Session One Hundred and Twenty-Three - November 21, 2015

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

Session One Hundred and Twenty-Three - November 21, 2015

Postby Matt » Mon Dec 14, 2015 9:14 pm

Azura 15, 732

Kaelyn of Aletta wrinkles her nose and ducks. Helping her rather strange friend Cekiya grasp the nuances of proper bathing protocol is challenging enough without factoring the girl’s lethal aversion to physical touch into the equation.

As a general rule, Kaelyn is used to humoring eccentric friends, having dormed for many seasons at the Chantry of the Arcane Arts in Chyrefal. Over the past year and a half, however, Sir Ewen’s little adder has certainly proven to be a different species of odd. Still, when the lord of Raven Hall had decreed that Cekiya should have ablutions inflicted upon her after spending the entire night asleep on Maldan Harabor’s dungheap, Kaelyn had grudgingly sided with an imperious Sir Ewen. Despite its frustrations, the exercise was admittedly serving as a welcome change of pace after days bent over dry parchment completing her latest spell research. And, she allows with an inward sigh as Cekiya again grapples the loofa like she is drowning a kitten, water is supposed to be her element ...

Kaelyn tries to rationalize the chore by taking the opportunity to fill Cekiya in on what has transpired since the shocking abduction of Sir Prehil Firith from Galopea’s Feast the evening before. Sir Baris Tyrestal, having twisted his ankle in his heroic, disrobed endeavor to rescue Sir Prehil, has retired to The Elf and Dwarf, ostensibly to keep his ear to the ground for useful rumors, but more likely to balm his pride and enjoy the ministrations of “nurse” Elsa. Sir Aeomund Legith, having expressed great umbrage at the audacity of the crime, has vowed to scour the local countryside with his squire and the barbarian woman Kittiara in the event that the scion of house Firith has been carried beyond the walls of the town, to which end he had departed Raven Hall at dawn. Young Goreg, the newest addition to the household and squire to Sir Ewen, is recuperating this morning after receiving a typically equivocal prognosis from the physician Sotor of Pelanby. And Sir Ewen, after being stymied in his attempt to clairvoy Sir Prehil by the Shek P’var’s warbling interference in spite of the target being presumably bereft of all worldly possessions, has retired to his study complaining of feeling unwell, although whether this was due to his subsequent attempt to clairvoy Sir Kornuska Harabor, or Cekiya’s malodorous condition, is unclear.

Kaelyn’s final task, as she assists a now-dried Cekiya in tying back her hair in a kerchief, is to impart Sir Ewen’s latest mission to the girl and to wish her good luck of it. And so shortly thereafter, Cekiya slips out of Raven Hall and across the street to the household of the ladies Cheselyne Hosath, whom she conceives in her mind as the “Acorn Ladies.” As she does so, her eye drifts momentarily to the spot on the wall where certain signs might appear which would signal the need for her to go into the hive and learn things for her master, although no such marks have appeared for some time now. Cekiya shrugs and makes her way around to the kitchen entrance of the Elendsa ladies’ mansion, where she is confronted by a florid, sweaty woman demanding to know what she is about.

Cekiya asks for work, and when pressed for references claims that she previously worked for Astaroc, the late inhabitant of Raven Hall. On cross examination she states that she worked for the mage for a full year and a half, which elicits a surprised grunt from the woman, who recalls Astaroc as going through a new servant every three months. She concludes that Cekiya must know which end of a broom handle is which, and offers her a half pence and a meal per day in return for various menial chores. Cecilia agrees in her childish, singsong voice, and the frowning woman hands her a broom and points out where to sweep. When the majordomo subsequently appears and interrogates Cekiya about her work history and she alleges having done “odd jobs” in the past, he sternly warns her not to engage in any such odd jobs in his household.

Cekiya does her sweeping and listens in on anodyne conversation among the kitchen staff, such as how some onions have gone missing. After a bit, Cekiya makes so bold as to ask about the composition of the household, and is led to believe that only the Old Acorn herself is in residence. Cekiya’s mind registers disappointment at this, as Kaelyn’s remarks had led her to believe that her master had in mind to kidnap and perhaps terrorize the Young Acorn, which had sounded like terrific fun to Cekiya. Catching her lollygagging, the perspiring matron in the kitchen barks at Cekiya that, if she is done with her sweeping, she should stop wasting time and go fetch firewood from the yard and bring it into the hall. Cekiya puts up her broom in the corner and begins to hum a little nursery rhyme under her breath.

Cekiya is finishing stacking a cord of wood in the deserted hall when the majordomo comes downstairs and tells her to be sure to put some in her ladyship’s sitting room as well, as it too is empty. When she emerges from the sitting chamber, he tells her that she needs to bring an armful upstairs as well. “I will show you. Her ladyship must not be disturbed.” He orders her to fetch another armful from the yard.

He leads her up the stairs and points out Lady Cheselyne’s room, sternly prohibiting her from ever entering there save in his own presence. In answer to Cekiya’s question, he says, “Lady Cheselyne the Younger is not in residence.” Cekiya pushes her luck by asking if the younger lady will be in tomorrow, but the majordomo answers in the negative with a look of frank annoyance, and tells her not to ask questions.

Down below in the kitchen, Cekiya asks the cook if the lady of the house will be hosting any parties. The cook says no, and adds in a wistful tone that her ladyship stays to herself these days, and then pauses as if finding that fact odd. Cekiya says that she had heard the daughter was getting married, and thought therefore that there would be parties.

“Yes, she is getting married,” the cook says uneasily, “but not in a way that would involve parties … And she is in Qualdris now, anyway.”


Goreg escorts Kaelyn through the streets of Tashal to Pesera of Hendel’s establishment off Mangai Square, where they are told that Pesera is in his office at the Merchantyler’s Hall today. They walk around the corner, dodging a cart trundling into the square, and the door warden at the Hall asks their business. Sir Ewen’s name is dropped and an apprentice scampers off. A mere seconds later, he returns breathless, indicating that the factor will see them.

Pesera stands and greets them, and is patiently polite in making the acquaintance of Sir Ewen’s new squire. He bids them both to sit, and states that he is pleased to see them, as he had been hoping to have a word with Sir Ewen sometime in the next few weeks now that harvest season is upon them. Kaelyn nods but mentions concern about Sir Prehil’s fate and Pesera, it so happens, is well aware that some violence was done last evening to the knight.

Goreg volunteers that he was a witness to what happened to Sir Prehil. “As you can see,” he unwisely adds, gesturing vaguely about his person in a manner intended to connote his injuries sustained the night before.

“See what?” Pesera queries blandly, squinting at the youth.

Kaelyn chokes and attempts to rescue the squire by making further noises, tut-tutting about Sir Prehil’s fate. Goreg reddens. Pesera moves on, stating that rumors are all over town that Sir Prehil has been slain. Goreg, rallying somewhat, opines that the knight was in fact living when taken from the establishment.

Pesera shakes his head, dubiously entertaining the idea. He turns to Kaelyn. “Everyone thinks it was his wife, assuming he is dead. But if he was simply kidnapped … Perhaps there is an irate father somewhere?”

Goreg interjects, mentioning that one of the abductors spoke with a foreign accent.

“Foreign mercenaries! This gets more interesting,” Pesera deadpans, maintaining eye contact with Kaelyn.

Kaelyn sighs inwardly and intervenes again. “What action are the aldermen likely to take, Pesera?”

The factor tidies the papers on his desk, then folds his hands. “Well, this is a criminal action, Mistress Kaelyn. Something far beyond our purview,” he says primly.

Kaelyn nods, resigned to the meager fruits of the interview. She agrees to take back to Sir Ewen the suggestion of a meeting in the next few weeks, and they all make to rise from their respective chairs.

“Did you hear of any other news from last night?” Goreg presses.

Pesera smiles faintly, arresting himself briefly in mid-rise to answer, “Only that Lars’ cow has calved.” He steps around his desk, extended hand gesturing toward the door as the smile remains fixed to his face, an ironic eye wagging at Kaelyn.

“Sir Baris was present and attempted to defend Sir Prehil last night,” Goreg persists.

Pesera thanks them both for their visit, says he looks forward to seeing Sir Ewen again soon, and pauses as they shuffle out under his watchful gaze, one hand poised on the door latch as he finally responds to Goreg.

“That must make Sir Baris the Naked Knight everyone is talking about.” He chuckles. “Good day.”


Sir Ewen Ravinargh, accompanied by Goreg and Kaelyn, steps over to Galopea’s Feast at dinner time. In the common room is Sir Romlach Ethasiel, who is seated with an unknown knight, and Aethel Atan at another table with a well-dressed, clean-shaven older man Sir Ewen has not seen before. Mak of Ashel comes over and apologizes, thanking them for showing confidence in his establishment by giving their custom after the events of the previous evening, and tells them that the evening is on him. “I have informed Master Halime, who is not happy,” Mak adds in an undertone, referencing the Lia Kavair guild master and owner of Galopea’s Feast. “He is making inquiries.”

The Baron of Stimos comes in with Sir Ilken Zuvonx, who evidently has returned from his latest stint in the Kath lands west of Kaldor. Sir Ewen warmly greets Sir Ilken as the two join the table, Sir Ilken announcing that he never misses Tashal save when he is away. The Baron chuckles as they seat themselves and states Sir Ilken only pretends to miss civilization. Passing his gaze over the common room, he observes that Sir Romlach has become quite tight with Sir Meden Curo.

“They say opposites attract, don’t you know,” Sir Meden being the calculating sort and Sir Romlach a bit of a hot head.

“Speaking of hot heads,” Sir Ewen asks, “what is known in court about the latest doings of Lord Maldan Harabor?”

“Funny you should ask that, Sir Ewen. There was a great to-do in court yesterday morning. The King did not appear for his usual levy – he hasn’t in some time, truth be told – and the Queen and the Earl of Balim exchanged some shocking retorts. The Queen got in some very cutting remarks; Balim must be tending his wounds. A peculiar thing happened afterward. Maldan Harabor went up to Lord Balim, and they stepped aside conversing with some intensity for several minutes. While Maldan Harabor left, he looked none too happy, although my Lord of Balim looked less. Only his final, parting remark could be heard. Lord Balim said, “We shall see.”

The Baron looks about the room as Sir Ewen takes in this information, and then adds that one additional rumor has been circulating. “It may be that Prince Brandis is no longer in the castle. He may be dead, or he may have escaped. Or perhaps he is there but ill. In any event, the servants are not bringing food to his room anymore.”

Sir Ewen asks if the castle is concerned with the movements of an army led by Maldan Harabor’s son, but the Baron states that no one in the castle is talking about armies.

“Does anyone know if Scina got to Kiban?” Kaelyn asks.

The Baron raises an eyebrow. “We know they left. Lady Serli Ubael went with him. They traveled separately from Lord Scina’s son, who had gone on with Bishop Dariune on his trip to his diocese.”

“Why was Lady Serli Ubael traveling with Scina?”

The Baron shrugs with a smile.

While they are conversing, Sir Meden Curo comes into Galopea’s Feast, accompanied by a pair of guards led by the man Sir Ewen recalls as Dregald, a hatchet man for the Earl of Neph. Sir Meden walks straight over to Sir Ewen’s table, greeting the occupants with cool courtesy in the proper order of their social precedence. Sir Ewen introduces Sir Ilken Zuvonx, who correctly identifies Sir Meden as the son of the Earl. The unfortunate violence toward Sir Prehil’s person is mentioned, with Meden expressing his understanding that the scion of Firith house is dead. When Sir Ewen acknowledges that Goreg and Sir Baris witnessed the event, Sir Meden observes with a smirk that he would expect Sir Baris to be in the thick of any such trouble. Upon this remark Sir Meden goes to join Sir Romlach at his table, but only after expressing a desire to have a word with Sir Ewen before the evening is complete. As young Neph joins Romlach Ethasiel, Dregald follows and seats himself but the other guardsmen do not, taking up stations at a discreet distance.

The Baron takes up the theme of Sir Prehil’s reputed demise, opining that the alderman’s wife is a manipulative and conniving shrew. The Baron always assumed that she had been blackmailing him through the entirety of their marriage, and wonders if perhaps he had unwisely called her bluff.

As the conversation winds through various topics, Sir Ewen takes the opportunity to make passing mention of Sir Ilkin’s unique skills, admiting to curiosity as to the movements of certain bodies of troops in the vicinity of Heru. Sir Ilkin seems sufficiently intrigued in his own oddly serene fashion, and expresses the belief that Sir Bereden Pawade is a sound man in possession of enlightened views regarding the Kath, supporting the process of bringing them into the kingdom gradually rather than the current practice of subjecting the Kaldoric soldiery to a seasonal slaughtering by them each year. Sir Ewen states that he is interested to know if Sir Bereden is contributing his troops to Maldan Harabor’s army, which has bivouacked on the Heru commons. This seems sufficient to move Sir Ilkin to express a languid inclination to ‘fly’ up and see for himself, upon which Sir Ewen lets the issue rest in silent satisfaction.

When Aethel Atan’s guest leaves, Aethel swans over to engage in some idle banter at Sir Meden’s table, and then wends his way over to visit the same fate upon Sir Ewen’s table.

“Shocking news about Sir Prehil,” Aethel pronounces with a twinkle in his eye. When Goreg speaks up and mentions that he was present when the deed took place, Aethel peers at him curiously and allows that, “Yes, you were. You came down after the Naked Knight.”

Later on, after the Baron and Sir Ilkin had made their excuses and departed, Sir Romlach is seen to head upstairs and Sir Meden Curo catches Sir Ewen’s eye and gestures upward. Sir Ewen rises, and Sir Meden and Dregald stand as well. But Sir Meden discreetly gestures Dregald off, and the henchman sits back down, evidently unhappy and visibly concerned. Goreg and Kaelyn watch in some interest as, after Curo climbs the stairs alone with Sir Ewen, Dregald shoots a meaningful glance at the two guards and they all settle uneasily down, huddled over their drinks and looking extremely tense.

The second floor hall is deserted, but Sir Ewen suggests the private room nonetheless. When they enter, Sir Meden eyes the decanter and twin goblets waiting upon a sideboard and raises an eyebrow. “Shall I be mother?”

“Allow me to do the honors,” Sir Ewen says, and Sir Meden takes a seat at the head of the table. He takes the proffered goblet from Sir Ewen’s hand, maintains it aloft, and offers a toast. “Sir Prehil Firith. His continued health.” He tosses it off, and then rises himself and refills them both. He sits back down and eyes Sir Ewen narrowly.

“I know you didn’t have anything to do with it. You have nothing to gain.”

Sir Ewen leans back in his chair and agrees.

“Under no set of circumstances,” Sir Meden adds, “do I want anything to happen to Sir Prehil Firith.” He states this as if getting an obvious point out of the way, clarifying his own innocence, and his voice takes on its characteristic, pedantic tone. Sir Ewen sips his drink while Sir Meden elaborates. “The only one who would benefit would be Maldan Harabor, although I suppoise Balim comes in second. But Balim is a spider, and this thing is not his style.”

“The rumors insist that Sir Prehil’s wife killed him.”

“Which would not be incompatible with the known facts ... But no, you and I both know Sir Prehil’s wife is not behind this.” Sir Meden turns an intent, determined gaze upon Sir Ewen, and he puts his goblet down. “Sir Prehil Firith is too valuable an ally. He must be retrieved. But his absence means that this relationship,” he gestures from himself to Sir Ewen, “needs to change.”

Sir Ewen slowly swirls his drink in its goblet, appraising him thoughtfully. “What do you have in mind?”

“I have much in mind. But first, I must ask you one question. And pray do not insult my intelligence by acting like you don’t understand it.” Sir Meden’s regard hardens as he leans forward slightly. “Sir Ewen, where is the Sword of Calsten?”

The architecture of Sir Ewen’s face barely shifts, his eyes wide and steady, but the corners of his mouth become touched with cruelty, or mirth. “Sir Meden,” he pronounces slowly, “I have taken very great pains to ensure that I do not know the precise answer to that question.”

Sir Meden breathes, nods, and sits back. “So you do have it.” He takes up his goblet. “Thank you for not insulting my intelligence. Dregald has just returned from the place once called Orbaal. There is chaos up there. What used to be a kingdom of vikings is now five, or more, different kingdoms. He was sent up there by my father, to find an agent named Kryste who went into business for herself.”

“I am familiar with Kryste,” Sir Ewen says, his voice devoid of emotion, “although I believe Sir Baris bore the worst of the relationship.”

“I regret to tell you that Kryste remains among the living, although several of her operatives are dead. Dregald caught up with them, and he is satisfied she never had the sword in her possession at all.”

Sir Meden rises and begins to pace, goblet forgotten in his hand. “Moments ago, Prehil was a dependable asset, although ultimately that might not be the case.” He turns. “I don’t know if Prehil will be a loyal subject, but I shall be King of Kaldor, the heir of Tane.” He pauses, as if expecting a response. After a moment, he continues. “My father has delved deep into the histories, and is well aware of his lineage. I can do it without the Sword, but it is hard. With the Sword … it will be almost without effort.”

He gestures at Sir Ewen, “You cannot use the Sword. No one can. Only me. Unlike Romlach Ethasiel, I do not dissemble with you. Name your price. Short of the crown, you shall have it, in exchange for the Sword and your unconditional support.” He breathes deeply, his narrowed eyes glittering. “Well, Sir Ewen? Name your price.”

Sir Ewen considers his drink for a moment, continuing to swirl the liquid languidly in the glass. When he returns his gaze to Curo, his eyes are artic grey. “Tell me, Sir Meden, why this moment? Surely the disappearance of Sir Prehil has not, in itself, so altered your plans.”

“No. But along with other moments, it made the time right. Much has happened in these past weeks. Someone murdered the Princess Erlene. I have thought much on this, and it had to be Prehil.” His gaze widens slightly. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

Sir Ewen manages to look pained. “It is difficult to contemplate Sir Prehil being capable of such a monstrosity.”

“And then there is Prince Brandis slaying his brother …”

“Which I congratulate you on engineering, by the way.”

Curo waves a hand negligently. “But to run away from house arrest at the very moment his father was endeavoring to extricate him ... His poor, grieving mother, only too happy to lunge at some little bit of hope dangled before her ... By doing so, of course, she has ended Brandis’s chance at the throne forever. And who does that leave? The dregs of the Elendsa line. Cheselyne Hosath, twice passed over. Maldan Harabor, desperate to have anyone acknowledge that his father was a king. The Indamas, the Firiths, even the Alsars…” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at Sir Ewen. “Did you kill one of them? I forget ...”

He returns to his theme, warming to it, twin spots of color in his pallid cheeks hectic. “All of the other siblings of the Elendsas, they are drawn to the Peonians!” he spits. “What is the matter with that family?” He sets his goblet down on the table. “The Elendsa line. The Earl of Balim, the most important of all. So strong a candidate, but he will never put himself forward.” He fixes Sir Ewen with his narrowed stare, his lips thin and white. “A man like yourself, with your blood. You understand what I am talking about, don’t you, Sir Ewen?”

Sir Ewen sighs, crossing one leg carefully over the other, an expression of reserved amusement playing over his features. “I gather we have been having conversations with Sir Rohn Sarlis.”

“My brother is a herald. Whatever Sir Rohn might say, I know. You are, are you not, a brother to the King of Tharda?”

Sir Ewen’s eyes remain alight with interest, but his voice is tempered to a well-honed edge. When he speaks, the tempo is paced with consideration. “The first king of that name was certainly prolific, and so there are many men who might claim as much. I rise by my own lights, Sir Meden. Having said that … if you believe what you just said to be true, you are playing a very dangerous game, are you not?”

“When one dices for a crown, one needs allies who are dangerous,” Sir Meden Curo says. “There is no one in Kaldor who is more dangerous than you are, Sir Ewen. But I have the blood to rule Kaldor.”

“And that blood and the sword must be married. Of this I agree. You spoke of the sword bringing ease to the gaining the throne. But to hold the throne, once attained, and to pick your way through the ensuing … debris? You will need the sword for that as well. It will come in good time.” Sir Ewen raises his hand, forestalling remark. “But tell me first, Sir Meden. When last we heard from the forces of Gardiren, they were engaged in fending off, somewhat ineffectually, the pillaging savages from up north. What level of army do you bring to this project?”

“If done correctly, I may not need an army from Gardiren at all. No doubt I do have an interest in having Maldan Harabor and the Earl of Balim bang their heads against each other for a time. The Baron of Ternua, after all, expended himself for Maldan Harabor’s purposes…” He looks down and then back up again. “You killed him, didn’t you? Tarmas Verdreth?”

“Yes,” Sir Ewen says flatly, “and Sir Anzarn Verdreth. Both with my own sword.”

Sir Meden nods and drags in a deep breath. “Well, Ewen?”

Sir Ewen does not stir, his voice modulated and refined. “Sir Meden, we both want the same thing, the same outcome, here. You already know that I intend to hold Vemionshire, and Ternua. When I judge the moment to be correct, I shall name my price to you. I will tell you now, however, in all candor, that I believe it is a price that you will pay, and pay willingly.”

Sir Meden shakes his head in irritation. “Is there some way that I can convince you? Or, if not, can you assure me that the sword will be produced when it needs to be produced?”

Sir Ewen’s response is bland. “Why, Sir Meden. That has always been my plan.”

Curo stands again. This time he does not pace. He refills his goblet from the decanter and takes a thoughtful sip. He turns.

“It is important that we recoup Prehil. Are we agreed that Maldan Harabor has him?”

Sir Ewen nods. “I am convinced of it.”

“Harabor has a retainer.” Sir Meden smiles pedantically. “He obviously has many retainers. The retainer I am referring to is a Sir Hogan Mindar.”

Sir Ewen shakes his head. “I don’t know him.”

Curo nods. “I don’t believe Sir Hogan is entirely loyal to Maldan Harabor, and he just might have been involved in the Prehil incident. If you could find Sir Hogan, we might learn more. Sir Hogan, oddly enough, seems to have a liking for a tavern called The Wolfs Head. He goes there from time to time.” His smile is prim as he sets down his goblet. “I have never been there myself.” He draws himself together to depart. “Sir Ewen, we have shared some confidences this night.”

“Such is the nature of these interesting times, Sir Meden.”

He frowns slightly. “It is important that we understand each other. You are a very dangerous man, Sir Ewen. You are a danger to me, among many others. I feel it important to tell you that I have taken steps that, should your danger become more than I can handle, then I will become dangerous to you.”

Sir Ewen’s smile is expansive. “That, Sir Meden, is my favorite form of equilibrium.”

Sir Meden’s thin mouth is pinched and sour. “Will your sister think so, too, I wonder?” He walks to the door and then turns, his hand upon the latch. “Good night, Sir Ewen. We should meet again soon.”

Sir Ewen’s voice is low and even. “That would be most edifying.”

“I think tomorrow would be a good day. I plan on talking to my lord of Balim. I understand, from various sources, that he would be contacting you.”

Sir Ewen raises an eyebrow. “If that is the case, he has yet to do so.”

Without further comment, Sir Meden turns and departs, closing the door behind him. Sir Ewen immediately rises and steps over to the sideboard. He pours himself another glass. Retaking his seat, he sets the goblet down, and closes his eyes.

The scene in front of Dregald’s eyeballs snaps into view in Sir Ewen’s mind, the heir of Neph striding slightly ahead of him down a night-shrouded Maranos Way toward his father’s house. Sir Ewen watches as Meden draws up just inside the gate and issues Dregald some inaudible orders. Dregald hesitates only briefly, nods, and then points to one of the men-at-arms, who begins walking back up the street toward Haldan Square.

Sir Ewen breaks contact and rises, leaving his drink brimming full at the end of the table. He swiftly descends the staircase and passes through the busy common room. Goreg and Kaelyn, who have been in the process of debating uneasily what they should do upon witnessing Sir Meden sweep through the common room moments before with his retainers in tow and no sign of Sir Ewen, begin to rise from their seats in evident relief.

Sir Ewen gestures them back down. “Stay here.” He sweeps past the doorman and disappears out into the street. Kaelyn and Goreg exchange mystified glances as they slowly subside back into their seats.

Sir Ewen instinctively moves to the side of the street cloaked in the shadows cast by Yael’s full orb filtered by night’s shifting clouds. He picks up his quarry in Haldan Square, the cool evening air assailing his nostrils like a vivid memory of noisome nights in the stews of Golotha. But he has been away from this game for too long, and to his chagrin he loses the man-at-arms before attaining Mangai Square. Without breaking stride, his mind replaying Meden’s remarks, he steers toward Raven Hall.

At the mouth of the alleyway at Hag Court, he pulls out a tuppence. The beggar, knees drawn up and swathed in rags, cocks his head at the sound of the knight’s boots on cobblestones.

“Aye, my lord, such a man passed me way. Into the Tavern he went.” He nods toward the Wolf’s Head. The pennies clink into his bowl.

Responding to a sharp rap upon the door at neighboring Dickon House, the nighttime guard, one of Sir Harth’s men stationed there since Sir Dickon’s posting to Ternua, misbelieves the identity of his evening interlocutor and is inspired to attempt a bit of impromptu cleverness.

“And the Lady Rahel’s child is named …?”

“Stavron.” The voice is like a sword thrust. “Open the damned door!”

The guardsman chokes and fumbles with the latch, and then Sir Ewen is brusquely thrusting past him into the house and wheeling in annoyance at the blanching man.

“I’m very sorry my lord!” he sputters, ashen. “Something I can do for you?”

In a series of brutal, declarative sentences, Sir Ewen makes his wishes known. Another soldier is swiftly summoned, and the newcomer arrives in some confusion, blinking uncertainly at the unanticipated prospect of extra duty late at night.

“Whatever he tells you to do,” the flustered guardsman explains, “do it.”

The newcomer scratches his head. “Whatever?”

“JUST DO IT!”

The second man listens dubiously to his instructions and then departs for the common room of the Wolf’s Head tavern just up the street. When a half hour passes and the man does not return, however, Sir Ewen resigns himself to reconnoitering the place himself, in spite of the likelihood that Sir Meden’s man will recognize him. He finds the soldier from Dickon House at a table drinking, with no sign of Sir Meden’s man-at-arms to be seen within. Sir Ewen gestures the soldier out and goes up to the bar, ignoring the curious hush that falls over the place as he strides through.

“Haven’t seen you in here before,” the barkeep offers laconically while drawing an ale.

“First time in. Name is Sir Ewen Ravinargh.”

“Sir?”

“You do get the occasional knight in here?”

“I do, but it’s not too common.”

“You may be able to do me a small favor.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I need discretion.”

“Okay.”

“I understand a knight named Sir Hogan frequents this place.”

Six silver pennies have appeared on the bar. There is a brief pause and then, without smiling, the bartender shows his teeth. He scoops the pennies over to his side.

“I cannot question where a man chooses to drink,” the bartender drawls, “nor where a man chooses to spend his nights. The man you ask about sometime drinks here, and he sometimes spends his nights over at Perla’s brothel. The Busted Nut.”

Outside the Busted Nut, a patron is bent over the communal well, vomiting his dinner into the neighborhood water supply. Inside the brothel, Sir Ewen endures the obligatory lull in conviviality which seizes an establishment of this sort when its precincts are violated by a member of the wrong social class. In the center of the common room is a fire pit, beyond which is a bar against the far wall. Everything stops and hangs in the balance, raucous chatter subsiding, until Sir Ewen takes a seat at a bench and orders an ale. The room relaxes. In response to Sir Ewen’s inquiry, the serving wench gestures that yes, Perla is in tonight, she’ll come see you …

While he waits, the knight endures the blandishments of a philosophical drunk, who suggests that this might be Ewen’s “first time”.

“Unhappy with your life, unhappy with your wife ...”

Sir Ewen eyes him. “There aren’t too many things left for me that would be the first time.”

The drunk is impressed. “That’s not something I can say. Some of Perla’s girls will try …”

“Got one you like best?”

“Unlike you, I’ll take what I can. They say Trellya is something special.”

“I appreciate the tip.” Sir Ewen holds up a penny to get the attention of the serving wench. “An ale for my friend and I.”

“An ale for me and two for my benefactor,” the drunk corrects him. As the girl departs, a cloud of suspicion crosses his weathered face. “What brings someone like you to a place like this? Gentlemen like to wallow, I understand, but you seem to be here having a drink. That’s what confuses me.”

Sir Ewen puts down his tankard and fixes the man with a cold stare. “Some of us gentlemen need to keep our business to ourselves, so you’ll have to stay confused.”

The drunk purses his lips and nods. “Man like you would stick a knife in me at a moment’s notice. And I don’t need that.”

As if in concurrence, Sir Ewen terminates the conversation by rising abruptly from the bench and walking past the fire pit without looking back, abandoning his tankard on the table. Moments later he allows the older woman standing behind the bar to draw him a fresh ale. He eyes her as he takes a swallow. “How do I speak to Perla?”

The woman’s dark eyes glitter at the rhetorical opportunity. “With great respect, dear, with great respect.”

Sir Ewen grins briefly. “I am good with my manners, I can manage that.” He introduces himself. “I have a problem you may be able to help me with. I would like very much to resolve this problem in a way that avoids any disruption to your establishment.”

Perla is matter-of-fact. “I’m all ears.”

“I need to have a chat with one of your patrons. A Sir Hogan Mindar.”

Now it is her turn to smile. “He told me someone would be asking for him. Would you be that person?”

Sir Ewen grimaces wryly. “It sure seems like that, doesn’t it?”

Perla laughs.

“How much is it worth...”

She cuts him off. “I am not interested in your money, Sir Ewen. I am interested in your custom.” She appears to be enjoying herself now. Perla goes on to suggest that Sir Ewen steer his men to frequent her establishment, a proposition to which Sir Ewen agrees. She nods in contentment, and gives concise instructions on how to find Sir Mindar amongst the rooms upstairs, adding that, if asked, she will disavow any knowledge of how Sir Ewen managed to find his room.

“He’s living there,” she adds, “and is expecting something different from what he’s going to get. Have a good night, Sir Ewen. I hope this will be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

Above, Sir Ewen finds the correct door and lets himself in. The man in the bed, unclothed, gives a cry of approbation at the appearance of a handsome man on his threshold which fades to puzzlement before becoming guarded alarm as the intruder closes the door and seizes a chair, carefully planting it between the bed and the door before lowering himself slowly into it, all the while watching Mindar with a cold, steady gaze.

“Who are you …?”

“Ewen Ravinargh.”

His mouth twists in bitter irony. “I was going to go see you …”

“I saved you the trouble.”

He nods, wary. “Um, can I dress?”

“I would prefer it.”

Sir Ewen watches the knight as he retrieves some clothes left on a chest at the foot of the bed, moving somewhat unsteadily. While dressing, Sir Hogan contrives to maneuver his scabbarded sword to within reach of where he ultimately seats himself on the edge of the bed. Sir Ewen takes this in without comment.

After Sir Hogan is settled, his visitor says, “You sound like you are from Kanday.”

“As do you, Sir Ewen.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Several years, now. Four or five years.”

“You have been here longer than me. I heard you are working for Earl of Osel.”

Sir Hogan erupts from the bed and curses the Earl’s name, breathing heavily with emotion while Sir Ewen considers him impassively. He then, just as quickly, subsides upon the bed and stares into a corner of the room, his voice low and sarcastic. “He treated me perfectly. Just right, like I was his son.”

“Go on.”

Sir Hogan speaks in a subdued murmur, and begins to recount his days years ago serving the noble house of the Earl of Selvos. He continues to gaze distantly into the corner, avoiding Sir Ewen’s inspection as he speaks of having nurtured a regard for a daughter of the Earl of Selvos, and acknowledges that his hopes had likely been in vain from the very start. The war, however, destroyed those hopes, as well as Clan Chahryn, whose line was ended. His voice grows caustic as he speaks of the legions of the Arch-fiend marching across the countryside. Sir Hogan made his way to Coranan, becoming a caravan guard and eventually making his way to Kaldor.

Impassioned again, he abruptly reaches out and grasps the front of Sir Ewen’s tunic and leans in, his breath reeking of drink. Unmoving, Sir Ewen glances down at the fistful of garment captured in Sir Hogan’s grasp, then slowly raises his cold gray eyes to the other man, one eyebrow raised.

“Once I was here, I thought I would be free!” He lets go of Sir Ewen’s tunic and subsides again in disgust. “I was not free. Not free … It was just at the will of fate that I met a lord. And I thought, maybe this would be what I am looking for ...” He stares at the floorboards. “For a long time, I looked at what was happening and said, this isn’t quite what I think it is. But in the end, no.” He looks up, tilting somewhat where he sits upon the bed. “Did I make any sense?”

“Some.”

“That’s the nature of the thing. I hate what I have become. It is only in these last few days that I have stopped what I have become.”

He reaches to the end table at the head of the bed and pours himself some of the alcoholic beverage. He looks at Sir Ewen. “I have served Sir Maldan for years, and I thought … hoped, that he was the answer.”

“Sir Maldan is many things, but he is not a virtuous lord.”

“No, he is not.” Sir Hogan twists about and begins rummaging in the bedclothes behind him until he finds something buried beneath the covers. He pulls out a carefully tied noose, fashioned of decent quality rope, and places it in front of him.

“I think this is my bride,” he announces. Sir Ewen takes this, coolly eyeing the noose. “I cannot live as I have been.”

Sir Ewen gives a grimace of disgust. “So why not redeem yourself instead?”

“There is no redemption. No way back.”

Sir Ewen sighs. “Sir Hogan, you said you were planning to come see me. I warrant you were planning to tell me something.”

He nods. “It is so hard to leave the room …”

“I need to know where Prehil Firith was taken.”

“Sir Prehil is a virtuous man!” His face lights up briefly. “A good man. He was taken by me … I was in command, but I realized it wasn’t for me … Sir Chadrin has him.” His shoulders slump. “I don’t know where. Sir Chadrin was there when we took him.”

Sir Ewen scowls. “Surely you know from your time serving Osel where he might hide Sir Prehil?”

“He may be Eastside, or he may be by the Heru gate. I don’t know.”

Sir Ewen tries a different tack. “You have broken with Osel formally?”

Sir Hogan buries his face in his hands. “I guess I have. He doesn’t know that.”

Sir Ewen shrugs. “He’s a bad man. But it seems to me there are ways out of your current predicament. Serve a man who is trying to do right thing.”

“Yes, but … would I not serve better in Sir Maldan’s …?” His voice trails off. He had seemed to brighten and rally for an instant, but just as quickly he slumps and becomes listless again, shaking his head bitterly. His eyes glassy and unseeing, his fingers find the knot of the noose in his lap and close upon it like a lifeline. His voice is flat and emotionless when he speaks again. He reaches back.

“You will find Sir Prehil with Sir Chadrin Benere.”
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Matt
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