Session One Hundred Thirty-Three - October 15, 2016

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

Session One Hundred Thirty-Three - October 15, 2016

Postby Matt » Mon Nov 14, 2016 12:11 pm

Halane 5, 732

Sir Baris Tyrestal washes down the morning’s final morsel of pork sausage with a hasty quaff of ale. He buckles on his scabbard and steps across the cold, rain-swept alleyway separating Raven Hall from the domicile of Aethel Atan. He knocks, and waits impatiently in the pelting downpour.

Sir Baris had been pleased, upon arriving punctually for breakfast at Lord Ewen’s residence this morning, to find Sir Aeomund Legith, newly returned from Ternua, at the table, seated beside squire Petros. The knight of the Order of the Lady of Paladins had given his clipped report on the doings at Ternua while helping himself to heaping portions of Lord Ewen’s daily, early-morning largesse. Sir Aeomund predicted that the palisade should be complete by spring, confirmed that Sir Rollard had returned from her ladyship’s errands, indicated that no sign of Sir Mirald Harabor had been detected, and presented Lord Ewen with a report on the Ternuan and Thardan troops presently at the Baron’s disposal. He had wordlessly added Sir Blaka Pulgarty’s thirteen men to this list when apprised of their hire, nodded in curt acknowledgment upon being introduced to Arva of Kerryn, and took no evident interest in the departure of Kaelyn of Aletta from the household. Sir Baris owns that he likes Sir Aeomund Legith, but he can’t say the man is exactly the life of the party at the breakfast board.

Eventually, the door opens on a monosyllabic black pillar of muscle standing before him: Numeq. Speaking over the roar of the rain drumming on the cobblestones, Sir Baris asks to speak to the master of the house, or to his guest, Astaroc.

“No,” the black pillar intones deeply.

Sir Baris, nonplussed, eyes the giant up and down for a beat and then nods and returns to Raven Hall. Irritated, he begins scavenging about the place for writing materials, wondering how Kaelyn could have had the temerity to leave the household just when his love life was finally heating up. Finding himself in Walin’s chamber, he seizes upon an ink pot and quill and tests his calligraphy on some useless looking lists of numbers, marring the household account books with inky scribblings. Tearing a blank half page of foolscap from the neat columns of figures at its top, he sits down and awkwardly adopts what he believes passes for a scholarly, scrivener’s posture at the writing desk. With a spattering flourish he manages a “Dear Aethel” salutation, but things quickly devolve into what a more literate reader might recognize as unadulterated gibberish. With great satisfaction, thinking the epistle to be the height of courtesy, he seals the letter with a blob of wax and looks for a kitchen servant to deliver what he believes to be a request for an appointment with Lord Ewen’s neighbor Aethel Atan.

Sir Aeomund, meanwhile, has stalked swiftly across the street and around to the gated entrance of Balim House, where he presents himself and is recognized. The guardsman, used to standing at his post during Harnic rainstorms, is laconic.

“Knight of the Lady of Paladins. Here to see Sir Scina?”

“No, I’m here to see the falconer.”

The guard looks mildly surprised, and shrugs. “He’s out back. Just because it’s raining, they still exercise the birds, you know.”

As Sir Aeomund walks around to the back of the mansion, stepping around churning puddles, he squints about him, assessing the posture of the household. He guesses that perhaps a company of men are, as is typical, present. Around back, a couple of servants are collecting the last of the vegetables, oblivious to the downpour. Tromath of Davold is exercising a bird, and appears acutely uncomfortable to discover the knight in his midst.

“Oh. Sir Aeomund. How are you.”

“Fine. I’ve come to check on the progress of our pigeon endeavor.”

Tromath is downcast. “The news is not good.”

Sir Aeomund takes this in, and then looks about the yard for a few long moments while Tromath shifts on his feet.

“I gather the pressing weight of your duties prevented you from passing this news to me earlier, instead of waiting for me to come to your door.”

Tromath gulps. “I’m glad you did! I didn’t know how to reach you.”

Sir Aeomund frowns at this evasion, glancing pointedly in the direction of Raven Hall, which is scarcely across the street.

Tromath tries to explain. “Lord Balim got wind of the pigeons, and said quite clearly that any pigeon that I procured was going to end up on his table. In short, he forbade me to pursue the matter.”

The knight purses his lips in irritation. “I find that interesting. I thought that you ‘knew a guy’, not that you were doing this yourself.”

“Um, that fell through ... The fellow I was going to purchase the pigeons from was killed in some battle not far from the city.”

Sir Aeomund barks a laugh. His reply is curt. “Then I believe this concludes our business. I hope everything goes well with the milkmaid who lives next door to me.” He turns on his heel and stomps back across the muddy yard. The falconer’s expression, lingering for a time on puzzlement, gradually transforms to naked alarm.

For some reason, before he rounds the corner of the building, Sir Aeomund looks back over his shoulder. From an open window on the second floor, Sir Scina Dariune leans against the stone of the window embrasure, arms crossed, silently watching the knight below. Neither man offers a gesture of acknowledgement, and Sir Aeomund Legith turns, rounds the corner, and is gone.


Sir Baris finds the yard at Firith House packed with tents full of troops bivouacked on the rain-sodden lawn. He asks an evident sentry whether the heir of Kobe is within, but the guard explains that Sir Prehil went to the stables earlier to ride. Sir Baris nods, leaves, and steers straight for the House of Courtesans. There he is greeted there by name by one of the girls. He asks after Sir Prehil.

“He’s interviewing a client.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Can I get you something?”

“A drink.” And then, upon further consideration, he grins. “And someone to drink with.”


Cekiya and Lord Ewen step next door to the home, and de facto prison, of Tarien Bastune, Baron of Kolorn. The guard offers a crooked smile when asked how matters fare.

“Well, m’lord, some days I don’t know which direction I’m guarding from, if you take my meaning.”

Within, the Dowager Baroness is in the hall taking her afternoon constitutional with the Lady Irla Labarn.

“Why, Lord Ewen! Have you come to address the little matter we discussed?”

The Baron of Ternua sketches a slight bow in the direction of the ladies. “I have indeed, Lady Peresta.”

“I will summon my son posthaste!”

Moments later, Tarien Bastune shuffles sullenly into the room.

“Sir Ewen ... “ His mother harrumphs and swats at him. “Ah, Lord Ewen ...”

The Baron of Ternua suggests that perhaps he and the son might step aside to have a word, but the matriarch demurs, sweeping Lady Irla before her.

“Oh no, we can vacate! We’ll retire above to listen – er, let you have some privacy ...”

Tarien watches them depart, casts a slight frown at Cekiya, who is prowling about the periphery of the hall, and then turns dolefully to his soi-disant benefactor.

“Mother tells me you killed old Tarmas Verdreth.”

Lord Ewen smiles evenly. “Sir Anzarn as well.”

“Now, he was a friend of mine ... He always cheated ...”

“We must discuss you taking the business of your barony in hand. The harvest is upon us.”

Bastune’s torpor is lifted only slightly by ironical surprise. “Am I to be released from house arrest? I know I am not supposed to call it that, but that is what it feels like.”

“Well, doing so does cast things in a rather negative light. Your safety has been a paramount concern for me, as it will continue to be. I have it in mind, Tarien, that you should return to Kolorn to take matters in hand, with a suitable escort of course to ensure your safety. I imagine Lord Vemion will expect the feudal dues to be paid up.”

Tarien sighs, but appears to have thought some issues through during his confinement.

“The rumors were that my father was deeply in debt, although to my knowledge there is no actual paperwork documenting those debts. Well, at least, none that would survive contact with fire ...”

Lord Ewen complacently nods, and Tarien continues, brightening momentarily.

“So, the barony is unencumbered to the best of my knowledge.” He frowns. “Unless the debt was owed directly to Vemion ... and I were to actually admit the debt exists, which I don’t.”

“Have you been able to follow political developments while we’ve been seeing to your safety, Tarien?”

“I’m afraid not. That would require talking to my mother, which I tend to find very few moments in the day to do.” He glances over again at Cekiya, who appears to be trimming the fringes of a large tapestry with various weapons she has found mounted on the wall, a halberd and several swords, the blades of which are generally meeting her approval judging from the assorted bits and tassels littering the floor.

Recalling Tarien’s attention to their conversation, Lord Ewen outlines Harabor’s summary execution for treason, as well as the potential prospect of further military conflict among the nobility. He asserts that the priority for Kolorn at this time must be ensuring that the barony’s harvest and feudal payments are handled appropriately, followed by attention given to raising some retinue of men to contribute to a defense of the lower Kald region from any incursion by Osel’s forces from the east.

Bastune is not particularly sanguine, his father having lost half of the Kolorn force of arms at the Ovendel Field debacle, and then a further company of men in Vemion’s abortive attempt to assassinate Ewen at the house of Sir Danyes Bernan.

He sighs. “I might be able to scrape together a dozen men. The keep is held by five, I think. I might be able to raise twenty at the most.” He shrugs. “There’s not much else in the barony.”

Cekiya, pausing in her attempts to improve the margins of the tapestry, peers upward at a knothole in the woodwork above, narrowing her eyes. She stares for a few moments, and then returns to her work.

Lord Ewen is speaking. “My men will take the lead. Sir Blaka Pulgarty will escort you to Ternua, where Sir Dickon Parketh will take charge of your security detail and deliver you the rest of the way to Kolorn. Sir Dickon and his men will remain there for a time, assisting you as necessary.”

“What am I to do about the feudal dues? I assume they might ... not be sent to Minarsas?”

Lord Ewen considers. “We would not wish to deny the Earl of Vemion his rightful due, of course, but just now the roads are not safe for travel due to the threat of Osel’s forces coming out of the southeast.”

“True,” Bastune allows, “One wouldn’t want to risk highwaymen, after all. I might need to move about the barony once there,” he adds hopefully. “I will need to take stock of the knights killed at Ovendel, and who has inherited and such.”

Surprisingly, Lord Ewen agrees, although the Baron of Kolorn is left with the impression that this Sir Dickon fellow will be providing close security during any excursions. As the meeting draws to a close, the Baron of Ternua claps Bastune on the shoulder and gains easy access to his undefended mind, deftly Implanting a suggestion that it will be in Kolorn’s best interest to remain loyal to Lord Ewen and to rally to his standard when the word comes.

“Be ready to travel in the morning,” Lord Ewen instructs as he prepares to depart.

“Any chance of leaving tonight?” Bastune suggests eagerly.

Lord Ewen takes the measure of the cloistered baron, and smiles thinly. “I think you will be more rested in the morning.”


Sir Baris, having started with one drinking companion, is now regaling a number of working girls with an impromptu seminar on the finer points of drinking ale. He has come to the portion of the lecture devoted to appreciation of the particular taste and texture of various local brews. His purse, alas, is empty, his accustomed sixty pence daily allotment having been exhausted during the discussion of tankard lifting techniques.

Sir Prehil, emerging from private instruction of a different sort, bellows, “Baris! You’re doing it wrong!”

Sir Baris grins and lurches upright, the girls forgotten. “Prehil, the man I have been looking for!”

“I appear to be only man you found!” Sir Prehil nods to the whores. “Ladies, take the ale and leave me one. Sir Baris and I are going to discuss advanced theory!”

Moments later, settling into a seat with a brimming drink in hand, the heir of Kobe lowers his voice. “So, my father says everything went well in Heru. But you didn’t bag Kornuska.”

“He’s a sly one.”

“The Harabors have been sly for years, but yes, to my mind the younger one is the sly one. Mirald is more obvious.” He chuckles. “Not like us.”

“How is your father, by the way?”

“Well, his eye has been itchy. Happens to him sometimes.”

“I mean, has he met with the Queen?”

“He was supposed to go to her today. He’s not back, so I don’t know how it went. She said to take the keep, and now she’s got it on her hands and probably doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“Well, she should have sent someone less competent, then.”

“Ah, but she wanted my father to fail, so she could act against him! The thing is, my father’s not incompetent. I do know this – my father will refuse to take on any role, constable or holder of the keep or anything like that, unless she grants the thing to him outright.”

“It’s a fine castle, but it could use some work on its fortifications.”

Sir Prehil laughs. “I heard that. My father said Ewen got a man inside. Must be a midget!”

Sir Baris nods. “Yeah … he’s got someone quite small and … feisty.” Inexplicably, Sir Baris feels his jaw begin to throb.

“I hope he commends the fellow in all the right ways!” Sir Prehil looks down at his ale. “Are we done? Back to basic theory?”

Sir Baris hoists his mug in assent.

Sir Prehil leans back in his chair and addresses the rafters. “Okay, girls! Come on back!”


Arva of Kerryn, having attired herself for an evening of dining and selected a mantle to stave off the elements, is escorted by a man at arms to the Iron Bell as recommended by Lord Ewen. As she enters the yard of the establishment, the soldier peels off to join some other bodyguards sheltering from the rain and shooting dice. The young woman steps up to the entrance. A letter had been sent earlier from Raven Hall placing Arva on Lord Ewen’s account.

Arva scans the well-appointed interior of the Iron Bell, taking its measure with a practiced eye. Five private, round tables adorn the interior of the establishment, three of them presently occupied. A pair of older ladies has the table in the back corner. One middle aged man is dining alone, and a well-dressed older couple occupies a third table and are not talking to each other. Arva smiles pleasantly as Rosak of Kass, the proprietor, steps over and introduces himself, asking if her intent is to dine.

He shows Arva to the table closest to the door. “I don’t believe you have been here before.”

Arva nods agreeably. “I am new to town. Arva of Kerryn.”

“Ah.” Rosak appears to reconsider placing her so close to the entrance. “Why don’t you sit at this table?” He genteelly holds the chair as she reseats herself.

Arva offers some polite observations regarding his establishment, which seems to please Rosak, and she mentions presently staying just up the way from one of his competitors.

“Ah, yes. Some boisterous gentlemen do prefer Galopea’s Feast, I understand, but we like to think we offer the opportunity to dine in elegance, and offer a better wine list as well. For instance, this evening we are offering a wonderful Melderyni shenap, just came in this summer. It is a white, which some are not used to, but you will find it has the slightest little fizz to it.” A serving girl arrives with a tray. “Here is a selection of local cheeses. Let me know when you are ready.”

In due time Arva places an order for her meal and lingers over the slightly effervescent wine, discreetly listening in on her neighbors. The couple, evidently married, continue their meal in bland silence. The two older ladies, by contrast, are speaking loudly, discussing their plans for the winter; apparently neither of them are leaving the city or going anywhere. One refers at one point to “Troda,” while the other remarks about “none of the children are in the house anymore.”

The middle-aged man eating alone has noticed her notice. Arva flashes him a shy smile.

He pats the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Surely nothing is as fascinating as the words overheard of others.”

“When you are new in town, everything is fascinating,” she observes, carefully selecting an accent for the occasion.

“New to Tashal, are you?”

“I am.”

“Well, since it’s not the season, and you do not look like a merchant ...” he begins mischievously. “No, let me guess! There are only three possibilities.” He studies her intently. “You are a renegade noblewoman running from an arranged marriage. Or, you are a jongleur, a thespian, a harper – in short, an entertainer. Or you are a spy.”

Arva laughs. “Correct in your second guess.”

He feigns remorse. “How boring. I was hoping for the first or third.”

“They would make for better stories.”

He sets his napkin down. “Well now, talking across tables is so tedious. Would you care to join me, or would it be less obvious if I joined you?”

At this point one of the older ladies breaks in from the rear of the room. “Fago, you join her. It will prove less tedious for all of us.”

Unfazed, he picks up a glass and relocates himself to Arva’s table. “Well, we have been partially introduced. I am Sir Fago Rheeder, a physician of sorts to the Earl of Balim, who allows me from time to time to practice upon his august person. Mostly when he is in the next room.”

Arva shows her dimples. “I am Arva of Kerryn, recently a member of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

“Ah, they cannot be from here,” his eyes widen. “They must be from Coranan.” Gesturing to the table in the rear, he adds, “The lady who spoke up, who gave me such a delightful companion, is the Lady Donesyn Dariune, the Earl’s sister.”

“... I can hear every word you are saying, Fago.”

“And her companion is the Lady Cheselyne Hosath. If you listen carefully, you will hear it told that she is the first lady of Tashal. But you must listen carefully, for no one else will.” He winks.

Arva, with becoming humility, mentions being surrounded by her betters. “I may be socially over my head. I came here to get new material for songs and plays, and to look up an old acquaintance named Sir Ewen, but I have found that he has become a baron.”

Sir Fago smiles. “I have watched his star rise. When I heard that he had become a baron, I felt it imperative that I should reach out and have him for dinner, but of course he is so far elevated above my station.”

“Oh, but I would never refuse any such invitation ...”

“Well, I should begin planning immediately. It seems Lord Ewen is keeping better company these days.”

The food arrives, and Arva continues her flirtation. Some time later, Sir Fago insists, “You must permit me to get the tab for this meal.”

“That is quite gracious.”

He inclines forward in a slight, seated bow. “I am unclear on one small detail. Did you say you are a friend of Lord Ternua?”

“An acquaintance, I would say. My twin brother, with whom he traveled, is his friend.”

“How fascinating. We must talk about the oddity of twins, but we should save some topics for next time. Have you found suitable lodgings?”

“Lord Ternua was fond of my brother. When his scribe recently departed, he allowed me to take a position within his household with very light duties.”

“Ah ...” He inclines his head toward the ceiling. “Lady Cheselyne?”

“Sir Fago.”

“How would describe Lord Ternua’s house?”

She sniffs from the back of the room. “A great pile of an eyesore which must be torn down immediately.”

Sir Fago leans toward Arva and shares sotto voce that this is a running joke, and that the lady feels that way about many of the residences in the city.

“Now, it would be a delight for me to see you again. Perhaps I could send an invitation if that would not be too forward? It pains me that a prior engagement calls me. If it wasn’t for that, nothing could summon me away from our conversation.”

Arva is gracious. “An errand which is worthwhile is most important.”

Sir Fago rises, bows, turns to the elderly ladies, and then departs.

Lady Cheselyne is still talking, but Lady Donesyn raises a finger and turns toward Arva. “A little unsolicited advice: sometimes the honey is adulterated.”

Arva is standing now and Rosak glides over, indicating discreetly that Sir Fago took care of her entire bill, adding that he hopes to see her here again soon.

She downs her wine and swiftly departs, motioning for the man at arms in the torchlit yard to stay put. He appears startled at this, but shrugs and goes back to his game. Arva emerges from the gate of the Iron Bell in time to see Sir Fago’s figure disappearing into the nighttime gloom up Querina Road in the direction of Mangai Square. Gathering her mantle about her against the drizzling rain, she slips up the street, stealthily remaining in the shadows. As Sir Fago passes by an alleyway on the right hand side of Querina Road, a male figure emerges. At first, Arva takes him to be a cutpurse, but the two men immediately fall into conversation. The other man then goes back into the alley and Sir Fago continues on to Mangai Square.

Arva passes through Mangai Square, maintaining discreet contact as her quarry heads down Medrik Way, passes the well, and turns up the next street heading toward the castle. She tails Sir Fago as he walks straight up to the towering wall, turns left twice, and finally enters the second building on the right. As she draws near, she can see that this is obviously a tavern, the two story building having its lower portion partially open to the street, with a long bar running along the back length under the overhanging second floor.

Sir Fago disappears from Arva’s line of sight, so she creeps around until she can see him again. He is speaking with a man in a chair next to the bar, and she is able to catch that they may have exchanged something. Sir Fago then makes his way all the way to the other end of the bar. As he does so, a young man gets up, walks over to sit next to the physician, and pulls a pouch out of his pocket. He makes a big display of upending wooden game tokens onto the bar. Sir Fago sets one game piece down at one end of the space between them, and boy sets a bunch of them on the other end, and Arva concludes that they are about to play a game she knows as ‘wolves and geese.’ The two chat over the course of their game.

Meanwhile, safely sheltered in an alcove where she can watch dry and unobserved, Arva discerns that the other people at the bar fall into two broad categories: some look like river people, sailors from a talbar, fishermen and such. Other drinkers tend to be functionaries, many with ink-stained fingers, older but well-fed. Every now and then someone goes behind the bar and disappears into the rear recesses of the building, while periodically others come out. People occasionally speak to the man in the chair, and each time something passes hands.

Sir Fago wins his game, which evidently causes a bit of a stir, as people gather around and remark on this development. One man loudly claims, “See, he can be beat! He doesn’t cheat!” while another scoffs at this and angrily exclaims, “Ah, you’re full of it!”

Sir Fago clasps the boy on the shoulder in congratulations, turns to the scoffer, and apparently offers to buy him a drink. Arva is not sure, but she thinks she sees Sir Fago palm something from his pocket and put it into the scoffer’s libation. They both down their drinks as one and then stand, the scoffer seeming visibly unsteady on his feet of a sudden. Sir Fago clasps him around the shoulder, as if bucking him up, and turns him away from the bar while saying something into his ear. The pair begin to walk directly toward Arva.

The actress easily curls into a semblance of a homeless person sleeping, hoping that the dim light will conceal the relative finery of her mantle. Intent on assisting his unsteady companion, Sir Fago passes by without incident. Arva uncurls and follows him as he reverses course back toward Medrik Way. The physician leads the scoffer down Torastra Way one full block to the corner of Torastra and Chelebin, and approaches a townhouse on the corner. Sir Fago heads straight to the third door, jostles the scoffer to make sure he doesn’t collapse completely, and raps heavily twice. The door opens, he speaks some words to the figure within, and then enters the townhouse with his staggering companion. The door closes.

The windows to the townhouse are all shuttered. Arva tries to listen but only hears muffled voices receding, perhaps climbing upward. She waits a full hour and nothing happens, so she decides to return to Raven Hall.

As she approaches the home of the Baron of Ternua, she spies her man at arms escort hanging nervously about outside the building, apparently reluctant to enter the house without his charge, who he has now lost track of for several hours. He appears enormously relieved to see her.

“I’ll share my winnings with you if you don’t mention this,” he suggests, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“Sure,” Arva agrees with agreeable insouciance, shaking the rain from her mantle as she steps up to the door.
He surrenders six pence.


Sir Baris, returning from the House of Courtesans, having exhausted his initial sixty pence stipend and then run up a tab twice that amount, returns to his quarters at the Elf and Dwarf to discover Tora of Sordel there. She has been waiting for him for almost two days.

Seeing his condition, however, she wisely insists that her business can wait until morning.

“Good night, my lord.”


Sir Aeomund goes to the temple of Save K’nor to use their library. He is granted access by the Ibarti, Derenli Arvoult.

“Sir Aeomund, there are no lectures this evening.”

The knight acknowledges that he know this, and has come to avail himself of their treatises on feudal law and precedent.

“It is a trifle irregular, since you are not an adherent of the Sage of Heaven, but to honor your mother, who is a wise lady, you may certainly have access to our library.”

The knight explains that, while the Laranian library is replete with books detailing the history of Kaldor, the Save K’Norian dissertations are more likely to focus on political and feudal theory and the limitations of precedent, which is his current interest.

The Ibarti receives this with equanimity. “The Laranian theology is more focused in that way, if you will. You,” she inclines her head toward Sir Aeomund, “are part of the ruling class, just as Peonians are the working class. There are those who work, those who fight, and those who pray. There are also those who think. We are the thinkers, and as a result our interests, libraries, and scholars range far and wide on any topic imaginable.” Seemingly pleased with her little lecture, she makes to rise, but is unable to resist adding, with a twinkle in her eye, “We are so open minded, we risk falling into it.” She laughed at her little joke.

“Ah,” Sir Aeomund observes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to preach.” She simpers. “Occupational hazard.”

“The Laranian church writings are chronological. I am looking for an analysis of the rights of the nobility, the baronies, vis-a-vis the crown.”

“A fascinating question, and so Laranian of you. You might find our theses somewhat abstract for your taste, but you should find plenty of material, and might even find the answer to your question!”


That evening, Lord Ewen arranges to send his squire Goreg down to Ternua with detailed instructions for Sir Dickon Parketh. Sir Blaka is tasked with conveying Tarien Bastune as far as Ternua and then remaining there, assisting with the defense of the river crossing should forces from Osel attempt to march.

The Baron then endeavors to clairvoy Sir Kornuska Harabor. His mind’s eye finds its quarry, and Lord Ewen finds himself viewing a well-appointed room, with a large tapestry in view depicting allegorical scenes from hunts arranged in separate panels. In each case, the hunt in question is for a stag or some other creature, but the symbols clearly represent the hunt for love. Lord Ewen, taking in the tableau through the other man’s eyes, finds himself panning across the room slowly, the effect seeming unnatural somehow. He sees a goblet, focuses on the liquid in it, and then consumes the contents. The view rises to encompass a man in the room, leaning over a table. He has a sharp face, drawn down and flat, with narrowed, uninteresting eyes. He is talking while pounding the table in front of the viewer. Sir Kornuska’s hand comes out and gestures, and Lord Ewen has the impression that Kornuska has been drinking, and might be talking from time to time.

Eventually, the vision fades, and Lord Ewen rises from his chair and paces. The other man he saw, he is quite certain, was Mirald Harabor.


Halane 6, 732

The pelting rain continues relentlessly at dawn, coming down harder even than the day before. To Tora of Sordel, the early morning hours at the Elf and Dwarf seem a perfect time to speak with her lord, Sir Baris Tyrestal, of his financial situation.

She raps at his door repeatedly. From within, she is eventually rewarded with a groan.

“Are you decent,” she calls. “Alone?”

“Alone.”

“Good enough.” Tora comes in as Sir Baris wraps a blanket around himself and attempts to sit up. Tora is balancing a tray on one arm. She puts it down and reaches behind her and pulls out a sheaf of papers.

“It is time for math.”

“Hold on,” the knight croaks, alarmed, peering through the shutters at the deluge outside. “We’re doing accounting?”

“Yes, my lord. The crepuscular dawn is upon us. It is time.”

“The morning is for peasants, not for me!” he protests.

She changes his train of thought by dumping a heavily laden purse upon the bed.

“My lord, in that purse is ten pounds.”

Sir Baris gapes at it, clearly impressed. Tora sighs.

“It represents two thirds of the profit from your manor this year. I have kept one third for the manor’s privy purse, but it is your money.”

From the look on his face, Sir Baris is clearly trying to compare this trove to last year’s meager earnings. Tora continues.

“I have also been tasked to deliver the feudal dues to Inbernel.” She crosses her arms and frowns. “My lord, you do offer knightly service to your liege, do you not? You are at his side, your sword at his command? Do you receive any credit for this, my lord, any compensation?

Sir Baris considers the question. “Pork sausage.”

Tora is silent for a moment. “I was presented with a feudal dues tally of £40.”

“My peasants to me?”

“No, you to your lord.”

Sir Baris grapples with the situation. “Now, how do numbers work, Tora? Higher is bigger, right?”

“Yes, my lord. The fifteen or so pounds ... ten is two-thirds of fifteen ...”

“It is? I have fifteen?”

“Fractions are so revolutionary.” She decides to take it from the top. “The profits of your manor amount to £55, of which forty of them go to your liege, and fifteen go to you. That is, if you are not providing knight’s service.”

“But I am!” Sir Baris starts to catch on.

“Yes, my lord.

“So I own Ewen £40?”

“But you are only receiving …”

“Pork sausage.”

Tora takes a deep breath. “It has come to my attention that the prior holder of the manor rendered no service, so the £40 paid was scutage. This practice was carried over when the manor was granted to you. The matter should probably have been examined when the manor was accepted. You are providing service and scutage at the same time, making your lord very wealthy in the process.”

“So, I’m double paying Ewen?”

“No, the £40 is appropriate for the acreage of the manor. But your service appears to be uncompensated.”

“So, what do we do?”

“You must face your liege.”

“You’re not going to do that?”

“No, my lord. This £10 bag could be thirty, but it is entirely up to you.” When Sir Baris’s eyes widen, she cautions, “But not this year, my lord. Next year. This year’s accounts are balanced.”

“Oh.” Sir Baris gives the bag of coins a heft, producing a satisfying jingle. The cloud lifts from his brow. “Um, thanks, Tora, for bringing this to my attention. One of those reasons you are better at your job than I would be. You are much better than me at this! I will find a way to thank you.”

“I thank you for your kind words, my lord. I know you would not have thought of this.”

She rises, planting her fists upon her hips as she surveys the squalid quarters. “I have delivered your dues, and unless I hear differently from you, in ten days I will deliver your scutage to Inbernel. Now, I must return to Selepan.”


At Raven Hall, Sir Baris is uncharacteristically late to the breakfast board, throwing the staff into a bit of a flutter, as they depend upon Sir Baris’s metronomic invariance at initiating the group plunder of Lord Ewen’s larder in timing their delivery of the trays to the table. In hushed tones they debate whether to mention his failure to appear to Lord Ewen, but all returns to normalcy in the household when Sir Baris finally bursts in, breathless.

Sir Aeomund, laconic, washes down a mouthful of food before speaking. “There’s no more pork sausage. We ate it all.”

Aghast, Sir Baris looks to the servants, who play along for a beat but then nod and grin. Yes, there is indeed more, and they are relieved to go and fetch some. Sir Baris is well regarded at Raven Hall, not least due to his evident appreciation of their labors in the kitchen.

Arva of Kerryn, taking this all in with interest, returns her cutlery to the table, gently clearing her throat.

“Gentlemen, I met a Sir Fago Rheeder at the Iron Bell last evening, and later followed him to a tavern called The Wolf’s Den ...”

She goes on to describe the interesting events she witnessed there, culminating in Sir Fago drugging and waylaying another patron and taking him via a circuitous route to a townhouse near Mangai Square.

Cekiya, intent upon eviscerating a loaf of bread with a butter knife, doesn’t look up, but softly announces in her singsong child’s voice, “That’s Thistle’s house.”

Lord Ewen, who until now has been paying negligible attention to the conversation, looks up sharply and fixes his gaze upon Cekiya. He turns to Arva.

“That would be Cekiya’s term for my wife.”

He places his napkin on the table and excuses himself, climbing the stairs to his study above. In short order he returns and resumes his seat at the table, handing a ring of keys to Cekiya.

“Find out what is going on over there.”


Cekiya and Arva both go, with Arva intending to investigate Thilisa’s quarters while Cekiya deals with the other parts of the building. Arva points out the door Sir Fago used to enter the building the evening before.

Cekiya knocks. A tall, dark-haired girl, tending towards plump, opens the door.

“What’s the problem? Are you sick? Come on in, have a seat.” She ushers Cekiya over to some chairs in what is apparently the dining room.

“Who is the doctor here,” Cekiya asks, craning her neck to look around. “Are you the doctor?”

The girl laughs. “No, I’m the cook. So, don’t ask me a lot of questions. The physician will see you in a minute.”

While Cekiya waits, a pounding is heard at the door and the girl comes through to answer it.

“Are you sick? Come in, come in.” She hustles the newcomer, who holds a hand to her mouth, to another chair at the same table.

“I’m ‘ere for a toof-ache.”

The dark haired girl tips her head in sympathy. “He’s going to pull it.”

The newcomer smiles, displaying an expanse of gum which exerts a precarious hold on a few isolated, gray teeth. They look like little tombstones to Cekiya, who leans in really close to get a good look.

Flustered, the woman closes her mouth, but then adds, “Not many leff. Afraid I’m not going to be able to shoo.”

“Oatmeal,” the brunette advises wisely.

“You prolly said a mowf-full there,” the woman cackles.

At this point, a man comes into the room.

“Who was here first?”

Cekiya gestures at the woman with missing teeth, but on consultation with the cook the man insists that Cekiya goes first. He takes her upstairs to the second floor and leads her into the surgery. A large table, streaked with bloodstains running down its side, dominates the center of the room. To Cekiya’s practiced eye, the blood still looks tacky.

“Do you have lots of patients?”

“Sometimes. Hop up on the table.”

“Touching is bad.”

He eyes her skeptically. “I don’t necessarily need to touch you, but hop up ... Now, open your mouth. Wide. Wider. Good. Stop making that sound.” He steps back. “Which tooth hurts?”

She closes her mouth before she says, “That one. Not that bad.”

He takes a step back and surveys her. “I wouldn’t think so. I’ll need me to pull it.”

“Touching bad.”

He considers her crossly. “Now, normally I charge on the basis of what the patient can pay. Sometimes that number is zero – this will shock you. This is not that day. You know what you have done? You have wasted my time. You owe me 12d for the non-pulling of your tooth.”

Unfazed, Cekiya shrugs and digs into her purse. “Do you only pull teeth?” she asks while counting out coins.

“No. I am a physician, I take care of all ailments. Dental just seem to be the most common.”

“I think I have a friend who lives near here. Do you have neighbors here?”

His response is weary. “I do. Your friend must know the weavers.”

“What do they do?”

“They are weavers.”

“I do have a friend with a sore tooth. I came to find out about this place. Do you do more than teeth?

He nods curtly at the sides of the table. “I assure you, that blood was not from teeth. In fact, I am sure he needed an operation. It is time for you to go.” His extended hand waves her toward the stairs. Below, he peremptorily calls, “Ducheleyne?” and gestures her out.


Arva uses Lord Ewen’s keys to open the door to Thilisa’s apartments after receiving no response to her knocking. She finds herself in the dining hall, which appears well maintained and free of dust. Thinking this curious, she climbs upstairs to explore, where she finds an unlocked bedroom on the second floor. Above, on the third floor, two more doors are unlocked, while a third is well-secured, requiring the most complex of the keys on the ring. Within she finds a sitting room, fireplace, game board, desk, cupola with a sitting area, and a curtain on the south wall. She thrusts it aside to find a well-appointed bedchamber.

She descends the stairs to complete her inventory at the kitchen, but is startled to walk in on a cook brandishing a knife in her direction. Arva takes a step back and smiles winningly.

“I am so sorry! I am Arva of Kerryn. Lady Thilisa sent me here to retrieve her necklace. And who are you?”

The woman lowers the knife slightly.

“I am the cook,” she squeaks.

“And who are you cooking for?”

The knife comes all the way down, and she absently places it on the counter. “Only myself. I’m the only one here until my lady returns.”

Arva commiserates with her at length, intent on making a new friend.

“Any message I can deliver to my ladyship for you?” she asks helpfully.

The response is wistful. “I miss the people?”

“How are the neighbors? Quiet?”

The woman sighs. “Well, the doctor is quiet. But those weavers ... their antics go right through the stone.” She shakes her head, suppressing a giggle. “It’s a wonder they only have two children!”

Arva describes Sir Fago and asks the cook if she recognizes him.

“Oh yes, he’s a frequent patient. I don’t know what his problem is, but it must be chronic pain or something.”

“Does he come at all hours, or just during the day?”

“It seems to strike him at the most unfortunate times of day.”

“After the sun goes down?” Arva suggests gaily.

“Always.”

“Every day?”

“No, not every day. Maybe once a week.”

“Does he come alone?”

“No,” she frowns. “He always has someone with him.” Then she gets a bright idea. “Are you hungry? I could cook, and you could eat! If you wait in the hall for just a bit, I’ll serve you ...”


Sir Baris is beginning to get the hang of this ‘writing letters’ thing people talk about. Finding some of Lord Ewen’s parchment which is not locked up, he scrawls a message asking Ewen himself for a talk. He scans the missive with a keen eye. To him, the communication is the very essence of cogency and legibility.

Taking the measure of his own limitations, however, Sir Baris hies himself over to Sotor of Pelanby’s house to ask the erstwhile necromancer to write five rather florid letters to the object of his affections, the Lady Meleine Curo, two destined for delivery to Gardiren, two for Neph House here in Tashal, and one copy to be kept in reserve in case an opportunity to personally deliver the letter presents itself. He returns and buttonholes a hapless servant in Raven Hall, instructing that one letter is to be delivered to Sir Meden, and the second to any impressionable servant in Sir Meden’s house who might prove susceptible to “a sob story or a courtly love drama.” The poor servant blanches and gulps, but takes the two letters in hand nonetheless.


Lord Ewen and Sir Aeomund have huddled throughout the afternoon discussing logistical plans for buying grain and salting meat, as well as various schemes, all of dubious legal validity, for withholding feudal payments in anticipation of a kingdom-wide war. Sir Baris arrives in time to decamp with them to attend a meeting arranged with the Firiths at Galopea’s Feast in the second floor private room, the invitation to Sir Meden Curo having listed a time one hour later in the evening.

Lord Ewen gets to the pith of the matter straight off.

“How did your audience with the Queen go?”

Orsin Firith scratches under his eye patch while Sir Prehil looks bored.

“She was not happy. But, at the same time, she was the one who had laid out the parameters of the mission, so it would have been difficult for her to change in front of all those who had heard her say it. There was a lot of back and forth on who should take Heru. No one came up with anything, so at present it would seem that Heru is a barony of sorts, with Bereden Pawade somehow still in charge.”

They all take a moment to digest this, savoring the brandy. Sir Aeomund, standing and pacing somewhat, breaks the silence.

“Lord Marshal. Lord Ternua. Please do not take this as any discourtesy, but what are we going to do about nobles raising armies in the kingdom to traduce the law of the land?”

The Baron of Kobe chuckles. “What would we do without the Lady of Paladins to keep us honest?” He cocks his good eye toward the knight. “Sir Aeomund, I have nothing but respect for you. You are a fine warrior, fearless. But, where politics are concerned – you will forgive me – you are a neophyte. I agree with you, and I don’t like it, Sir Aeomund. But maybe sometimes, it just comes down to the force of arms.”

Sir Aeomund is unbowed. “It also comes down to the force of the purse. What will the nobles do about the dues owed to a crown that is in such disarray?”

The Baron’s lone eye becomes thoughtful. “My lord,” he says with emphasis, as if reminding Sir Aeomund of his place in society. “What are you saying sir knight?”
“My duty and obligation is to the King. I would not be first man to express doubts about the Queen’s role in this.”

“No, you wouldn’t be.”

“I think there may be precedent for baronial men of this kingdom to withhold those obligations until it is clear that the King is able to lay claim to that which is rightly his.”

Orsin stands, goes to the side board, pours himself a another glass of brandy and returns. His voice is husky as he retakes his seat.

“What you speak is tantamount to treason.”

“Lord Marshal, this is a different threat. This is not the Bujoc, this is not the Pagaelin. When the money is turned in, it might as well just go to the Queen and Balim. It will not go to the common defense. It will not go to the King, who is gravely ill.”

“What you say, Sir Aeomund, is true. But, politics are the key in this situation. If we win, we win. But if we lose, we hang.”

Sir Aeomund persists. “Why not keep hold of the feudal dues for the King in trust, for when his health improves? To deliver the money now would only have it be used to supplement the portion in the royal treasury that is currently in the hands of those who have used the authority of the King’s seal to supplant the authority of the King.”

Firith is reluctant. “Possibly. Such a step could only be taken in near unanimity by peers of the realm.”

Sir Aeomund nods. “True. To deprive the King of revenue is treason. But to deprive him of his title is worse than treason. Does not the Queen want to put Brandis on the throne? Any money given to the treasury would be used by the Queen who, by maternal instinct, is unable to see the good of the realm.”

A sound at the door brings the debate to an abrupt halt. Sir Kytem Curo enters, looks around, and turns back to the door, shaking his head. Sir Meden walks through the door and surveys the small assemblage.

“Well, isn’t this interesting.” His gaze surveys each in turn, a slight smirk contorting his lip. “My lord of Kobe. My lord of Ternua.”

Sir Aeomund offers him a seat, but Sir Meden declines with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Lord Ewen frowns, easing back in his chair to consider the Neph heir more fully. “Sir Meden, we are glad you have come. We were not sure if you were about the Queen’s errand.”

Ignoring the implied question, Sir Meden turns to Sir Kytem, whispers something, and then sits. Sir Kytem takes up a position at the door.

The Baron of Ternua chooses to ignore the manner of Sir Meden’s entrance and instead provides a précis of recent events at Heru, and Sir Kornuska’s flight from the besieged keep.

Sir Meden appears bored with the account. “Yes, I have heard of the fall of Heru.” He shifts in his chair, his unblinking gaze remaining fixed on his interlocutor. “Now, Ewen, it seems to me we should dispense with any further dancing around the real issue.”

Lord Ewen allows a trace of scorn to enter his voice. “I wasn’t aware of dancing.”

Sir Aeomund has taken a step back from the table. A glance at the Firiths finds father and son both wearing the same expression, as if each had just swallowed something vile. Sir Baris remains still.

Sir Meden’s response is laced with malice as his cold eyes drift across the lords seated before him. “Do we not trust each other?”

Lord Ewen places his right hand, palm downward, on the table and leans in a trifle. His voice is soft. “Perhaps you should state more directly what you mean.”

“It is a terrible thing when one has the government in the hands of those who do not know what they are doing. Better to put the government back in the hands of the King.”

“May his health improve,” Lord Ewen states flatly.

Sir Aeomund, his feet planted firmly like a sentinel, glances at Sir Kytem and back. “I don’t know why we’re wondering about it. Your brother sees him every day.”

Sir Meden’s raises one eyebrow, as if just now noticing the knight’s presence. “He does indeed see the King every day. How he manages such is a wonder.”

“I am sure it is difficult to see one’s King indisposed.”

Sir Baris bestirs himself. “Sir Meden, your brother sees the King every day. Are you saying the King wasn’t lucid enough to transfer power to the Queen?”

“I would say that is beyond your, or my, ability to determine. Such a transfer would require baronial consecration, if you will. And that didn’t happen.”

Sir Baris nods slowly. “So, if I understand correctly, even if the King did sign the document making the Queen Lord Protector ... that is not sufficient legally to transfer power without baronial consent?”

An agitated Sir Aeomund steps forward, his voice hoarse with strain. “Lords! Knights!” He meets their eyes each in turn. “Kaldor is at a crossroads. Lord Orsin controls the army as Lord Marshal. Lord Ewen holds Ternua and its crossing. Sir Meden has the prestige of his family. We have preeminent peers of the realm, prominent bishops, all determined to see this kingdom through this crisis. A plan needs to be made. Though I grew up in the house of Balim, he and the Queen have subverted the government People refusing to speak – “

Sir Meden brings his glass down on the table and rises. “I will speak.”

Sir Aeomund, thin-lipped and grim, falls silent.

Curo’s tone is haughty, his cold eye upon Orsin Firith. “There are two options. One. My Lord of Kobe, you stand forward. You must be the last hope of the Elendsas. There is no other Elendsa worthy of the crown.”

Those at the table are impassive as Sir Meden turns slowly to consider them all.

“If you decline, no other Elendsa, bastard or otherwise, is worthy of the crown. In that case, we must look back, to an earlier monarchy. Before the Elendsas, this kingdom was ruled by clan Tane. I am a scion of that family. I did not seek the crown, but I am the heir of the Tanes and Artanes.

“And so it comes down to me and Lord Kobe. There can be no other choices. Surely this King and his progeny have proven themselves neither worthy nor fit. My lords, it is time for us to choose our candidate for the crown.

“Lord Firith? Is it you, or is it me?”
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Matt
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