Session One Hundred and Six - October 26, 2013

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

Session One Hundred and Six - October 26, 2013

Postby Matt » Thu Nov 21, 2013 10:14 pm

Larane 16, 732, Afternoon

The implication of the Sulaplyn’s statement settled on the party with the weight of a millstone. Did the prelate have the King’s backing? Was the King trying to eliminate both Harabor and Ewen? Was this an opportunity or a trap? It seemed almost that Ewen and his retinue were due to kill all the earls of Kaldor, one by one. Debate over what course of action best threaded this needle continued into the next morning. Someone suggested that Sotor write up an official precis, but then Sir Ewen go to the King and give a sensational candid report, not mentioning the head, implying that Morgathians were at work and the Crown must move to crush the evil. Someone else reminded everyone that the King already knew of the head, and the plan popped like a child’s soap bubble.

Eventually, over breakfast, a consensus developed that the only useful thing to do was ask Prehil’s father, Lord Orsin Firith, Baron of Kobe, for guidance as to what the King might want.

“Sir Ewen, should I in any case still draw up a precis of our survey of Ternua?” asked Sotor.

“Yes,” said Sir Ewen. “I must send something to the castle posthaste.”

“Very good.”

In the midst of the arguing and eggs, Cekiya looked through the group to the wall. A sign, invisible to all by her, was there. She immediately rose and left Raven Hall, foraying out into the city. She checked the Peonian crypt and found no one, then proceeded to the Navite Hive. A message awaited her: “the hatter and the apprentice have returned to the shop.”

Cekiya nodded in understanding. Vemion and his new wife had returned to Minarsas.

The party spent the day in various activities. Ewen wrote a note to Lord Firith, asking for a meeting at Galopea’s Feast that very night. Baris gave the note to Kalas for delivery, who tugged his forelock and was off.

Baris returned to his weaponsmith, seeking a great helm shaped like a boar. The smith said he’d never been asked to make anything like it, but would rise to the challenge.

“Excellent!” said Baris. “It will strike fear into the hearts of my enemies!”

“Very well, Sir Baris. It’s on your head. It’ll take about a month.”

“Remember to make it functional. This is not a showpiece.”

“If you say so, sir. It won’t be cheap.”

“What are we looking at?”

“Usually a helm such as you ask would be about two pounds. But this is custom work. There will be overtime and cost of delivery, and, uh, legal fees, and—well, four pounds should be enough. Two in advance.”

That was a lot, Sir Baris thought, but it was worth it! And it was beneath his station to haggle, so he settled the arrangements without another word. Later he would send over Kalas and some men-at-arms with a strongbox full of the cash.

Cekiya returned and reported her intelligence. Sir Ewen nodded; it confirmed what he had already suspected. Word returned from Firith House: the Baron would be pleased to join Ewen that evening. Kalas practiced his writing, with Sir Baris’s help.

After the setting of the sun, Sirs Ewen, Baris, and Aeomund repaired to the Feast. Kalas accompanied the knights, and joined the other men-at-arms upon arrival.

Orsin and Prehil awaited them. “Ewen!” shouted Prehil in his typical fashion. “By Agrik’s combustible emissions! We’re grizzled veterans now, like Aeomund here. Aeomund! Why the long face?”

“It is a fearsome thing,” said Aeomund.

Prehil looked disappointed. “I see it’s going to be one of the depressing evenings.”

“My lord, we come seeking advice, but first let us partake and break bread.” said Ewen.

A soft cheese souffle, dotted with pecans, arrived. After a proper interval, Ewen brought the conversation around to his dilemma. A survey of the immediate area showed two women he didn’t know and Sir Romlach Ethasiel, whom he remembered from the tournament. He pitched his voice to confidence.

“I’ve come seeking advice. I find myself in a situation somewhat over my head.”

Prehil began a sentence, but his father cut him off. “This is not the time, Prehil! Now, Ewen, do we speak of affairs of the heart?”

“No, milord. We returned yesterday from Ternua.”

“Splendid place. Excellent fortifications,” interjected Orsin.

“His Grace the King asked me to go to Ternua to do a preliminary inventory of the accounts.”

“Is that a fact?” said Orsin in a tone which did not suggest a question.

“Which I have done, and my retainer is compiling a report. But during this task, we were distracted by a troublesome issue.

“Baris, you magnificent bastard!” burst out Prehil. “What did you do this time?”

“Indeed,” said Sir Ewen with a smile. “We came upon this issue when Sir Baris was told of it by a lady of ill repute.”

“You horndog!” said Prehil. Baris raised his mug in agreement.

Sir Ewen continued. “This woman told him of a great lord she had entertained about a year previous. A lord in possession of a certain object.”

At this, Prehil started, and almost made to speak again, but Orsin’s gaze shackled his mouth.

“The lady of ill repute took this certain object to the local bishop, who then conveyed it to the Pelnala at Erone Abbey. I’m known at the Abbey, as I assisted them with a small matter.”

Orsin said “I had wondered who had paid that off. She stopped importuning me about it.”

“The object in question, milord, was a human head. In a pot.”

After a moment, Orsin asked dully, “Like a cooking pot?”

“Something like that, tied with twine. I followed the trail of the thing, since it seemed so unusual, and so unbefitting a great lord. I found Pelnala transferred the object to the Sulaplyn, here in Tashal. I know this because I spoke with her yesterday. She told me she conveyed the object in question to His Grace.”

Orsin looked grave. “Go on.”

Ewen hesitated, realizing the import of the information he was about to reveal. He chose obliqueness. “The great lord I refer to is ‘Three Gemels.’”

“Yes, I follow.”

“In heart, milord, we are burdened with this knowledge. Sir Aeomund here, and I, can think of no other explanation than the possibility of some dark religion involved with this matter.”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t sound Peonian!”

Ewen smiled ruefully in agreement.

Aeomund spoke up. “The Sulaplyn has almost directed me to take punitive action versus this lord.”

Orsin held up his hand. “The Sulaplyn doesn’t have enough to do. She’s been meddling for years in this sort of thing. I would pay no more attention to her than I would to any other Peonian, including the so-called Princess.”

“We come to you for advice, milord,” said Ewen.

“Advice? I’d take this straight to the King!”

“Even now?” Prehil burst out. His father once again reduced him to silence with a glower.

“I believe you should take this to the King,” Orsin said. “Do you know whose head it was?”

“I do not.”

“Do you have reason to believe it was a person of name?”

“I confess we have speculated why a man of this lord’s statue would carry a head. It’s certainly not a commoner.”

“It is an unusual piece of bric-a-brac.”

“And the Peonians took such interest,” said Baris trying to be helpful.

Orsin pondered. “I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head of anyone who has recently lost theirs. Lady Verdeth lost her brain, but the head was still there. Lost their head about a year ago ... there’s always an execution going on, but that’s a grisly little memento.”

Ewen said “If I recall correctly, that was about the time the Earl came into his earldom.”

“Yes, that fits the time frame. Just after last year’s tournament – which we would be in the midst of right now, if it weren’t for the Harbaalese!”

“You’ll understand, milord, one hesitates to bring before the King anything besides the most certain of accusations.”

“True, but there’s no accusation to be made unless it’s a person of name. But I sense, Ewen, you are concerned about how the King may react.”

“Frankly, I don’t know if the King anticipated me learning of this issue. We did our straightforward best to do our mission. It was Baris here who chanced on the matter.”

“Baris!” Prehil boomed. “You get into more trouble servicing that thing than anyone I know, except maybe me!”

“So yes, milord, I am concerned,” said Ewen, ignoring Prehil.

Lord Firith sat back in his chair, thinking. “Then you have two choices: you can assume this is a matter requiring his attention and bring it to him. Or you can assume it’s irrelevant to your mission and leave it out. If he asks, you can say you didn’t know, and didn’t mention.”

“Shall I ignore allegations of dark magic?” sputtered Sir Aeomund angrily.

“Do you actually believe ‘Three Gemels’ is involved in dark magic? I’ve known him all my life. He isn’t smart enough.”

Aeomund considered this, and found it a comfort. His conscience was now clear.

“He’s smart enough to go to Soratir,” said Ewen.

“Well, that only takes knowing where the temple is. I hope I’ve put your mind at ease, Ewen.”

“You have, and I appreciate your letting me use you as a sounding board.”

“If it would help, I would pleased to stand at your side when you speak with the King.”

“Thank you.”

The main matter done with, the meal continued. Over brandy, Aeomund mentioned the bandits that had accosted the party on their way back from Ternua.

Orsin harrumphed. “Not my jurisdiction. I bring it to the attention of Sir Gorvan. He’ll find someone to take care of it.”

(And another party of adventurers, somewhere, gets a job.)

Kalas, out with the men-at-arms, got on a winning streak. He found himself with twelve pence more than he had had, and wisely spent some of it buying a round for the veterans around him.

Orsin finally retired. Once he was out of eyeshot, Prehil rubbed his hands together. Debauched entertainment commenced, first on the third floor, then moving down to the pits of the basement. Baris stayed on the third floor, not seeing the point of watching canine passions when he could be enjoying country pleasures.


Larane 17, 732

The sun revealed its face after days of rain. Up long after midnight to complete his report on the accounts of Ternua, Sotor of Pelanby still rose with the dawn. He wanted to further perfect the work, but found it snatched from his hands. Sir Ewen needed the document and could wait no longer. He addressed it to Sir Harapa Indama and dispatched it by messenger, to be followed up with contact the next day.

Deprived of his task, Sotor returned to the Red Fox. A letter was waiting for him, from Cail of Tokal, asking to see him as soon as humanly possible, for an urgent matter. It was dated four days previously, just as Sotor had departed for Ternua.

Cursing, Sotor immediately left for Cail’s domicile, and found him at home.

“My colleague, I greatly regret missing your letter. I have absent …”

“Sotor, thank Heaven you’re here! Come with me at once!” Cail hustled Sotor out the door. “A case has arisen of the gravest nature. All of us, even that quack Rasak of Osath, have been called. Sir Goshal is at his wit’s end. Then I remembered your magnificent treatment. Your patient has recovered fully, by the way. I only hope you can be equally successful in this case.”

“I am at your service with whatever my meager abilities can provide.”

They walked toward Kald Square. Cail continued to chatter without actually saying who the patient or what the malady was. To Sotor’s amazement, they went right to the gates of the castle. The physician found himself wishing he’d dressed more impressively.

“Master Tokal!” said a guard.

“I bring another physician!”

The guards rushed them in, and through, the castle.

Through the maze of corridors they were led, up stairs, past groups of guards, courtiers, and servants. Sotor recognized no one. Eventually Cail guided him toward one well-dressed old man.

“Master Seperlyne, this is Sotor of Pelanby.”

“A pleasure, Master Seperlyne.”

“I am Seperlyne of Kail, Master Sotor. Have you had much experience with this type of malady?”

“I have seen much, Master Seperlyne, but it is difficult to say, since I have been told nothing.”

Master Seperlyne glared at Cail. “Well, it is a wound. It may be festering. Or it may not. It is fully healed. Yet the problem persists.”

Sotor made knowing noises. He guessed who this must all be about. “May I have the honor of examining the patient?”

Seperlyne consulted with a guard, who left, only to return with two men. One said “I am the Lord Chamberlain. You have been summoned to attend?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Sir will do. What are your qualifications?”

Sotor reeled off his resume, in verse form.

“Enough! I am convinced. Master Ernell?”

His companion spoke. “I am Master Ernell of Mered. I am the King’s physician.”

“An honor, Master Ernell.”

“The King’s Grace suffers. It may be from a wound he received at Ovendel, or it may be something else entirely. None of us have been able to ascertain what ails him. You are, but the latest in a long line that will try. May Peoni grant you the sight that has eluded us.” And he muttered “And save our profession.”

“The profession shall endure as long as I have breath to defend it. Lead on.”

Sotor was brought into an antechamber. “Wait here,” Ernell said. He knocked on the door and entered the next room. Sotor could hear loud, muffled voices. Someone may have said “Damn doctors!”

Ernell returned. “He will see you now. Do not suggest anything. Ask only.

“And do not turn your back!” the Lord Chamberlain added.

“Of course not,” said Sotor.

“In you go.”

Sotor passed through the door to find himself in a long chamber. On his left, an ornate fireplace crackled, surmounted by the arms of the kings of Kaldor. Several chairs dotted the area, leading to an immense state bed, surrounded by brocaded tapestry. To the right, two more beds, smaller, stood against the walls, also curtained with tapestries. Beside them was another door.

An older man with a weak chin stood there, along with a page dressed in spotless livery. In front of the fire sat a man wrapped in a heavy cloak, his face grim. He, and only he, spoke.

“Are you another bungling physician?”

“I am.”

The King of Kaldor smiled. “An honest one, at last. Come, wave your wand, or your garlic, or what have you.”

“Your Grace,” and Sotor bowed. “May I see the location of the wound?”

The King, with a weary gesture, moved the cloak off his left shoulder, to reveal a long, oval, dark area, bluish-green.

“Has anyone examined the urine?” Sotor asked.

“Boy, go get the sample.” The page brought Sotor a chamber pot. “There’s a stool in there to give you the full experience.

“Thank you,” said Sotor. The urine didn’t smell right; it was cloudy, and the stool was dark. Like a book of wisdom, Sotor read the King’s excrement.

“How much pain are you in?”

“It comes and goes. It’s almost always itchy, though.”

“Is the pain only at the wound, or does it migrate through the body?”

“Mostly at the wound. It seems to have gotten better. It has already healed, so it cannot be sepsis, as you can see.”

“Has the discolored area grown larger?”

“I think so. About a week ago. You, get over here!” Seperlyne hastened to his monarch’s side. “Tell him about the wound.”

“It seems larger to me. This showed up two weeks ago. The wound had entirely healed, and then this happened. I cannot explain it. If a wound turns bad, normally it does so in the first few days. Then nothing can be done.”

“I’m right here, you quack!” snapped the King.

“Your Grace, how have your dreams been lately?” asked Sotor.

“That’s a new one. I’m not sleeping well, but when I have, the dreams have been vivid. But I can’t recall any of them.”

“Your Grace, the maladies of Kings are difficult to study for obvious reasons.”

Haldan looked bored.

Sotor continued. “It has been said that the body of the King is the body of his kingdom.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you fear some rot in Kaldor that mirrors the rot within you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. If that’s the best you can do, you can leave.”

The Lord Chamberlain stepped forward to usher Sotor out. The physician rose compliantly, but said in closing: “I have seen similar instances to your condition. I would like to consult my texts. But I will be blunt – it is normally fatal.”

The King sighed. “Consult your texts and give your concoction to that quack over there. Pay him.”

The Chamberlain escorted Sotor to the antechamber. A purse was placed in Sotor’s hand. “Come up with your most positive diagnosis. And keep this to yourself. Or lose parts of you.”

Sotor looked the Chamberlain in the eye and said “I assure you, having had such loss, I do not wish to repeat the experience.”

The Chamberlain looked confused and called for a guard to escort Sotor to the gate.

Sotor immediately returned to the Red Fox and scanned his books for anything that might give a clue to the King’s salvation.

Sir Aeomund wracked his brains for an appropriate gift for Rhis of Huw. How might he be placated? A baptismal font? That didn’t make much sense. Why not a plow? Plows were holy to Peoni, symbol of the pious commoners. Sir Aeomund went out and sought a good quality plow. He found it would cost 72d, counting delivery. A deal was struck, and the smith’s hammer began to shape the blade.

After some study, it occurred to Sotor that there might be a hidden body inside the wound. Surgery would be difficult, but it could work. He rushed back to the castle with the news, and found the chamberlain.

“The King’s Grace,” the man said. “Come with me.”

The Chamberlain led him, not to the private chambers where Sotor had earlier seen the King, but down, to one of the small towers. They reached a door, and the Chamberlain said “Wait here.” A few minutes later several men and one woman, including the weak-chinned man Sotor had seen earlier, filed out. All of them gazed intently at Sotor, who pretended not to see them.

“Physician,” said a voice from the room. The Chamberlain led Sotor in.

A table this time, and more tapestries. The king sat in a chair, dressed in royal garb. “Well, you’re back quickly,” he said. “Better news than this morning?”

Sotor began. “Sire, I was reminded of a story. In ages past the Shorkyni fought tribes, who used stone weapons that shattered and left shards in the wounds they inflicted. This resembles what is written of the effects. Your Grace, may I touch you?”

“You’re a saucy fellow, aren’t you?” observed the King with a smirk.

“I mean to save a king’s life. I must be bold,” replied Sotor.

“Very well, touch me.”

Sotor moved the King’s garment aside, closed his eyes and started palpitating the wound.

“Ah, careful there!” hissed the King.

Sotor felt, not a physical object, but instead a slight hardening of the flesh. This was consonant with his prior diagnosis of necrotic tissue. If he could remove it, Haldan might live. If the King died in the process, his surgeon would surely be treated as a regicide.

Sotor straightened. “Your Grace, you have no reason to trust me. I am a stranger in this land.”

“Your accent told me as much.”

“I have only my honor as a physician, and you have made it clear what you think of that honor. I will give you an honest answer. There is a poison body inside your flesh. The shoulder must be cut open and the body removed. Yes, the wound is healed, but not on the inside.”

The King looked unimpressed. “The others told me the same. The wound is healed. I don’t believe it. All you physicians wish is to explore inside men’s flesh.”

Sotor, seeing himself dismissed, bowed and departed. As he made for the gate, the man with the weak chin waylaid him. “I’ll escort the Doctor out, Harapa,” he said to the Chamberlain. He took Sotor towards one of the southern towers and into a nook where a window looked out onto the courtyard.

“Sotor of Pelanby, is it? Of an important Pelanby branch?”

“A middling branch,” Sotor replied.

“I see you are as modest as I’d heard. Do you know who I am? I am Troda Dariune, Earl of Balim, Chancellor of the Exchequer of this kingdom. I need to know your opinion of the state of the King’s Grace’s health.”

“The situation is grave, as I said this morning.”

“How grave?”

“I have heard of cases where someone has recovered from such a condition, but it is the exception.”

“What would it take for him to recover?”

“Cut him open and remove the poison.”

“Most of the doctors who have seen him have said as much.”

“Did any of them lay hands on the King?”

“Of course not!”

“Having been the only one brave enough to do so, I felt the body inside the wound that must come out.”

“Is it something that only your physician’s touch could find, or any reasonable practitioner be able to locate it?”

“Any reasonable practitioner could find it, but I would want an expert surgeon to remove it.”

“If it goes untreated, it must be fatal?”

“It is likely fatal. I give him two months at the outside.”

“So it could be shorter?”

“The wound is very near his heart. This is a vital region, so, yes, it could be faster. In the worst case scenario – while it is hard to tell what is happening in the body – there might be a sudden decline and he could be dead within days.”

“Days. Would there be any subtler signs than convulsions?”

“Probably not. The more likely scenario is there will be a decline. Discoloration will grow over his body.”

“Will the direction of the discoloration indicate whether it tends towards death?”

“The extent of the spread will.”

“I would like you to meet with my physician, and tell him what you have told me, and discuss it as learned practitioners, for I am not. I do not like what you have told me, but must accept it. But he will tell me if it can be relied upon.”

“Very well, milord. I am a collegial man.”

“You may call upon Balim House tomorrow. My physician, Sir Fago, will be told to expect you.” The Earl pulled a gold ring from his pouch and handed it to Sotor. “I trust nothing we have said will be spoken of elsewhere.”

Sotor took the ring.” You may rely upon me utterly,” he said, then bowed and left. He made his way back to the Red Fox, in suspicion that he was being watched.

Sotor of Pelanby waited for night to fall. He donned his false beard, and made his way by winding back streets to Ravenhall.

“It’s Master Sotor,” Walin greeted him.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed dinner,” said Sir Ewen. “I’ll have something sent up.”

“May we speak privately?” said Sotor.

“That’s fine.” They withdrew to Sir Ewen’s office.

“I have interesting news. My professional services have been retained by the Crown.”

“By the crown, you say. Would you care for some brandy?”

Sotor waved aside the potent spirit. “I regret to say that I think we should minimize our contacts.”

“When you say that, do you mean the King’s person himself?”

“I will only say what I have already said. “

“And what do you mean by reduce our contact?”

“I believe we should not be seen in public.”

Sir Ewen, seeing Sotor without refreshment, went to the door and called for small beer. He tarried by the door until it came. “You took a considerable risk in coming here yourself then. That information could have been communicated by note. I gather you are under some stricture.”

“I am. Yet I remember you are my patron, and I do not want you to think I have forgotten that.”

“I gather you are a man of honor, and I would not ask you to violate your word. Can you tell me if I am under some cloud?”

“I believe I can say this, for it is negative information: in my dealings with the Crown, your name never, not once, came up.”

Sir Ewen chuckled drily. “Are you yourself in any danger?”

“That remains to be seen.”

The small beer arrived. Sir Ewen took it, and handed a mug to Sotor. The physician received the mug, and in that moment Sir Ewen opened his mind like a unlocked chest. The events of the past day paraded before him, from the feel of Haldan’s flesh under Sotor’s fingers to the contents of his talk with the Earl of Balim. A rich feed of information, perfectly unknown to either the physician or the Crown.

Sir Ewen sat down and steepled his fingers. “Are you in need of any resources?”

“Not at this moment, sir. But my affairs, and it seems, the affairs of Kaldor, grow more complex. If a storm breaks, I shall need a safe port.”

“You may seek shelter.”

“I thank you. Let me say this: any missive you receive from me, give to Mistress Kaelyn. Tell her to read between the lines.”

“I will do so.”

“She should know what to do.”

“As well, Mistress Kaelyn – if you need to get word to me – she frequents the Guild of Arcane Lore. You could leave word there.”

“A good idea. I shall.”

“And let me thank you, for hazarding the journey this night.”

“As I said, you are my patron. I will keep you updated on my prognosis as events warrant.”

“Yes, physician.”

Sotor redonned his false beard and slipped back through the night to the Red Fox.


Larane 18, 732

“I am here to see Sir Fago Rheeder.”

“Are you Sotor of Pelanby? You are expected. Enter.”

The guards opened the huge iron bound oaken doors of Balim House. The structure exuded authority, and Sotor made his way through the courtyard to the house itself. No escort was given him. He came to the main door and knocked. A rather unattractive girl stuck her head out. She seemed familiar, as if he had seen her the previous day at the castle.

“I am Master Sotor of Pelanby. I believe I am expected.”

“To see Sir Fago? My name is Filya. I am the cook. Come in.”

“Good day, Filya,” he said as he followed her.

They entered a great hall as large as the one in the castle, and with more tables. Sotor looked about the exquisitely appointed hall. Each column boasted a unique set of carvings, and a vaulted roof supported the encircling balcony. A chandelier hung above the tables holding it seemed hundreds of candles. Behind the seat of honor hung a large shield with the Balim comital arms: a field azure, a stag lodged argent. Nearly opposite and next to the main doors was a tapestry depicting a victorious king and a great noble at his side. A fireplace dominated another end of the room, surrounded by chairs and an ornate chessboard. A stylized statue of a nobleman stood in the northwest corner, while a more physically accurate statue was in the northeast corner which Sotor believed represented the Earl himself.

“Wait here,” she said, and left Sotor alone in the vast room.

For a few awkward moments, Sotor surveyed the treasures of Balim. Finally a middle aged, stocky man, with a broad face and curly hair, joined him.

“Sotor of Pelanby?”

Faced with the man he supposed his host, Sotor recited an ancient stanza extolling wisdom, with a bow of the head and a curl of the hand to indicate it was directed in praise of Sir Fago Rheeder.

“A fine verse. People may say we’re in love.”

Sotor, unsure what to make of that, said “I assume these surroundings are confidential?”

“I have no doubt that Lady Donesyne is lurking above. But in my experience sound does not travel up and down the chimneys.”

“So we may speak freely.”

“I believe I said that. I am Sir Fago Rheeder, physician to the Earl of Balim.”

“An honor, sir. It has been a pleasure in the last day to meet so many of my colleagues, though I would have preferred to do it under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Yes, we should have them for dinner.”

“The Earl said the suggestion to open the wound was made by all of us.”

“That was not entirely true. Some balked at the idea. I did not, Cail did not.”

“I will be blunt. I suspect that, at some point, the question will be who will do the opening.

“No one will do the opening. The King will not permit it.”

“If the condition dramatically worsens, he will likely change his mind. My only fear is he will put off the decision until it is too late. The wound will worsen in the interior.”

“You must consider the man. You are acting as a physician without taking into account the patient. Consider, what is the patient?”

“He is a king.”

“And what is a king?”

“A man used to being in command.”

“And thus, to be at the command of others, must it not grate against his very being?”

“It comes quite unnaturally.”

“And so you would ask him to do the most unnatural thing he can imagine. This he cannot do and remain king in his own mind. You and I would cut him open, excise the putrescence that grows within him. He would not. Therein lies the difference. He is a king. We are not.”

“I can foresee one circumstance where that would change: if he were afraid death would rob him off his office.”

“Death will rob all of us of our office. Some would say ‘I prefer you that way,’ but I am not among them.”

“It seems the situation is beyond us.”

“It likely is anyway. The King encompasses his own gallows. That is treason to say, but if he is to have any hope he must be opened up. If It were a wound in an extremity we would simply amputate it. I doubt he would permit even that, but we cannot act without the patient’s permission. Never has this been more true than in this case.”

“The wound on the body royal is also a wound on the body politic, as I’m sure you’ve discussed with your master.”

“So you would be a philosopher too.”

“Merely an observer.”

“I cannot subscribe to such a notion. The King is but a man. If you prick him, he bleeds, as I do.”

“Yes. What I meant was the chaos in his body, even unto the end, can result in chaos in the kingdom.”

“That is true, but it is not to concern ourselves with. That is for the great men of the kingdom.”

“Very true.”

“Your master is one of them, is he not?”

“I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“If we may speak in confidence. I have had dealings with Sir Ewen Ravinargh. I take it that is who you were referring to. Mostly bibliographical at this point. I am cataloging his library.”

“Ah, a long put off task for most of us.”

“Also I gave him arithmetical help recently, but nothing more than that.”

“Tell me, did you treat other kings on your travels on the continent?”

“I have never reached this height before. I have observed it, of course, but it is a rather limited field, as I told His Grace myself.”

“Well, Sotor of Pelanby, it has been a pleasure. I do hope we will meet again.”

“I’m sure we will.”

“Allow me to escort you to the door.”

“At your leisure.”

Sotor left Balim House and returned to the Red Fox.


The day passed uneventfully, considering the lowering political clouds over Tashal. Sir Ewen passed on news of the King’s illness to his sister, for transmission to their father. Baris ran his squire through his paces, on the common with the men-at-arms. Kaelyn lost herself in study.

As evening fell, a pounding came at the door of Raven Hall. Walin braced himself, approached the door, threw open the bolt and dodged to the left. The door slammed open like a sprung snare.

“Where’s Ewen?” shouted Sir Prehil.

“Sir Prehil, how nice to see you again,” said Walin. “Please come in.”

“And Baris! And Aeomund! I want all three of them.”

Sir Ewen descended the stairs.

“There you are! Ah, Baris! Hiding under the table? Somebody put the ale under there?”

“Come in and have a seat, Prehil,” said Ewen.

“Ewen! By Halea’s callipyginous buttocks! We need to go out and get toasted. Who’s this guy?

“That’s my squire, Kalas,” said Baris.

“Kalas! Of what?”

“Delsin, sir.”

“What family?”

“Clan Delsin.”

“What’s this Clan Delsin? Baris, what family is this squire?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Baris. “He does the job well.”

“Doesn’t matter?!” Prehil said, shocked.

“I just hired him yesterday.”

“HIRED HIM?” said Prehil, aghast at the lack of propriety.

“I appreciate a good ale.”

“Well, that’s why you hired him. Ewen! Sir Meden awaits.”

“Oh, great, another prevaricating asshole,” Sir Aeomund muttered.

“Right, we were supposed to see Curo and tempt him, before the affair of the head arose,” Ewen remembered. “Where is he? At the Feast?”

“Where else? We thought about buying out the Iron Bell, but I don’t like that Rosak guy.

“Do I have to go?” asked Baris.

“Of course you have to go!”

“He’s not my favorite guy.”

Aeomund came into the room covered in ink.

“What happened to you?” asked Prehil.

“I’ve been working on my book on Harnic fortifications. But don’t tell your father. I might dedicate it to him.”

“Can I write the dedication?”

“I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

The knights departed for Galopea’s Feast. Upon arrival, they went up to the second floor, the realm of private rooms. Prehil directed them toward one door. Inside, Sir Meden Curo sat drinking with Sir Scina Dariune.

Seeing the newcomers, Scina cut off his conversation. “We understand each other. Good night,” he said to Curo, and headed for the door.

“So sorry to see you go, Sir Scina,” Baris said.

In passing, Scina said “Is someone talking?” and continued out into the hall.

Sir Meden regarded the exchange with a grin. “Sir Baris, you really need to look at your judgment filter. It might need some adjustment,” he said. “Come, sit down. We don’t need other players.”

Ewen took a seat directly across from Curo. “I trust that Sir Prehil has shared with you the content of our meetings with himself and his father.”

“To some degree. Enough.”

“Good.”

“I was more interested in whether you managed to sound out Baran Meleken,” said Meden.

“I have not. The matter of the decapitated head, I admit, rather diverted me from that original track. Frankly, I think we need to re-evaluate whether it remains wise.”

“So do I. At this point, it seems almost unconscionable to think Maldan Harabor could remain Earl of Osel.”

“I agree,” said Ewen.

“Do you think the King has come to the same conclusion?”

“I would think so. It does seem unconscionable to think such a men could remain in that seat. But I cannot speak for our sovereign.”

“No one can. Of course – and this is the real problem – old Maldan wouldn’t like that, would he?”

“I imagine no man would like to be dispossessed of such a grand position. And yet it happens.”

“Usually with the severing of a head from a body.”

“That is a noble way to die.”

“There is no noble way to die. What corpse have you ever heard ask how it got so cold?”

“What I mean, Sir Meden, is that the head possessed by Harabor was no commoner.”

“I was under the impression that the head had not been identified.”

“It has not. But it seems unlikely to me, does it not to you?”

“A reasonable conclusion.”

“As you yourself say.”

“I think it is time to advance the subject,” said Meden.

The entire time, Prehil had remained uncharacteristically silent, graver than Sir Ewen had seen him since they discussed the consequences of the Battle of Ovendel. Matters of gravity must lie behind this meeting.

Meden continued. “What if Harabor were dispossessed of his earldom. What would he do?”

“He would be dead,” Ewen said casually.

“That would be one option, wouldn’t it?”

“What other option would there be?” Baris interjected.

“What would you do, if you were Maldan Harabor?”

Ewen answered. “Well, I am not in possession of an earldom. Perhaps you would be better able to say.”

Meden. “I am not in possession of an earldom, either. May my father live to be one hundred.”

“How would he react, then?”

“He would not permit it. My father’s title stretches back before the present dynasty, to the previous, and the one before that.”

“My point being,” Ewen said, “that rebellion would be the only recourse.”

“Naturally. I don’t suggest that the noble Earl of Neph would rebel against the King, but Harabor, on the other hand ... a noble man, an ambitious man. Ambition should be made of stern stuff, don’t you think? Then we are in agreement that Harabor would take the dispossession and go quietly to the gallows.”

“Would the King not best handle such a scenario by taking him into custody before he has the option of rebelling?”

“Undoubtedly. But he has already taken the Baron of Ternua into custody. If he were to also take the Earl of Osel into custody, whom else might he take into custody?”

“Such a thing would be unduly disquieting to His Grace’s realm.”

“There is no question about that. Perhaps that is why the King shies from it.”

“He needs another way.”

“There is a very serious objection, and it’s called Ternua. You’ve now been there. What did you think?”

“Seems tolerably well run.”

“I would expect that. It’s one of the wealthier baronies in the kingdom.”

“It was run honestly. It could be exploited more.”

“Did you know that in the entire kingdom, there is only one barony that controls more acres than Ternua?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know which barony that is.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I do not like to be flattered.”

Prehil spoke up, apparently trying to disrupt the heating debate. “With eager feeding, the food doth choke the feeder.”

Meden took the hint, and calmed himself. “The barony with greater acreage is that of Setrew. Which, of course, is subinfeudated to the earldom of Neph. That leaves Ternua the greatest independent barony in the Kingdom.”

“Obviously quite the plum.”

“Yes, but Ternua’s acreage is not the real reason it’s important. It’s position is critical.”

Ewen felt himself lectured, and resented it. “We discussed this at our first meeting.”

“I wanted to make sure it sank in, because it apparently did not. Tell me, Sir Ewen, how is your wife?”

“My lady waxes well in her confinement.”

“So I understand. She bakes in her oven the future earl of Vemion – or countess, perhaps.”

“I say she does.”

“The present Earl has no love for you.”

“He had banished us both.”

“That’s what I was told. But he cannot live forever.”

“That thought has occurred to me.”

“And so, when I speak to you, I speak to the next Earl of Vemion. And when you speak to me, you speak to the next Earl of Neph. Why not jump the gun, kick over the traces?”

“I have never been accused of being an unambitious man.”

“Ambition is made of very stern stuff indeed. Why should you wait to be Earl of Vemion? Why not, today, or very soon, be Baron of Ternua?”

“There is nothing I can think of that would preclude such a thing, save the King’s will”

Meden glanced at Prehil. Prehil studied his head of his ale.

Meden leaned over the table and said, in a half-whisper, “Suppose there were a new king.”

Ewen played coolly. “Now, Sir Meden, you must tread carefully.”

“Oh, yes, very carefully.”

“When last I saw the King, I went hawking with him. He was hale and robust.”

“He was not.”

“I am interested to hear it.”

“That hunt, it turns out, was a sham. An attempt to prove the King was, as you say, hale and hearty. Afterward he took to his bed for several days from the strain.”

“It’s true,” said Prehil gruffly. “Fact is, Haldan is dying.”

“Larani preserve His Grace,” Ewen intoned piously. Baris mumbled the same.

Meden did not echo his prayer. “I tell you, Ewen, there are those of us who are not prepared to accept Brandis as our king.”

“And who do you want to replace him?

Meden looked at Prehil. Prehil looked at Meden, then back at his ale. Meden readdressed himself to Ewen.

“Well, if you ignore Haldan’s line, there are two choices. The eldest daughter of the eldest son, or the eldest son of the eldest daughter. The eldest daughter of the eldest son is Cheselyne Hosath. I don’t believe she would make a very acceptable monarch. The eldest son of the eldest daughter, on the other hand, is the Lord Orsin Firith. He might make an excellent king.” A thin smile broke across his face. From behind his steepled fingers, Sir Meden Curo looked very pleased.
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Matt
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