Session One Hundred and Twenty-Two - August 22, 2015

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

Session One Hundred and Twenty-Two - August 22, 2015

Postby Matt » Sat Dec 12, 2015 12:38 pm

Azura 14 ,732

“Our mission to Heru did not go as expected,” Sir Baris reported. “Sir Bereden showed not the slightest interest in hearing that an army was approaching his castle.”

The breakfast pork sausage was underdone, Sir Ewen noted. Someone must be flogged.

“He might be interested this morning,” he said. “The army should be arriving about now.”

“He didn’t seem to consider me worth speaking to, but perhaps you …”

The quiet tone of the meal was severely at odds with the events afoot. Was Maldan Harabor setting up his forces for a march on Tashal, or just replacing Sir Bereden as constable at Heru? If he had risked capturing Scina Dariune, surely there must be something momentous in the air.

“We need more information,” Sir Ewen said, his constant refrain since the party’s arrival in Kaldor. “Aeomund, could you contact Kittiara?”

“Of course.”

“Tell her to inspect the Harabor force’s old bivouac, and try to find the location of whatever battle they encountered. Look for any clues as to where the enemy might have retreated – and whose it was in the first place.”

“I can ask if any rumors has reached the Elf & Dwarf,” Sir Baris said.

“Good idea, Baris. Cekiya, creep about Osel House and see who might be about.”

As breakfast concluded, Walin sidled up to Goreg. “I have a letter for you.”

“It’s from my mother, isn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t know, squire. I don’t read your mail.”

Goreg broke the seal on the missive. To his surprise, it was good news: his mother had relocated to Martaryne House, to stay with relatives. A weight lifted off the squire’s heart. Previously she hadn’t thought she could rely on her kin, but apparently she had had a change of heart. It was a comfort to know she had a haven – particularly if, as it now seemed, Goreg might be called off to war at any moment.

Sir Ewen retired to his study and jotted down a quick note for Sir Dickon, regarding Thilisa’s imminent arrival. The new knight deserved some warning regarding Tempest Wife. He made it clear that while Thilisa had putative authority, nonetheless his orders were always supreme. He added a postscript requesting a report as to how his new vassals were behaving, and sent it posthaste with Petros.


Baris walked to his tavern. Barton was there, presiding over the modest early-morning crowd.

“Barton, my good man!”

“Top o’ the morning to you!” Barton drew an ale and passed it across to his employer. “Odd hour for you. Were you upstairs?”

“No! Well, I don’t remember. How’s business?”

“Down a bit from the fair.”

“To be expected.”

“Still good.”

“And the ale’s still good!”

“I should hope so. We’re paying enough for it.”

“Any news? Any interesting tales? Anything happening in the city or countryside?”

“I understand Master Lars’s cow has calved.”

“I heard that! Quite exciting. Was it a boy or a girl? What do they call them? Cow and bull, that’s it. That’s where milk comes from. I figured that out.”

“But milk can come from goats and sheep too.”

“That’s true, man! Milk is strange.”

“It affects the kind of cheese you get.”

“They had a cheese-tasting festival in …”

Barton decided to shift this exchange away from free association and back towards some kind of narrative. “But as to the news, they say it might rain.”

“Is that news?”

“I was hoping I could get away with it.”

“Just wondering if you’d heard about anything exciting, you know, like … battles.”

“Battles? No, not since the heathen vikings appeared.”

“We showed them what for!”

“People like me have no use for such tales. I just draw a mug and hope the problems stay away from my door.”

“I hope so, too, since I’m the one who owns the door. Good to hear.”

Baris started telling a war story, and Barton listened.


Goreg studied the directions in his mother’s letter: Pass through Mangai Square, go a block north, take a right on the north side of the souse pit, and it’s the first door on the right. If the gate is closed, ring the bell.

Sounded clear, but in practice the squire found it quite tricky. Eventually, he found himself outside Martaryne House, right next to the Coin & Broom. The gate was indeed closed, so he pulled the bellrope vigorously.

A young lad appeared. “Are you delivering something?”

“No, I’m not. Is Lady Ralgen in?”

“Lady Ralgen?”

“Yes, a lady who just took up residence here.”

“What color hair does she have?”

“Blonde.”

“Ah, the new toff. And what’s your business?”

“I’m Goreg Ocazer, squire to Sir Ewen Ravinargh, her son.”

“Oh, she’s your mum! Hm. Then I supposed you best come in. I’m Hedsel, the stable lad. Follow me.”

Hedsel ushered him through the courtyard and to the house, a tall wooden building with an impressive door with a large lock.

“I guess you can’t just go in, can you? Let me see if I can announce you.”

The stable lad disappeared inside. A moment later, his head reappeared.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Goreg,” said Goreg.

“GOREG!” Hedsel shouted inside. “You can come in.”

The hall was comfortable, but cramped. There was a fireplace, a large table, a large tapestry on south wall behind a comfortable chair. To the right climbed a staircase. Goreg could see the kitchen in the next room, the cooks at work making lunch.

In front of the fire stood a haughty looking woman, about the same age as Goreg’s mother, in fine clothing.

“You claim to be Lady Ralgen’s son?”

“I am, ma’am.”

“I am Lady Farlla Martaryne, the mistress of the house.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Goreg bowed.

“If you wait here, I shall inform Lady Ralgen you are present.”

She brushed past him on her way to the stair, and climbed up to the gallery overlooking the hall.

With just a few words, Lady Martaryne had made it clear she saw Goreg as an intruder. He hoped Mother was meeting more hospitality.

A few minutes later, his mother drifted down the stairs.

“Mother!”

“Goreg!”

She called into the kitchen for small beer. They sat in the hall.

“How did you come here?” he asked.

She told him the whole story. Word had come to her from the Labarns that members of the Martaryne clan had a house in the city. When she visited, and told Sir Harant of her situation, he immediately insisted she should take up residence. They were in need of a lady-in-waiting since Lady Farlla’s mother had passed away and hers left, and Ralgen had filled the role.

“Is Sir Harant thereabouts?” Goreg remembered the gory blow to the face the knight had suffered at Varayne. No doubt it was healing to an impressive scar.

“No, he is at the castle.” She lowered her voice. “He does something in the Chancery.”

“Well, it’s most kind of him to give you lodging. He is an honorable man, apparently.”

“It was good timing. Our cousin has wanted a new lady-in-waiting for some time.”

Goreg hoped the difficulty in filling the position was not due to defects in the lady’s personality. Wanting to raise his mother’s spirits, he told her how marvelous it was to be squire to the great Sir Ewen Ravinargh.

“What’s she like? Lady Thilisa, I mean.”

“Er … well, she’s in confinement right now. She’s expecting. Just so you know, Mother, Sir Ewen may have business outside the city soon, seeing to his lands, so I might not be in Tashal, but I shall come see you as often as possible.”

“You do what he tells you, and be sure to change your linen.”

“Yes, mother.”

A noise came from the courtyard, and the massive door opened to reveal the master of the house. As Goreg expected, the facial wound was still vivid and gruesome.

“Who’s this?”

“Sir Harant, this is Goreg, my son. Goreg, your cousin, Sir Harant.”

“Ah, yes,” said the knight. “The little bundle. Not so little now! I hear you’re squire to Sir Ewen.”

“I am, sir.”

“Missed you at the tournament. Heard you were there.”

“I witnessed your valiant performance on the lists.”

“Ah, it was nothing.” His hand started involuntarily and scratched his scar. “You must come by for supper sometime.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Enjoy your visit,” Sir Harant said, and disappeared up the stairs.

After some more chat, Goreg took leave of his mother. She seemed in better spirits now. Goreg was pleased. If he had to depart Tashal for an extended time, he could be secure she was in good hands.


Sir Ewen saw off his wife’s train at the door of Raven Hall. He wondered if he could truly be assured that no further problems would attend her travels, and sure enough, not an hour later, a letter came back from Tarkor at the docks asking what to do with the other two boats.

Sir Ewen muttered mild curses. They had the damn things on retainer! Should he take them and travel upstream, to Heru, on a scouting mission? Better to make a psychic reconnaissance first, to see if there would be any value in bodily travel.

Sir Ewen lowered into a trance. He managed the clairvoyant connection, but poorly – it was like peering through wavy glass. His target was in Heru, looking at the caer just beyond bowshot. Ewen judged the position to be on the east common, where his forces had camped on the road to Ovendel. This army appeared to be doing likewise. There was no sign of violence or siege, nor any sight of Scina Dariune. The east gate of the castle appeared open, although it was hard to be sure.

Sir Ewen flagged and judged his stamina. Could he afford to try the same thing with Sir Bereden Pawade? It was worth an attempt …

This required a new trance. That worked, but even with its aid, he could not summon up the eyes of Sir Bereden. He tried again, but the trance failed grievously. Sir Ewen had pushed his luck a bit far. Time for a little nap.


The hall was quiet for a time. Kaelyn remained ensconced in magical exploration. Serenity reigned until about the third hour, when came a knock, a distinct knock, loud and precise as a temple bell. Walin opened the door and jumped back.

“Ewen! Baris! You magnificent bastards!”

Sir Prehil exploded into the hall.

“I feel the need for some carousing and companionship. It’s been at least two days since we had that!”

Baris let out a mighty belch. “I’ve already started carousing.”

“We need to catch up! Whaddya say, Ewen?”

Sir Ewen’s head was feeling better since the morning’s efforts, but not that better. “I’ll have to beg off, Prehil. I’m engaged.”

“Engaged? I thought you were already married!”

“Just for the evening. I have to escort Lady Elena to Valador House.”

“Ah! Say no more! Where’s Aeomund?”

“He’s writing notes,” Baris said.

“That man’s studious to a fault.” His eyes fell upon Goreg. “Who are you?!”

“This is Goreg. He’s Sir Ewen’s squire.”

“Ah, a squire. That’s almost a gentleman. You can come along then. If Ewen’s gonna have a prior assignation, we can teach you what that means.”

“Prehil, Goreg is the natural son of Sir Ocazer. You remember.”

“Do I? That’s your father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of Colu manor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve never met one of my natural sons before, and hope never to, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Ewen with a smile. “Try to see they come back in one piece tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Though since it’s your squire and Baris, you should pay.”

“Remember the sixty pence limit.”

Sir Prehil led the way into the streets of Tashal. Glancing down Maranos Wat towards Osel House, they noticed a flurry of activity. Teamsters and porters swarmed the residence with their wagons.

“Looks like they’re laying in supplies over there!” Prehil said.

Goreg suddenly announced he had left his hat at Raven Hall. “You don’t need a hat! Come on!” Prehil said, but the squire was already halfway back. He launched in the door and straight to Ewen’s study.

“Sir Ewen, just so you know: there’s a great deal of activity around Osel House. It looks like they’re laying in a major store of supplies.”

“Thank you, Goreg. Enjoy your evening. And Goreg – mind how you comport yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

The squire rejoined Prehil and Baris.

“Got everything? Emptied all the tanks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Baris! Shall we go to the watering hole or the stables?”

“The water hole first. Since we have a squire, he needs some liquid courage.”

“All right!”

The hour was early at Galopea’s Feast, and the common room sparsely populated. None of the other patrons seemed familiar.

“We should order some drinks,” said Baris.

They took a table. A serving wench immediately brought Baris and Prehil’s personal mugs, then fixed a steely look at Goreg.

“Uh … I’m with them. An ale, please.”

“You’ll be needing one of our tankards, I suspect.”

“Y-Yes.”

The wench curtsied to Prehil, and he repaid her with a slap on the behind.

“So, I guess Meden is in town,” Baris said.

“Why?” said Prehil.

“The action at Osel House.”

“He’s not Osel. But it so happens Meden is in town. I saw him this afternoon.”

“Where?”

“At the castle.”

“How is our mutual friend?”

“Well, Baris, that is a question that might require a synod of Save-Knorians to determine.”

“He hasn’t been around of late.”

“No, took the waters. He was gone, but now he’s back. Talked with him briefly. Asked him if anything had changed. He said no. But there were a lot of other people around. I didn’t ask if he wanted to come along. Between you and me, Baris, I think the man likes his wife.”

“Well, that’s certainly odd. How hot is his wife? I haven’t met her.”

“She’s in Gardiren. They’ve got some kids. Politics makes strange bedfellows – but I’ve never gotten into the bed!”

“I’ve never gotten into bed with the people you get in politics. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No! We need another round.”

“Is there any news at the castle?”

“Things are definitely unchanged with His Grace the King. But I have to say, the my lord of Balim looks a little distracted. Definitely not himself.”

“He must have a lot on his mind.”

“Absolutely.”

“I’d say that’s half good news. No bad news about his grace. A drink to His Grace!”

“I’ll drink to that!”

“Any news on the prince?”

“You know, a funny thing, Baris: nobody’s talking about him. Not a word. Like he doesn’t exist. I know he’s a murderer, but … And the queen, she’s wandering about the place like a ghoul. She’s lost two children – I get that – but I’m thinking Brandis may be in more trouble with his father than we thought.”

“Vile as his crime was, I fought beside the man. He was a good man. Is a good man.”

“Did good work at Olokand, tis true.”

“Performed his duties honorably.”

“If only he hadn’t killed his brother! And I gotta ask, Baris, it’s been bothering me: what did happen with Princess Erlene? I mean, that’s gotta be a coincidence. Just ups and dies like that, blood pouring out of her, like she was poisoned! I gotta tell ya, I’ve had some suspicions. It can’t just be a coincidence, with so much woe delivered at one family, with a kingdom going down the crapper! Kids dying and going mad at the same time! It’s like something out of fucking Shakespeare!”

“Who?”

“I have no idea – I heard someone say that once.” Prehil was in his cups.

“You would think there was an angry god.”

“I thought of that – but if there were angry gods, wouldn’t they strike me?”

“Maybe they’re amused.”

“I think somebody poisoned Erlene. And I know who did it.”

Baris took a drink to steady himself. Could Prehil have guessed? “Whoever would do such a thing would be an enemy to the kingdom.” he said.

Prehil dropped his voice low. “I think she was murdered – by Meden Curo!”

Baris breathed a silent sigh of relief. “He has not kept us apprised of all his plans.”

“Well, I can’t be suspicious of that. But I was thinking to myself: who has the most to gain? The answer is me! But I know I didn’t kill her! So that left those who support me. Now Baris, come on – you and Ewen and Aeomund? You just don’t have it in you.”

“We prefer to face our enemies straight on, like men,” Baris enthusiastically agreed.

“So that leaves Meden. Really, elementary logic.”

“So, other than that, do you have any other reason to suspect him?”

“No.” He stifled a small belch.

“What I mean is: for example, now that you say this, I’m looking at something I saw in a new light. The night at the tournament, when Prince Brandis slew his brother, they were fighting over Meden’s sister. Which I can’t blame them. But I did notice Meden giving drinks – not to Brandis, but to Torasa. He was speaking with him quite a bit, and filling his glass.”

“Nothing suspicious about that. You fill my glass.”

“I thought it was a bit much.”

“Prince Torasa clearly couldn’t hold his wine.”

“As we noticed. It may be nothing. It made me think.”

“Wait a minute, Baris, are you suggesting – is that Aethel Atan? Always wants to talk. Pretend like you don’t see him.”

But it was too late. The enigmatic bombast was already descending upon their table. “Sir Baris!” he said.

“Aethel! How good to see you!”

“Sir Baris, I am so glad I ran into you! I have a question that can only be answered by such a perspicacious natural philosopher as yourself, and you are just the man. Is death the end of existence, or the beginning?”

“That’s it?” snorted Prehil.

Baris pondered the conundrum.

“Don’t waste your time, Baris! Aethel, you should be ashamed of yourself. That’s the oldest question in the book!”

But Baris could not be held back from the pursuit of ladies, and Lady Wisdom was no different. “From the fact we age from babies until we are old, we know we don’t stay in the same bodies as we did when we were young – so we certainly lose something...”

The table was lost in gnomic deliberation.


Ewen, alone with Cekiya in his study, gave his little adder her instructions.

“Perhaps you should explore the residence of milord the Earl of Osel. You know the one.”

“I do.”

“Find out whether Maldan is in residence, whether people are moving in or out, what’s going on.”

“I shall.”

Having dispatched his spy, Sir Ewen began to prepare to escort Lady Elena. Halfway through his toilet, a servant brought him a note: Lady Elena had been called to Ternua. She sent her utmost regrets. His earlier lapse must have been worse than he thought – Sir Ewen had watched Thilisa and her entourage leave, after all.

Sir Ewen found himself with the unexpected prospect of a free evening. He called for his pipe and his goblet, and settled down to enjoy the rare peace.


Before it was truly dark, Cekiya arrived at Osel House to pre-position herself. She first surveyed the area. The tide of deliveries had slackened, but there were many other signs of earnest activity. The house blazed with light; guards stood alert at the gate.

Nearby across the alley stood the home of the Clothier guildmaster, with a screen of trees between them. Cekiya attempted to climb guildmaster’s home, with the intent of jumping across the rooves, but couldn’t find sufficient handholds. From what height she could attain, she could see more guards in the courtyard.

How could she gain access? She skipped down the compound wall, all of six inches wide, big as a lea to her. But at its end she found herself facing the city wall, twice as tall and of sheer smooth stone.

The wall came up to the second floor of the house. All the windows were tightly shuttered, but Cekiya could hear voices within, several voices, male, raised in happy feast. She was unable to discern what they were saying.

Perhaps there was an entrance on the other side of the house.

She slipped onto the roof of the barn and edged across the courtyard, silently enough that the guards never suspected. The surface was treacherous. She found herself sliding down. Just before she reached the ground, a door opened, a door she had not seen from the roof. A man emerged, carrying a tub of some sort. He went to the corner of the courtyard, to a covered area, and dumped the tub.

The servant turned around, didn’t see her, re-entered and closed the door.

She listened at the window. She could hear a busy kitchen, the cook yelling. The next window gave the same, and the next. A big kitchen.

The window beyond that was open – but barred.

She might enter through the unshuttered kitchen windows, if she could get in without anyone noticing. Maybe she needed to get in and stalk. On the far side of the kitchen, she could see an exit with no door or curtain. From it she could hear a distant commotion.

Instead she climbed to the second floor. From someplace came the sound of touching, very enthusiastic touching. One of the women of this house was a screamer, or an actor.

Her hand slipped, and she found herself plummeting. The ground came up to meet her head.

She tried not to groan too loudly, but the impact had taken a great deal out of her. She rested a moment. Had she completed her mission? What to do? She resumed her climb, up to the second floor, looking for an unsecured entrance. She couldn’t find one. She continued to the third floor.

Slip. Down again.

This time the leather armor absorbed some of the blow, but she was still in a great deal of pain. What accursed god has placed this damp to vex her? There was no more she could do. She crawled to the refuse heap where the servant had deposited his bucket and curled up to wait for dawn.


Aethel Atan toyed with Baris and Prehil for a while, but eventually tired of the game and went to join one of his colleagues, a man Baris actually recognized: Lumede of Tiselwaith. The two began a tete-a-tete at a distant table.

“I thought he’d never leave,” said Prehil.

“He’s an interesting man,” said Baris.

“Well, of course, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not interested in being interested upwards of once of month. You’re not really one of those natural philosophers, are you?”

“Aw, no.”

“Oh good! Well, there’s two choices: we can go upstairs and sample the mares or go downstairs and bet on the dogs.”

“I haven’t seen dogfighting in quite a while, and I’d like to see some blood. It seems to me that once we sample the mares, we won’t have the energy to get down the stairs, so let us go down there first.”

“Baris, you are a natural philosopher! That’s brilliant!”

Goreg followed the knights into the bloody basement of the Feast. It wasn’t dogs. Sir Baris lost 5d, but the squire lost six. Baris generously covered the young man’s loss, bringing his total expenditure for the night to 72d.

Prehil had won, and was in high spirits. “Well, Baris, is it time?”

“Indeed! Goreg, have you been upstairs?”

“Uh – no.”

“You’re in for a treat. The mares here are quite skilled – though not as skilled as my friend Elsa.”

“Uh-uyah-sure. Yeah.” Goreg was sweating. Though he’d had some previous experience in this area, it had all been with dairy maids and village girls. Actual courtesans of the finest bawdy house in the capital? This was something else entirely.

Baris slapped him on the back. “Trust me!”

“The man’s an expert!” Prehil said. “He could teach classes!”

“I think I know just the girl for you.”

They ascended the narrow side staircase that led to the rooms of assignation. On the third floor there was a small welcome area, surrounded by private cubicles from which poured giggles and moans.

The whoremonger greeted them. “Sir Baris, bay twelve for you, and what about your friend?”

“I had a name in mind for him,” and the knight whispered it in her ear.

The whoremonger giggled. “I think we can manage that.”

The next thing Goreg knew, a feminine hand was guiding him to one of the bays. The curtain was drawn, and she turned to him with a smile.

Things didn’t go well. They made a short pause and approached the problem from a different angle. Things didn’t go well again.

The good grace with which the girl took the situation just made everything worse.

Goreg retreated to one of the benches in the welcome area, waiting for the knights, trying to reassure himself this night was not a harbinger of anything.

A hand closed over his mouth. He could feel a dagger pressed into his throat.

“One word and you’re dead,” said a guttural voice behind him.

Suddenly the welcome area was filled with armed men. Two held the whoremonger’s arms while a third pointed a knife at her face.

“Which one?” they asked.

Terrified past speech, she pointed toward a certain bay to the left.

Three huge thugs tossed aside the curtain. The sounds of love turned into sounds of combat, until they emerged again dragging a naked and bleeding Prehil Firith.

Where was Sir Baris? Goreg thought. Probably too distracted to notice. How could he fight back?

The whore bit her fists, obviously wishing to scream, but too frightened.

The voice in back of Goreg said “Sorry about this,” and an intense pain flashed through his skull.

Goreg fell forward, just to get his assailant off his back. Though in immense pain, he had not fallen unconscious. When the thugs scrambled to leave, he sprang to his feet, shouted “Baris!”, and gave chase.

Deep in the throes of ecstasy, it took Sir Baris a moment to recognize his own name. But that was his name, and by the sound of it, something was going on. There was no time to dress! Displaying his naked glory to the world, he grabbed his sword and ran out to the welcome area.

Someone shouted “No violence! Get to it!”

“Those men have kidnapped Sir Prehil Firith!” bellowed Goreg. He launched himself towards the staircase at the rearmost thug, who turned to confront him. There was no room to swing a broadsword in the narrow space. Goreg drew his mace, and found himself dodging the kidnapper’s shortsword. The thug stabbed Goreg’s foot, but got a pummel to the gut in return. The weapons clashed as both fought on.

“Sir Baris, you’re exposed,” said one of the Feast’s bouncers, who had done nothing to protect one of their best patrons.

“My man is attacked, and Prehil is kidnapped!”

Behind his opponent, Goreg could see the gang disappearing downstairs, still dragging Prehil. He couldn’t get past that shortsword. He could hear Sir Baris coming up behind him, but there was no room to flank – yet. If he continued to push downwards, in a few steps they would come to the second floor landing, which was large enough to permit a second attacker.

And it did – when they reached the landing, a man with a battleaxe swung viciously out at Goreg. The squire turned his attention from the man with the shortsword to this new threat, only to receive several wounds, including one right in the chest. The axeman cackled.
Goreg sank to the floor to allow Sir Baris to step in. “Someone fetch Sotor of Pelanby, the famous physician!” he groaned.

The knight, bare as a snail out of its shell, dove into the fray. His sword and the massive battleaxe clashed; both weapons shivered.

“Don’t be stupid!” the axeman whispered.

“It is I, Sir Baris!” Baris shot back, his grin infectious.

They both swung. Baris hit the man’s shoulder.

“Have at you! Surrender, dog!”

“All right.” The axeman backed away.

“Who sent you, scum?”

And that was when the thug dove down the stairs.

With the grace of a gazelle, manhood rampant, Sir Baris leaped towards the foe, flying down the stairway. Cleaving the thug from the top of the head to his crotch, Sir Baris’s momentum carried him through and past his enemy, ass high, his feet never touching a single stair. He dropped his sword, landed on his hands, rolled and found himself on the first floor of Galopea’s Feast.

There were several people he knew staring at him.

Aethel Atan raised his goblet and said “Good show!”

“Just had to do some philosophy au natural!”

Baris whirled around, looking for Prehil, shouting the man’s name out onto the street. There no sign of the kidnappers or their victim. The knight sent a messenger for Sotor, then inspected the dead man’s axe.

It was a nice axe. He kept it as a trophy. Then he donned his undershirt.

Everyone wanted to compliment Sir Baris, but nobody had any useful information. No one knew who the men where or where they went. Most had thought them bouncers. By comparing notes, he determined that most of the attackers did not speak in Kaldoric accents – although the axeman did. The man who first fought Goreg had a Western accent, as might be heard in Rethem or Kanday. Most peculiar.


Cekiya, still hiding next to the refuse heap, saw a group of people, all men, enter the courtyard and be permitted into the house. Eventually she slunk back onto the wall, walked back out to the street, and returned home.


Sotor arrived at the Feast and gave immediate aid to Goreg. He and Sir Baris escorted the squire, on a makeshift stretcher, back to Raven Hall.

“Ewen, Prehil’s been kidnapped! What do we do?”

“First, put the rest of your clothes on!”

Baris cleaned up and got properly dressed. Ewen poured him a brandy, and they returned to the Feast.

“Beg pardon, Sir Ewen, but we’re closed,” said the servant at the door. Ewen didn’t recognize him.

“Where’s the door warden?”

“He’s been killed.”

“Men of my household have been attacked here. I have a right to inquire as to why. Let me speak with Mak of Ashel.”

Eventually there were let in. Mak waited in the empty common room. He said four of their staff were dead. He had no idea who the kidnappers were, or where they had taken Prehil. Besides the accents, no one could remember any useful details.

“Would you allow me to take custody of the dead kidnapper?”

“If you wish, Sir Ewen.”

Ewen suspected the corpse was past the ability of Deryni sorcery to contact, but he wanted to make sure.

“Mak, I will trouble you no further, but it would be a favor if you would send any information you find on to me.”

“I will. Sir Ewen, the kidnapping of Sir Prehil could be enough to ruin my business – not to mention more unpleasant consequences. I will help you in any way I can.”

The innkeeper gave over Prehil’s personal effects to Ewen. The small pile seemed symbolic of the frustratingly small amount of clues they possessed.
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Matt
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