Session One Hundred Thirty-Seven - March 25, 2017

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

Session One Hundred Thirty-Seven - March 25, 2017

Postby Matt » Sun Apr 02, 2017 5:19 pm

Halane 17, 732

As he scanned the list, an incident of history rose in Lord Ewen Ravinargh’s recollection: in 633, the Kald overflowed its banks and tainted Tashal’s water supply. A wave of dysentery swept the city, killing many in a particularly unpleasant and pathetic way. Among the dead was Princess Mesela Elendsa who had been betrothed to Sir Taren Pierstel, heir to the barony of Tonot; he likewise had died. Had this pitiable pair already made a child, leaving an orphan bastard alone in the world? Had that child grown into the now ancient mage Astaroc? His last name was not Pierstel, but that meant little in such a tangled situation.

Astaroc the Mage. Orsin Firith. Orsin’s son, Prehil. Orsin’s sister, the elder Serli Ubael. Erelar Hirnen and his kin. Harapa Indama’s wife Udine, and their children. Lady Cheselyne and her sister. Sir Scina’s baby son. All the Harabors. All the Dariunes. Names and more names, each possessing some thin stream of Elendsa blood, just enough to draw a line from them to the throne. You could populate a country town with prospective monarchs of Kaldor.

Ewen knew he was not the only one contemplating the list of heirs that morning. But his vantage point was unique. Everyone else was looking for an able king, in accord with their definition of able, according to their own interests. Ewen was searching for a candidate who would not be too able, but who would sink the kingdom further into factional strife and chaos, who would further his most sinister master plan.

Karsin Ubael the Younger seemed promising. A small man with a good claim. Ewen knew that whichever hand was first put forth to take the crown would be sliced off at the wrist by Meden Curo. Better to throw this one out deliberately, forcing Curo to take the initiative and use his advantage. But it must be done quietly, without revealing Ewen’s role in the matter. That would be tricky.

Ewen wanted Prehil Firith’s counsel. Drunk or sober, the man was astute.

“What should I do, milord?” Sir Baris waited in the study.

“First, take that armor off. You’ll have no need of your boar helmet today.”

“These are dangerous times. You never can tell what will happen.” But the knight reluctantly doffed his towering, tusk-crested helm.

With Aeomund joining, the knights left for the house of courtesans, which seemed like the most likely place to find Prehil midmorning. His brutal kidnapping in such a place had not seemed to dull his ardor one bit.

“Actually—do you think Prehil ever goes home?” Baris wondered aloud. “Or do you think he spends the day going from bawdy house to bawdy house, in a round robin?”

They recreated the possible daily itinerary of Sir Prehil on the walk over.


Arva let the bath soak away all her cares. Raven Hall was almost empty. She took the opportunity to relax.

As she was dressing, she heard some hubbub by the kitchen door, right next to the bath chamber.

One of the servants, a young man, was speaking with a young woman, fairly well dressed. By their tone and motions, they seemed to be lovers, but this was no flirtation. The woman, agitated, pressed a packet of envelopes into the young man’s hands.

“My master needs you to hold these, and keep them safe until the trouble blows over.” She then scurried away.

The young man noticed Arva had witnessed the scene. He bowed and tried to leave, but she went right after him.

“Er—can I help you with something, mistress? Do you need something for your bath?”

“I’m done with my bath. Who was that?”

“Britzka, mistress.”

“Who is her master?”

“The litigant. Mikyl of Meriel.”

“Does he frequently send you packets?”

“This is the first time!”

“I see. Carry on then.”

Naturally, not an hour later, Arva was upstairs in the servants’ quarters, ransacking the lad’s pallet. She found the envelopes quickly. It was her experience most people simply didn’t know how to hide things.

Some guards were present, dicing. They explained it as ‘studying the recent battle that took place, uh, recently.’ They told her the lad’s name was Telt. She explained to them she was never there, then withdrew to Ewen’s study.

Three packets, tied with cord. One thin, two more substantial. She opened the thin one first.

It was a letter from Sir Kornuska Harabor thanking Sir Sterba Yardartha, a vassal of the Earl of Balim, for his invaluable information concerning the Earl’s troop movements and confirming his remuneration for conveying that intelligence.

This was most interesting. It grew more interesting.

Inside the thicker packets she found documents that seemed to implicate Sir Sterba in the murder of the former Archbishop of Kaldor. Arva had heard about the incident: the prelate, a most worldly clergyman, had been murdered around 715 and the killer never found. The letters in the thick packets were in different hands, on different paper, written at different times. The signatures were scrawled and unreadable. Most seem to place Sterba in Caleme, but at least one gave his location as Suvist, perhaps his manor.

Any of these letters were enough to see Sterba hanged. Why had the litigant saved them instead of burning them? Who was his client? Arva resolved to ask Cekiya to join her in some nighttime reconnaissance.


Prehil finally descended from the third floor to join his friends, lacing up his doublet as he did so.

“Good morning!”

“Good afternoon,” Ewen noted dryly.

“It’s morning somewhere!”

“Join in!” Baris handed Prehil a tankard. “You’ve got some catching up to do.”

“No, I don’t! I never stopped from last night!”

They sank a mutual drink.

“Are you in the mood to discuss some serious matters?” Ewen said.

“Yeah!”

“Is this ... safe?”

“What, the girls? Look, Ewen: I’ve been informed courtesans can talk with their mouths, but I’ve never witnessed them use that particular function, if you catch my drift. We’re perfectly secure.”

“First I want to confirm that your father is declining the throne.”

“My father is in a state of high dudgeon! He’s afraid the crown will be thrust upon him. I’m kind of afraid it myself. Don’t get me wrong. It’s good to be king. Plenty of wine and women. But it’s a lot of work! Funny thing is, that’s the only reason father would want it. I’d want it for the perks, not the work, he’s the exact opposite. Sometimes I wonder if I’m really heir to the barony of Kobe.”

“Was he like you when he was younger?”

“I wasn’t there, now, was I? But Mother has sometimes mentioned a rakish young figure ...”

“Perhaps you’ll become like him in time.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“So you’re both dead set against taking the crown.”

“Well, it beats hanging, but who needs it? Especially since lately anyone who gets anywhere near that crown, bad things happen to them. We need the right king, but it ain’t going to be me.”

“Maybe it’s not the crown,” Baris said. “Maybe it’s just the Elendsas that are cursed.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“Let’s cut to the point, Prehil,” said Ewen. “Some of these candidates don’t seem like king material. Take Arlbis Hirnen. I can’t see him on the throne.”

“Naw! Especially not with his dad. Everyone hates that man!”

“What about your cousin?”

“Which cousin? I got a lot of them, you know.”

“Karsin Ubael, your cousin.”

“Karsin? He married Camissa, the plainest girl in the kingdom. I’m pretty sure the two of them went to the marriage bed without a clue what to do. They mostly keep to themselves.”

“Perhaps boring is best. Does the kingdom need a controversial king?”

“They need somebody with a pulse!”

“Would your father agree with you?”

“Yes! Even though he likes his sister well enough.”

Baris cut in. “Prehil, isn’t being boring an asset for a king? It’s been really exciting for the royal family lately, and that’s a problem for them.”

“There’s exciting, and then there’s the walking dead.”

Ewen continued. “What about Serli Ubael?”

“What about her? Isn’t she going to become a nun?”

“She is pious,” noted Aeomund.

This wasn’t going anywhere useful. Ewen took the conversation in a new direction. “Prehil, what’s your take on Meden now?”

“Well, I think he’s a bit of a cold fish, and, all things considered, he seems a bit too fond of the shadows. But I think some of the ideas you were speculating about the other night were a bit far-fetched if you ask me. His father did such things. He had—er, has—a bit of a ruthless reputation.”

“I only met him once, but he was wily, that’s for sure.”

“They call Balim the ‘Spider Earl,’ but I think we had two.”

“So if it came down to the committee voting for Meden, you’d be comfortable.”

“Aw, let him have it. He wants it anyway.”

The discussion seemed at an end. The party went upstairs to find some feminine distractions from the woes of politics.


Ewen returned to find Arva in his study, sitting in his chair, using his pen and chewing on the stem of one of his pipes.

“Forgot to lock the door, I see.”

Arva looked up, brazen, and said “This kitty has caught a canary.”

“Have you?”

She handed over the letters, and filled in the context.

“Most interesting.” He had met Sir Sterba, and knew the name Mikyl of Meriel. How could he best make use of this windfall?

“With your leave, I might check out the litigant’s office for additional reading material.”

“I like that idea. You may take Cekiya with you if you wish company.”

“I’d be happy to go,” said Cekiya from her silent perch in the corner. Arva jumped; she’d had no idea the small woman was there.

Ewen called Walin in and inquired about the whereabouts of both knight and litigant.

“Master Mikyl lives three doors from Raven Hall, just the other side of Aethel Atan. His simpleton relation sometimes aides Bernethe in our kitchen. I confess I don’t know Sir Sterba’s residence.”

What should be done with the incriminating letters? Arva decided not to let them out of her grasp. She substituted blank pieces of paper in the envelopes and returned them to their ‘hiding place’ under Telt’s pallet.


Ewen sent a message to Orsin Firith, saying he would welcome the man’s companionship, and that he could be found at Galopea’s Feast that evening. He had intended to reserve the private room for them—but when he and his knights reached the establishment, was regrettably informed it was already taken.

No matter. Prehil was already there, drinking on the second floor, the preserve of the nobles, away from the guildsmen on the ground level. Two men-at-arms stood guard at the door to the private room, clad in Curo livery.

“Curo must be in there,” said Baris.

“With whom, I wonder?” said Aeomund.

“Evenin’, my lord of Ternua!” Orsin swept into the room, greeting Ewen and all his men.

“Lord Marshal!” Aeomund returned the salutation.

“That’s not gonna get old soon! Now: you had a topic you wanted to discuss?”

“Along the lines of what we have been talking about. I wanted more privacy, but apparently that room has been taken by our friend Meden.”

“Meden? Oh, I guess it is.” Orsin shouted at the nearest guard. “You there!”

“Yes, milord?”

“Your master be in the room?”

“No, milord.”

“Then why’re you standin’ there?”

“Sir Dregald be inside, milord.”

“Carry on!” Orsin turned his back on the hapless man-at-arms. “Rank hath its privileges, Ewen. Start throwing it around.”

Drinks were served and business gotten to. “On the matter of heirs: it seems there are a few names on the list who are just out. Like Arlbis Hirnen and his father.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Orsin. “He’s a fool and his father’s an ass. To be blunt, his father would cause trouble with the Mangai. But their names will still be on whatever list the committee comes up with.”

“It’ll be interesting to see what their short list looks like. But back to the topic. I preface my next comment by saying I have a lot of respect for Harapa Indama--but now’s not the time for children.”

“And his wife wouldn’t step aside, either. Strong minded woman. She’s in Getha, though, and not likely to get here. That’ll piss her off, since Haldan is her brother.”

“That starts to winnow things down. The Hosaths and the Harabors have already dismissed themselves.”

“Don’t dismiss Cheselyne. She wants another bite at the apple. She doesn’t have the coalition, though.”

“Which brings us to the branches of your own family, Orsin. I put this question to your son: what do you think of Sir Karsin?”

“My nephew?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose he’s stolid.”

“He could be the unobjectionable candidate. Might not be at the top of the list, but he’s unlikely to be on the bottom.”

“He’s a bit flaky.”

“How so?”

“Very dry skin. Bit flaky. Bit creepy to be around him at times.”

“Orsin, I’m not a student of history, but I’ve never heard of a skin condition precluding anyone taking a throne.”

“He’s not a leper or anything, but ... being in a council chamber with him—you’d be constantly dusting off your doublet!”

Sir Aeomund muttered “How does one develop dry skin on Harn?”

“So we’ve got Karsin,” Ewen continued, ignoring the remark if he heard it at all.

“I don’t know. First of all, my sister’s ahead of him. I’m ahead of him.”

Aeomund interjected “If this is an election, there is no hierarchy.”

“That’s true, but there has to be some precedence. My sister would probably step aside, but if I vote for her son before I even talk to her, there’d be hell to pay, for the rest of my life. She’d at least want some honorable mention.”

“I’ve been saying all along that this kingdom needs a strong hand, and I guess what I mean is it needs a man’s hand.”

“The quavering, flaky hand of my nephew is not the one!” Lord Firith pulled deeply at his ale. “I want to talk about something we have not talked about, that nobody’s talked about, and that worries me: Balim has always said he doesn’t want the throne. Unlike me, I don’t buy it. When all is said and done, his grandson is Haldan’s grandson. If he becomes king and then Scina follows him and Troda Junior follows him, it’s like a restoration. I don’t know how he’s gonna do it, but I think Balim’s gonna gamble for it. And that’ll be a mighty strong hand. I might just support him if it comes to that, because the alternative is Meden Curo.”

Ewen noticed the Baron’s voice dropped a bit at the end of his sentence.

Baris spoke up. “My worry is the vikings returning. As my Lord Ewen says, we need a strong hand, but I would hope that no matter what king we end up with, he would retain you in your position as Lord Marshal.”

“I agree with you completely. That would certainly be the price of my support.”

“The military needs to be well led.”

“Balim isn’t a bad soldier—just not as good as me.”

“His son doesn’t inspire much confidence,” Ewen noted.

“Scina’s young. He’s got time. I can take him in hand. But that’s what I’ve been thinking. If it’s not to be me—and it’s not—and it’s not to be Meden, I can’t see any alternative but Balim. I don’t know how he’s going to do it. But we’ve got two votes. There’s Balim himself and Astaroc. That’s four. Arlbis, at the end of the day, will vote Elendsa. That’s five.”

“Troda’s not on the subcommittee.” Ewen experimented with referring to the Earl of Balim by his first name.

“But he put Astaroc on it.”

“Astaroc’s sort of a wild card.”

“I don’t know the man. I don’t think he cares. Kinda surprised he agreed to do this, to be blunt.”

“He’s reputed to have died. That’s how I ended up with his house.”

“Really? I was told he went on a long trip, sort of a sabbatical.”

“Clearly your story was more correct than the one I heard.”

“He looked animated enough.” Orsin nodded toward the guards. “What I’m more than a little worried about is what their master might do in that event.”

“Yes, well that one keeps his cards close to his chest.”

Aeomund said “He might be willing to go to war—but would everyone else join in?”

Orsin agreed. “If Meden thinks everyone would band against him, he wouldn’t do it. He’s a calculating one, and he doesn’t like to lose. I mean, more than most.”

Ewen considered that. “You were there, the other night. He made some dramatic claims about his support. What do you think?”

“I think he’s right. He wouldn’t have said it if it weren’t true. But the support he has would fall away if someone else were elected king. Most of the people he named stand to inherit anyway. None would risk the ax or the noose for him.”

“True,” said Aeomund. “Balim would want the status quo more than anything else,” he added.

The hour was growing late, and the party dispersed. Goreg was ordered to stay at the table until whichever party was meeting with Sir Dregald in the private room revealed themselves, then report.


As the party rounded the corner to return the long way around to Raven Hall, they were struck with a new and foreboding sight: light blazed in the windows of the up-until-now deserted Caldeth House, residence in the capital of the earls of Vemion. A man was about to enter the front gate.

Taking a cue from Orsin, Ewen shouted “You there, man!”

“Yes?” said the man.

“Who’s staying there in Caldeth House?”

“Aren’t you a saucy fellow, to call out strangers in the street! Is it the custom of the folk of Tashal to do so now?”

“Among barons, it’s the custom.”

“Which baron might you be?”

“I am the Baron of Ternua. My wife is the daughter of the Earl of the Vemion. Who are you?”

The man’s demeanor changed instantly, less antagonistic, but still not quite friendly. “Oh. You’re that one, are you? I was told about you.”

“You can begin appending your statements with ‘my lord’.”

“I am under express orders not to do so. But allow me to introduce myself: I am Sir Krellor Ertus, a herald to the Earl of Vemion. And to answer your earlier question: His lordship is not within, but has ordered both myself and his duly appointed agent to the king’s council not to refer to you by any title save your knighthood.”

“It seems that puts you in the dubious situation of denying the prerogatives of a nobleman. Who is the representative?”

“Sir Gorlin Faragar, chief herald to the Earl of Vemion.”

“I remember him.” The man had actually arrested Ewen once.

“He remembers you.”

“In that case, be sure to tell him of our conversation tonight.”

“You may rely on it, sir.”

“I am sorry, Sir Krellor, that your duty places you in the position of treating me with incivility, but I understand the spot you are in.”

“I am pleased to hear it, sir.” Sir Krellor sketched a little bow—just enough to be respectful.

“I bid you good night.”

As the herald disappeared inside the gate, Ewen spotted two men-at-arms within. They must have heard everything.


Halane 18, 732

The day began for Sir Ewen’s household not with pork sausage at the breakfast table, but in the wee, dark hours after midnight. Arva and Cekiya approached Mikyl of Meriel’s home to find the front door barred, not locked, rendering Arva’s picks useless.

Like a spider, Cekiya scaled the front of the house to the second floor, hoping to gain access by a window. She found a set of shutters. She popped open the latch—but they still didn’t open. Frustrated, she tried the third floor, only to find the same arrangement. Back on the second, she attempted, with one hand and hanging high in the air, to remove the hinge pins. She succeeded! Yet the shutters still wouldn’t move. Quite vexed, she tried to jar the thing loose, only to discover a hook and eye within that held the shutters in place. Her knife could not reach it.

Arva tossed up a shiv, which Cekiya used to open the lower end of the shutter, allowing her to lift it up and out of the way. From below, Arva could see the little adder disappear inside.

Cekiya found herself on a table. In the merest moonlight, she could just make out three chairs around her. Behind them was a railing, indicating a flight of stairs. She felt her way down the stairs. About three feet from the bottom was what seemed to be the end of a bench. She made her way around it and her outstretched hand impacted the door. Anyone of lesser skill might have raised the household, but Cekiya used to sudden shifts in the dark, opened the bar, and let Arva in.

“Thanks!” Arva received back her shiv, then lit a tiny candle. There were no sounds audible. By the new light, they could see a set of double doors, and beyond that, an opening.

With some exploration, they found the kitchen and beyond it a room with a fireplace, a writing desk and a set of shelves packed with neatly arranged books and papers. Arva greedily began searching the documents for further treasures such as had fallen into her lap the previous morning.

Alas, a quick scan revealed no other incriminating letters. A large chest, bearing a well-made integral lock, stood in the corner. Arva’s picks couldn’t open it, nor could Cekiya.

Unwilling to go without any profit whatsoever, they stole a tasty-looking wheel of cheese from the kitchen. Arva left via the door, which Cekiya barred behind her. Then the little adder crept back up to the second floor and exited out the window whence she came.


“Then we returned to Raven Hall.” Arva finished her report at breakfast.

“I see,” replied Ewen. “Arva, this morning I want you to go to Marhet of Lak. Inquire of him where Sir Sterba might be in residence.”

“Yes, milord.”

Goreg was next to report.

“Not long after you left Galopea’s Feast, the door to the private room opened. Sir Dregald came out, followed by Sir Gorbar Elorieth. They departed forthwith.”

“Very good. Now take this message to Balim House: I should like to call upon the Earl tomorrow at his convenience. Be sure to wait for a response.”

Goreg bowed and was gone with the note.

Sir Baris was feeling his pepper that morning. “I’m tired of Meden Curo doing things and us saying ‘Oh shit! What now?’ I want us to do something and Curo to say ‘Oh shit! What now?’”

“We’ll see what the best opportunity is, Baris. In the meantime, try some of this cheese.”


Goreg returned soon. Lord Balim sent word that he would be pleased to see Ewen the following day, anytime after the midafternoon bell.

Arva found Marhet leaving his office, en route to court.

“But please, Mistress Arva, walk with me. Lord Ewen and his entourage are rapidly becoming my best clients!”

No one had told Arva the man was a hunchback, and she had to fight the old wisdom that being near one brought bad luck. It made the walking-and-talking a mite difficult, but she soon appreciated his keen mind.

“Sir Ewen is looking for one Sir Sterba Yardartha. He heard the knight in question was inquiring about renting a town house recently. Do you know where he could be found?”

“I know the man, but not his current whereabouts. He did indeed seek to lease or purchase a dwelling some time ago, but I don’t think he did. I was not handling his affairs. If I recall, he could not find a property that quite suited him—or more accurately, suited his wife—that he could afford. Where he is now, I couldn’t tell you. I might suggest you check the better inns: The Tower, the Red Fox, the Iron Bell. Or, if I’m not mistaken, he is a vassal of the Labarn family. Lady Irla has a house in Haldana, and it’s possible he could be staying with her.”

Arva thanked him and took her leave.


Baris, still agitated, went to his tavern. After a morning ale, he found himself sick of being constrained indoors. Despite the weather, he sent to the ostler’s for his horse and for his squire. It was time to go out, train, ride, do manly things.


Cekiya had greatly coveted Arva’s lockpicks. She wanted a set of her own, but knew this was not an item one could simply nip down to Mangai Square to buy. How could she find something so illicit?

Obviously, by consulting a gangster. Down to the Spurs she went. The guards knew her as soon as she entered the door.

“Is Halime about?”

“Er-uh-he’s not available. But his brother might be.”

So the man was, although not voluntarily. Halime’s brother Ardail sat silently as the little adder talked about her wish for a good set of lockpicks, and how much she might spend on them.

Ardail took a small pouch from his pocket. “Here, take mine.”

“Thank you! How much do you want for them?”

“I can get another. Don’t worry about it.”

“These work well? You don’t mind?”

“It’s on the house.”

Cekiya was very happy. Everyone was so friendly at the Spurs! If only they didn’t tremble so.


Arva had her own shopping list. Last night’s mission would have gone much better if she’d had a burglar’s lamp, one with adjustable louvers that could be made to throw light in one direction without causing general notices. Again, this wasn’t the sort of thing one could just pick up at the market. In the end she arranged with a shady metalsmith for her shaded lantern, to the tune of 12d.


That afternoon, the rain ended and the sun appeared. The folk of Raven Hall enjoyed a relaxing afternoon amidst the difficulties of politics.

“Tasty cheese,” Ewen thought. “Wonder where they got it?”


Halane 19, 732

The peace ended the next morning, when Walin informed Ewen: “Milord, there appears to be a difficulty.”

Ewen raised an eyebrow.

“Come in here, boy! Young Telt here appears to have engaged in some unwise activities. It seems he engaged in the safekeeping of some documents for one of our neighbors without the man’s knowledge, certainly without his consent. He then contrived to return said documents with counterfeits!”

Telt was near tears. “I swear, my lord ...”

“Be quiet. You’ll speak when spoken to. He claims Master Mikyl’s apprentice, Britzka, with whom he has been carrying on a flirtation--”

Ewen looked bored.

“--asked him to hold these documents. Master Mikyl says he never authorized her to send them here, and now they are missing.”

“Walin, how did this come to light?”

“Master Mikyl sent Britzka here, and I overheard their conversation. Since this involves a close neighbor, and the Litigants Guildmaster for the entire kingdom, I wanted to be sure to inform my lord before I inflict just punishment, which will surely include the sturdiest cane in my rack.”

Ewen fixed an eye on his steward and uttered three short, decisive words. “Summon Master Mikyl.”

Taken a little aback, Walin quickly replied “Very good, milord. And you, Telt: upstairs until I call for you.” The terrified lad stumbled up the stairs.

They didn’t have long to wait. Smartly dressed, Mikyl was soon at Raven Hall’s threshold and presented to the Lord Ternua in the great hall.

“So good of you to come. My steward Walin says there’s a bother about some papers.”

“Yes. I’m deeply sorry to have involved you.”

Ewen was sure of that. “I understand I have a servant who played some role. I assure you the appropriate discipline will be taken.”

“As you see fit, milord. My concern is for the papers themselves. Which, I regret, should never have been placed here. My apprentice has been partially disciplined, and will be further. I regret the inconvenience. I am sure you appreciate my client is upset.”

“What is the nature of the papers for which we are to search?”

“Private letters of correspondence and various notes placed in my safekeeping. There were three packets, all with my seal.”

“Master Mikyl, did you instruct your apprentice to relocate the papers from your domiciles to mine, or to that of my neighbors?”

“I did, but not to here.”

The time had come to test Master Mikyl’s veracity. Ewen reached out with his mind—only to have a bolt of pain knife through his temples.

“Are you all right, milord?”

“Yes, quite.” Ewen winced. Pale and sweating, he tried to regain his composure. He would have to take the man at his word, it seemed.

“As I was saying, milord, I did instruct her to remove the papers, but not to lodge them here, but next door. You are three doors down. She wishes to be a litigant: she should be able to count to one.”

Sir Baris, standing at the door, added “In my experience, litigants’ directions should be more precise.”

“Forgive me, milord. Who is this?”

“This the lord of Selepan, Sir Baris.”

Master Mikyl gave him a little nod, but not much more.

“Are you in the practice, Master Mikyl, of securing your papers among the Peonians?”

“I am not. The circumstances were extraordinary, and I am not at liberty to discuss them. Milord, do you have the papers?”

“I do.”

“Ah. At least the boy didn’t sell them, as I had feared.”

“When the papers came to my attention, I had no idea of their provenance ...”

“You have read them.”

“Had I known, of course, that they were your property, I would not have taken such a step.”

“They are not my property. They were in my keeping.” Master Mikyl could not seem to keep his eyes on Sir Ewen, glancing nervously about the room.

“I have the highest respect for litigant-client privilege. However, in this case, I must confess that the advent of some highly unusual papers within my domicile piqued my curiosity.”

“I can imagine.”

“It is unclear to me how I am to proceed.”

“That was my next question. I am forced, milord, to reveal more to you than, under my professional responsibility, I ought. For I must tell you that my life has been threatened if I do not hand these papers to their non-rightful owner.”

“Now that is a bit mysterious.”

“It is. I apologize. The gentleman in question is not my client. He became aware of them, and has demanded them of me.”

“Having taken stock of said papers, that does not surprise me. You are a man of some importance, Master Mikyl.”

“You flatter me, milord.”

“We can’t have things happening to such men.”

“No, milord. Perhaps it’s time to retain the service of, shall we say, a man skilled in arms. This sort of thing has never happened to me before. The gentleman in question is adamant.”



“One can’t be too careful.”



“And he wasn’t.”

“I don’t like to pry, but as you say, circumstances are already extraordinary, and may become more so.”

“I am aware, milord--and of your role in them.”

Ewen faintly smiled. “You referenced the ‘non-rightful’ owner. Who is the rightful owner?”

Now it was Mikyl’s turn to smile. “The gentleman’s wife, milord.”

“I assume the purpose of the threat is to obtain the return of the originals.”

“That is correct.”

“If you were to share with him that originals reside with me, I would assume the purpose of killing you would not hold.”

“I would not see the point, milord. I have handed over the copies I made, but he realized they were copies. I am not an adept forger.”

“You are to be commended for your efforts. It’s the unusual knight who has a keen enough eye to detect a forgery.”

“Indeed. You must understand: I had not read these papers until a few nights ago. I imagine your reaction was the same as mine. Hence the copies.”

“Have you retained further copies?”

“No. And what copies I have, I have burned.”

Arva, eavesdropping nearby, nodded to herself, and hurried off to make copies of the papers.

“Master Mikyl, I think perhaps the best step at this time is for all to cleave to a more honest and forthright path in this dark matter. Tell this man exactly what has transpired in this interview with me today.”

“I appreciate the approach you are taking, milord. I imagine I will not have a real difficulty. He has other issues to worry about.”

“Evidently.”

“If this were to become public, milord, someone would lose a head.”

“That’s always a possibility in these things.”

Mikyl hesitated, as if considering something. “Milord, I have been as reticent as I can be in this harrowing situation. I cannot, of course, tell you the name of the non-rightful owner, or of my client. Nor could I ever tell you, were you to seek him out, that you might find him at the Tower Inn.”

“I commend you for the maintenance of your professional scruples.”

“Thank you. I hope this unorthodox way of meeting one’s neighbors will not impact our future relationship. I am not accustomed, nor am I comfortable, operating in this manner.”

“Agreed. I must ask you in return, if possible, to take steps to see to it I receive no further packages from your household.”

“You may rely on it.”

“Good day.”

Thwacks resounded from upstairs. There would be much caning on Haldana Row that day.


Having learned of the situation, of this possible assassin of a hierarch of a temple, Sir Aeomund was thoroughly disgusted, and wanted nothing more to do with it. Therefore it was Baris and Goreg whom Ewen dispatched to collect Sir Sterba. One of the Thardan soldiers noticed Sir Baris strapping his battle-axe onto his back.

“Expecting trouble, sir?”

“We are prepared for trouble, me lad.” The hardened Thardan veteran had at least a decade on the knight.

Baris hadn’t been to the Tower Inn often. He scanned the décor, thinking So this is the competition.

The pair approached the proprietor, Sepian of Ashal. the brother of the proprietor of Galopea’s Feast, Baris recalled. Sepian saw them coming and assumed the cast of a man trying to call to mind a half-remembered name.

“Sir...”

“Baris!”

“Ah. An ale?”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

There was no sign of Sir Sterba. Baris recalled the man from the summer’s tournament, where he had unhorsed him. But he’d dinged Sir Baris’s armor, the bastard!

“I am afraid Sir Sterba is not in the common room,” said Sepian. “But he may be upstairs. He has taken rooms here.”

“I have a message to deliver. Mind if I knock on his door?”

“By all means.”

The pair went upstairs and knocked.

“Who is it?”

“It is I, Sir Baris!”

“Sir Baris? Didn’t you unhorse me?”

“Didn’t you ding my armor?”

The door opened.

“I’m surprised to see you, Sir Baris. What can I do for you?”

“I understand you may have mislaid some property. My Lord Ternua would like to have a word.”

His face fell. “I see. Well, this has taken a turn.” Sir Sterba grabbed his cloak—he was already wearing his sword.

“Lead on, Baris.”

With no trouble, he accompanied them back to Raven Hall.

As they were entering the front door, Baris noticed Sir Krellor helping an old man with an unsteady walk into Caldeth House. Better tell Ewen about this, he thought.

“Milord, as requested: Sir Sterba Yardartha!”

“Sir Sterba, thank you for coming so promptly.”

“It would appear I have little choice.”

“I thought we should speak as soon as possible. I have a busy evening, you see. I must meet with the Earl of Balim over some matters.”

“I see. I take it you’ve read some papers lately.”

“I have. They appeared on my desk, unheralded. At the time, I didn’t know their provenance, so I perused them. Turns out there was a mix-up. Having said that, it’s water under the bridge.”

“Seems more than just a bit of mix-up.”

“They make for disturbing reading.”

“They do. They are mostly untrue.”

“That seems unconvincing, Sir Sterba. I understand you have threatened bodily harm to the litigant.”

“Not enough, it seems. He deposited them with you. He escalated the situation.”

“Inadvertently.”

“So he says. If you’re thinking of blackmailing me, I assure you I have no affairs to put in order. My wife has bled me dry.”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her.”

“It’s not a pleasure.”

“Is she of a family I know?”

“I have no idea.”

“It would appear you have provided assistance to other parties regarding the movement of Lord Balim’s forces. Highly unusual, since he is your liege lord.”

“I can understand why that would look bad, and I’m afraid that part is mostly true. But you must understand.”

“Those forces were waylaid.”

“I was a little surprised by that. I didn’t think the Harabors were that good, that if they did find Scina’s force, they’d lose. I fed them a little intelligence, less than they thought it was. I needed the money! It comes down to that. If you’re going to blackmail me, get in line. My wife’s way ahead of you. The rest is a tissue of lies.”

“I don’t know how Balim would see that.”

“He wouldn’t see it at all well.”

“Nor would the priests and prelates of Larani.”

“I did not kill the archbishop when I was sixteen years old! But my wife has cobbled together a great heap of bullshit circumstantial evidence that makes it look as if I did. I was a student cleaning the fucking library! For which they send me a letter thanking me, about the same time the archbishop was murdered. She knew where I was. We were courting at the time! Biggest mistake I made in my life...”

All this time, Ewen had been magically ascertaining the truth of the man’s words. This time it worked, and quite well: every word was true.

“Sir Sterba, your comment implies I would blackmail you for something so mundane as cash. I assure you, I have nothing of the sort in mind. It just so happens you might be able to do me a favor or two before these letters find their way back into your safekeeping. While I don’t have anything specific in mind, I think we should have an understanding: for the time being, you work for me.”

“All right. Doing what?”

“It may behoove me to have someone with the household of milord the Earl of Balim providing information.”

“I’m not important enough to be part of his household. His vassal, true, but I don’t present myself at Balim House.”

“I understand.”

“His lordship might not even know who I am. Not a bad way to be, honestly. But go on, with that understanding.”

“This kingdom is in an unfortunate state of flux, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“It’s all the talk at the inns.”

“Of course it is. You intended to continue residing at the Tower Inn?”

“I intended to until this affair. Certainly I no longer need to deal with the litigant. I was never really going to hurt him. I was just trying to scare him.”

“Ironic how we are sometimes unable to foresee the consequences of our own actions.”

“Story of my life, milord. By the way: if you don’t have anything for me to do, I will be going back to Suvist to kill my wife.”

Ewen peered at the knight. His magic indicated that last statement was the cold truth. “Well, I hope you go about the business more competently than the path these papers have taken.”

“I have no choice. She’s been blackmailing me for years. I thought I had her—then she pulled out the Harabor letter. Damn Kornuska, writing things down ...”

“Why didn’t you burn it?”

“I wasn’t at the manor! She got my mail! I had to sheathe my sword right there. But if you have the only copies, I only have to deal with you. I can kill her. Then Derenesa and I can be together!”

“If you’re going to kill her, do it competently.”

“Use poison,” said Cekiya from her place in the corner, causing Sir Sterba to start violently in surprise.

“Do you have heirs?” asked Sir Ewen.

“Yes, but they’re Derenesa’s, and I have to marry her to legitimize them so they can inherit instead of the cuckold children my wife has given me.”

Ewen tried to think of any useful questions Sir Sterba could answer. “In recent months, has Balim ordered his vassals to war footing?”

“Some, but not me. Sir Scina was going to march his army to Suvist, my manor, and bivouac.”

“En route to where?”

“I do not know. Heru, presumably. But they never arrived. Incidentally, both of those arrangements were made at your tournament, both Scina informing of that fact and the money the Harabors paid me for the information.”

“I will send word when it becomes clear to me when you can best assist me in my business. I can assure you the letters will be safer in my hands than in those of any litigant.”

“I’m not so foolish as to try to obtain those letters in any way other than you handing them over to me, milord.”

“Prudent. Good day, Sir Sterba.”

And with that illicit conversation over, Lord Ewen departed to see Lord Balim.


The Baron of Ternua was met at Balim House with all proper courtesy. The steward greeted him with honor; his men-at-arms were seated and fed. His retainers and his squire accompanied him to the meeting. The steward, Tebald Lartyne, escorted the group to the private hall, where they found a table set with heavy glass goblets and fine wine.

Lartyne knocked at a door at the rear of the hall and announced the Baron.

“I’ll be right out!” came a voice.

Balim entered the hall in his own good time. “Have a tray of food sent up, just in case,” he said as he took his place at the head of the table. “Have a seat, my lord of Ternua.”

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“Pour yourself some wine. Sir Baris, I believe that duty should fall to you.”

Sir Baris performed this task for his superiors, with a mite of surprise, but a minimum of leakage.

“You may have noticed, milord, that the emissary of the Earl of Vemion has finally arrived. Caldeth House is occupied.”

“Sir Gorlin presented himself at the castle yesterday. He was not pleased to hear he was rather too late. He told me Vemion would be unhappy. I said the Hermit of Vemionshire should have bestirred himself sooner.”

Ewen gave a chuckle, as he felt the Earl wanted. Baris, for his part, guffawed until Balim gave him a quizzical look.

“I would think, milord, that in some ways, it should be a relief for the Earl to have not partaken of the dread decision we all had to make, which lies on our consciences, but not his. It’s not an easy thing.”

Balim gave Ewen a long look. “Then he has no business being a peer of the realm.”

“I’m not saying he would shrink from his duty. Just one that it is not too heavy.”

“I am suggesting that is precisely what he has done! His feud with you has blinded him to his responsibilities as a peer of this realm. I have no interest in his opinions at this point. Also, Sir Gorlin joining the council now would open up the messy possibility of a tie vote.”

“Things are complex enough without possible deadlock being added to the occasion.”

“Indeed. Sir Gorlin told me that I had not heard the last of this. I cannot imagine why he thought that would bother me. Don’t worry. He’ll be fluttering about the edges, I’m sure. He is welcome, at court to present the concerns of Vemion. But he will not be admitted to the council.”

“I suppose so far as the interests of Vemion are concerned, the only name likely to appear on the list of the Archbishop’s committee whose claim might pertain to Vemionshire would be that of the Ubaels.”

“Oh, no. There is another: Tulath Kaphin. An illegitimate son of the late King Miginath. He fancied himself as the next king, as did the other illegitimate sons—there are three that I know of.”

“He’s the last of those three, is he not?”

“Yes. He has since retired to a manor in Vemionshire.”

“He’s the sheriff, is he not?”

“He is. Haldan decided to give him a place in the far reaches of the kingdom, where he could do no harm. In the next reign, that may have to be changed.”

“So we are in agreement that the next monarch will not be Tulath?”

“We are in such agreement. However, I would expect Lord Astaroc’s committee—and we are officially calling him Lord Astaroc now—to produce every possible heir imaginable, and then painstakingly vote them all down. Is that what you came here to ask me about? Surely you have something more.”

“I confess, milord, that it is of interest to me to know what your thoughts are on the process. Obviously, some three-quarters of the claimants are unlikely to bear more than passing consideration.”

“It is my expectation that we will examine every single legitimate claimant to the throne. That will then winnow the number down to a half-dozen or so. I will expect us to do that on the first report. The committee will then take those we have in full council and look at them further. We need a strong king, that much is clear. Kaldor is in crisis. If the vikings return, and I think they will, it will not be enough to have Lord Firith as marshal at the head of our troops. We need a king.”

“I completely agree, milord.”

“That is the reason I voted to depose my friend and my kinsman—the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Because he was not going to get better. In time of peace, Kaldor could have dealt with a mad king, but we cannot have such a king if the vikings return in the spring. We must have a strong monarch, we must have an army in Olokand waiting for them.”

“You’ll forgive my saying so, milord, but you sound as if you rule out even your own grandson.”

“I do. He is an infant, still shitting his own diapers. That is no king. Don’t mistake me, his claim is as valid as anyone’s. And yes, I rule out myself as well.”

“May I ask why?”

Balim paused. “That’s an impertinent question.”

“These are impertinent times,” Aeomund interjected.

The eye of the Spider Earl swiveled from Sir Ewen’s face down to the lowly church knight. “You’ve come a long way since you were shitting your diapers in this very house, Sir Aeomund. How are your parents?”

“My father is not doing too well, milord.”

“I am distressed to hear that. My condolences. Your father served both myself and my father well for many years. He is a good man.”

“It is by your father’s graces that I hold the position I do, is it not?”

“Yes. Your parents retain their home, their grace and favor from me, as long as they live. You have my word on that.”

Aeomund bowed his head in thanks, but knew the grace and favor house was granted unto his parent’s last grandchild – in writing.

The Earl sipped his wine, surveyed his guests, came back to Ewen.

“When you first came to this kingdom, Lord Ewen, first came to notice at the tournament at Olokand—more than a year ago, now—I thought you were an upstart. A hedge knight, a nobody.”

Another sip of wine.

“Sir Rohn Sarlis has made it his life’s work to determine your origins. You keep the man awake at night. I have seen all the correspondence, with the Inquisitor General of Tharda, one Lord Graver. Sir Rohn showed me his letter claiming you were the illegitimate son of the late Earl of Tormau. I laughed out loud.”

Ewen took his own sip, trying to hide a rising tension. Where was this conversation going?

Balim continued. “Did you know one of my aunts married into your family? Winneare, her daughter was Trilime, the great-grandmother of the present King of Tharda. Or was it her grandmother? One of the two. Then I had the most fascinating conversation with Sir Arren Lydel. It all came together. You are not the son of the Earl of Tormau—but you know that. You are the illegitimate son of Arren of Melderyn.”

Ewen tried to truth-read the man, but all he could discern was the accursed arcane warbling.

“Which, in a very strange way, makes us related. I have seen you advance, and once your parentage was revealed, it made perfect sense. You are, to my great surprise, quite worthy of your position. I’m not going to tell Sir Rohn, though. Let him find out on his own.”

Ewen grasped for words and came up with: “Milord, you may be the first man I’ve ever met who’s had an edifying conversation with Sir Arren Lydel.”

Balim laughed. “I wanted you to understand my position. I remain grateful to you for the rescue of my son. And I know that you, Lord Ternua, have harbored some doubts, but I wanted to allay them. Now, with that out of the way—decks cleared, as it were—I have already asked the question: who do you think should be king? I will not ask again.”

“Fair enough, milord, as you have chosen not to answer my question as to why it should not be you.”

“I had hoped you would have missed that in the shuffle. I should have known better. I don’t believe that I would be accepted for I am not the one to unite the disparate factions of this kingdom. The Harabors are down, but not out. Meden Curo is a chameleon. His father is dead, you know?”

“Yes, I know.”

“The Hermit of Vemionshire—who knows what he’s doing? And I would be seen as capitalizing on Haldan’s misfortune, and Korwyn’s. I cannot have that. I never really wanted the crown, anyway. It is very heavy. I do have a candidate, not to be spoken of.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It seems to me that the man you speak of, a candidate who could unite the different factions of Kaldor, would need to be both capable and charismatic. And yet uncontroversial—at least at a certain level.”

“A high bar. There is only one person that fits, and he has refused the crown.”

“You refer to Lord Orsin.”

“I do. I think we could all support him. But he’s not willing to take the burden. I had many conversations with him this past week on the subject. I even tried talking with Prehil.” The Spider Earl looked a bit gobsmacked when he mentioned the latter.

“I think it is yet to be seen where time shall bring out the traits of the old man in the son.”

“Well said. We seem to agree in principle on the problem. It will remain to be seen whether we agree on the solution. But I would ask you this much: before you make a decision, ask for another of these meetings.”

“That is more than fair, milord.”

“Was there anything else?”

“No. Thank you for your time and your candor.”

“Yes—kinsman.”

Ewen bowed and left, followed by his retinue. They were not invited to stay for dinner.


On the walk home, Ewen was struck by a thought, in conjunction with something his sister/lover Rahel had once told him: Arren of Melderyn’s ancestral line were pure Deryni for sixteen generations.
But if that were so, and what Balim said was true, then Weannere Dariune, aunt of Troda Dariune, was Deryni. Which made Ewen’s father Balim’s first cousin. And Ewen Balim’s first cousin once removed. Or something near that.

Maybe it would be a good time to visit Hag Hall. He immediately left the party, not explaining his actions, and hurried through the darkened streets of Tashal.

Rahel greeted him warmly. “Hard day at the council?”

“No council meeting today, dear sister, but I was closeted for some time with our cousin: the Earl of Balim.”

“Oh? You know about that now?”

“As does he.”

Rahel’s flirtatious demeanor grew serious. “Aha. I didn’t know he knew.”

“As we had both surmised, and the Earl today confirmed, Sir Rohn has been busy hammer and tongs, since I arrived in this kingdom, pounding away at the problem of my parentage.”

“Surely he’s not good enough.”

“No. You’ll be reassured to hear he has not been able to pierce the veil. But his conversation was enough to combine with another interview the Earl had with our brother, Arren, to allow Balim to put the two halves together.”

“Is that a fact?” Rahel said icily. “I wonder who else brother Arren has engaged in indiscretion.”

“Too many. Meden Curo leaps to mind.”

“Yes. He didn’t seem to be too capable of tampering with Meden.”

“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have just blurted it out.”

“I think it’s time for him to return to Melderyn. Sometimes Father’s injunctions are annoying. So old Troda knows you’re a relative! How’d that go?”

“He seems to have gotten over whatever shock to the system it might have been. I think his sharing with me he was both aware and putatively unalarmed was an attempt to make a play for my loyalty.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“He said he has no intention of unburdening Sir Rohn of the Sisyphean task of unraveling my heritage.”

“That is a small, but useful thing. It would be unfortunate for Sir Rohn to learn the truth.”

“I mention this because I did not have the impression that Troda has vouchsafed the fact to anyone. I think he is pleased to have a monopoly on it.”

“Should anyone else learn of it, it would be necessary to scramble their brains to some degree.”

“There were two guards in the room listening.”

“That is not a good thing. Two common men-at-arms! They could speak to anyone.”

“I know their faces, and could recognize them.” He shared the likenesses of the men with her in a Rapport. Rahel said she would alter their memories.

“But tell me, sister: Troda’s cousin, Weannere, our great-grandmother. Was she Deryni?”

“She was.”

“But not her cousin, Scina, the Earl of Balim?”

“No. But his father was. Lerda Dariune, second son of the fifteenth earl.” Rahel scanned a shelf and produced a book of genealogy. “There was some oddity in the succession to the earldom in those days,” she said as she flipped pages, “it alternated between two lines of the family. Lerda was the father of Weannere. He was Deryni, as was his mother, the countess of the fifteenth earl. The elder brother Lanis, the eighteenth earl—the present earl’s grandfather—was a Deryni as well, but his son Scina, the nineteenth earl, was not. So you are the first cousin twice removed of our Balim. At some point a Deryni married into the Dariune line, infected them briefly, and it fell out over the generations.”

“Speaking of family, I’ve been meaning to ask you: was that Aunt Gwadira, or am I to take it that the family tree is overburdened with withered old crones?”

“Yes, that’s exactly who she was.”

“She came up in conversation with Para after my arrival in Kaldor. Where does she fit it?”

“As you saw, she still thinks The Plan is her plan.”

“And that would involve what? Some sort of Gargun swarm?”

“That was an idea she had some time ago. It was never viable and Father knew that. It’s fair to let her dabble among them, for now.”

“She’s a Parkhurst?”

“She’s a Dulye.”

That took care of that. Ewen remained until first light, but there little further talking …
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