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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 04/11/1998
 Volume 11, Number 3                            Circulation:        676
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Guest Editorial              Mike Adams
 "And How Will You Believe?"  Jim Owens              Early Summer, 1010
 The Gong Farmer              Brandon Haught         Summer, 1015
 Quadrille 5                  Alan Lauderdale        8 Sy, 1012

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
 are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
 public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 11-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 1998 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                            Guest Editorial
                             by Mike Adams
                      <meadams@sunherald.infi.net>

     Greetings, and welcome to Volume 11, Issue 3 of DargonZine.
     Orny, our esteemed editor, has invited me to write a guest
editorial. I thought I would give you, the reader, some insight into
what happens when a new writer joins Dargon, and how a story goes from
idea to published work.
     I joined Dargon in mid-April of 1996. Like most of you, I was
widely read in both science fiction and fantasy, and like many of you,
had a desire to write. I was surfing the 'net and stumbled across the
Dargon website. I was amazed to find that I could be a part of the whole
venture, and I signed up immediately.
     One of the first things a new writer tries to do is read all the
back issues. I still haven't done it, and I've been here a while. After
a few weeks you can get quite busy being a part of this group. Not only
are you trying to write stories, but so are several other people, and
you are expected to provide critiques of their stories, as well as
debate the structure of the shared world. It can be intimidating to a
new writer.
     I had an idea up and running within two weeks, and had tentative
approval from the List to proceed. It took three weeks for me to come up
with my first draft, and I was feeling very good about myself. That
didn't last long, but I enjoyed it while it lasted. Soon, critiques
began to appear in my Inbox. I eagerly read the critiques, and made
quite a few changes to my story.
     Then came a late critique! It was brutal; very fair, honest, and
correct, but tough to swallow, nonetheless. Looking back, I'm grateful
to the guys for thoses reviews, because the story that came out the
other side was a much better story because of the changes I made. By
that time, I was pretty sick of the story, having written or rewritten
it four or five times, but I made the effort.
     One last time, I posted the story to the List, and thankfully, it
was ready to print. I was elated. I was almost a published writer. Now
my story had to join the queue of other stories that were ready to
print. It finally appeared in December of 1996. My story had taken eight
months from inception to publication, probably an average turnaround
time.
     Last, but certainly not least, in August of 1997, eight months
after publication, I got an e-mail from someone who had read the story,
and felt moved enough to write me. I walked on air for days. The feeling
you get when someone says "I liked your story" is as powerful as almost
any I've felt. A story is my own creation; it comes from inside, deep
inside, and exposing that to complete strangers is risky. But with the
help of the other writers on the List, I've found that it can also be
very fulfilling.
     This time we've got Part 5 of 6 of Alan Lauderdale's "Quadrille."
Also on board is Jim Owens with "And How You Will Believe?", a story of
Stevenism and mystery. And finally, I'm proud to introduce Brandon
Haught's first story, "The Gong Farmer", a tale about the "smallest
room" in the castle. It's great to see new writers go the distance, and
thanks to all of you for letting us do this.

========================================================================

                      "And How Will You Believe?"
                              by Jim Owens
                      <cheribou@worldnet.att.net>
                           Early Summer, 1010

     Dulas followed the servant into the room. He stood at the foot of
the bed for several menes before the figure on the bed noticed him and
stirred. Dulas ran his fingers through his thinning, grey hair
uncomfortably. He had stood in the presence of dying people many times
before, but it was never an easy thing to do. This particular situation
was especially strange.
     "Come to gloat, have you?" came the raspy greeting from the wasted
man on the bed. The servant looked up at Dulas, a questioning look on
his face. Dulas nodded, and the servant left, closing the door behind
himself.
     "Hello Anarr," Dulas said. "How are you feeling?"
     "How the hell do you think I'm feeling?" snapped Anarr weakly. "I'm
dying."
     "We all die, Anarr," replied Dulas gently.
     Anarr coughed weakly for a long time. When he spoke again his voice
was fainter still.
     "You've always been a pain in the behind, Dulas."
     Dulas moved to sit on the stool beside the bed while Anarr spoke.
     "How long have I known you?" The sharp tone had bled from Anarr's
voice, leaving behind only weakness and vulnerability.
     "I was nineteen when I first met you at Balthus Celerion's school.
I'm sixty-nine now."
     "Fifty years. Half a century. Not that long at all. It just seems
longer."
     "You had grey hair then, too," Dulas commented, staring at Anarr's
mostly bald head.
     "It started falling out three years ago. The spells stopped
working. Too much age pressing in on me," Anarr replied. "It didn't go
back to grey at first," he continued, his voice rising and becoming more
reflective. "It just started getting thinner. I didn't want to think
about it at the time. I think I knew even then that the spells weren't
working anymore."
     "You've lived a long life, Anarr," Dulas said. "Much longer than
most. It's not a bad thing to die after such a long life."
     "It's always a bad thing to die, idiot!" snapped Anarr, the anger
returning. "Death is the enemy." He lay for a moment, rolling his head
on the pillow and his eyes in his head. "You fools. It's bad enough that
you think that one man came back to life. Do you have to insist that
everyone else will too? Idiots."
     "Stevene has shown us," Dulas corrected gently. "We will live
again."
     "Stevene was a fraud," muttered Anarr, his burst of vigor fading
fast. "A liar."
     Dulas sighed. "I had hoped, over the years, that I could convince
you otherwise, before our relationship came to an end."
     "You didn't expect me to die, did you?" Anarr asked quietly,
wistfully.
     "No." Dulas watched Anarr quietly, a gentle, almost sad look on his
face.
     "Well, neither did I," Anarr replied. "Arrogant of me, wasn't it?
To think that I thought I would live forever."
     They sat silently for a while. Outside the birds were singing, and
from throughout the large complex sounds of daily activity drifted in.
Finally Dulas spoke.
     "Have you made arrangements for your body?"
     "Quite to the point, aren't you?"
     Dulas sat for a moment. "I take it that you haven't."
     "It has been done for me. The council has decreed that my body will
be burned and the ashes scattered. They don't want my empty shell coming
back from the grave and wandering around the complex, I suppose. Too
many years of applying spells to my own body, or so they fear."
     "Magic as powerful as you have used cannot always be trusted,"
commented Dulas.
     "Ah." Anarr was becoming hard to hear. "Nothing powerful about it.
Careful use of well known thamaturgy, systematic study and practice over
the years. It's barely even magic."
     "Most people don't live to be one hundred and sixty," commented
Dulas.
     "Some live much, much longer," countered Anarr bitterly.
     Again there was silence. Finally Dulas cleared his throat.
     "I know you don't believe me," began Dulas, "but you will live
again. Hear me out," he added quickly, when Anarr seemed ready to reply.
"I know that you don't believe in the teachings of Stevene, but somehow
I can't shake the feeling that I will be seeing you again, when we both
shall live in eternal light."
     "Aren't you forgetting something?" replied Anarr. "Don't you have
to believe in this 'god' before he will help you?"
     "And how will you believe?" asked Dulas.
     "In your 'god'? Why would I want to? So I can wear a noose around
my neck? Not to mention jumping through flaming rings and dancing on my
hind legs like some circus animal for him." He fell to coughing again.
     "You've never really understood Him," replied Dulas when Anarr
stopped. The inflection in his voice clearly showed a respect for the
subject that Anarr lacked. "You've studied the texts, but you've never
really understood them, nor Him."
     "He sent his messenger to die. That's all I need to know," replied
Anarr. "I don't need a god who wants me to die. I want -- I wanted -- I
want to live." The last was spoken almost as a confession.
     "Stevene didn't come to die," countered Dulas. "He brought a
message of love about the One, and we hated it so much we killed him."
     "You fools die every day. You wear that stupid rope around your
necks like you're waiting in line for the gallows. Your prophet got
himself killed and now you want to join him. I mean ..." Anarr tried to
sit up, but couldn't quite manage it. Dulas moved to help, but Anarr
shook his head. He lay panting for a while before resuming his thought.
"I mean, you act like you have a real god who can actually do something
for you. Why don't you face reality? Some fool blathered about some
fictional god and gets himself killed for his trouble, and you people
make him into some sort of god too, and go around wearing a noose on
your necks. I mean, have you ever seen him bring someone back from the
dead? Have you?" Anarr sank deeper into the bedding, exhausted from his
outburst. "You ignorant fools can't even get your history right," he
sighed. "Stevene was beheaded, not hanged."
     For a while the pair simply sat in silence.
     "I have seen people healed, and lives changed for the better," said
Dulas finally.
     "You've seen people recover," replied Anarr, his eyes closed, "and
seen people act like fools."
     "His spirit infuses us, and we live as He wants us to," replied
Dulas gently.
     "You live as you want, and say it's the will of your god,"
countered Anarr, tired and still.
     "Stevene has shown us the will of God. His teachings bring light
and goodness to us. They show us the proper way to live, the just and
good way."
     When Anarr didn't reply, Dulas continued.
     "He sent Stevene to teach us goodness, and then has infused us with
His holiness, so that we can live that way. We cannot live that way of
ourselves." Dulas opened his shirt and extracted the worn noose that he
wore around his neck -- the custom of some Stevenic sects. "Even as
Stevene died to serve Him, so each of us must leave our lives behind to
serve Him. In exchange He helps us live His life instead. We have His
wisdom, through Stevene's words. We have His strength to endure the
hurts of daily life. We pursue His goals, adopt His attitudes. Because
Stevene showed us the way, we can live His life."
     Anarr sighed. "Dulas, do you know how many different religions
there are in Makdiar?"
     Dulas sat silently, unanswering. Anarr paused, then continued.
     "I didn't think so." Anarr took several deep breaths, gathering
strength for his reply. "There are one hundred twelve different
religions in Makdiar. Of those, ninety-four teach a moral code similar
in almost every way to the one taught by Stevene. Over half claim to
represent one or more gods. Forty-two state that they have some form of
invisible assistance from one or more gods that helps them live better
than they could otherwise. Each of them teaches honesty, obedience to
the law, respect for authority, and personal accountability. Most of
them claim supernatural intervention in one way or another, although
usually when we send someone to check it out, it turns out to be some
simple form of magic or other." He stopped, panting. While he lay there,
catching his breath, Dulas said nothing. "In every case, those people
who make a real effort to live by the rules they are taught are better
liked, have more wealth, and live longer than those who do not. That's
good." He panted some more before continuing. "Of course, when we talk
to people who don't believe in some god or other, and who also live
good, clean lives, they also live longer, are better liked, and have
more money."
     For several menes there was no sound in the room save Anarr's
panting and the sound of birds outside.
     "Over one hundred years ago, I was a student here in the sanctuary.
After one lecture about immortality spells, I decided that I would live
forever. Since that day I have pursued life. I learned the secret
incantations that prevent wrinkles, that thin and thicken the blood, and
that cure infections." He paused to catch his breath. "I studied the
foods to eat, the exercises and meditations to practice. For a while I
moved to the south, and for ten whole years I went naked, because
someone told me that clothes restrict the circulation. And yes, Dulas,
the blood does circulate, despite what Goolten says." Anarr shook his
head. When he continued his voice was softer, almost inaudible. "I did
everything I could to live forever. And it was working. But life -- or
death, actually -- caught up to me."
     He fixed Dulas with his stare, vigor returning to his voice. "And
through it all I've not seen one thing to convince me that the followers
of Stevene have any special grace above or beyond that of any other
religion."
     There came a knock on the door. Dulas arose and opened it. A
younger man in a red cloak entered.
     "Anarr, how can I help you?"
     "Ah, Gotrung. You made it." Anarr panted a moment or so while
Gotrung took his place on the stool Dulas had vacated. "My thamaturgy is
failing me. Can you see where the energies are going?"
     "Certainly," replied Gotrung. He removed a few amulets from his
neck and set one at Anarr's head, one on his feet. He placed his hands
palm-out in the air above Anarr's chest and stared straight across his
fingertips for several moments. Dulas watched as a pink aura grew around
Gotrung's eyes, then finally faded. Gotrung slowly gathered his amulets
back up.
     "They aren't going anywhere, Anarr," replied Gotrung slowly,
carefully. "They're simply exhausted."
     "What do you mean?" asked Anarr. "I had enough to last a lifetime!"
     "And they did," Gotrung explained gently. "And then some. And then
some. But they're exhausted now."
     "You must give me more!" exclaimed Anarr weakly, trying to raise
himself up.
     "From where?" asked Gotrung. "If there were time we could try an
exchange or extraction, but there isn't." He was silent for a moment.
"Your life energy is so low, you will be dead within the day. I'm sorry.
You've used up all your life."
     Dulas hung his head, while Gotrung stood up and walked to the door.
Anarr lay quietly, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. After Gotrung
closed the door behind him, Dulas sat down on the stool.
     "Dulas, is that you?" asked Anarr, his gaze not leaving the roof.
     "Yes, I'm still here."
     "I imagine you plan on staying until I'm dead," remarked Anarr, not
looking at his long-time acquaintance. "You were always a decent sort,
that way, regardless of what I've said about you. But I don't want to
waste any more of your time -- I of all people know how valuable time
is. Go. You've made your effort, you've done your duty. I'm no more
convinced of your god now than before, through no fault of your own. Go
in peace, my friend. May you live as long as I have."
     Dulas took Anarr's hand for a moment, then turned and left.

     "... not one of the nicest rooms, but it's nicer than mine, or I'd
let you have mine," the servant was saying as he let Dulas into the
small room that he was to occupy for the night.
     "It will do just fine. I don't need more than a place to sleep,"
commented Dulas as he held his traveling lamp up and examined the tiny
cell. "I shall be leaving in the morning anyway."
     "Anarr is stubborn," remarked the servant, "but I don't expect him
to last the night. He'll most likely die in his sleep."
     "It's better that way," commented Dulas, "more peaceful." He turned
to the servant. "Good night."
     The servant left, closing the door. Dulas set his lamp in the
corner and stepped up to the window. It was open, letting some air in.
The night seemed to intrude into the room: thick, inky velvet. Dulas
satisfied himself that there was nothing to see, and knelt on the straw
mattress. He extinguished the light, bowed his head, and closed his
eyes. He began to pray. His words were barely audible, not spoken to be
heard by any ear. Dulas' tone was that of the believer, the supplicant,
one who has spoken often to someone that they have met, but not really
ever gotten to know. His posture was one of habitual reverence. There
was much to say. When he finished, Dulas rose and again looked out into
the dark, then lay himself down to sleep.
     No more than a few menes had passed when suddenly the door flung
open. Dulas bolted upright. There, in the door, stood Anarr, torch in
one hand and a noose in the other.
     "You did this to me!!" he shouted at Dulas.
     Dulas stared. Anarr stood straight and tall, his muscles full and
taut. Thick black hair covered his head, and his skin was smooth and
clean. He was young again.
     "Anarr!! What happened?" Dulas exclaimed as Anarr stalked into the
room. Frightened, anxious faces peered in the door, but no one
interfered.
     "You did this, cursing me with your filthy noose and your filthy
god!" He cast the noose at Dulas' feet.
     "But, but Anarr, that's not mine!" Dulas reached in his shirt and
withdrew his own noose to show to Anarr. Anarr stared at it his eyes
wide, his face white. "I did nothing but pray for you. He has answered
my prayers and healed you!"
     "I don't even believe in your god!!" shouted Anarr, kicking part of
the mattress away.
     "Well, perhaps he believes in you," Dulas replied, uncowed.
     Anarr stared, fear replacing anger in his eyes. He looked at his
hands and stroked his face and hair. "It's some trick. You've placed
some enchantment on me."
     "I've done nothing!!" assured Dulas. "It is He who has done this!
He has shown His power to you, so that you might believe in Him!"
     "I'm a magician! I'm no Stevenic!"
     "Then perhaps it's time you were."

     Anarr staggered out into the night. He cast the torch away, running
in the dark. He stopped in the main parade grounds, the black of evening
all around. He held his hands up before his face, but could not see them
for the darkness. Out of habit he conjured up a foxfire. The blue light
flickered across his fingertips, illuminating and outlining their newly
restored youth. He flicked his hands, spraying the cold flames away and
dousing them. Then he collapsed on his knees, shaking his fists at the
sky and howling.

========================================================================

                            The Gong Farmer
                           by Brandon Haught
                          <bee_kay@yahoo.com>
                              Summer, 1015

     Rish Vogel walked into the gong chamber, arched his back and
grunted with satisfaction at the popping of his stiff vertebrae. After
hunching over his desk all day, it felt divine to walk around and
stretch. He carefully placed a worn leather scroll tube beside the
garderobe bench and took from under his arm a fur pelt with a hole
sliced from its center which he spread out over the wooden waste-chute
seat. With a few yawns and some general old man grunts he eased gently
onto the seat and sighed.
     As nature took its course, Rish picked up the tube, pried off the
cap and with slow patience and care pulled out a tightly wound scroll.
He smoothed out the precious parchment in smooth, practiced strokes with
a bony hand as dry and browned as the crinkled old paper. He squinted at
the neat, precise writings upon the scroll, blinked his eyes rapidly a
few times and pulled the paper up close to his thin nose. Whispered
curses slipped between his tight lips as he looked up high on the wall
opposite him at the stingy hole of a window. A dull haze of light was
all that could get through the head-sized opening; nowhere near enough
for a pair of aging eyes like Rish's to see by.
     He tried to read some again anyway. Duke Dargon had stirred up a
whirlwind of activity ever since returning from fighting naval battles
in the recent war. The Duke's activity had blown like gale winds through
Rish's office. The Chroniclers' scribes had been scribbling up documents
and researching information at a pace even more feverish than before the
war started. The duke's latest request concerned some farming
territories out east. He had wanted some historical references on land
ownership, crop production and a slew of other facts and figures. Rish
had spent the morning tearing through everything he had, but had trouble
locating the land owners' lineages; information that was important to
the issue of land ownership. He had been fairly sure he had what he was
looking for when the urge for "physical relief" hit him like a runaway
apple cart. He knew he shouldn't have had Salamagundi's sunsweet stew
earlier today, but it was the only thing his idiot of a new apprentice
had brought him for the noon meal. As Rish sat painfully on the gong
chamber bench, he thought of a few particularly long, boring scrolls
that would need copying by the new boy this evening.
     He finally gave up reading the parchment and set it down beside him
in frustration. It took many slow, agonizing moments to do his business,
but he finally finished and stood with a protesting pop from each knee.
He quickly arranged his robes, gave his bald head an invigorating
scratch, and snatched up the fur seat covering, eager to be on his way.
But he then gasped in horror as his scroll, which had been sitting on
the edge of the fur, was launched into the waste chute. With a speed
spurred on by sudden fear, Rish lunged for it. His stiff fingers brushed
the paper just as it floated out of reach, but failed to grasp hold.
     The horror of this unthinkable event kept Rish rooted to the spot,
arm outstretched, his mind as numb as his rear. He just stared into the
chute. He put a shaking hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and willed
himself to think. It was like trudging through a swampy mass of
cluttered thoughts. What would Duke Dargon say if he was told this
precious, important scroll was lost? Better not to think of such horrid
thoughts just yet. Maybe the scroll could be recovered. How far down was
it? What was down there? Where did the chute wind up?
     After a few more moments of nervous contemplation, Rish decided the
best course of action was to find the sewers. If he just kept in mind
the layout of the Keep, he should be able to figure out where the chute
would empty into the sewer. With any luck he would find the scroll there
in a legible condition. Rish sighed uneasily as the sarcastic thought
ran through his mind -- "And when handwritten copying was no longer
needed, I will become a master fisherman." The chances of finding that
scroll intact were slim, but slim was all he had.

     Rish had an idea where the sewer entrance might be, but wasn't
exactly sure as he had never been to that section of the Keep. There was
never any reason to go there before. He first tried to find a direct way
from the gong chamber into the lower levels. However, there was no
obvious straight route for the waste chute under the chamber. He
completely lost track of where the chute was; it seemed to head off at
strange angles that made no sense to him. He gave up on that search
method and decided to head over to the kitchen area. It was on a lower
level and Rish reasoned its waste chutes would be closer and head more
directly into the sewers.
     Cooks and servants were bustling madly about preparing the evening
meal when Rish arrived. No one paid the old man any heed as he dodged
through the commotion. He studied the waste chutes carefully and even
stuck his head into one of the larger ones for clues as to where it
headed. Long years of dealing with disasters helped keep him steady even
though the beginnings of a headache pulsed in his forehead and a
persistent gnawing in his stomach which had been eating at him for the
past few years picked up a more intense burning than usual. He set aside
his personal discomforts, though, and refused to acknowledge fear or
despair. He focused his sharp mind on the task and plowed on.
     In the back of the vast kitchen behind crates of vegetables he
found a disused doorway, which he walked through to find a set of stairs
leading down. Three rats scattered from underfoot while a fourth one
just hunkered down against the wall on a step and looked up at Rish in
defiance. Rish pointedly ignored the rodent and strode confidently down
the steps until they ended at a perpendicular hall. Rish looked left and
right and despite the lack of clues as to which way to go, he turned
left only to be stopped by unwelcoming darkness. He retreated to the
kitchen, grabbed a torch from its holder on the wall, and without a look
around to see if anyone noticed headed back through the door.
     With the torch thrust out determinedly before him, Rish pushed
through the darkness until his light revealed another stairway. He stood
for a few moments at the top of the stairs and peered down into the
darkness. The blackness seemed to hang about him thickly, as if it
resented his torch light. The clangs and shouts from the kitchen were
gone, leaving absolutely nothing in their place. Rish shook his head and
plunged an ear with his finger; the silence seemed unnatural to him and
he felt his ears had maybe somehow failed him. He stood there for
another moment, for the first time wavering in his resolve to reclaim
his scroll. The torch shook a little and Rishs eyes pierced the bony
hand holding it as if it betrayed him by letting his inner nervousness
show through. He relieved the guilty hand of duty with the other and
clenched it tightly in punishment. He set his jaw in renewed resolve and
stomped down the steps with determination, all the while inwardly
cursing himself for fearing the dark silence.
     The farther down he went, the muggier it got. The walls sweated a
slime that kept Rish solidly in the center of the stairs. Repugnant
smells wafted up causing Rish to gag. He had to stop a few times to
clamp his teeth and fight back the nausea lurching up his throat. The
stench was thicker and stronger than any he had previously experienced.
Waste and rot were nothing new to Rish, but this was a mixture of all
the vile smells he knew with a few unidentified ones thrown in. He had
definitely found the sewers.
     He reached a landing and paused yet again, but this time couldn't
fight back his natural reaction to the stinking cloud around him. His
throat went numb and the vomit spilled out of him in a rush. He doubled
over, nearly dropping his torch. Eventually his stomach emptied, but
kept lurching in painful dry heaves. He could swear his stomach was
going to climb out his mouth and run back up the stairs on its own.
     He finally regained control of himself, shook his head to clear it,
and with slow steps he turned around to go back up to clearer air. No
scroll in Dargon was going to propel Rish any further down those steps.
     Suddenly a voice rang out behind him, causing Rish to slip on the
first step and stumble backward onto the landing. His hand brushed the
slimy walls and he snatched it back in revulsion.
     "Hold where you are, stranger! Your torch light gives you away. For
what purpose do you tread through my land?" The voice was deep, loud and
dramatic.
     Rish eased around carefully; he was lightheaded from vomiting and
unsure of his balance. He thrust the torch out before him unsteadily and
peered into the darkness below. The stairs curved downward to the left
and about ten steps down from the landing was a dark figure standing
back against the inner wall.
     Rish tried to clear his throat, and with a hoarse voice said,
"Who's there?"
     "You are confronting none other than Knight Commander of the
Underkeep Armies." Then the dramatic tone dropped to a more normal
voice. "Shut up! Get back! I'm in charge here," he said in a frantic
whisper. Rish could see the figure move as if shoving someone behind
him.
     Rish's brow furrowed. "Underkeep Armies?" he whispered to himself.
     The man turned back to Rish and resumed his formal tone. "Name
yourself, intruder, so that I may determine friend or foe."
     Rish took a moment to answer. All he wanted to do now was get out
of here. This strange "Knight Commander" piqued his curiosity, but the
stench billowing through the stairway was threatening to make Rish retch
again.
     "I'm Lord Chronicler Rish Vogel," he finally replied.
     "What brings you into my domain, Sir Chronicler?"
     "I've lost something of value. Now if you'll excuse me, I --"
     "Hold Sir Chronicler! It may be that I can be of assistance." There
was a short pause and the mysterious knight added, "My spies inform me
there are evil things lurking about the keep. Accept my services and I
shall be your protector on your quest."
     "I really should be on my --" Rish was overwhelmed by the stench
once again and he bent over to dry heave some more.
     Rish heard the knight move forward and a sudden unreasoning fear
overtook him. He stumbled around and tried to make his way up the stairs
backwards while still gagging. His breath came in gasps. A confusing
array of bright colored cloth rushed at him and he thrust his torch out
at it. His feet betrayed him, though, and he tripped, landing with a
breath-stealing wallop on the stairs. The torch fell from his weak grasp
and rolled down a few steps. An instant later the gaily clothed skeleton
of a man thrust in close to Rish.
     "Be still, Milord. You are ill." The knight then beckoned behind
him. "Come, Edgart. We have an sick man to care for."
     Rish gaped helplessly as the knight took hold of his robes and
proceeded to drag him, backwards, down the steps into the horrific
darkness. "No," Rish breathed as the light from the dropped torch faded
and disappeared around the curve of the staircase.
     Rish deteriorated into a hyperventilating, groping, sobbing, blind
man. His tailbone struck each step painfully as the knight dragged him
by the collar down the seemingly endless stairs. He could hear the
knight breathing heavily with the effort.
     Finally, the steps ended and Rish was dragged across a smooth
floor. He clawed at the floor in futile resistance, only to come up with
fingernails full of slime, adding fuel to his hysteria as he tried
desperately tried to flick it away. His head seemed swelled with the
fierce pain of a headache. He kicked his legs fiercely but finally gave
in.
     A few moments later the knight let go, causing Rish to rap his head
on the hard floor, sending a flurry of stars before his eyes. He felt
hot and sticky, his stomach boiled like a cauldron, his throat burned
and tears streamed from his eyes. The smell was horrible beyond anything
he could have ever imagined. He just lay on the floor in misery,
awaiting whatever his fate was to be. Any mene now he knew the strange
knight was going to stab him, or beat him, or maybe even dump him in the
sewer. His imagination soared through the multitude of gruesome deaths
sure to come.
     Suddenly, Rish realized he could see. It was faint at first, but a
green glow softly illuminated the room and gradually intensified. He
tilted his head to the side and saw his kidnapper rubbing some type of
moss coating the walls. As he rubbed it, it started to radiate light.
     He was in a small cave, apparently empty. His head hurt too much to
look around. He could see the trail of ooze he had tracked in leading to
a tall, narrow opening, beyond which was a terrifying darkness.
     Rish watched the thin man work. He wore a tattered cape that
dragged the floor as he scooted around. A hodgepodge of clothing hung
from his skeletal frame in a multitude of colors muted by the green
illumination of the room. Various bits of cloth, coins, and
unidentifiable metals adorned his chest and softly clattered a
disjointed tune as the man hopped hurriedly about. The outfit was like a
child's rendition of the regal uniforms worn by the knight commanders of
Baranur.
     The knight finished rubbing the last bit of moss within his reach
and headed to a corner of the cave where Rish was surprised to see a
flower bed of sorts flourished. The man yanked up a handful of
pansy-like flowers and brought them over to Rish and thrust them in his
face.
     "Take these, sir scribe."
     Rish just raised an eyebrow and stared at the man with a mixture of
disbelief and distrust.
     The knight waved the flowers a little bit and a sweet aroma was
released. "By holding them to your nose, the sickly smell of the beast
will be warded off."
     Rish hesitantly took the bouquet, held it close to his nose and
breathed deep, all the while keeping an eye on his kidnapper. The aroma
was wonderful and Rish immediately felt a little better.
     A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed.
     "What?!" hollered the knight in a sudden rage. Rish jerked
reflexively and winced in expectation of a blow. The knight instead
whirled to confront someone Rish could not see. The knight cocked his
head as if listening then replied, "I was getting to that you fool. Shut
up and attend to your duties!"
     Rish couldn't figure out who the man could be talking to as he and
the knight were the only ones in the cave.
     "Pardon me for my squire's intrusion, Sir Scribe. He means well but
can be rather rude at times." The knight then turned and wagged a finger
at thin air while scolding, "A few pops with the flat of my blade ought
to help him mind his manners, though."
     Rish quickly deduced that the man was strange in the head, as if
his mother had not given him all his proper due at birth. He sat up and
though his head felt unsteady, he thought about escape. The situation
was hopeless, however, seeing as how the space beyond the cave opening
was darker than a moonless night in a deep forest.
     The knight turned back to Rish and smiled pleasantly. It came
across as gruesome, though, in the weird green glow of the moss. "You
mentioned losing something of value which caused you to venture into my
domain. Is there anything I can do to help?"
     Rish eyed the scarecrow of a man warily. He had yet to pass
judgment as to whether or not the knight was dangerous. He ignored the
knight's question and asked one of his own. "Why did you bring me here?"
he asked through the pansies.
     "You were ill and weak, good Sir. I could not leave you in such a
condition for the beast to find. Oh no, it was my duty to bring you to
safety."
     "What beast?"
     "You know not of the beast?"
     "I'm afraid not."
     The knight crouched down to be level with Rish. A serious
expression hardened his thin face as he looked right in Rish's eyes as
he spoke. "A monster of evil lurks in this keep, Sir Scribe. I and my
band of fighters have been battling the foul beast for years." He
gestured around the room as if a squad of troops were present. "It
steals objects of importance from the unwary and it tries to clog the
waste chutes in an effort to drive the residents here out of the keep.
It's a sly thing to be sure. I have fought it many times, but it always
eludes the killing stroke in the end."
     Rish was now certain the man was completely insane. He felt a
genuine fear the likes of which he had experienced only a handful of
times before in his long, active life. He refused to let the emotion get
the better of him, though. He focused on the sweet aroma of the flowers
and the pulse of pain shooting back and forth between his tailbone and
his forehead. "I will escape," he ordered himself. His nimble mind
settled on playing along with the mad knight as his only means of escape
for now.
     He took a deep breath through the flowers. "I think maybe the beast
stole one of my scrolls. I could take --"
     The knight leaped to his feet as if bit by a snake. "Did you see
it?" he asked wide-eyed.
     Rish was jolted by the knight's sudden reaction. Despite his
thudding heart, Rish replied calmly, "Not actually. I think --"
     "How long ago did this happen?"
     "No more than half a bell ago. Help me up and I'll --"
     "Sound the horns, Edgart! Men to arms! Men to arms! We'll have the
beast yet!" He danced about the cave like a marionette with tangled
strings and a drunk puppeteer. He shoved at imaginary troops and yelled
a quick succession of commands that echoed off the stone walls. In a
blur of movement, the man dashed out of the cave. Rish could hear him
still hollering commands and making enough noise to make Rish think an
entire army was actually on the move.
     A moment later the knight burst back into the cave brandishing two
pikes and a mad leer. He thrust a pike at Rish, butt first. Rish had to
duck to avoid getting knocked on the head with the pike held in the
knight's unsteady hand. "Take it and lead the way, Sir Scribe. A
glorious battle is but a heartbeat away. Hurry so that the beast's trail
may still be fresh."
     Rish grabbed the weapon, not so much because he wanted it, but
because it wobbled so much in the knight's grip that Rish was going to
end up getting whacked with it. Using the pike to pull himself up, he
held the flowers firmly to his nose and went with the excited knight out
of the cave.
     Rish stumbled hesitantly through the darkness into what was
apparently a vast cavern. He could hear the knight ranging farther
ahead. His hands trembled and his knees shook. The loony knight was
going to leave him alone in the total darkness. Water lapped at an
unseen shore somewhere nearby, and an occasional splash echoed off
distant walls. The knight's belief in some horrible beast roaming the
sewers sprang foremost in Rish's mind.
     "Hello?" he yelled nervously.
     "Edgart, you idiot! You're supposed to be watching the scribe,"
said the knight from a distance. "Lord Chronicler, where are you?"
     "Here," answered Rish and an instant later the knight was by his
side.
     The knight took Rish by the arm and raced with him through the
darkness. Rish rammed his toe into something hard and grimaced in pain.
     "Step up, Sir Scribe. We have reached the stairs."
     They made their way up the steps and Rish could see a faint glow
ahead. As they rounded a curve, he saw his torch still sputtering on a
step. The knight paid it no heed, though, and continued impatiently up,
dragging Rish along.
     They finally topped the stairs in a familiar hallway. They
continued onward and Rish eventually heard the sounds of salvation
coming from the kitchen. In just a few moments he would be safe.
     The knight stopped when they came to the steps leading up to the
kitchen. He looked up and then peered straight into the gloom of the
continuing hallway. "Where to now, Sir Scribe?" asked the knight.
     Rish stalled for a moment. He was indecisive as the whether he
should continue to play along now that he knew where he was. But how
would he get rid of the knight? The crazed man was dancing from foot to
foot causing his 'medals' to jingle and his face was set firmly like a
man given a mission from some higher power. Rish figured the man was
crazy and therefore unpredictable and even possibly dangerous.
     The sooner Rish could get away from him, the better.
     The knight tapped Rish lightly on the head with the business end of
his rusty pike. "Are you all right?"
     "Yes." Rish took a deep shaky breath as if he was about to abandon
ship and plunged into an attempt to rid himself of the lunatic knight.
     "Now, I'm not so sure that some beast took my scroll, sir ... um
... sir ..." Rish looked at the knight expectantly, waiting for him to
fill in a name as yet unoffered.
     The knight ignored the subtle probe and stuck his face up close to
Rish's, a mere finger's width nose to nose. Rish flinched back, but the
determined man went on with his up-close examination.
     Without taking his eyes off the scribe he titled his head to the
side and said to his invisible partner, "What do you think, Edgart? Pale
face. Bloodshot eyes. Acting weird. Yes, I think so as well." He nodded,
stepped back and commanded, "Disrobe, Sir Scribe. I must examine your
buttocks."
     Rish gasped. "I really don't *think* so!"
     "For your own well-being, I must do so. When in the gong chamber,
did you engage in a bowel movement?"
     "What?!"
     "Ahh. An onset of deafness as well. This could be severe, Edgart.
We may need to fetch a hot poker."
     "*Hot poker*?!"
     "Did you experience a numbness of the buttocks when you stood up
from your business, Sir Scribe?" the knight asked in a raised voice.
"Because if you did, it could be a sign that the evil beast sneaked up
and bit you on the rear, thus injecting a grossly debilitating poison
that will race through your body causing --"
     Rish threw his pike to the floor, thrust the bouquet of pansies at
the knight, shaking it to punctuate his words. "You are insane!" Then at
a loss for anything else to say, he buried his nose back into the
flowers, turned on his heels, and stormed up the stairs.
     "Give chase, Edgart! Do not let him get away! He needs our help!"
     Rish looked over his shoulder to see the knight bearing down on him
like a left over spirit from the Night of Souls. His eyes were wide and
possessed. His arms were raised with ragged clothing billowing about and
the pike swinging wildly. Rish broke into a wild dash to get to safety
and hollered madly for help.
     The knight was too quick for him, though. He tripped Rish with the
pike and Rish plunged headlong to the steps, scattering pansies
everywhere. Then the knight was on top of him, yanking his robes up.
Rish let loose a long, high-pitched scream that even he didn't know he
was capable of.
     The knight exposed Rish's rear end and proceeded to poke and smack
the cheeks with abandon. Rish was on his stomach with the knight astride
his back. All the old scribe could do was kick and scream.
     Then suddenly the knight jumped up. "He's fine, Edgart. Smoothest
buttocks I've ever seen, but he's fine." Then he whispered to his
imaginary squire, "I think he's just a little touched. Not quite armed
for combat if you know what I mean."
     Just then three armed men stormed around a curve of the steps and
came to a sudden stop before the prone, half-naked scribe. A few steps
behind them came a tight-packed group of nervous servants and cooks
curious to see what the commotion was all about.
     One of the armed men eyed Rish suspiciously then turned to the
knight and saluted. "Sir Knight, we heard a woman screaming. Is
everything all right here?"
     Rish gasped in humiliation. These fools thought his screams sounded
like a woman's *and* they were saluting the lunatic. "Has this knight
somehow infected my spirit?" thought Rish. "Am I seeing the knight's
phantom army now?"
     "No, no. Everything is fine, good sergeant. The Lord Chronicler had
sighted the beast and was leading me to it. It seems, however, that the
scribe is not feeling well."
     The armed men, cooks, servants and a concerned, almost sane-looking
knight looked down at the old scribe shaking uncontrollably on the
floor.
     "Maybe you should adjust your robes," offered someone to Rish in
hushed tones.
     Rish summoned all his will power to control his shaking and slowly
made his way to his feet, adjusting his robes as he stood. He glared at
the onlookers and saw that the armed men were in fact real castle guards
and not the knight's apparitions. Rish could feel his own face radiating
an angry red.
     "This, this ... man ... is ... is ... insane. He *attacked* me! He
... he ..."
     "Maybe you should just tell me where you sighted the beast and then
get some rest, Sir Scribe. Obviously this adventure is a bit too much
for you," said the knight.
     A guard looked at Rish meaningfully and said, "Yes. Just tell the
knight where the beast was and I'll see you to your quarters."
     Rish couldn't believe his ears. Was he the only sane one here? He
stared uncomprehendingly at the guard and managed to stutter, "But ...
but ..."
     The crowd of onlookers whispered among themselves as if conferring
about what judgment to pass upon him. The knight cleared his throat and
raised a thin eyebrow impatiently.
     "The north tower," Rish finally said and buried his face in his
hands.
     "Edgart, inform the troops. There is no time to lose."
     Rish looked up and saw that the guards didn't seem to find it
strange that Edgart did not exist.
     The knight shook each guards hand. "Wish me luck. A great battle
awaits."
     "Good luck, brave knight," one said.
     The knight then solemnly bowed to Rish and ran up the steps parting
the crowd like wheat. "Why aren't you gone yet, Edgart? I told you to
deploy the troops. You fool! We can't let the beast get away." His
scoldings were soon lost in the distance.
     A guard stepped towards Rish and eyed the stained, stinking old
man. Rish jerked back and eyed the guard distrustfully.
     "Relax, Milord Vogel. The gong farmer is harmless. You have to play
along to get him on with his business."
     "Gong farmer?"
     "Yea. He's the guy who clears out all the clogs in the waste
chutes."
     "Ol's Balls, I'd hate to have his job," said another guard. "He
actually has to slide down the chutes to clean 'em out."
     "But the man is clearly insane," Rish protested.
     The sergeant nodded. "I think you would be insane too if you were
the gong farmer."
     Rish nodded weakly and allowed the guards to lead him slowly
upwards in the same direction as the knight. The kitchen workers closed
in behind them. Rish could hear their mutterings and could only imagine
the stories that would be spread throughout the keep in just a few
bell's time. The parade made it to the kitchen where the cooks finally
took charge of the servants and got back to business. With weary steps
Rish wandered silently back to his room with the guards behind him. He
opened the door, waved off his escort and entered. Once safely inside he
collapsed almost immediately and passed out.

     Rish dreamed of a huge, worm-like beast with impossibly long fangs
chasing him through dark, slimy caves. He heard a pounding that at first
he mistook for the worm slamming against the walls. As his dream started
breaking up, though, he realized he was sprawled out on the cold stone
floor of his room and the pounding was coming from his door.
     He sat up and immediately regretted the sudden move. Every joint,
muscle and bone sang out in protest from being dragged and abused the
night before. He grunted and staggered miserably to his feet. A horrible
cloud of stench accosted him from his own clothes and Rish had to clamp
his hands over his mouth to keep himself under control. The steady knock
became more intense. With slow, shuffling steps, Rish made his way to
the door and pulled it open.
     Standing in the hall was the gong farmer. He was drenched. A thick
liquid dripped off his clothes and creating miniature cesspools about
his feet. He held his pike firmly and proudly at his side and thrust out
something with his other hand.
     Rish staggered back, covered his nose and rapidly blinked his eyes.
Before him was the human version of the beast-worm from his
just-interrupted nightmare. He grabbed the door for support and moaned.
     "I am proud to present you this scroll, which I assume is the item
the beast stole from you." The knight's face beamed with pleasure.
     Rish looked down at the man's extended hand and saw there a sodden,
mutilated mass of parchment. The dripping wad could very well be his
scroll, but there was no way of telling. He hesitantly took it and
smiled weakly. Rish's entire purpose right now was to be rid of this
madman. He took a step back and slowly began to close the door.
     "The beast left it behind in one of the chutes as I gave chase.
Edgart here had the presence of mind to grab it for you while on the
run." The knight elbowed the air next to him.
     Rish absently nodded a weak thanks to the empty air while still
inching the door closed.
     "I'm now off, Sir Scribe. The beast has yet again eluded my final
killing blow. It still stalks the keep and I must find it. Be more
careful when in the gong chamber next time. Examine the seat before
sitting." And with that warning hanging in the air, he turned and
squished down the hall. "That was a fine battle, Edgart, wasn't it? Did
you hear it roar in pain that time I thrust from above and ..." The
knight turned a corner and was gone.
     Rish shakily latched the door and leaned against it while gingerly
holding the slime-coated parchment. He looked disdainfully down at the
ruined parchment and let it drop to the floor with a plop. He thought he
certainly would be careful the next time he visited the gong chamber --
whether for fear of the beast or the lunatic knight crawling through the
sewers.
     He felt his bladder was full, but decided to hold it ... for now.

========================================================================

                               Quadrille
                                 Part V
                           by Alan Lauderdale
                   <lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
                               8 Sy, 1012

                  XVIII. A Visit From a Loyal Follower

     Finding Terkan's house had been easy, Alec thought to himself as he
approached the door. It had simply required money -- more money -- and
another consultation with that expert on all subjects, Aardvard
Factotum. After all, he had been able to identify Terkan in the first
place. It made sense, albeit expensive sense, that he could also tell
Alec where the man lived. Still, the day had been pretty much wasted
chasing after this Terkan -- alive or dead. Alec rapped loudly on the
door of Terkan's house and then turned to admire a rather ordinary
sunset.
     The door was opened eventually by a young man, the late Terkan's
apprentice, most likely.
     An expression of appalled surprise flashed across the boy's face.
"What're you -- ?" he rasped. The voice sounded familiar.
     But the expression quickly darkened. "What do you want?" the
apprentice snarled.
     "I'm here to see Ariel," Alec said.
     The young man raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" he said sourly. "And who are
you?"
     "Tell her that Iliara sent me."
     The man frowned, then said "Wait here" and closed the door.
     So Alec waited. There was that perfectly routine sunset to
entertain him and that rasping voice to speculate about.
     Very soon, though, he heard running footsteps and the door was
flung open. Ariel stood within, a very hopeful expression on her face.
"You're from Iliara?" she asked, then added "Have I seen you before?"
     "On behalf of Iliara, yes," Alec said. "As for whether you've seen
me before -- " He broke off. A short, balding man had hurried up behind
Ariel, along with that sour-voiced apprentice. Alec stared at him. The
man seemed fully recovered from that fit of leprousy he'd apparently
been suffering in the house on the other side of town. "Terkan?" Alec
asked.
     "Of course," the man replied, looking Alec over carefully. "This is
my house, my front door, my assistant, my guest. It does rather make
sense for me to be me, don't you think? However, as for you --" He shook
his head. "I don't believe I know who you are."
     "I am Alec," Alec said, sure that, in spite of the evidence, this
was not really Terkan. To Ariel, he said "And you, I believe, are in
terrible danger."
     "Tell her something she doesn't already know," Mouse said, having
caught up with the others.
     "From Haargon?" Ariel asked anyway.
     "From Haargon --" Alec agreed, before turning to stare at Mouse.
"What are you?" he asked.
     Mouse put her hands on her hips and glared at Alec. "You know," she
said, "I really don't feel like answering that question. It is very
insulting."
     "She's a friend of mine," Ariel said, reaching down to assist the
small person up to her shoulder. "Mouse."
     "So what do you know about the terrible danger from Haargon?" Mouse
asked, seating herself.
     "I think," Alec answered, glancing from the small woman to Master
Terkan, "that you'd better leave this house."
     "Why?" Mouse asked.
     "Does Haargon know I'm here?" Ariel asked.
     "Probably," Alec replied, still looking at Terkan.
     "But not definitely?" Mouse asked. "Then if that's not the terrible
danger, what is?" She watched Alec's stare. "Do you have some problem
with Brother Terkan? Is there some message from Iliara that you want to
share?"
     Alec elected to ignore Mouse. To Ariel, he said "Please, I think
you should come with me. Now."
     "Where to?" Mouse quickly asked.
     "I have a room where you can hide," Alec said to Ariel, still
ignoring Mouse.
     "All right," Mouse shrugged. "But why now?"
     "I can't explain that," Alec said, improvising. "Not in the
presence of people who aren't followers of Iliara. It refers to the
secret knowledge of Barnaby."
     "Ah, Barnaby," Mouse said. "Well then, how about if Brother Terkan
and Bret excuse themselves to go make us some tea and you can give us a
quick explication while they're busy. Then, if we agree about the
urgency, we can leave with you as soon as tea is concluded."
     "But you're not one of the followers -- " Alec protested.
     "Of Iliara?" Mouse interrupted. "Of course I am. I'll have you know
that I'm one of her harder-working messengers, assigned right now to
keep Ariel company through this her time of trouble."
     "You are?" Ariel asked. "I thought -- "
     "Sure," Mouse said quickly. "Why else would I have hung around with
you this long? And as for you, Alec, you ought to have recognized the
phrase 'Tell her something she doesn't already know' -- unless you
haven't yet been admitted to the fifth circle."
     "You're fifth circle?" Ariel asked.
     "That would be telling," Mouse said. To Brother Terkan, she said
"Tea, please?"
     "Come into the parlor, then," Brother Terkan invited. The group
moved into that room. Then, the master of the house crooked a finger at
Bret and the two went toward the back of the house.
     "So what's going on?" Ariel asked.
     Alec watched Brother Terkan out of sight and then dropped his voice
to a very conspiratorial whisper. "I don't think your 'Brother' Terkan
is who he claims to be," he said.
     "Then who do you think he is?" Ariel asked.
     "I suppose you think he's an agent of Haargon?" Mouse asked.
     "It's the most likely conclusion, don't you think?" Alec replied.
     "From your standpoint, perhaps," Mouse said, "if all you know is
Iliara and Haargon. But you do have to admit that there's much you don't
know. For example, I don't think you knew that I was the one who brought
Ariel here to Brother Terkan's house." She smiled. "So if you impugn
Brother Terkan's good will toward Ariel, you impugn mine also."
     Ariel frowned and seemed about to say something, but Alec spoke
first.
     "I didn't mean that there was anything objectionable about Brother
Terkan," he said, "because that man isn't Brother Terkan."
     "How did you know that?" Ariel asked.
     "Because I saw a great deal of Brother Terkan today and I know that
the real Brother Terkan died a horrible and disfiguring death today at a
house belonging to a certain Margala. That man is an imposter." Alec
looked to see if his information had made a deep impression on his
listeners. The response was disappointing.
     "And how do you know that this fake Terkan is doing anything for
Haargon?" Mouse asked.
     "Why else would he be doing it?" Alec asked.
     "Well, do you know anything else about Terkan besides where and how
he died?"
     "I know that he visited Aardvard Factotum today to find out what
that old worthy knew about Iliara or Haargon."
     "And what did he know?" Ariel asked.
     "Nothing, actually," Alec shrugged.
     "Nothing again," Mouse repeated to Ariel.
     "I keep telling you their war is secret," Ariel said.
     "Very secret," Mouse agreed. "So secret that everything about it
appears to be kept secret from pretty much everyone."
     "But what's your point about Terkan?" Alec asked.
     "Simply that you and I both knew very little about him," Mouse
said. "And the fake Terkan you've just met is here for very good reasons
that have nothing to do with Ariel or me or any of your secret gods. The
real Terkan was a very unsavory man who trafficked in a different,
extremely evil, but also fairly secret god. The substitute Terkan had a
hand in killing off the real one and is working now on finishing up a
mission to eradicate the worship of this other evil god."
     "What's the name of this other evil god?" Alec asked.
     "Uh, Jelly-something?"
     "Jhel," Ariel said.
     "Am I supposed to have heard of him?" Alec asked.
     "I don't think that's important," Mouse said. What's important is
that we already knew that Terkan wasn't really Terkan and that both
versions of Terkan had nothing to do with Haargon. Both of them, in
fact, have never heard of Haargon and couldn't manage to find out
anything about Haargon if they tried. But you do know about Haargon and
show up trying to persuade Ariel to leave this place and go somewhere
else. I think we should wonder whether you're the danger."
     "So you already knew that Terkan wasn't Terkan," Alec said.
     "That's right," Mouse said.
     "And you already knew that priests of Haargon are trying to draw
you to their side in the secret war."
     "I'd figured that out already, too," Ariel said, smiling faintly.
     "And you already have a brave, valiant and competent protector,"
Alec added hopefully.
     Ariel nodded, but Mouse said "No. That job's available."
     "But what about you?" Ariel asked. "Aren't you my protector?"
     "You expect to get much protection from the likes of me?"
     "But you're at least fifth circle, aren't you?" Ariel asked. "You
should be able to call upon some serious magicks if need be."
     "I should, but help would be nice anyway," Mouse said. "Are you
applying?" she asked Alec.
     "All right," he said.
     "Good! Then we need references." She sprang across the table closer
to Alec. At the same time, the door of the parlor opened. Cefn and
Je'en, still in disguise, came in bearing a tray of tea things. Terkan
was rich; the setting looked elegant. Tea was served out while Mouse
explained to Cefn that Alec was aware of Terkan's demise and
replacement, but wished to help protect Ariel anyway.
     "How did he know about Terkan's death?" Cefn asked, concerned how
public that knowledge had become.
     Alec put down his teacup. "I was following Terkan today," he said.
     "Yes, we saw you," Cefn said.
     Alec turned to Je'en. "So you are the woman in the silver mask."
     She nodded. "You've had me wondering just how small a town Dargon
is," she said.
     "Why were you following Terkan?" Cefn asked.
     "I wanted to find Ariel."
     "And how did you know that he had any connection to her?"
     "And why couldn't you just ask Iliara?" Mouse asked.
     "I learned that Terkan was asking questions about Iliara and
Haargon," Alec said. "And I'm not as close to Iliara as I'd like to be,"
he continued. "You notice, I didn't recognize that phrase you used."
     "I do notice," Mouse said. She sipped some more tea. "And I wonder
why you'd be looking for Ariel unless you were doing so for Haargon.
Who're you working for, Alec?"

                            XIX. Counterplot

     Alec sighed and set his teacup aside in case of overreaction.
     "A man named Cleo hired me," he said. "He's archon of the circle of
Haargonites who are operating in this town. He wanted me to follow Ariel
and report to him all her movements."
     "That makes sense," Je'en rasped. "Is it the truth or only a
half-truth? Were you really hired or are you actually a member of that
circle?"
     "I was hired," Alec said. "And the word on Haargonites is that they
pay slowly and badly, so I have little desire to do any more work for
Cleo -- or even complete this assignment -- "
     "Does he know yet that you've tracked Ariel here?" Mouse asked.
     "No. The last thing I reported to him was losing her in the harbor
last night. The news that I'd lost her irritated him, but he seemed
unsurprised -- almost pleased -- to hear that she dove into the harbor."
     "Perhaps because that's what the fake Ariel had done," Mouse said.
     "What fake Ariel?" Alec asked.
     "You didn't hear?" Ariel asked back.
     "I suppose that this Cleo wouldn't have wanted to confuse him by
passing it along," Mouse said.
     "What fake Ariel?" Alec repeated.
     "Last night, someone who resembled Ariel killed Auditor Jarvis in
Merchant Camron's warehouse," Cefn said. "The murderer then grabbed
Mouse out of a barrel in the warehouse and ran away. There were,
however, a number of witnesses."
     "Oh," Alec said, then asked Mouse "What were you doing *in* the
barrel?"
     "Travelling," she replied. "Us mice are always using shipping
barrels to get around."
     "Uh huh," Alec said. He decided he didn't want to think about that
statement too carefully. "Speaking of traveling, Ariel, I have the
backpack you dropped last night. It's back at my place if you want to
come with me to collect it."
     "I'd like it back, yes, thank you," Ariel said, "though I feel a
lot safer here than I would wandering through the streets. There's the
Watch looking for me, not to mention the priests of Haargon. Do you
think you could fetch it?"
     "There are no priests of Haargon," Cefn interrupted, before Alec
could respond. "There's no such god as Haargon -- "
     "Of course there is!" Ariel exclaimed. "Stefan explained to me all
about him. His priests have been harassing me since before I came here
and often enough since I've been in Dargon. Alec's seen them too -- "
     "Oh, I don't deny that you've been harassed," Cefn said. "And I'm
sure that several men have told you that Haargon was directing them. But
they're lying. There's no Haargonic priesthood and no worship of any
Haargon."
     "But Stefan said -- "
     "And I don't believe him," Cefn said.
     This brought Ariel to a full stop.
     "But I've known of the Haargonites for a long while," Alec said.
"Everybody knows about them -- though no one knows very much."
     "Actually," Cefn said, "you and Ariel seem to be the only ones with
any experience of Haargonites at all. And Ariel's is entirely recent and
limited, though upsetting."
     "Well, I know what I know," Alec insisted.
     "Yes, but how do you know?" Cefn asked. "From Cleo, I suppose, but
who else? Who else told you anything about Haargon or these priests?"
     Alec frowned. "Lots of people," he insisted. "A word here, a remark
there. 'Beware the Haargonites!' That sort of thing."
     "But from whom?" Cefn insisted. "Can you remember clearly that sort
of remark from any particular person?"
     Wracking his brain, Alec fell silent.
     "Try to be a little objective about this," Cefn said softly to
Ariel. "I'm an expert in these matters -- "
     "Yes, that's *very* objective," Alec said dryly.
     Cefn looked at him. "All right," he said. "I've spent many years
studying these sort of matters. I've never seen anything about any evil
earth god named Haargon. The same goes for the late Terkan. And he went
to the trouble of consulting the estimable Aardvard Factotum -- "
     "How'd you know that?" Alec asked.
     "There's nothing about the late Terkan, I *don't* know," Cefn said,
fishing out from his tunic an odd amulet that hung from a necklace. "And
believe me, it's given me a terrible headache. Terkan consulted Factotum
and the two both failed to discover even a single reference to this
Haargon. His conclusion was that Haargon was a fraud. On this I agree
with him."
     "But if Haargon doesn't exist," Ariel asked, "who are these people
that are harassing me? What do they want? And who is Iliara warring
with?"
     "But who is Iliara?" Cefn responded, even more softly.
     "What do you mean, who is Iliara?" Ariel demanded, a hint of panic
in her voice. "Iliara is the goddess of light and air and truth and air
magery. It's by the power of Iliara that I can fend off the evil Haargon
and his minions -- "
     "There's no Haargon to fend off," Cefn insisted quietly.
     "But there is the evil of those minions," Mouse replied. "Somebody
grabbed me out of that barrel last night and I'm sure that somebody was
part of this Haargon plot."
     "I'll agree with you about that," Cefn nodded.
     "But I cast the spells!" Ariel exclaimed. "The air magic is real, I
know it."
     "Yes," Cefn said. "The magic was real and truly cast. I'm sure of
that, else why would you be a target at all? But were you channeling
power from this Iliara you speak of, or was the energy drawn from within
yourself? What do you think, Ariel?"
     "I think -- " Ariel faltered. "I don't know what to think."
     "All right," Cefn said cheerfully. "Keep yourself open to the
possibilities, then. Relax and see what further proofs can be turned
up."
     "Relax?" Ariel asked in despair. "How can I relax when it seems as
though everyone in Dargon is after me?"
     Cefn shrugged. "I suggest," he said, "that it may be time to draw
out your pursuing minions into the open."
     "And how are we supposed to do that?" Mouse asked.
     Cefn looked at Alec. "You have a messenger now," he said. "Send a
message."

                     XX. The Danger of the Serpent

     "No, I don't know where she is now, but I do know where she'll be
just a few bells from now."
     Alec stood once again in Cleo's chamber. He looked briefly around
the room at the several symbols of the power of Haargon and of earth.
His gaze passed the sharp spade and also the large rock that always
obstructed the doorway. He looked at the pile of loose, wet humus on the
side table with the drugged slug on top. It was all the way he'd always
heard it should be. He was sure of it, even though they'd said that
Haargon was just an invention. He frowned, poking in his mind at
memories that seemed to him to be perfectly genuine. After a few quick
prods, though, he dismissed the whole effort. It was irrelevent to his
present task.
     The present task was to tell Cleo a story and then lead Cleo into
what he hoped would be a trap. Then, he hoped, they might get a few
straight answers out of Cleo and Ariel could clear herself with the
Watch and perhaps he and she could turn to more pleasant matters. In his
heart, he felt the warm glow that is the lot of all knights who ride to
the aid of fair and distressed damsels they've found themselves caring
an awful lot about. He felt it, he recognized it, and the folly didn't
bother him in the least. He'd even made a fool of himself leaving
Terkan's house by pulling Ariel aside and muttering some witlessly noble
speech to her. Something about hoping that Iliara would keep her safe,
and if the goddess couldn't then he'd try to fill in as best he could.
Something like that. Fortunately, he couldn't remember the details. But
she'd given him a small smile and her thanks and he was content, more or
less.
     "Is that all?" the priest's harsh voice brought Alec back to the
present. Cleo leaned back in his chair and glared across the desk at his
miserable excuse for a hired hunter. "Why don't you know where she is
*now*?" he demanded.
     "Because I lost her again," Alec admitted. "After all, she *is* a
sorceress. I managed to find her along the docks area. She was skulking
and I approached her, telling her I had a message from the followers of
Iliara. The gleam of hope that flared up in her eyes when I said that
was -- It was pathetic."
     Cleo's grin was loathsome. "Of course it was," he gloated. "We have
stripped her of all allies and companions. She's becoming desperate, I
fancy."
     "I'd say so," Alec nodded. "She's going to try to get back into
Camron's tonight.
     "Oh?"
     "She wants to try to search for clues -- something to explain who'd
really killed that Jarvis."
     "After the Watch has looked all around the place? What could she
expect to find?"
     "Well, she said that they'd already decided that she did it when
they went through it, so they might've missed something that would
exculpate her because they wouldn't be looking for it."
     "Uh huh." The eyes in the priest's naturally pinched face narrowed
even more. "And did you suggest this notion to her, or did she come up
with it all by herself?"
     "I -- why do you care?" Alec asked.
     "Because, you idiot, the last thing we want at this point is for
the Watch actually to take her. Now, this desperate scheme of hers is
just the sort of stupidity that may hand the girl over to them
practically tied up for the slaughter. The Watch lacks brains, you see.
They probably base their methods on pathetic old sayings like the one
about criminals always returning to the scene of their crimes."
     "Actually, it was her idea," Alec muttered.
     A sickly grin flickered across the priest's face. "I'm sure it
was," he said without enthusiasm. "But we shall still have to intercept
her before the Watch does." He stood up and came around the desk.
     "Yes, of course," Alec agreed. "I could meet you here after the
next bell and we could go -- "
     "We?" Cleo echoed mockingly. The priest's hand flicked and Alec
felt a tearing rip in his belly. A long sharp blade plunged into Alec's
gut -- but it wasn't just a stealthy dagger. A coldness accompanied the
painful injury, but flashed outward into his arms and legs. Numbness
overtook him and he collapsed onto the floor even as the priest lifted a
small bell from his desk and rang it.
     "Oh," Cleo said, looking down past a bloody blade at the paralysed
Alec. "You think I still believe your reports' veracity -- or their
completeness. Well, such is not the case, and now, I think, it's
necessary to remedy those faults." He affected a sigh of regret. "But I
do believe we don't have a whole lot of time. So this is likely to be
extremely painful for you."
     As he heard approaching footsteps, Alec's gaze fixed itself on
Cleo's pet slug.

                           XXI. Alone At Last

     "I wish Cefn and Je'en had been able to stay with us tonight,"
Ariel said again. She shuddered and glanced around the library at the
shadows that leapt and shifted in the firelight. "All we've got now is a
useless apprentice who's tied up in the coat closet."
     "Alec should be back soon," Mouse said. She turned a page of the
book she was reading.
     "Alec should've been back already. I don't think Cefn and Je'en
ought to've gone until he returned." Ariel sipped at the tea she and
Mouse had brewed in Terkan's kitchen. She winced, as it was yet too hot
and also tasted more than a little strange. Honey would probably have
improved it -- honey improved almost everything -- but honey they'd been
unable to find. "At least, we should have waited until tomorrow to do
this."
     "We went over that," Mouse replied, glancing at her own small,
steaming cup. It still looked way too hot. "We had to catch this Cleo
person tonight because Terkan's house was unlikely to remain safe much
longer, what with his being dead now. And Alec said trying to take Cleo
in his quarters was a bad idea because he has a whole cadre of assistant
priests there. He didn't know what they really were, if not priests of
Haargon, but they're probably some sort of allies or minions. So the
best we can try to do is trapping Cleo at the warehouse tonight."
     "And what good will that do?" Ariel asked. "Aren't I still the
favorite suspect for the murder, robbery and embezzlement -- Je'en's
whole list? What good's it going to do us catching this Cleo? Assuming
we do manage to capture him, of course. He's a powerful earth wizard,
don't forget. We're likely to get ourselves killed or worse trying to
take him on. We should've figured out a way to be sure Cefn could help."
     "Assuming Cefn wanted to help," Mouse shrugged.
     "I think Je'en would've made sure of that. He just had that really
easy excuse for tonight."
     "If you've been working your way for decades toward a culminating,
destructive moment against some major but ill-described peril, I can
understand it if you don't want to be diverted from that moment by an
appeal to help out a couple of strangers who have a legal problem."
Mouse blew on her tea. Steam billowed up. "How does this stuff hold the
heat so well?" she said. "Do you suppose Terkan magicked his mugs?
Anyway, Cefn did say that he and Je'en probably wouldn't be able to help
us this evening. He'd already sent out messages convening a meeting of
that Septent of his for tonight. Besides, if it all goes according to
the plan Alec and Cefn sketched, it should be three of us against just
this one Cleo."
     "Two and a quarter," Ariel muttered into her tea.
     "I heard that. We quarters have pretty sharp ears."
     "A lot of good that'll do us."
     "I expect so. It'll be dark -- the middle of the night. Good
hearing will be important. And we'll have Alec for muscle and you to
take care of any troubles arcane."
     "Arcane?" Ariel exclaimed. "Me? What makes you think I still have
any power at magic?"
     "And what makes you think you don't?" Mouse pushed aside her book.
"Didn't you tell me that you'd been proving adept at air magery --
whatever that is?"
     "And aren't you one of the ones who've been telling me that Iliara
is a complete fraud -- after making me think you were an initiate into
the Fifth Circle?"
     "I was trying to sort out Alec's allegiance," Mouse said.
     "Well, you make me wonder about yours," Ariel retorted. "First you
said that and then, when Cefn said there was no such thing as Iliara you
hopped up on my shoulder and whispered 'He's right, you know.' Do you
know that saying that, you're saying that Stefan was a liar and a
deceiver who was just leading me on with that whole air magery story?"
     "Iliara a lie, yes," Mouse said. "I said that -- and *I* believe
it. And I suppose that, since Stefan was your teacher about Iliara, that
puts him in a very bad light. Well, there it is." Mouse shrugged.
"Stefan's dead now, and I'd never met him, so I really can't muster much
concern for him or his reputation.
     "But you, Ariel, are different. I'm much concerned about you. And
your magery. Look: This air magery of yours must be real. After all,
you've done it. You've warped the weave. You drew the wind's aid to
speed you away from danger. You also called up shrouds to shield you
from Stefan's killers after they got him. You have the power, Ariel. I
just don't think you have it right what the source of that power is."
     "But what is the source if it isn't Iliara?" Ariel asked. "I don't
know anywhere else to go to besides her."
     "No: You don't know how to think of the Source as anything besides
Iliara."
     "Um." Ariel rested her chin on her hands. After a pause, she asked,
"Is there a difference there?"
     "Yes!" Mouse exclaimed. "But it's a tough one."
     "Why?"
     "Because Stefan brought you to the Source through that Iliara
story. He and Iliara were both your crutch. Now they're both taken away
and you have no one to help you tap the power. It's still there, but no
one can tell you any alternative crutch to appeal to if not to Iliara."
Mouse leaned back on the table and waved a dismissive hand. "Of course,
if you want to keep this Iliara, no one can tell you anything true about
her that you don't already know. Everything Stefan taught you about
Iliara is wrong -- probably. At least, there's no guarantee that it's
right -- "
     "You don't like Stefan, do you?" Ariel grinned, but it was a
wistful grin.
     "You left home and hearth for him," Mouse responded. "At least, I
think that's what you said." Ariel nodded, so Mouse proceeded
cautiously. "It'd be easy to say I don't like him, but that's not really
it. I have nothing to like or dislike. I just see no use for him -- or
the things he taught you."
     "But he taught me about air magery -- and Iliara."
     Mouse shook her head. "He made you aware of this air magery and
gave you Iliara as a way of tapping the power."
     "But -- "
     "But everything you know about Iliara that's worth knowing, you
know because you just know it. Because that's the truth about Iliara:
What's true about her is what's true for you."
     "So you say Iliara isn't anything besides what I think she is?"
Mouse nodded and Ariel frowned. "You think the power is just inside me?
That hardly makes Iliara worth anything at all."
     "No. The power isn't just inside you. I say the power is the force
of the world -- the way everything just persists from one moment to the
next. That obstinate continuity of existence -- that's magic. And that
power dances all around us."
     "How do you know?"
     "Know what?"
     "That that's what magic is?"
     "How do I *know* what magic is?" Mouse asked, as though the
question was as senseless as asking how many greens there were in a pine
tree. "I just know. Or I don't know. Knowing is irrelevent. But it's a
story that feels right. And that's how magic is. Your story was that
there was an airy goddess named Iliara who granted you the power to
nudge the Weave. You see? I have my story, and you have yours. And the
way my story goes, the power is all around us -- all so terribly
obvious. But the skill to nudge that power, and persuade it to accept a
suggestion -- where is that to come from but within oneself?"
     "But I don't feel any -- anything toward the force of the world,"
Ariel complained. "How'm I supposed to suggest anything to that?"
     "Whatever works," Mouse shrugged. "It's just my story. If you're
contented with appealing to Iliara to grant you aid, then you might as
well continue to pray to her -- "
     "Even if you don't believe in her." Ariel smiled.
     "Well, I don't." Mouse smiled back. "But I'm not the one trying to
work a little magic here. You are."
     "But you're a witch yourself, aren't you?"
     "Am I?"
     "How did you know that Cefn and Je'en were disguised when they
first came to the house unless you're a witch?"
     Mouse shrugged. "I saw that Cefn and Je'en were disguised because I
saw their appearance as well as their reality."
     "But isn't it magical to see through appearances to the reality of
something?"
     "Magical? I'd hope that that would be wisdom."
     "Perhaps so, but Breezes, Mouse! How can you be as small as you are
except by magic?"
     "Magic?" Mouse snorted. "That's not magic. I'm as small as I am
because that's how small I am. I was born -- and I have persisted. Now
I'm like this. And now, *my* reality is that I'm this tall and no
other." She sprang to her feet. "Look at me, Ariel. Here I am, standing
on this reading table. That's my reality. Want to see my magic?" She
took a few steps around the surface. "How do I look, walking around
here? About right, no? I mean, this much space to wander around on and a
figure of my height doing the walking? The picture looks proportioned,
doesn't it? But if you climbed up on this table and took a step or two
around on it -- if any normal person did that, they'd look inappropriate
and out of place. Too large for the landing and too tall for the room.
So that's my magic: I can dance on a table, perform a quadrille on a
chessboard -- "
     "I think you have more magic than that," Ariel replied, smiling.
     "Oh yes," Mouse agreed. "For me, every moment is magical. Dawn to
darkness. Because all the proportions are strange. Because I live in a
land of giants. All the chambers I come into are enormous -- and drafty
-- and all the distances are vast. Furniture is grand and chairs are
thrones. Halls are like streets and doors are massive. And through all
these enormous spaces and places and structures and compositions, here I
am, dancing through it all. Unpartnered." She paused for a moment, but
Ariel stayed silent.
     "But I don't even dance like you," Mouse continued. "You dance
forward and back and side to side. You dance through two dimensions -- "
     "Dimensions?" Ariel asked.
     "It's mathematical. Ask Brother Terkan -- ask Brother Terkan's
spirit. That's the sort of thing an air mage might do. Anyway, your
dance is on the surface of the world. You may have stairs and hills to
vary the movement a little, of course. But mostly, you dance on top.
     "But I'm too short for that. I do much more climbing up and jumping
down than you do. That's in addition to the forwards and the backwards
and the side to side. I climb and I drop. I have less height than you
do, so the world has much more -- "
     "But so what?"
     "So what is that I don't live in the same world you do. That's my
magic. Everything of yours serves me differently. Your table is my
ballroom. Your cherry is my melon. Your bed is my hayfield. I can make a
travelling apartment in a barrel. I paint with an oversized brush what
you see as fine calligraphy. I sew a gown for myself out of velvet
scraps -- "
     "Many folks make new clothes for themselves from scraps," Ariel
interrupted.
     "Yes," Mouse agreed. "But from a pile of scraps, not just one or
two. Do you see my point?"
     "Yes, but that's not magic."
     Mouse sipped her tea. At last, it was drinkable. "If you like," she
said. "But it is my life."
     "But what about magic?"
     "What about it?" Mouse sighed.
     "Well, I want to summon the wind to speed me on my way, and call up
clouds that can divert harmful missiles from striking me, and make walls
admit me as though I were a draft -- "
     "Then do it," Mouse encouraged.
     "Can you?"
     "Well, I prefer a horse -- or even a fast-walking person -- to
speed me on my way. And I'd rather try to persuade whomever has the
harmful missiles to refrain from flinging them at me. And as for the
walls, one can often go around them, or under them, or over them, or
through the door -- "
     "You know what I mean."
     "Yes," Mouse sighed. "I have danced with the world on occasion. But
it's my world, not yours. And my world has no Iliara in it."
     "Should mine?"
     "That's up to you."
     "But I need to fight Haargon."
     Mouse put down her teacup. "You only need to fight a man who claims
to worship this Haargon. That's hardly the same thing."
     "But this man is able to come and go wherever he wishes. He was
able to track me to where I was staying -- "
     "We know how he managed that," Mouse interrupted. "He had Alec to
shadow you."
     "Alec didn't help him slip out of my house without being seen."
     "And I'm not saying he lacked the Power entirely. But I think the
danger he presents is more in the effects and assistants it seems he may
command than in anything he can do personally. If, as we think, he was
responsible for your being framed for that auditor's murder, then he
seems to be capable of some rather sophisticated results -- "
     "But Mouse, why?" Ariel burst out. "I don't understand any of this.
I don't know why this Cleo -- whether or not he's a priest of Haargon --
is going to all this trouble over me. Why, Mouse? Why are these priests
pursuing me? Stefan was the powerful one -- don't give me that look. He
had power. All right, he had access -- free access - - to the Power. And
he taught me. Taught me a great deal. And he was good and loved me. And
Camron's good and Marcus is good and I liked working for Camron. And I
liked his office and I even liked Jarvis -- I mean, as much as he was
likable. He was awfully business-like, you know, but he was always
looking up at me from his work and then he'd give me a pursed little
smile and then I'd smile back and he'd get back to work and I don't know
why anyone would want to kill him or make it look like I'd killed him or
that I'd steal you from the warehouse -- Mouse, I don't understand any
of it!"
     "But you can stop trying to understand all by yourself now," a
voice replied from the door of the library.

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