left-hand side of the corridor and heads through the opening on the right, where her sense of smell tells her the public kitchen is located. A portly, flushed woman of middle years attempts to scold and drive out this interloper. Cekiya asks about a harper named Albin, but again the woman only knows of a singer named Ornald. She gruffly directs Cekiya to where Ornald’s apartment lies above, while scoffing at a question regarding his present whereabouts: Do you think I’m his mother?

Cekiya heads back out onto Torastra Street and enters the building where she believes Longhals had been on the roof. The interior is not in the best of repair, with the whitewash on the walls flaking and dingy, the atmosphere odiferous, and the internal debris festooned with rats. She listens at the first door on the left, hears nothing, and then moves on to the next three, which in turn reward her with silence. She climbs to the next floor. Behind one door she hears domestic sounds, and encounters an actual lock when she grasps the handle. She knocks on the door, and the sounds from within cease.

Someone calls out, “Who is it?”

Cekiya calls back, in a singsong voice. “I have a quick message. A message for Ornald.”

“We don’t know anyone named Ornald. Go away!”

Cekiya snarls, steps back, and kicks viciously. The door smashes inward, parting from its hinges. A frightened, aproned woman thrusts a small, wide-eyed child behind her, while a man from somewhere deeper into the apartment yells, “Hey – what’s going on?”

Cekiya grabs the woman, who begins to scream bloody murder. The child drops a raggedy poppet she has been clutching to her chest and begins to sob. The man, stooped and haggard, incongruously holding a pair of shoes cradled in his hands, emerges from the back and stops short, looking terrified. “We don’t have any money,” he pleads, while the woman’s screams rise a shattering octave higher.

“Make them stop,” Cekiya instructs the man, while shaking the woman repeatedly as though she were malfunctioning.

“I can’t make them stop! We have no money!”

“Where is Albin, with the long neck?”

“I don’t know any Albin.”

Cekiya, glancing around the room while the woman gulps in breaths between her screams, now takes in the absolute profusion of shoes lying about the place, mostly footwear of various kinds for the urban poor. She looks back up at the petrified cordwainer.

“Have you made sandals for this man?”

“No!”

“Sold sandals to him? Look to see if you sold sandals to Albin with the long neck.”

“Look, I can’t read! I don’t keep books, you know! I don’t know any Albin!”

Cekiya releases the woman in disgust and spits, turning back to the door, which is leaning awry in its frame. She makes a half-hearted attempt to prop it into place before stepping back out into the corridor.

A door at the other end of the hallway has opened and a figure fully armored in mail emerges, sword in hand. Something about his stance suggests to Cekiya that this person is pissed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Cekiya takes a step back, and wonders if this person knows her, something about his overall attitude striking her as familiar. She grins. “He was selling me shoes.”

“Find your shoes elsewhere!” the mailed figure bellows, brandishing his sword. She turns and runs.


When Sotor of Pelanby enters the Coin and Broom and scans the common room, he immediately singles out a lone female person seated at a table, bowed assiduously over a quantity of papers which are strewn about her. Applying the rigors of logic to the problem at hand, he deduces that this commendably industrious person must be Kaelyn of Aletta. He weaves his way between tables and presents himself before her with a self-deprecating flourish.

“Mistress Kaelyn? Sotor of Pelanby, at your service. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me.”

Kaelyn peers up from her ledgers at an oddly dressed, slender individual of medium height, garbed in a blousy costume located somewhere between, perhaps, voluminous robes on one end of the spectrum, and a shirt and pantaloons on the other. A hat which appears to be the distant cousin of a beanbag adorns his head. He is speaking in an odd accent. Sotor beams an expansively toothy smile from a homely, clean-shaven face and, to Kaelyn’s bemused nod, pulls up a chair.

“Now, let’s see what’s on the menu at the Coin and Broom this evening!” Sotor looks around for a serving girl. “Master Wybert referred me to you, Mistress Kaelyn.”

“You are newly arrived in Kaldor, I take it?”

“Yes, indeed, and newly arrived on Harn as well. I am from Chelemby, an island kingdom and city in the Gulf of Shorkyne. I have lived a peripatetic existence: Leden, Beldira, Karemus ...”

“You enjoy traveling,” Kaelyn observes blandly.

“I do! I finally made my way to Harn after hearing intriguing little things about this island’s secrets. I am a physician by profession, and an alchemist. By temperament, however, I am an investigator of things strange and perverse, and in speaking with Master Wybert –”

“Oh, the Ogre. I see.”

“You are miles ahead of me, Mistress Kaelyn! Master Wybert was able to inform me of the first part of this tale, but was unable to state what happened later …”

And so Kaelyn obliges this strange fellow with a synopsis of her adventure in tracking and slaying the Ogre of Tashal, although she characterizes herself as having been hired only by the Peonian Temple, and falsely attributes the actual vanquishing of the Ogre to one of Sir Ewen’s men.

“I happen to be part of the retinue of Sir Ewen Ravinargh, you see.”

“I have not heard his name.”

Kaelyn is aware of feeling slightly relieved to make the acquaintance of someone who can claim as much. “He is currently the First Knight of Kaldor.”

Sotor nods, and then questions Kaelyn with keen interest about the methods she employed in locating such a dangerous criminal as the Ogre. Kaelyn obligingly walks Sotor through her investigation into the pattern of earlier crimes from many years back which matched the methods of the killer. When she describes a highly edited version of the denouement in the Peonian crypt, Sotor exclaims, “Oh dear! What a place to commit murder!”

He goes on to explain that he is avidly interested in such curiosities, and in fact has recently completed a book compiling such grotesqueries. Kaelyn asks if the tome is available for perusal at the Guild of Arcane Lore. Sotor states that, now that he is in town, he intends to donate a copy to the guild.

“Oh, then I shall be the first to read it,” Kaelyn vows obligingly.

Sotor of Pelanby beams in appreciation. He asks politely about Kaelyn’s background, and then shares a bit more of his own history, indicating that he came to Harn with the purpose of seeing Melderyn. He was detained in the Alienage, however. Unable to escape this restraint, after a time he gave it up and made his way to the mainland. Since then he has been captivated by the prospect of so much going on, as he phrases it, vikings invasions and economic calamities galore. “It seems quite an interesting time to visit,” he enthuses.

At one point Potelc sidles by the table and catches Kaelyn’s eye, as if to say, You want me to deal with this guy? Kaelyn blithely waves him off, and Potelc shrugs and walks with an exaggerated swagger to the bar to get another ale.

“Smoothly done, Mistress Kaelyn,” Sotor observes, leaning in conspiratorially. “Your brother, I presume? Well anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, I go anywhere the wind takes me ...”

Eventually, Kaelyn is able to bring Sotor down to more mundane matters, ascertaining where he is lodging and agreeing, at his insistence, to send for him should any of her acquaintances require a physician.


“You are aware, Mistress Kaelyn, of the exalted nature of the Pelanby surname?”

Sir Ewen Ravinargh, seated at the desk in his Raven Hall study, is considering her over steepled fingers. She has, on occasion, heard his voice take on this tone – haughty, clipped, angry – but never before with her.

“No,” she answers briefly, feeling her own irritation rise. She resists the urge to glance at the others in the study: Sirs Baris and Aeomund, Cekiya. “I am not aware.”

Sir Ewen’s voice lowers. “The King of Tharda’s mother is a Pelanby, a daughter of the Duke of Alagon. They are also, of course, an extremely puissant Deryni family. Given what I am embarked upon here in Kaldor, I find it very curious indeed that you should be sought out by this person with such an exalted surname. You should have informed me of this meeting, Mistress Kaelyn, before attending. You could have been in danger.”

She nods, fuming. “I agree.”


Sir Ewen finds Rahel at Hag Hall in the small hall, conversing with Rhonna of Fahl. Sir Ewen gets right to the point, describing Kaelyn’s report of her meeting with Sotor of Pelanby, of whom neither has heard. When asked which branch of the family this Sotor is from, Sir Ewen is unable to say but mentions that he cited Chelemby as his home. Rhonna looks relieved, and explains that the Pelanby’s are comprised of four branches: the rich branch, the royal branch, the Deryni branch, and the branch nobody much cares about. The Chelemby branch is the rich branch. The two ladies have never heard tell of any member of that branch of the family being Deryni, and Rahel jokes that they are practically vikings. Still, they agree, Sir Ewen should investigate the matter further, and Rhonna adds that she doesn’t believe in coincidences, coincidences being for dead people. Sir Ewen agrees, and commends her for this philosophy. When she asks where this Sotor is staying, Sir Ewen indicates The Red Fox, an establishment favored, according to his recollection, by Rhonna herself.

Rahel then broaches the subject of the assassin hired to kill Sir Ewen, indicating that she “heard something from a mutual friend of ours … The fellow in question is quite competent from what I understand, and stands an excellent chance of eluding the little adder I placed by your side. But do not doubt, if he continues to elude her, that he will fail in his attempt. I would be loath to see anything happen to you, brother, but some tests you must endure alone.” This last she says with some sadness in her voice. “However,” she brightens, “in the meantime, I understand the brandy is quite delectable at The Red Fox.”

Sir Ewen nods. “If detritus should wash up on our shores from Chelemby, I suppose someone should give it notice.”

“I expect to see you tomorrow, brother.”

“And I expect to be busy in the meantime. Until then, sister. Rhonna.”

Sir Ewen takes his leave. On the way through the nighttime streets of Tashal he has the sense of being followed, but only becomes fatigued when he attempts to extend senses. He makes it to The Red Fox and enters the common room.

Sir Ewen eases his way into the sedate crowd, scanning for a person matching the description given by Kaelyn. Sir Rohn of Sarlis, conversing with others at a table, rolls his eyes when he beholds Sir Ewen. Melin of Soral, the proprietor, greets the knight by name. “Sir Ewen, it has been some time since we enjoyed your custom at The Red Fox.”

“I apologize for that. The past few months have been so busy. I hear the brandy is particularly good this time of year?”

Sir Ewen describes Sotor of Pelanby, and Melin agrees the description matches that of a guest staying upstairs. He adds that the chamber upstairs is available, and that he will send up a decanter of brandy and glasses if Sir Ewen would like.

In the chamber above, a fire is still burning on the grate. Sir Ewen knocks on the lone door directly off this chamber and takes a step back.

Sotor of Pelanby opens his door and peers out at the visitor. “Yes?”

“I am Sir Ewen Ravinargh. You made the acquaintance of a member of my retinue today, Kaelyn of Aletta. Perhaps you would join me for an evening cordial?” Sir Ewen gestures to the decanter being set upon a small table by a serving girl, and takes a seat as Sotor expresses his delight at meeting the knight, while protesting abstemiously against his partaking of spiritous liquor. Sir Ewen pours two glasses nonetheless , and silently appraises the man as he seats himself opposite the decanter. Sotor, finding inspiration in the sudden advent of Kaelyn’s patron at his door, extemporizes a verse.

“Even now the foe doth tremble

When before the white horse assembled

Ever victorious and hale

Never does his courage fail.”


Sir Ewen laughs. “It is said the manifest fool is known by every seventh word. I trust the same is not true of you.”

“I hope not, Sir Ewen,” he responds equably.

They chat for a time, and Sir Ewen inquires after his travels to date as well as the origin of Sotor’s family name. The latter confirms Kaelyn’s account as well as the theory subsequently divined by Rahel and Rhonna.

“And so, Sotor of Penlanby, I gather you are not a kinsman of the Duke of Alagon, grandfather of the Thardan King?”

“Perhaps a thousand, thousandth cousin,” Sortor laughs. “I have never met his grace, but have seen him from afar.”

Sir Ewen nods, mollified both by the affable and apparently ingenuous explanation offered by Sotor of his origins, as well as by the conviction, gained at close quarters, that this man is no Deryni. Sir Ewen swirls the brandy in his goblet, and tilts his head. “And so what brings someone as well-travelled as yourself to a place as boring as Kaldor?”

“Oh, it’s not boring at all. Here I am, getting to meet the First Knight of Kaldor –”

Sir Ewen’s voice is sharp. “I did not come to meet you this evening for you to propitiate me.”

“No, no Sir Ewen! But there have been wars with vikings, and a crisis in the local economy. I assure you, Sir Ewen, I have yet to be disappointed.”

“Good. I would invite you to dine with me at Raven Hall, perhaps tomorrow evening if you find that convenient. We could continue our conversation.”

“That would be delightful.”

“I should mention,” Sir Ewen adds with a droll smile, “that there is some small chance that an attempt on my life will be made tomorrow evening, although it should take place well after dinnertime. Still, you are fairly warned that your collection of interesting events might increase should you accept my invitation.”

Sotor’s eyes grow wide. “In that case, I hope you will feel at liberty to make use of my talents should you sustain any injuries in the attempt. As I said, I am a physician by trade. I thank you, and shall look forward to dinner on the morrow.”

Larane 6, 732

Early in the morning, Walin admits Pesera of Hendel to Sir Ewen’s study. The factor is uncharacteristically exultant, declaring himself to be the very happiest of men. He produces from voluminous sheaves of parchment the papers belonging to Halime of Falesh, and expresses his understanding that Sir Ewen is prepared to vouch for them. When the knight confirms this arrangement, Pesera indicates their value to be 15,600d, and produces a note worth thirteen pounds payable to Sir Ewen, which the latter agrees should be placed into his accounts with the usurer.

“Pesera, I am confident you can put it to good use on my behalf.”

“Excellent. Now I am off to see Sir Baris Tyrestal.”

“The new Lord of Selepan, no less. He tends to stay at his inn, you know, The Elf and The Dwarf, but is in the habit of unburdening me of my morning board here at Raven Hall. He should be here momentarily. Are you sure I cannot prevail upon you to stay and avail yourself of breakfast? You can then do your business with Sir Baris concurrently ...”


Sotor of Pelanby, earthen jar of Berelik balm proffered as a gift to his host, waxes poetic only moments after crossing the threshold of Raven Hall later that evening. His subject on this occasion is Sir Baris Tyrestal, whose hand he has just clasped by way of introduction.

“Bold as bold can be

An enemy ne’er his back would see

Ride in haste to proclaim this

In the heart of the fracas

So every foe to surgery.”


Some time later, gathered about the dining table in the hall, Sotor recounts his travels in Dalkesh to his host, and adds that this was where he first heard tell of a Melderyni prince, a Deryni, who is unifying the island of Harn.

Sir Baris abruptly inquires about certain curiosities Sotor had made reference to, which steers the conversation away from that awkward topic. Sotor eats abstemiously, and liberally spices his remarks and accounts with learned allusions and bits of poetry. Kaelyn seems to enjoy discerning these, at least most of the the time, but Sir Baris and Sir Aeomund are clearly at sea through much of it. Sotor recounts many odd sights he has beheld in his travels, including a man with his face set within his abdomen instead of upon his head. Sir Ewen, heretofore silent while the others questioned the guest, leans forward with interest.

“I say, Master Sotor, have you ever seen an equine creature boasting a hide of black and white stripes?”

Sotor indicates he has never seen such a creature, although he has heard tell of such a beast existing in the jungles south of Anzeloria. Sir Ewen slaps the table in satisfaction, and vows that he will take Sotor to behold just such a hide, located but a few doors away within this very neighborhood. Sotor of Pelanby expresses his gratification at such a proposition.

Later, Sotor remarks upon the hour and alludes to the remark Sir Ewen had made the other night. “I am happy to see you are still alive, Sir Ewen.”

Cekiya, who has been slouching at the end of the table attempting to balance her knife by its tip on the wooden planks before her, rises silently from her chair and slowly strides over to stand behind Sotor’s chair. She lays the edge of her blade beneath his chin. “How do you know he’s supposed to be alive?”

Sotor only appears benignly surprised at this development. “Sir Ewen told me last night he was to be in some peril. But no matter. It was just a witticism.”

Cekiya whispers into his ear. “Whether somebody is alive is not a ... wittyism.”

“Cekiya, do have a seat, dear,” Sir Ewen says with an air of impatient boredom. “I believe I did mention something of the sort to him …”

Cekiya withdraws the blade and sullenly returns to her spot at the table. As she sits, she carefully licks the blade of the knife, tasting it.

Sotor studiously ignors this. “The fervor of your retainer is only proof of your character, Sir Ewen.”

“It is generous of you to say so, Master Sotor. I do apologize for this treatment of a guest at my board, though.”

“Not at all, she did as she should.”

Sir Baris, watching all of this with interest, speaks up. “I must say, Sotor, you have some balls.”

“Thank you, Sir Baris, I appreciate the sentiment.”

An hour before midnight, Sotor of Pelanby is preparing to thank his host and depart for The Red Fox Inn when a vigorous pounding sounds on the door to Raven Hall. Walin pauses before the door and looks to Sir Ewen, reluctant to respond to any battering at the door at such an hour without his master’s explicit leave. Sir Baris and Sir Aeomund stand in alarm, hands descending to the pommels of their swords. When Sir Ewen nods and Walin turns the latch handle, the door slams inward and knocks the steward violently backward.

Sir Prehil Firith, beastly and incontinently drunk, bearing a brimming mug before him, erupts into the room. “Ewen, you magnificent bastard! Where have you been?”

“We are having a late dinner. Come join us, Prehil.” Sir Ewen laughs as the other two knights relax their stance and release their swords.

“What a glorious day!”

“Your wife isn’t pregnant?” chirps Kaelyn.

“No, she’s still pregnant,” he yells, garrulous with drink. “But thanks for bringing me down! Wait, do I know you?”

She laughs. “Yes, you certainly do.”

“Oh! Good!”

“You cashed in all the paper you have been accumulating,” Sir Ewen hazards.

“Totally,” he bellows, “I’m rich, Ewen, I’m rich! Well I was rich before, but I’m really rich now!”

“Very well, let us all toast Sir Prehil’s riches,” Sir Ewen proposes.

“No! We’re not done here! Bring it in, boys, bring it in!”

Behind him, men are rolling three large barrels of ale into Sir Ewen’s great hall while Sir Prehil expostulates about his good fortune. Sir Baris catches Sir Ewen’s eye and they both grin, reminded of a certain apocalyptic night in the city of Golotha when an establishment called The Silk Hat burned to the ground. Sir Baris calls out, “By Agrik’s flaming peter!”

“Baris! How long did it take you? It’s only been a year!” Prehil slaps his thigh. “By Halea’s honeyed haunches!”

Sir Ewen laughs and rises, congratulating Prehil and slapping him on the back, while calling out to forbid Sotor to leave just yet.

Sir Prehil casts his eye upon Sotor of Pelanby. “I don’t know you!”

Sotor bows slightly and smiles. “No, but I am looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

Prehil accepts this at face value, thrusts a mug of ale at the abstemious scholar, and demands another for himself from the boy. The barrels tapped and flowing, Sir Prehil begins regaling the assembled company regarding his good fortune while rounds of ale are quaffed and Sotor of Pelanby searches for ways to avoid offending his host while refraining from consumption of the fermented beverage. Attempting to demonstrate his affinity for more debased minds, Sotor launches at one point into a scurrilous song about the farmer’s daughter and how she got plowed.

A shrill cry cuts through the lusty laughter. Walin’s wife Bernethe runs into the hall from the kitchen.

“Fire! Fire!”

Everyone leaps from their seats at the table and the alarum is raised. An orange glow, previously unnoticed, plays around the casement of the window beneath the gallery overlooking the hall. Kaelyn runs to the kitchen and sees that the door and two windows, also on the north wall, are fully ablaze. She closes her eyes briefly, extends her arms, and attempts to cast a spell upon the wall, but it yields no effect save a curious look from the kitchen help.

In the hall, Sir Baris, sword drawn, has seized a nearby shield and is looking in all directions. Sir Prehil, a bit unsteady on his feet, exclaims, “Did somebody say Fire?”

Sotor, eyes alive with interest, responds, “Sir Prehil, you may find it amicable to your condition if you descend to the floor, because the elemental nature of smoke is to go to the ceiling, and fresh air to the floor.”

Sir Prehil goggles at him, and thunders, “Ewen! Who is this man?”

Meanwhile, the hue and cry has brought down the men at arms from above, as well as drawing Sir Rollard out of his room and down into the chaotic hall.

“Suh Ewen,” he calls above the hubbub, “Ah believe there is watah in the basement.”

“If I can make a recommendation,” Sotor volunteers, “there is liquid capable of extinguishing fire right here in the form of ale.”

Prehil reels, incredulous. “But Ewen! That’s alcohol!” he exclaims, as if Sotor had suggested human sacrifice to deal with the calamity. “Doesn’t alcohol burn?”

“Not at this level of potency,” Sotor insists.

“WHO IS THIS MAN??”

Sir Baris reaches Sir Ewen’s side and says, “It’s past midnight. We need to get you to a more defensible position.”

“Suh Ewen, while you attempt to extinguish the fieah with ale, Ah believe that Ah will take mah Lady and flee.”

Sir Ewen nods, and instructs Sir Rollard to take Thilisa to her townhouse posthaste. The knight needs no further encouragement, and he dashes back up the stairs to collect the lady of the house. Sir Ewen begins issuing fire fighting orders to the men. Sir Prehil now has a full mug in each hand, trying to save the remaining ale from the efforts of the firefighters. A few moments later Sir Rollard comes back down with Thilisa and Lady Elena in tow, hurrying the former down the staircase as quickly as her pregnant state will allow.

“Suh Ewen, Ah shall see to the Lady’s safety. Ah would be grateful for at least two men to escort.”

Sir Ewen gestures. “Rollach. Assign two men to Sir Rollard. Sir Rollard, you are not to return until you hear unambiguously from me that all is safe.”

“As you say, Suh Ewen. We ah in complete agreement.”

Thilisa casts an angry glance at Sir Ewen, as if to say: This is not what I bargained for! Sir Ewen smiles and says, “Goodnight dear.” He is uncertain whether he hears her voice, shrill with imprecation, trailing after her as Sir Rollard hustles her away into the night.

Kaelyn of Aletta, unremarked by anyone at this point, follows Sir Rollard out the front door and hurries up Chidena Street to the northwest corner of the building, searching for the source of the fire around the corner and down the alley toward Galopea’s Feast. She recoils as a blast of heat hits her; the stone side of the north wall of the building is a sheet of flame. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she draws nearer again and believes she detects the stench of burning oil. The wall of the building has been doused with oil, and the flames are beginning to reach the wooden upper stories.

At this moment, she hears a voice call from behind her. “Kaelyn!” She turns and beholds Aethel Atan standing in his own doorway.

“Fire!” she observes, somewhat lamely.

“Go back inside.” His voice is strangely flat and compelling. “Now.”

Kaelyn finds herself running back around the corner toward the front door, away from Aethel and the conflagration. She passes Sotor and attempts to grab for him, but he is past her and around the corner before she can cry a warning.

When Sotor of Pelanby, forever slave to his own curiosity, reaches the entrance to the alleyway, he is just in time to see the fire on the wall extinguish in its entirety. He catches a glimpse of a large, portly man standing in the alleyway with one hand out-stretched. Sotor starts to back away, and then calls out, “Who is that?”

“Go back!” the man orders.

Sotor begins to move towards the unknown figure, and a bright, blinding flash detonates in his face. All awareness is extinguished.

Inside, Bernethe calls to Sir Ewen in relief, “The fire is out!” Sir Ewen frowns, and orders the men to secure and station the doors and windows to the building. Kaelyn, gesturing from the doorway, cries, “Sotor went out. I think we should – “

Sir Aeomund seizes Sir Ewen’s cloak, throws it around himself, and dashes out the front door, stumbling northward on Chidena Street. Sir Ewen and Sir Baris see this and run toward the door, dodging men at arms who are being marshaled by Potelc. Sir Baris is the first over the threshhold, pushing past Sir Ewen and stepping out into the center of Chidena Street, his eyes on Aeomund as the fleeing knight nears the corner of the northwest corner of the house. Sir Baris is just registering the lifeless body of Sotor, which Sir Aeomund has passed, when he feels an object whoosh past his right ear. A small dagger lands ahead of him, clattering across the cobblestones, and he wheels and raises his shield, backing away and peering up at Raven Hall. Sir Ewen, in the doorway now with Cekiya hovering just behind him, sees the flash of the dagger as it comes from somewhere above them, perhaps from the roof of Raven Hall, and barely misses Sir Baris’s face.

Sir Baris cries, “Assassin, assassin!” Sir Aeomund hears this, pulls the cloak tighter around his body, and moves to the right side of road. Sir Ewen, still in the doorway, gestures to Sir Baris to take cover across the street by the wall surrounding Lady Cheselyne’s estate, and then extends senses to view the roof of Raven Hall from the vantage of the center of the road. His mind shows him an image of a silhouetted figure crouched atop Raven Hall on the alley-side downslope of the roof. Sir Ewen immediately steps out into the center of the street, wheels and prepares to project power in the direction of the figure, but sees nothing now against the cloud-shrouded sky. Assuming the assassin has dropped down into the alleyway, Sir Ewen waves Sir Baris all the way down to the alley entrance closer to Haldan Square, while Sir Ewen dashes back to cover against the front of Raven Hall and works his way to the north corner of the building where the nearer alleyway comes out. Sir Aeomund, hearing Baris’s cry, feigns a stumble and looks behind him.

Cekiya, closely tracking Sir Ewen from the doorway, hears a sound from behind her. She draws her dagger and wheels around. Squire Uldis is coming down the stairs, a surprised, contorted look on his face. He is holding his hand out curiously before him, as if imploring her to grasp it. His eyes, Cekiya notes without emotion, are bulging grotesquely and his tongue is thick and protruding from his mouth. The boy staggers forward and collapses face downward onto the stairs. The back of his tunic bears a single stab wound, black with blood.

Kaelyn, apprehending Bernethe standing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hand to her mouth, turns and takes this in. She screams, and rushes forward to assist the boy. Cekiya, realizing that the squire was dead before he hit the steps, bounds up the staircase.

Sir Ewen and Sir Baris, working their way up Chidena Street toward Sir Aeomund’s indistinct figure further ahead, hear Kaelyn’s piercing scream and turn back toward toward Raven Hall. As they begin to run, Sir Aeomund wheels and sprints toward them.

Cekiya emerges from the staircase onto the second floor balcony overlooking the great hall below, the stairs leading to the third floor bedrooms directly across from her. To her right, beyond the railing of the gallery, the twin chandeliers lighting the hall depend from the rafters, illuminating the balcony with their flickering candle light. From the slanting shadows of the staircase leading above, an angular figure slips into view, his sharp unpleasant features chiseled by the light.

“You lose. I come out on top.”

Cekiya inhales sharply, standing preternaturally still, blocking his way down. “But he is not dead yet.”

“No, but he will be soon. You must stand aside.”

“You killed the child. Your target is Ewen.”

Longhals smiles cruelly. “You know the rules as well as I do. Now step aside, or you are standing against the will of the Unseen Lifter.” He turns his head, a reptile scanning for its prey. “I hear them below.”

Cekiya’s mouth twists into a savage grimace. “Let us see who the Master favors.”

Below, the reverberations of Kaelyn’s scream have only just subsided as Sir Ewen strides into the hall from the street, staircase to his left partially blocked by Kaelyn bending over the body of Uldis. Sir Prehil is face down at the table. As Sir Ewen takes another step into the hall, a small dart alights upon his breast, only an inch from his exposed neck. His eyes track upward to the second floor balcony. A figure cloaked in gray stands behind the railing and raises a blowgun to its mouth.

Kaelyn looks over her shoulder, having ascertained that Uldis is no longer breathing. Sir Ewen is staring upward toward the balcony overlooking the hall, a look of grim determination concentrating his features. From his entire being an intense, red light abruptly coalesces and erupts upward. She flinches backward, taken by surprise, and clearly hears a powerful concussion from somewhere above her.

Cekiya, still standing in the gallery athwart the stairs to the hall, sees a red bolt of blinding light hit Longhals like a javelin, blasting him back against the far wall. He slumps down to a seated position, blowgun flung from his hand and the wind driven out of him. He shakes his head in groggy disbelief and gazes up at her, stunned. Cekiya draws her blade and stalks toward him.

“Do it,” he breathes.

“Not I,” she refuses. “Let the god speak.”

He clears his throat. “Do not allow me to die at the hand of the unbeliever.”

She smiles. “You know the rules.”

Sir Ewen has taken the stairs two at a time, with Sir Aeomund and Sir Baris close on his heels. He reaches the landing to find Cekiya holding the Navehan at bay with her dagger. Cekiya straightens and bows to Sir Ewen.

“My god has spoken.”

Sir Ewen thrusts his way past her, drawing his sword as he does so. He stands before Longhals, gazing down on him, and pronounces, “Dranatha. Know that you die, a pawn at the hands of your master.”

Sir Ewen runs the bastard sword through the seated assassin’s midsection and twists. Longhals lurches, bending over the blade as if embracing it.

Sir Ewen steps back, withdrawing his sword with a slashing motion. Sir Aeomund, pressing forward and using the point of his own weapon, ensures beyond doubt that the assassin is indeed dead.

As silence falls upon Raven Hall, someone raises the question as to how to dispose of the body.

Sir Ewen scabbards his sword without wiping the blade, and walks back down the stairs. “Put it in an empty ale barrel,” he calls. “Deliver it to Vemion House.”
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