The Talismans of Aerdrim

[havenstone]

Family Business

ADGAR AND THE quiet d’Loriad cousin escort Atrix up to the Family keep, up a series of long stairways that culminate near the top of the d’Loriad Beacon. Adgar ushers Atrix into his family suite, gives a quick bow to Atrix’s father, and closes the door behind him.

Physically, Marix d’Loriad is a weathered, graying image of his son, but his character could hardly be more different: stern, calculating, deeply concerned with protecting the family name. There is a moment of uncomfortable silence. “Hello, Father!” Atrix casts his eye around the room. “Where’s Jonathan got himself to?”

“Your brother is distinguishing himself as a squire at Guardwatch,” Marix says coolly. “I expect you’ll be planning to ride off and join him. Your uncle Porphyry told your mother that you had returned to Lynar as a squire in the army of Wildengard. It came as a surprise to us. I had expected you to stay longer in that little village your uncle is so fond of.”

“The village was sacked by barbarians, Father,” Atrix says apologetically. “It lost some of its charm.”

Marix does not smile. “This is a poor time for your usual japes and games. Our Family needs all her sons’ strength at this time. The d’Aramants and d’Nereins stand to gain tremendously from this Arawai war. If their alliance grows stronger as a result, they may become strong enough to dominate the other Families.”

“Father, you know you can count on me to do everything possible to beat the d’Aramants,” Atrix replies eagerly.

Now one corner of Marix’s mouth quirks upward. “I know you will, my son. And that is why I know you will not object to the marriage your mother and I have arranged for you.”

Atrix blinks, dumbfounded. “Come again?”

“You will marry Sarele d’Nerein before you depart for the Arawai War,” Marix states flatly. “We need an alliance with the Family d’Nerein now more than ever to drive a wedge between them and the d’Aramants. Our branch of the d’Loriads is closest to them in kinship, as two of your great-grandparents were d’Nerein. Sarele’s parents have agreed to the match despite your reputation as a trouble-maker. Your early return has left us little time to work out the final details, but we have appointed a wedding day in six days’ time.”

“Wait, wait, Father,” Atrix splutters. “This is a mistake. Marriage? To Sarele? Me?”

“No mistake, boy. You need to settle down and grow up.” Marix’s voice is like a whip crack. “I’ll brook no objection from you on a matter of such importance to the Family. Your wastrel days of causing trouble and embarrassment to your kin are over.” He throws the door open and beckons in the two d’Loriad cousins. “I’ve assigned Adgar and, er... your other cousin here to keep you under guard day and night until your wedding. You’re confined to the palace. Castellan Reynalt knows it, too, so don’t try to get past the gates.”

Atrix stalks out of the room, color high in his cheeks. Experience has taught him the uselessness of arguing when his father invokes the Good of the Family, but this marriage idea is outrageous.

“Sorry, ‘Trix,” Adgar says, hurrying to keep up. “We didn’t volunteer to be your jailers, but all our fathers are of the same mind on this.”

“Sarele d’Nerein?” Atrix repeats, stunned. “I hardly know the girl.”

“She’s lovely,” says Adgar, with a faint mournful note in his voice. “Extraordinarily clever girl. Great dancer. Plays chess well. Very, very good at getting what she wants.”

“Not the kindest person in the Palace,” offers the quiet cousin whose name no one can remember.

“Nor the unkindest,” retorts Adgar, a bit hotly.

“Where am I supposed to stay?” Atrix asks in a weary voice. On arrival in his rooms, he locks his cousins in the hallway and spends the remainder of the afternoon quietly tearing up his bedclothes and braiding them into a rope. As soon as the sky is dark, he goes out the window and down the wall, into the Water Grove of the d’Loriad keep.

His escape is interrupted by a sweetly musical voice. “Atrix d’Loriad.”

“Milady Sarele.” The startled Atrix sweeps into a bow. “What an unexpected pleasure to find you here.”

The dark-haired Sarele d’Nerein offers a cursory curtsey. Her smoothly beautiful face wears an expression of amused disdain. “I am not sure I would call it a pleasure, and it is anything but unexpected. Is this your ordinary way of leaving the Family keep?”

“These are not ordinary times, milady,” Atrix says regretfully.

“No, they certainly are not.” Sarele glides over to Atrix, looks him up and down, and lays a finger firmly against his chest. “My family says we are to be wed. I find this news as welcome as you evidently do. However, I see no escape from it. Short of having my cousins kill you, and I’m not sure I sufficiently trust their discretion.”

“Yes, it’s hard to see that ending well,” Atrix agrees, taking Sarele’s hand and kissing it.

“You have a reputation for indiscretions yourself.” Sarele laughs and runs her hand up to Atrix’s cheek. “Your reputation also paints you as feckless, dangerous, and an embarrassment to your Family. I do not tolerate embarrassment, my dear betrothed. Not in the least particular. Since we are to be wed, I wish to be clear that I will have no more misbehavior from you – no more running off to taverns in the city, no more gambling with common folk, no more duels, no more love affairs. Nothing that will make you or me look a fool. After tonight, the Castellan will be discreetly reminded to post a guard on this garden.”

“Check and mate, milady,” Atrix laughs, folding her into his arms. “Check and mate.”

 

[havenstone]

The Palace of the Patriarchs

An aerial view of the palace of Lynar, from the many-towered keep of the d'Orbis to the great dome of the d'Syrnons.

 

[havenstone]

The Scion of the d’Aramants

WHILE ATRIX IS being ushered to his family, Mullod and Cannedun bring their human protégé to the d’Syrnon palace. “Old Patriarch Thusis has been a friend to generations of dwarrow,” Cannedun informs Darren. “He’s always interested in adding our stories to his library and our craftwork to his collection.”

Upon arrival, the gray dwarrow look over the recent additions to Thusis d’Syrnon’s collection. They lift a heavy cloth from one prize piece and recoil in shock and disapproval. Darren looks over their heads and sees a tablet of intricately carved stone which, when the wind moves across it, produces a low muttering sound that raises the hairs on his neck. “Skrintwork,” Mullod growls, throwing the cloth back over the tablet to silence it.

“What is it?” asks Darren at once.

For a few uncomfortable moments, no one answers him. “Leagues below us and the Delve, lad, there’s another race of dwarrow,” Cannedun explains. “The Skrint have unparalleled skill at shaping stone. Their craft can catch the least whisper of sound or breath of air and echo it back transformed or distorted. A Skrint maze is a formidable thing, cunningly carved to deceive dwarrow senses. They add guidepost stones like this to help them find their way through.” His fingers trace a brief runic inscription on the back of the tablet. “This says, To the heart. Which is a long way of saying ‘down’.”

“The Skrint worship the Dark,” Mullod adds grimly, “and we leave them to it. It’s rare for them or their damned craft to find its way to our caverns, let alone the surface.”

MEANWHILE, ONTAYA IS making sure all the Wildengard squires have appropriate quarters for the night. As a result, she comes upon several squires waiting in ambush for Carwyn, Kyla, and Nina -- evidently hoping to avenge the beating they received in the tavern brawl. Ontaya faces down the squires as her three friends come around the corner and join her. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns the would-be ambushers. “You’ve been ordered not to cause more trouble for Kyla. That doesn’t change just because we’re in the Palace.”

“Have you been in hiding in the hills so long, Ontaya,” comes a mocking voice from the opposite end of the garden, “that your tastes have turned to these coarse barbarian wenches?”

Ontaya turns to face a handsome youth with long chestnut hair, light eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard: Agerain d’Aramant, the most influential young scion of his Family, nephew of Patriarch Athagon. Agerain’s love of dangerously violent bullying, dueling, and brawling against weaker targets from other Families has set him at odds with Ontaya many times in the past. As usual, he is hanging around with a small cluster of other young d’Aramants, who regard the four party members with lazily expectant smiles.

“Agerain,” Ontaya acknowledges him, refusing to rise to his gibes. “These young women are under the protection of Marcor d’Syrnon as well as myself.”

“You really expect me to believe that Count Marcor cares about your harlots?” Agerain pretends to slap Nina -- and Ontaya catches his arm in a vise-like grip. The color drains from the young d’Aramant’s face as he tries and fails to pull away.

“You dishonor yourself by this behavior,” Ontaya informs him quietly, and lets go of him. Agerain glances around at his cronies and the squires, clearly considering whether the odds are in their favor in a fight. Ontaya shakes her head. “Don’t be a fool, man. The castellanry is just around the corner. Hasn’t Reynalt had enough to say about your brawls?”

Agerain scowls. By common consent of the Families, the castellan of the Patriarchs has broad powers to maintain order within the Palace walls, and has often punished Agerain for starting duels and other trouble. “Hiding behind the law as usual. Your cowardice won’t always save you, you know.”

Ontaya shrugs, keeping her temper. “You call me coward, but I’ve never seen you start a fight with fewer than five friends at your side.”

“Ontaya!” A voice echoes through the garden before Agerain can respond. “Where are you?”

“I’m here, Ellikard,” Ontaya calls back, recognizing the voice of her adoptive cousin. Moments later, a small group of d’Orbis youth arrive: the slender Ellikard, his sister Emerath, and several of Ontaya’s other close friends. Ontaya glances at the Wildengard squires, who are visibly wilting now that they are outnumbered. “Go to your quarters. I don’t expect to see any repeat of this foolishness.”

As the squires skulk away, Agerain sighs and gives a deep, mocking bow. “Another time. Welcome back to Lynar, your Reverence.” He and the other d’Aramants saunter off in the direction of their Family keep.

Ontaya pushes down her irritation and introduces her adoptive relatives to Carwyn, Kyla, and Nina. Emerath gives Ontaya a quick kiss of greeting while Ellikard shakes his head. “We heard that you were back, and that Agerain and his boys were on the prowl, so we came looking for you. He’s got worse while you were away -- picking fights with anyone from any Family who looks at him the wrong way. Soon he’ll be backed up by dozens of d’Aramant country cousins who have been showing up in preparation for the war. I don’t know how our fathers think that the d’Orbis can stay neutral when the d’Aramants show such arrogance and offense.”

“Patriarch Athagon should control his nephew better,” Ontaya agrees. “But the d’Orbis country cousins are showing up, too. I’m sure we can handle Agerain if he starts a fight.”

“A fair fight,” Ellikard corrects her sourly.

 

[havenstone]

A New d’Aramant

LATER THAT EVENING-- at roughly the same time that Atrix’s escape attempt turns into an unexpected tryst with Sarele -- Ash, Meeshak, and Nina are met by servants who discreetly summon them to a meeting. The servants lead them to a dusty, candle-lit corner of the great library of the d’Syrnon Family. The blue, red, and gray moons are all strong in the sky, casting a dappled light on the library floor as they shine in through different windows. The black moon Manachorn is also waxing, a slowly growing arc of unlight in the sky.

Meeshak is not entirely surprised to see General Marcor d’Syrnon emerge from a small door in one wall. “The three of you joined me at Wildengard,” Marcor said quietly. “Not one of you has been to Lynar before, or is thought to be allied to any Family. If you are willing, I believe you are better qualified than my own knights to find out information about my would-be assassins, in this city where my enemies think they know my men. I have been watching each of you, and know that each of you has skills that will be of use in this investigation.” His eyes fall on Nina with a knowing gleam; Nina keeps his face impassive.

“We would be honored,” replies Ash. Meeshak and Nina nod their agreement.

“In one week, we will all be marching to Arawai,” Marcor reminds them. “This leaves you six days in Lynar to investigate the source of the Patriarch’s Gold with which the assassin was paid. Here is a supply of gold for each of you to open doors that might otherwise stay shut.” The general hands them each a small pouch of coins, generally Velnaryn Mint, the most common currency of the North. “If you need to meet with me before we march, you may leave a note in the pages of this book, which I will have checked each day.” He indicates a worn volume of The Megrimner Wars. “I will send messengers to you if I find out anything that may help you.”

“As a start, may I have full access to the archives of this library?” Nina asks, drawing curious looks from his two friends. Marcor assents without question.

NINA SPENDS THE night delving through the genealogical records of the Five Families with an audacious goal in mind. I may be breaking the last eighteen years’ disguise – but Uncle, if you were here, you’d approve of this, you’d agree that this was the way of the Clan. A true Test. During the last few weeks of travel, Nina has been quietly observing the young country nobles in Marcor’s entourage, practicing their gestures and games. All he needs is the right name.

The sky is brightening with the dawn by the time Nina finds the passage he was searching for, the one he hoped would be there somewhere:

His first wife, Kendera, having died, Aderin d’Aramant of Marlhold wed the lady Zeraya of the Northwest Azal Turn. This alliance to one of the trading clans of Chraman was vital for the Northern d’Aramants after the loss of most of Geren’s Sward to the Tellemonts of Aradur…

Nina does a quick calculation of age and flips through the pages of the genealogy. Aderin and Zeraya had fourteen grandchildren who might plausibly have inherited some of her Chramic features. Several of them live far enough away on the Aradur frontier that they’re unlikely to have joined the muster for the barbarian war. Nina’s fingers trace the names and ages until he finds the most plausible Northern d’Aramant grandson.

“Anseron d’Aramant,” Nina whispers aloud, his heart pounding in his ears as he tries out a northern Senalline accent. “Hello, cousin Agerain. I’m Anseron d’Aramant.”

 

[havenstone]

Well-Laid Plans

“WHAT -- WHAT DID you do to your linens?” gasps Adgar d’Loriad.

Atrix rubs his eyes and sits up from the torn strips of his sheets with a yawn. “Oh, that. Don’t let it trouble you, cousin. The Water Grove was most effectively guarded. I had to climb back up, and it seemed unkind to trouble you for new bedclothes at that hour of the night.”

“Unkind? Atrix, if you’d run off, our fathers would have killed us,” Adgar groans.

“And their deaths would have been so tragically unnecessary,” comes another familiar voice from the door.

“Jaron!” Atrix bounds out of bed and embraces his boyhood friend Jaron d’Syrnon, whose reputation for mischief at least equals Atrix’s own.

“Hello, ‘Trix,” Jaron beams. “I hear your parents are conspiring to settle you down.”

“One of you could have sent me a warning,” Atrix says reproachfully.

“We didn’t know how to reach you out in the hills.” Jaron glances at Adgar and the cousin whose name no one can remember, then closes the door and looks back to Atrix. “We can trust these two, I think. ‘Trix, I take it you’d be happy to hear of a loophole that could get you out of the wedding?”

Atrix hesitates for a wistful moment, recalling his evening in the Water Grove. Then he remembers Sarele’s firm prohibition on taverns, gambling, and duels. “Absolutely.”

“It’s simple. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself.” The young d’Syrnon’s eyes gleam. “First, you have to name Adgar your ring-brother. Second, you have to die.”

“I’m sorry -- that last part again?”

Jaron shrugs. “Technically, you only have to be dead until the wedding goes through. Don’t you remember? In any marriage formally agreed between Families, if the groom dies, his ring-brother has to take his place -- to make sure the alliance goes through no matter what. If you lie low for a couple months and reappear after the war... well, it will make some people unhappy, but they certainly won’t reverse the wedding just to make sure Sarele ends up with her original betrothed.”

Atrix is torn between incredulity and excitement. “But -- leaving aside the difficulty of faking my death in front of witnesses -- doesn’t that just leave Adgar in the same fix?”

“I don’t think he’ll find it quite as difficult,” Jaron says slyly, casting his eyes over to the hotly blushing Adgar. “Come on, Adgar, you’ve been in love with her for years. This would be a happy ending for everyone.”

“What could go wrong?” says cousin Nameless drily.

Atrix’s face breaks into a conspiratorial smile. “Right. We can make this work. I happen to know a young d’Orbis Sword-Priest who would make a very reliable witness to my demise...”

* * *

A Note on the Finality of Death: In the world of Aerdrim, unlike some other worlds with which readers may be familiar, Ain’s priests do not have the power to Raise Dead. The soul is known to cling to the body for a few minutes after death, and very powerful priests can Resuscitate a dead person if the soul has not yet fled. However, once the soul is gone, there is only one way to bring it back: for a circle of priests to summon Death himself and offer a bargain, usually of a life for a life. The Summons is taxing and there is no guarantee that Death will accept a bargain; as a result, this happens so rarely as to be legend rather than reality to most people in Aerdrim...

 

[havenstone]

Going to the Ball

THE DAY AFTER their arrival, Carwyn drags a reluctant Kyla out to explore the maze of the Patriarchs’ Palace. Kyla deftly leads them away from any people they see, until Carwyn notices a gaggle of young men, one of whom looks like an even more handsome version of Atrix. She waves away Kyla’s objections and walks over to the group. “We’re looking for Atrix d’Loriad,” Carwyn says, at her most winsome. “You don’t happen to know where we can find him?”

“Cousin Atrix won’t be much use to you if you do find him,” replies the dashing young man with mild smugness, eyeing Carwyn appreciatively. “His father’s got him under lock and key until his wedding day.”

“Wedding day?” says Carwyn incredulously, momentarily losing her composure.

“He didn’t tell us he was betrothed,” Kyla explains.

“He didn’t know himself until yesterday evening,” laughs the good-looking d’Loriad. “If he had, I don’t think he’d be here. I’m his cousin, Alan. How do you know ‘Trix?”

“We traveled here together,” calls Atrix, who has just entered the room with his two guardians. “The lovely mistress Carwyn is from the village I was staying in. She owns a very fine inn. And I’m not under lock and key. Unless you count my ring-brother and... our other cousin here.”

“Well, congratulations to you and to Adgar, cos,” Alan says, grinning. “Who would have thought that Atrix d’Loriad would be choosing a ring-brother before any of the rest of his cousins? Since you’ll doubtless be dancing with your d’Nerein betrothed, you won’t mind if I claim mistress Carwyn for the Grand Ball?” Atrix looks mildly pained, while Alan turns to Carwyn with a bow. “Surely you’ll be there. It’s in three days’ time, before we all ride off to Arawai.”

Carwyn beams. “I’d be delighted, m’lord Alan.” While the two of them continue to flirt (and eventually steal away together), Kyla drifts off forlornly to the edge of the crowd, trying to escape the stares of the Senallines. There’s only one other person hanging out there: Atrix’s quiet cousin-guardian. She tries to ignore him.

Eventually, he makes that impossible. “Excuse me. Can I ask: What are you still doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Kyla says sharply.

Cousin Nameless shrugs. “This can’t be an easy place to live as an Arawai at the moment. People have been talking about you from the moment you walked in the gate. Why haven’t you left for some place that isn’t about to go to war with the plainsfolk?”

Kyla stares at him, unsure whether he’s mocking her. “There aren’t too many places left to go for that. My friends have come here. I grew up with them, and I’ll stick with them.”

“That’s admirable,” says the young d’Loriad gravely. “I grew up here, and in Lynar it can be hard to make trusted friends across Families, still less with someone from another people entirely. I’ve often thought that it might be easier outside the Palace. To be honest, I was a little jealous of Atrix when they sent him away.”

Kyla shakes her head. “It isn’t easy anywhere. That’s why I hold on to my friends when I find them.”

“That sounds like wise advice to me.” He considers for a moment, then reaches out for her hand. “Loyal lady Arawai, you deserve to see a better side of Lynar than you have thus far. Would you do me the honor of joining me at the Grand Ball in three days?”

Kyla blinks. “I... I don’t even know your name.”

The young d’Loriad grins gently. “Well, that practically makes you family. I’m Gareth. Gareth d’Loriad, twenty-ninth grand-nephew of Patriarch Gereyd.” He pulls out a small purse from his clothes and presses it into Kyla’s hand. “Please don’t take this wrongly. It is our custom for a young lord to buy his lady a new dress before a Ball, but at the moment, I’m forbidden from leaving the Palace. I’d be honored if you would choose the finest tailor in Lynar to make you a dress.”

“I...” A flustered Kyla finds herself glad that her deep brown complexion hides blushes well. “All right, then.”

 

[havenstone]

The Cloth Merchant’s Daughter

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Kyla and Carwyn leave the Palace early to go get their dresses made for the Ball. It's the first raucous day of a general Festival in Lynar, declared by the Patriarchs of the Five Families for the five days before the armies depart for Arawai. The streets are filled with people dancing, singing, playing rowdy mass games of ‘hoodman blind,’ and enjoying wine casks from the Patriarchs’ cellars. The black moon is visible in the day sky -- usually a poor omen, but no one seems to be letting it ruin their day.

Kyla wears a cowl, which doesn’t stop her from attracting attention and (in one case) hurled wine and abuse. The wine has mostly dried by the time she and Carwyn arrive on Clothier Street, but her mood only sinks further as storekeeper after storekeeper coldly turns them away. Carwyn finally locates the shop of merchant Kendall Perigord, who was recommended by one of the d’Loriads for his fine cloth. The grizzled trader warmly invites them in, clucking his tongue disapprovingly at the stain down Kyla’s skirts. “Pack of dogs out there today. You sit here, my ladies, while my daughter brings you tea. We’ll see you well fitted out for the Ball.”

The merchant’s daughter, a short girl with dark hair and striking hazel eyes, arrives with chamomile tea and a towel to dry Kyla. She has a kind, down-to-earth presence that soon sets the harassed young women at ease. “I’m Kayene, ladies -- please call me Kay, everyone does.” Carwyn and Kyla at once reply that Kay should call them by their names as well. “If you follow me, I’ll measure you for your dresses.”

In the back room, Carywn notices a silk dress half-finished on a mannequin. Gauging its size, she casts an astute glance over to their young hostess. “For you, Kay?”

Kay smiles, looking a little embarrassed, while she begins taking Kyla’s measure. “It is. I’m hoping to be at the Ball as well, la-- Carwyn. Our family has some distant ties to the Five, and my father and I will be helping to supply the army along the road to Guardwatch.” She suddenly turns her head back toward the outer room, eyes shining. “Father -- will cousin Atrix be at the Ball? Uncle Porphyry said he’s returned to Lynar.”

“Ha!” her father calls back. “If he’s back, I can’t imagine him not being at the Ball.”

“Wait -- you’re related to Atrix d’Loriad?” asked Carwyn in surprise.

“You know that young rascal?” says Kendall cheerily, coming in with several bolts of Chramic silk. “His mother is a sister to the merchant Porphyry, whose wife and mine were sisters. We’ve seen plenty of Atrix over the years. My daughter grew up with him and young Jonathan d’Loriad, all visiting their uncle Porphyry together. And of course Atrix would hide in my shop when he got into trouble down here in town.”

“We’re from Rim Square -- we met Atrix there,” Carwyn explains. “And Porphyry was like an uncle to me as well! He taught me...” She pauses for a heartbeat, decides against mentioning forgery and rumor-mongery to the respectable Perigords. “...how to get by in the world. So you’re another of Atrix’s cousins, Kay? We seem to be meeting them everywhere.”

“Atrix always treated me more like a little sister than a cousin,” Kay says fondly. “His brother Jonathan and I were closer to the same age. I think we were both a little overwhelmed by all the trouble Atrix caused. And jealous of his adventures, too.” Kay’s smile turns suddenly to concern. “Porphyry told us about the Harak attack in Rim Square. Were you there when that happened? Are your families safe?”

Kyla and Carwyn begin telling their story; Kay listens in fascination while briskly taking their measurements and beginning to cut the cloth. “...and so we arrived here,” Kyla finally concludes. “We saw Atrix yesterday, under close guard by two of his d’Loriad cousins. It seems his parents have arranged for him to marry in just a few days.”

Kay smiles, but Carwyn thinks she sees her cheeks go a little bit paler. “Poor Atrix. That must not be easy for him. We knew he’d likely not be allowed to choose his bride, but he can’t have expected to be married off so soon.”

“Well, these are not usual times for the Five Families,” Kay’s father offers, coming back from rummaging through his stock. “Mistress Kyla, I’ve found something that may make Lynar a bit more pleasant for you.” He produces a dark veil and gloves. “These are common enough on ladies from the palace to not occasion a second glance. You shouldn’t have to hide who you are... but for the moment, it’s probably the better part of wisdom.”

Kyla feels a surge of gratitude that closes her throat and brings her close to tears. “You’re too kind, sir. This will make a great difference to me.”

AFTER ANOTHER HALF hour of tea and friendly conversation, Carwyn and Kyla take their leave. Kyla’s veil works exactly as Perigord had predicted; people’s eyes seem to slide off her (and onto Carwyn, who doesn’t particularly mind). “What lovely people,” Carwyn says warmly as they walk back toward the Palace. “I really like that Kay.”

From the shop of one of the cloth merchants that turned them away earlier, a young man emerges, dressed in new-cut noble garb. His eyes fall on Carwyn and Kyla, and with a barely perceptible start, he turns and hurries away into the crowd. Carwyn’s brow creases as she tries to figure out why the lordling looked so familiar. Then she gasps and grabs Kyla’s arm.

“Wait -- was that Nina?”

 

[havenstone]

The Golden Knave and the Dastard’s Dregs

CARWYN AND KYLA run after the young noble who looked like a male version of Nina, but he gives them the slip, and they soon lose him completely in the masses of rowdy Lynarfolk. This turns out to be a blessing for Carwyn, as the two women give up the chase, pause for breath... and spot a signboard above a broad street across the way.

The sign shows a roguish-looking man with golden eyes, wearing a gold medallion and juggling five cards: a Blade, Star, Hawk, Flame, and Lion, the suits of the Caragond gambling deck. All the doors on the street bear smaller but similar signs representing “face” cards: the Scepter, two Cardinals, the Assassin, Fortune’s Scales.

“What a satisfactory sensation to spy in a city of strangers a friend’s familiar face!” comes a merry voice from over their shoulders. When they turn, Nurak looks straight through Kyla’s veil, winks, and whispers, “Salutations, my secretive savage sister!”

“Nurak -- is that what I think it is?” Carwyn says reverently, pointing to the sign.

“The most spendthrift of Senallines choose to gamble on the Street of the Golden Knave and its extraordinary environs,” Nurak confirms. As a barbarian, he receives a few black looks from passing Lynarfolk, but his long staff and daggers seem to give the bigots second thoughts.

“It’s... it’s the size of Rim Square,” Carwyn says softly, glancing around the gambling quarter. In her head, she runs through all the games Porphyry taught her in front of the fire at the Hogshead: Round the Yard, Sarranese, Hawks Run, and the lords’ game, Imperium. Carwyn had a natural talent for them all, and her deft fingers had occasionally added a little extra advantage when her luck was down.

“Carwyn -- we don’t have that much gold,” Kyla murmurs, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get back to the Palace.

“Well, let’s fix that.” Carwyn heads into the Masked Queen and stakes herself at a table playing Sarranese. Kyla sits quietly to the side, extremely nervous lest someone recognize her in the rough tavern. Nurak joins the game and proceeds to lose with his usual chatter and good cheer. Carwyn cleans out her fellow players, but flirts with them enough that they hardly mind.

SUDDENLY A YOUNG man comes over -- unshaven, with shaggy black hair and deceptively lazy-lidded brown eyes -- and lays down four cards in front of Carwyn like a gauntlet. “You’re playing too well for this table, gorgeous. Do you know Imperium? We need an eighth player in the corner.”

Carywn looks up at him, notices the bruise around his right eye. They recognize each other at the same instant: he’s the rowdy young scruff that she punched out during the grand entrance of the army of Wildengard into Lynar. As she scowls, he grins with a trace of embarrassment. “I’m just looking for an eighth player. You don’t need to worry.”

“You might,” says Carwyn levelly, sweeping her winnings up in front of her. She hands them to Kyla, and stalks over to the corner table.

“I’m Lune,” offers the young gambler as they sit down. “And you are...?”

“Going to leave you with only a bruise to remember me by,” Carwyn retorts. Nurak gives an appreciative hoot of laughter, while Lune inclines his head with a languid smile. Kyla slowly loses her anxiety and watches with fascination through her veil as Carwyn and Lune begin winning from everyone else at the table. Carwyn’s initial disdain is eroded by the excitement of the game and her reluctant admission that Lune is by far the best player she’s ever faced. They fence with cards for hours, and both leave with five times the money they brought to the table. By the time Carwyn and Kyla leave for the Palace (under Nurak’s protection), Carwyn has to admit to a slight interest in gaming with Lune again.

MEESHAK AND ASH have been unable to find Nina for more than a day, and have had poor luck in pursuing possible leads in the castle. They decide to recruit Darren and his newfound friends to help them look for clues to identify the man who hired Marcor’s assassin. Together, they go down to the salt-stained houses that cling to the shoreline, and send Darren and the dwarrow off to ask around the docks while they visit the Dastard’s Dregs.

The Dregs is a decrepit tavern, with a pervasive stench of rot that goes beyond the fish littered around the outside. “A friend of mine was here a week or two ago,” Meeshak says to the barman, a scarred Megrimner. “He had a... business agreement with a man he met here. A man who hid his face, but couldn’t hide his stammer.”

“A lot of people make business agreements in here,” growls the barkeeper.

Meeshak scowls, but the Megrimner is uncharacteristically unimpressed by the gangly, gaunt young priest. Ash leans in and places five silvers on the bar. “We’re just looking to get back what he owes our friend. Wouldn’t it be worth your while to help us?”

Ash isn’t particularly charismatic either, but the barman responds better to silver than intimidation. “The hooded man was tall. Broad shoulders. Stammered to me when he came in that he was looking for a man who knew what a knife was for.” The keeper of the Dregs shrugs. “Don’t waste more of your coin, I’ve got nothing else for you.”

On the docks, meanwhile, Darren makes an unexpected discovery -- one which, years later, he would chronicle with warmth in his own memoirs.

 

[Fimmtiu]

Ah, for the days when gambling was a skill...

Keep it up! You write very well.

 

[havenstone]

Keep it up! You write very well.

Thanks, Fimmtiu!