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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 12/16/2000
 Volume 13, Number 13                           Circulation:        760
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Rattler's Imp                Brandon Haught         Seber 1017
 Leave the Ocean to
   Cirrangill                 Jon Evans              Vibril 27, 1011
 Talisman Seven 2             Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Yuli 8-9, 1013

========================================================================
 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 correspondence to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. 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 13-13, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 2000 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.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     Sixteen years ago I founded FSFnet, a general fantasy and science
fiction ezine and DargonZine's immediate predecessor, with a mass
mailing to 100 friends. In that initial mailing as well as subsequent
Editorials, I regularly found myself begging for submissions. At the
same time, our readership dropped to an all-time low of about 35. In
addition to pleading for submissions, I also spent most of FSFnet's
first year encouraging people to spread the word and drum up new
readers.
     Near the end of FSFnet's first year several writers and I started
kicking around the idea of setting all our stories in a common milieu,
and in January of 1986 we printed our first stories set in a place
called Dargon. That year we doubled our output and circulation, and
things haven't slacked off since. This year, our sixteenth, was our most
productive ever. We distributed thirteen issues, featuring a record 37
stories from more than a dozen different writers, three of whom were new
to DargonZine's readers.
     Once our collaborative writing group, which we called "the Dargon
Project", got off the ground, things really started to change. All of a
sudden our focused writing group was attracting new writers and
nurturing their productivity, and I found that I didn't have to beg for
submissions anymore. Furthermore, with stories that related to one
another, and the improvement in quality that came with the peer-review
process, readers who really enjoyed the zine weren't so hard to find
anymore, and they spread the word to their friends. It looked like we'd
struck a magic formula: writers, attracted by the opportunity to
interact with other writers and real readers, produced better stories,
which in turn attracted more readers. And like a perpetual-motion
machine, here we are fifteen years later with a writing group and
magazine that are more vital than ever. But the thing that still makes
me wonder is that this has come about with very little pushing for
submissions and virtually no advertising; our success is entirely
because of our writers and our readers. And seeing DargonZine prove
interesting and useful to so many people really makes me proud of what
we've accomplished.
     And thing continue to get better. In the past year we introduced
two significant new features for our readers. The Interactive Maps that
are available in the "About Dargon" section of our Web site are a great
way for people to familiarize themselves with the lands where our
stories take place. But I think the biggest enhancement of the year is
the function we've added to our Web site that allows you to rate each
story you read. That feature is your direct line to the author of the
story, and our writers eagerly want your feedback. While we've always
done a great job getting our writers talking to one another and working
together, there's never been very much contact between them and our
readers. The story ratings system is a great way for us to bridge that
gap, giving our writers even more useful feedback, so that they can
learn from you, not just from each other.
     Other developments in 2000 may be less obvious, but do improve what
we do. These include filling in more details in our Online Glossary, our
writers' Critiquing FAQ, and the work that has gone into continuing
projects like our Dargon timeline, our new map of the city of Dargon,
and our Web site redesign.
     This year has been very productive, and I hope you've enjoyed the
results of our work. Look for more great stories and new features as we
continue into our 17th year online. And thanks for being with us.

     This issue features three of our old guard: Brandon Haught, Jon
Evans, and the unavoidable Dafydd.
     "Rattler's Imp" is Brandon's third story for DargonZine. His work
to date has consistently been in a darkly humorous, ironic vein, and I'm
sure you'll like this story if you enjoyed his previous efforts:
DargonZine 11-3's "The Gong Farmer", and "The Sanity of Spirit" in
DargonZine 12-8.
     Returning for his second story in three years is Jon Evans, who
joined the project back in 1989. Because all our writers have different
points of view, stories about Dargon's religions are usually somewhat
contentious, and "Leave the Ocean to Cirrangill" is no exception. This
short piece certainly won't be the last word written on Dargon's
religions, you can be sure!
     On the opposite end of the productivity spectrum from Jon is
Dafydd, who finishes this issue with his 27th story in three years!
Nearly all of those stories are contained within his huge (but episodic)
"Talisman" series, which will continue well into 2001. Dafydd joined the
group in 1986, just after the Dargon Project had begun, and he is
without question one of the reasons why DargonZine has thrived over the
years.
     I hope you enjoy this issue, and look forward to our next issue,
DargonZine 14-1, after our usual brief end-of-year break.

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

                             Rattler's Imp
                           by Brandon Haught
                         <beekay@gibralter.net>
                               Seber 1017

     Death was no longer just a part of the routine to Varrus. He stared
into a nearly-empty cooking pot while absently stirring the steaming
broth in it that remained after dinner. He wasn't thinking about the
meager meal or his grumbling stomach, though. His mind was pacing over
the now well-worn path of recent memory. The persistent image of his
friend, wrapped in a canvas sack, being dumped into a common burial pit
alongside Dargon's unwanted, unknown souls was detailed and sharp to
him, almost more real than the kitchen hearth before him.
     Lovush had been stolen from him with agonizing slowness over the
course of a fortnight as a fever had burned away his spirit and a
swelling of the throat had squeezed the body into choking submission to
death. Lovush had been the senior apprentice to the Death Rattler, and
now the responsibility fell to Varrus. It was a job he would just as
soon not be burdened with. His chores were gruesome enough.
     The Death Rattler's job, and thus the job of his crew, was to
gather the garbage from the streets of Dargon. The gutters were always
full of rot and decay, and it was left to the Rattler and his
apprentices to keep the sewage from overtaking the city's homes and
businesses. They scooped up what they could and ensured that what
remained would flow freely through the gutters with the next rain. They
also patrolled the alleys, which is where they usually found the dead.
     It wasn't often that the Rattler's crew found cadavers on their
daily rounds, but with Dargon being a port town, there were occasionally
wandering sailors or naive travelers going where they shouldn't. An
unlucky few would meet their untimely end in an alley with their skull
bashed in or their throat slashed open. They were typically far from
home with no one to claim their body for a proper burial. So it fell to
the aptly named Death Rattler to collect them and dispose of them.
     Varrus looked over his shoulder to see his master sitting
straight-backed at a massive wood table that dominated the small room.
The Death Rattler was slowly spooning up some stew and did not notice
Varrus' scrutiny. The old man's face was narrow, lined, and pale, like
melted candle wax. Layers of frayed robes were wrapped tightly around
the Rattler and hung loose from his arms. One thin, gnarled hand was
wrapped firmly around an equally knotted staff about fourteen hands
high. The staff had a crude, rust-spotted spike fitted onto the bottom
and a gourd-shaped protrusion at the top.
     Varrus glared at the staff. Inside its strange gourd were teeth
gathered from the dead that were now piled in the pit outside. The
Rattler pulled a tooth from each carcass and deposited it in that
container, provided, of course, that the victim had teeth. Varrus had no
idea why the Rattler did such a strange thing, but he did know that one
of his friend's teeth was now mixed in there with the others.
     The staff suddenly shook, producing a hollow rattle that broke
Varrus' reverie. He rapidly blinked his watery eyes and saw his master
looking at him. The Rattler deposited his spoon in his bowl and then
slashed his hand through the air in a few quick gestures; the man was
mute and so used handspeak to communicate. Without seeing if his
apprentice acknowledged his directions, the Rattler turned back to his
stew and resumed eating.
     The Rattler had told Varrus to go to bed. Varrus had no trouble
obeying; he felt drained both physically and mentally. He walked across
the room and passed behind the Rattler as he mumbled, "Good evening."
     Varrus wearily shuffled out of the kitchen into the main room where
three other apprentices were already fast asleep buried in furs and
blankets on straw pallets on the dirt floor. Varrus envied them. Now
that he was the senior apprentice, his workload had increased. He was
not just a member of the Rattler's crew; he was now also the man's
servant. The job was his not just because he was the oldest, but more
importantly it was because he understood handspeak whereas no one else
did.
     Varrus stopped at his pallet and sighed. His breath fogged in the
cold room and vanished quickly like a ghost in the dark. Varrus
remembered when Lovush had taught him the intricate flow of handspeak
gestures a few years ago. Varrus had thought it was fun. He had been
privy to something the other apprentices were not. But now he regretted
having the knowledge. He wanted no part of the responsibility that went
with the skill.
     He knelt and quickly untangled his bed covers. There were not many
to straighten out. Lovush had possessed a great mound of comfortable
covers, but when he had died the other apprentices had helped themselves
to the blankets while Varrus had stood idly by watching with horror just
how callous the others could be.
     He slipped his shivering body into the comfort of his pallet and
tucked the blankets securely around him against the cold. Before he
could snuggle into a comfortable position, though, someone pounded
loudly on the front door. Varrus groaned and muttered curses to himself.
He waited a few moments, but the visitor pounded again, this time louder
and longer. With anger temporarily pushing aside his exhaustion, Varrus
sat up and tossed his coverings aside. He stood up and trudged across
the room to the door. He reached it just as the pounding sounded again.
     "Who's there?" he yelled grumpily through the door.
     "Kraltus, a stonemason from the south end of town," a man answered.
     "What do you want?" Varrus asked. He wanted to add 'at this bell'
but realized that it actually was only late afternoon. The Death Rattler
and his crew awoke early each morning, long before dawn and long before
most of Dargon's residents. That had a tendency to offset Varrus'
concept of time from everyone else's.
     "Just open the door, boy," Kraltus snapped.
     Varrus sighed, then gritted his teeth and unlatched the door. He
warily pulled it open just enough to see outside. Standing immediately
on the other side of the door was a squat bulk of a man and hovering in
his shadow was a miniature version of the man. Kraltus was twiddling a
bushy, unkempt mustache with one hand and the other hand was planted
firmly on his hip.
     "I've got business with the Rattler," said Kraltus. "Hurry up and
go get him, boy." Behind the stonemason, the boy stood very still; it
looked to Varrus as if his attention was focused on something on the
ground, but he couldn't quite tell because he was mostly hidden behind
Kraltus' bulk.
     Without a word, Varrus shut and relatched the door. He rubbed his
brow for a moment, trying to ease the tension and exhaustion he felt. He
turned to fetch his master, but to his surprise found the man standing
right behind him. He jumped in momentary shock.
     The Death Rattler stared impassively at the teenage boy. The
Rattler stood straight and tall -- at least a full head taller than most
people found walking the streets of Dargon -- and his staff was gripped,
as always, in his left hand. Long, straight, gray hair hung from his
scalp like open curtains, accentuating how abnormally long his face was.
     Varrus composed himself and said to the Rattler, "A man is waiting
outside. He says he is a stonemason and has business with you. He has a
boy with him." Varrus rubbed his hands together and wished he had
thought to wrap a blanket around himself before answering the door.
     The Rattler nodded once in acknowledgement and tilted his staff
towards the door. Varrus unlatched the door again, pulled it wide open
and then stood aside. The Rattler slowly stepped forward across the
threshold.
     Kraltus was still stroking his mustache, but this time with the
other hand. He craned his head up to look at the tall figure walking
towards him and his hand froze in place on his face. He seemed surprised
for some reason; Varrus figured it might be the Rattler's imposing
presence. Surprise was a common reaction of people meeting the Death
Rattler for the first time.
     The Rattler, dressed in dark robes and carrying the strange staff,
projected an aura of mysticism and dark secrets. Adding to the image was
the man's unusual title and equally unusual job: collecting the dead.
Even though the bulk of the Rattler's work involved collecting garbage
from the town's streets, the general public fixated on the rare yet
apparently fascinating task of hauling away corpses.
     The Rattler stopped in front of the stonemason and stared silently
at the shorter man. Varrus also stepped forward so as to be ready to
interpret for the Rattler. Varrus looked expectantly at the Rattler and
waited. The Rattler's eyes, however, were fixed on Kraltus. His stare
was completely devoid of emotion; there was not even a gleam of
curiosity. Varrus thought it looked like the stare of a hawk patiently
waiting for its next meal to present itself.
     Kraltus eased his hand that had been stroking his moustache down to
rest on his hip and nervously held the Rattler's gaze for a moment
before finally shifting his attention to the silent boy behind him. He
cleared his throat and pointed a thick finger at the fat lad while
addressing the Rattler.
     "I heard you were in need of a new apprentice, so I brought my boy
up here to see if he'll do," said Kraltus in a booming voice. He grabbed
hold of the boy's chin and forced the boy to look up at the Rattler.
"He's a strong 'un and fit for labor. He's a bit slow in the head, but I
don't figure you'll be needing a lad with wits in your line of work." He
cleared his throat again, and pointedly refrained from looking at the
Rattler.
     Varrus shook his head in disbelief. Lovush was dumped in his grave
no more than a few bells ago and already a replacement was being
offered. He looked up at the Rattler with fresh tears in his eyes and
wondered how long ago the man had started asking around for a new
apprentice.
     Kraltus' boy seemed oblivious to what was happening around him.
Varrus looked at him and could see the boy was stocky with greasy black
hair hanging around his face to down just past his shoulders. He had
bushy eyebrows and a bulbous nose that was oozing a bit, probably
because of the cold weather. The boy stared right back at the Death
Rattler without fear or nervousness. His chin was firmly held upward by
his father's meaty hand, and he didn't resist at all. Everything about
the child spoke of acquiescence.
     An awkward moment passed as the Rattler stood motionless and the
stonemason continued to hold onto the boy's chin. Kraltus looked at the
boy as if inspecting him for the first time, apparently in an effort to
avoid the Rattler's penetrating gaze.
     Finally, the stonemason let go of the boy and the boy immediately
turned to look at something on the ground behind him; Varrus couldn't
see what. Kraltus ignored his son and dipped a hand into his vest and
produced a small pouch. He clenched it in his fist for a moment then
reluctantly presented it to the Death Rattler.
     "Here's money to cover his apprenticeship," he said.
     The Death Rattler snatched the bag from the other man's hand
without ever taking his eyes off Kraltus' face. He hefted the pouch,
feeling its weight before opening it. He then released his grip on the
staff and held it in the crook of his elbow as he used both hands to
pull open the pouch. He fished around inside with a finger, making the
coins clink against each other, and merely glanced down into it only to
return his gaze to Kraltus. He then pulled the drawstring on it tight
and shook his head. He held the bag in one hand and signed to Varrus
with the other.
     Varrus read the signing and turned to Kraltus. "The money is not
enough." His voice squeaked a bit because his mind was still mixed up in
the emotions felt towards his friend. He cleared his throat and
continued, "The boy will be accepted for one month, but more money will
be needed by the end of that time before the deal can be considered
closed."
     Kraltus glared at Varrus and snapped, "Shut up, boy. This is no
business of yours." Apparently the man had no idea that the Death
Rattler could not talk. Varrus was used to the reaction, though, and so
launched into his standard reply.
     "I am speaking for the Death Rattler. He can't speak properly and
so uses his hands to talk. I understand the signing and translate for
him. I was only telling you what the Death Rattler said."
     Kraltus looked mystified and stared disbelievingly at Varrus.
Varrus nodded to add emphasis to his explanation. The stonemason glanced
at the Death Rattler out of the corner of his eye then looked back at
Varrus. The mystified look gradually faded as the man thought things
through. With a firm nod, as if agreeing with himself on some decision
finally reached, he said to Varrus, "How much more?"
     Varrus turned to the Death Rattler who immediately replied,
obviously having expected the question.
     "The same amount as is in the pouch and the deal will be closed,"
Varrus reported to Kraltus.
     Kraltus twiddled with his moustache while considering the proposal.
"I will need two months to raise the money."
     It was the Rattler's turn to think it over. He finally signed his
response.
     "The Rattler agrees, but wants to let you know that the boy will be
returned to you after two months if payment is not made."
     The stonemason nodded and said, "Ya, fine." He then turned to his
son, who through all this had been staring steadily at the tall grass
lining the path leading to the door. He roughly grabbed the boy's
shoulder and snatched him around. "You belong to them now," he said as
he jabbed his thumb in the Rattler's direction. "Got it?"
     The boy looked at the Death Rattler and Varrus without any
noticeable emotion or thought showing on his round face. He paid little
heed to them and looked back at his father. "When do I go home?" he
asked.
     "You are home. Now get your clothes and get inside." The man looked
around and not seeing what he was looking for asked, "Where are your
clothes, boy? Don't tell me you didn't bring them!"
     "I dropped them back there," the boy said as he pointed back down
the path they had arrived on.
     Kraltus grabbed a fistful of the boy's tunic and lifted him up onto
his toes. He growled out, "Why didn't you pick the trash up?"
     The boy seemed nonplussed and unaware he had done anything wrong.
In a slow drawl he answered, "You told me to hurry up and quit fooling
around."
     Kraltus heaved his son away from him and the boy landed in the tall
grass, almost disappearing from sight in the long, deep shadows that had
been developing as the sun quickly approached the horizon. "He's all
yours," said the stonemason without so much as a glance around him as he
stomped back to the city silhouetted in the distance.
     Varrus walked over to the boy who was slowly getting up. Once
standing again his eyes turned to his departing father as his brow
creased in apparent concentration. Varrus placed his hand on the boy's
shoulder and asked, "You all right?"
     The boy didn't respond; he just kept staring. Varrus' concentration
on the boy was broken by the sound of snapping fingers. He turned in the
direction of the sound, knowing it was the Rattler demanding his
attention. The Rattler signed to him to take the boy down the path to
find his clothes and then bed down for the evening. Varrus nodded his
understanding.
     The Death Rattler then proceeded back inside, the money pouch
dangling from between the fingers of the hand clutching his staff. He
closed the door behind him.
     Varrus turned back to the boy who was still looking wistfully after
his father. "Let's get your stuff, all right?" When the boy didn't
respond he asked, "What is your name?" There was still no recognition
from the boy. He stood shin deep in the grass, dirt still clinging to
his tunic, leggings, and hands from when had been pushed down. The boy
fidgeted a bit, clenching and unclenching his hands. Varrus touched the
boy's shoulder again and gently shook him. The boy finally looked up at
him.
     "Come on. We need to get moving and get to bed." Varrus gently
pulled at the boy's tunic and moved away in the direction Kraltus had
gone. "How far back did you drop your clothes?"
     Just like the snuffing out of a candle, the boy instantly changed
moods and became as he had been when he had first arrived, simple and
blank. He started walking and came abreast of Varrus, his eyes now
locked on the older boy's face.
     "My name is Cail. I'm stronger than you. Want to see?"
     Varrus was surprised by the boy's sudden switch in demeanor and the
strange question. He shook his head. "No, I don't want to see. Where are
your clothes?"
     Cail seemed to find that question very funny. A grin as wide as the
moon and full of crooked teeth popped onto his face. "They're here," he
said with a hint of incredulity in his tone while he tugged at his
tunic.
     Varrus shook his head and it began to dawn on him that the boy was
going to make his life quite a bit harder. Cail was obviously not privy
to the common man's full mental capability. He was going to need extra
watching and care, which was just the opposite of what Varrus wanted in
a new fellow apprentice.
     "I meant your other clothes, Cail," he said evenly. "Where are the
clothes you dropped?"
     "By the tree."
     "Do you mean the big tree down where the path meets the street?"
Varrus asked, his patience slowly ebbing away. Varrus pointed along the
path. Ahead of the boys the trail headed straight down a long slope of a
hill. The area around them was mostly clear and covered with tall grass
turned brown by an unusually long stretch of dry weather. Only a few
thin trees were scattered in the fields, but at the bottom of the hill a
massive oak stood out like a wizened grandfather watching over his
distant grandchildren. The tree's trunk was so massive that three people
holding hands would barely reach all the way around.
     "Sure," Cail answered, his grin faded somewhat.
     Varrus sighed and quickened his pace. A sudden yawn took possession
of him reminding him that he should have been curled up asleep in some
furs right then. His eyes watered a bit at the intensity of the yawn and
Cail's grin reappeared in full force.
     "The sleepies are getting a hold of you," he said through his grin.
     "Mmmm," was Varrus' only response.
     It didn't take long to reach the tree, but dusk had already
enveloped them by the time they got there. Scattered all around were
some clothes.
     "He kicked them," offered Cail as explanation for the mess. "He
kicked them when he went home."
     "Well, pick them up so we can get to bed. We'll be getting up
early, and the Rattler will thump you with that staff of his if you're
not moving fast enough in the morning. Understand?"
     Cail nodded and bent to retrieve his scattered belongings. Varrus
watched while rubbing his hands together and then he stuck them under
his armpits for warmth. He glanced up at the sky and noticed heavy cloud
cover blocking the stars from sight. Varrus hoped it wouldn't storm
during the night, as it always made his work harder.
     "I'm ready," announced Cail, which snatched Varrus' attention back
on him.
     "Let's get to bed then."

     Varrus awoke in the chilled early morning darkness as the Death
Rattler jabbed him with his staff. Varrus groggily sat up, and grabbed
the staff and tugged on it to let his master know he was up and moving.
The Rattler had no tolerance for anyone moving too slow. Varrus still
had bruises on his leg from a beating he had received the last time he
had not got up fast enough. He could hear the Rattler move away, his
heavy staff thudding into the dirt floor.
     It took a while for Varrus to gather his senses. He sat on his
pallet shivering and cursing his lack of adequate sleep. Eventually, he
clambered the rest of the way out of his coverings and shuffled around
to the other sleeping forms around him, kicking and shaking them into
consciousness. As usual, not all of them were willing to give up their
warm beds, and Varrus would later have to make his rounds again to get
them moving. One of those who refused to budge was Cail. He snored in
great dragon-loud snorts even after a violent kick from Varrus.
     Varrus quickly moved into the kitchen and headed directly for the
fireplace. His priority was on getting a fire blazing and some breakfast
warmed up. He had found over the years that a warm breakfast was the
major difference between the start of a good day and a bad one. He
dropped to his knees and with hands shaking with cold he set to work
getting the previous night's ashes brushed out and new kindling stacked.
     One of the apprentices joined him in a few moments. She knelt next
to him with a fur wrapped around her and drowsily watched him work.
Varrus glanced over his shoulder and saw it was Trish but didn't pause
in his work.
     "Make sure Dreidel gets out there to hitch up the donkey. I want it
done before we eat. And get the new kid up and have him help Dreidel,"
he said.
     "New kid?" she asked.
     "Yea. A new apprentice was dropped off last night. He's a real big
kid. He's sleeping against the far wall and snoring like a wild boar.
How could you miss him?"
     "I thought that was Bohall snoring," she said absently as she stood
and yanked the fur into a better position. "Is he going to be here for
good?"
     "I don't know, Trish. Just hurry up. I need you to slice up some
bacon."
     She nodded and walked out of the kitchen. Varrus finally got the
kindling to catch fire and he carefully fed the flames until the fire
blazed healthily on its own. As he did this Dreidel stomped into the
kitchen and out the back door. A few menes later Trish reappeared beside
Varrus as he was trying to warm his numb fingers.
     "The new boy isn't budging," she said in exasperation.
     "Fine. I'll get him up." He rubbed his hands together one last time
and stood up, regretting the need to leave the fire.
     Varrus left the kitchen and walked into the main room where he
found two people in the light of a recently lit lamp. One was still
lying down and the other was standing just a few paces from the first.
     "Mornin' Bohall. That's Cail, a new apprentice," Varrus explained
to the one standing. Bohall was a thick, muscular boy with wild red hair
that almost always seemed to be blowing about in a breeze.
     Bohall snapped his hand up to hush Varrus and then waved him
forward. Varrus sighed in exasperation at being treated this way. Bohall
had never ordered Lovush around.
     Varrus shuffled forward and as he neared Bohall, Cail twisted
around under his blankets and whispered something Varrus couldn't hear.
Curiosity made Varrus walk past Bohall and kneel beside Cail. His eyes
were wide open and staring intently at Bohall's feet.
     "It's time to get up, Cail. Let's go," Varrus said loudly in an
attempt to show Bohall that he was in charge.
     "He's wearing the man's shoes," whispered Cail.
     "Huh?"
     "That kid is wearing the man's shoes," he repeated as he stuck his
chin out in Bohall's direction. Cail seemed scared about something, but
Varrus didn't understand what could have the boy acting so weird. He
turned to look at Bohall's shoes and thought for a minute about where
they had come from, but drew a blank.
     "Where did you get those shoes?" he asked Bohall.
     Bohall didn't answer right away, which caused Varrus' attention to
shift from his shoes to his face. Bohall was looking at Cail with
suspicion clear on his face. "What's the problem?" Varrus prodded.
     "He's been yakking about my having stolen these shoes off of some
guy who wants them back," Bohall said tensely. "The guy I got these from
ain't needing them back anytime soon."
     "You pulled them off one of the bodies?"
     "Yeah ... about three sennights ago. You remember the one with the
bashed-in face?"
     "He stole them from the man," interrupted Cail with a touch of
desperation in his voice.
     "Shut up, boy!" yelled Bohall. His voice stung Varrus' ears as it
rang through the quiet of early morning. "I'll make your fat face look
like that body's did."
     "He wants his comfortable shoes back!" Cail matched Bohall's volume
and finally shoved himself to a sitting position.
     "I'm gonna feed you to the rats, boy!" warned Bohall as he stomped
forward, reaching for Cail with one hand and clenching a fist with the
other. Varrus leaped up in Bohall's path and with his hands firmly
latched on the angry boy's shoulders pushed him back a few steps.
     "Get on with your chores, Bohall," Varrus ordered desperately. He
didn't want a fight breaking out when the Rattler could be walking in at
any time. He did what he could to pacify Bohall. "He's just messing with
you," he said. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."
     "Shoes, shoes, shoes," hollered Cail over and over again. The tone
of voice wasn't taunting, though, and Varrus felt a little unnerved by
Cail's conviction that the shoes belonged to someone the boy knew.
     "I'll plant your fat ass right next to the shoes' old owner, you
hog turd! Then you can tell the rotting body just how comfortable I
think his shoes are." Bohall was trying hard to get by Varrus, but the
older boy was able to hold him in place -- just barely. Varrus glanced
up at the doorway in search of help and saw Trish standing there.
     "Get Cail out of here," Varrus pleaded. Trish turned around, threw
something she had been holding into the kitchen and then dashed towards
Cail, being careful to skirt around the two struggling boys. Varrus
glanced over his shoulder and saw Cail thrusting his finger repeatedly
at Bohall while hollering about the shoes. Trish carefully approached
the upset boy and tried to soothe him.
     Varrus turned his attention back to Bohall, who was still
struggling to get at his tormentor. "Calm down. We don't want the
Rattler getting mad at us," Varrus said to him as he tried to steer him
towards the front door. Bohall calmed down a little and allowed himself
to be led to the door, but he still glared at Cail through the dimly lit
room. Cail also let himself be escorted out of the room by Trish as he
still muttered about shoes.
     With one hand still resting on Bohall's shoulder, Varrus unlatched
the door and pulled it open. "Come on, let's go outside and get this day
started, straight?" said Varrus. "The Rattler will be coming out soon
and he'll be mad if nothing is ready to go."
     "Where did that pot of lard come from?" asked Bohall, his attention
finally shifting to Varrus as they passed through the doorway.
     "He was dropped off last night by some stonemason. He's a bit slow,
so I think you just need to ignore him."
     "Kinda hard to ignore such an idiot," huffed Bohall. "Keep him out
of my way today. Got it?"
     Bohall glared at the open door they had just passed through and the
dark room beyond it for a moment, and then stomped away through the
dew-wet grass around the side of the house.
     Varrus took a deep breath and shook his head. He hated it when
Bohall ordered him around. If only he knew how it was that Lovush had
earned Bohall's respect. Varrus was a few years older than Bohall, but
age didn't matter to the bully. Varrus was always trying to demonstrate
to Bohall that he was capable of being in charge, but so far nothing
worked. Varrus turned and looked at the distant horizon. The sky was
gradually brightening. Varrus moaned. There would be no time for a hot
breakfast this morning, a sure sign of a bad day ahead.

     "I hate it when the rats and dogs get to 'em before we do," said
Bohall through clenched teeth. He was shifting a mutilated body around
in an attempt to get it out of the wagon. He tugged at it by the
shoulder while Cail pulled at the feet.
     Varrus had to agree with Bohall even though he was standing a few
paces away "directing" the work. Ragged gashes caked with dried blood
gaped obscenely open and closed all over the dead man's torso with each
of the boys' heaves. Fortunately, there were no flies in the cold
weather. The hum of feasting flies had always been the worst to Varrus.
Just the thought of it made his stomach churn.
     "Trish, go inside and help the Rattler prepare for the body," said
Varrus. Trish nodded and walked slowly away while adjusting the braids
in her hair. The whole ordeal of claiming the body and then preparing it
for the spirit chasing had no apparent affect on the girl. Despite all
the complaining the boys did every time a body was found, she kept quiet
and went about her business just as if she were preparing a meal. Varrus
wished he had her attitude, but the idea of mutilated flesh and fetid
odors repulsed him without fail regardless of how many bodies he had
taken care of.
     "Straight, boy, you got a good grip on the legs?" Bohall asked
Cail. Cail nodded while staring with obvious fascination at the dead
man's face. Varrus sucked in a nervous breath as he recalled what Cail
had done when they had first discovered this body behind the Shattered
Spear Inn.
     While on their regular routine of clearing the trash that had
accumulated in the back alleys, they had uncovered this body buried
under a pile of broken crates. The man's throat had been slit twice. It
had looked as if the first time had not been deep enough to get the job
done. The Rattler had instructed them not to get the body yet and he had
gone around to the front of the inn.
     Meanwhile, Cail had stepped close to the body and stared at its
face. His hands clenched and unclenched slowly by his sides and he
breathed slowly and deeply.
     "What's he sayin'?" Bohall asked Cail mockingly. "Does he want a
kiss?"
     Cail ignored the taunting. He just stared at the corpse as snot
oozed from his nose unheeded. Varrus stepped over to Cail and nudged
him.
     "It's just a body, boy. You'll get used to dealing with them." It
was only a half-truth, as Varrus had never really gotten used to the
corpses himself. He frowned as he glanced at the body, lying face-up in
a patch of ground darkened by the spilled blood. It had stiffened, with
one leg propped up on an overturned crate and one arm stuck out straight
above its head. The outstretched fingers were dug into the dirt like he
had tried to claw his way along the ground while death slowly stole his
strength.
     "Wonder what makes them harden like that?" asked Varrus. He looked
at the still-entranced Cail and saw no answer forthcoming. He nudged the
boy again, harder this time. Cail rolled his eyes around to look at
Varrus in response.
     "He hates them nasty bitches," Cail whispered in a creaking voice
completely unlike his own. "Says they need to be whipped like lazy
horses, they do."
     Varrus' eyes widened in momentary shock and the pit of his stomach
felt like a block of ice had instantaneously formed there. He swallowed,
took a step back and looked around to see if the others had heard. The
others were all occupied and had not noticed. He looked back at Cail to
see him grinning without any touch of humor in his bloodshot eyes. He
winked at Varrus, then his grin melted away, and his face eventually
resumed its docile appearance, looking as if it could never have
possibly been twisted into such a gruesome expression. He turned his
attention back to the corpse, once again seemingly unaware of Varrus'
presence.
     Varrus' mouth was dry and his tongue felt like it was made of hay.
His pulse beat a rapid rhythm in his temples and his face flushed hot in
contrast to the cold in his stomach. He couldn't fathom what he had just
seen. A fear always tickled the back of his mind when dealing with
corpses; he was deathly afraid of spirits. He was terrified of the
spirits that could rip a man's sanity from him and drag him screaming to
an unnatural death. That fear was now not a mere tickling, but a heavy,
foreboding horror brought to life in the form of a strange boy standing
transfixed by a grotesque corpse.
     Varrus then heard footsteps, and the Rattler returned with the
inn's proprietor trailing along behind. Varrus hurriedly stepped away
from the body to make room for the men, but Cail didn't budge.
     The two men stopped by the corpse. The inn's owner merely glanced
at the body.
     "Not anyone I know," said the man with a shrug. "I ain't
responsible for him."
     The Rattler tapped his staff on the packed dirt of the alley and
stared at the man with cold eyes not unlike the corpse's. He held out a
hand to the owner, gesturing for payment.
     "Ol's balls no!" The man shook his head vigorously. "I ain't got
nothing to do with him, and I sure ain't payin' no money for him."
     The Rattler turned to Varrus and signed for him to start unloading
here at the inn the trash that had been collected so far on the route.
Varrus knew well the game about to be played, but he still felt unnerved
by the way Cail had acted. He elbowed Bohall and waved him over to the
wagon. Together they started pulling trash off the wagon and made a big
show of dropping it to the ground. Varrus usually took great pleasure in
playing the game, but he just couldn't make the chill of shock go away.
His fellow apprentices made up for Varrus' lack of enthusiasm, though,
and joined in, throwing bones, shredded cloth, dead rodents, busted
pottery and the like haphazardly about the alley. It didn't take long
for the inn owner to start howling.
     "The guards will hear of this," he hollered, but Varrus and his
crew continued their work.
     "May the fleas of a thousand dogs infest your crotch!" cursed the
man, weakness creeping into his voice. Varrus saw that Bohall and the
others were straining to contain grins and laughter. Varrus looked over
his shoulder at Cail, who was still standing over the body, his hands
flexing rhythmically.
     Varrus heard the wagon creak loudly and he turned back around to
see Bohall climbing up into the wagon to get at a big box of rancid
beef. He heaved it up onto the wagon's side and proceeded to slowly tip
it over so that the meat would splat all over the ground in a slimy
waterfall.
     "Stop!" screamed the man. "Fine, fine. Hold on and I'll get your
coin."
     Bohall stopped tipping but didn't pull the box back into the wagon,
leaving a slab of meat dangling precariously close to sliding out. The
man fumed and grumbled under his breath, but turned and went back to his
inn. Bohall leaned nonchalantly on the box, but finally couldn't contain
his laughter anymore once the man was out of sight.
     Varrus interrupted Bohall's joy. "There's something wrong with
Cail," he said to Bohall. "He's acting real ... strange."
     "You're just now noticing?" asked Bohall in mock disbelief. "Maybe
you also noticed that the sun rises every day, or is that too many new
things for you all at once?"
     "I'm serious, Bohall. The boy is talking strange. I think he might
have the mind sickness or something. Nobody normal acts like that."
Varrus avoided the subject of spirits. Giving voice to his fears would
only make them seem more real.
     The two boys looked over at Cail who had finally moved. He was now
on the other side of the body, crouched down and staring into the
corpse's eyes.
     "No, he sure isn't normal," agreed Bohall. He then leaned in close
to Varrus and whispered conspiratorially, "You want me to cure him of
the sickness? It'll be my pleasure."
     Varrus caught the hinted meaning behind the cure; Bohall would
probably do the curing with his fists. Varrus sighed, shook his head,
and stepped away from him. He should have known better than to expect
anything serious out of Bohall. He wished Lovush were here. He would
have known what to do.
     The inn owner returned with the payment, which the Rattler
accepted, and stayed to watch the cleanup. He started to issue orders,
saying that he was going to get all the services he had just paid for,
but one cold look from the Rattler shut him up and he eventually left.
     Once the mess was cleaned up, the Rattler walked over to the body
and eyed Cail, apparently noticing him standing by the corpse for the
first time. He watched Cail for a moment, taking in the whole scene.
     Varrus quickly went over to Cail and pulled him away as the Rattler
watched. Cail didn't resist, but he also never took his eyes off of the
corpse.
     The Rattler was eventually satisfied with Cail being led away and
he knelt down by the body. From a belt hidden under his robes he pulled
out a small dagger. He then pried open the deceased's mouth and examined
the yellowed teeth. He chose a tooth and used his dagger to pry it free.
It came loose with a soft crunch and the Rattler carefully stood with
the tooth balanced on his blade. He then dipped his staff down so that
the large gourd-shaped knot was level with his dagger, and he dropped
the tooth in the knot through a small hole at the top. He shook the
staff and the tooth rattled among several other teeth from previous
corpses. Satisfied, the Rattler then turned to Varrus and signaled to
have the body loaded on the wagon.
     The rest of the morning's rounds were uneventful and the Rattler's
crew went about their business, except for Cail, who would only break
away from the dead body in the cart when Bohall cuffed him soundly.
Varrus kept his distance from Cail as best he could, but he couldn't
help noticing Cail mumbling to himself as he stared unblinkingly at the
corpse.

     Despite the gut-wrenching reaction that collecting the dead had on
Varrus, he had a sense of satisfaction and relief once the whole process
of releasing the spirit was done. Preparing the corpses for their final
rest was always done immediately upon returning from the morning rounds.
The Rattler's crew took no chances of having a lingering spirit around.
     The Rattler's home stood atop a hill and on the back side of the
hill was the entrance to a cavern. Bohall and Cail hauled the newest
body into the cavern amongst quite a bit of grunting and cursing; the
dead man was a large one and looked like he had enjoyed more than his
fair share of food throughout his life. Varrus and Dreidel squeezed
through the narrow entrance after them and came into a cavern large
enough for a dozen horses and high enough that the ceiling would be just
out of the Rattler's reach if he had ever wanted to try and touch it.
     Bohall directed Cail into the appropriate spot, a section of the
stone floor visibly smoother than the rest. The Rattler entered the cave
right behind Varrus, the metal tip of his staff tapping out a quick
rhythm on the stone floor. He carried a large metal plate securely under
his arm. The plate was highly polished so that it acted like a mirror.
He walked over to the body as the boys set it down. Trish kneeled by it,
grabbed the body's hands and bound them together with rope that had been
coated with a fruit's juice and pulp. She then did the same with the
feet.
     "What is she doing?" asked Cail, speaking out loud for the first
time since the unsettling comments to Varrus earlier. There was
uncertainty in his voice and a panicked look in his eyes.
     "I'm securing the body so that the spirit can't move it," said
Trish without looking up from her work.
     "Straight, and the ropes are coated with Nightfruit which the
spirit ain't supposed to like for whatever reason," offered Dreidel. He
was much more cheerful now than he was earlier this morning when he had
stomped out through the kitchen to hitch up the donkey to the wagon.
     "The fruit confuses the spirit and keeps it from being able to
break its bonds," said Trish.
     "Whatever," replied Dreidel with a shrug. "The fruit has some much
better uses. Damned waste --"
     "He don't like it!" said Cail quickly.
     "Ol's balls I don't," Dreidel hollered defensively.
     Varrus looked at Cail and backed away from him a few steps. He knew
Cail wasn't referring to Dreidel, but rather something else -- something
to do with the corpse. Cail was staring at Trish and shaking his head in
frantic protest. Cail's sudden motion had also caught the Rattler's
attention. The man had been crouching by the corpse's head with the
plate held right above the deceased's face, but he now slowly stood and
took in the unfolding drama with watchful eyes.
     "He don't like you, bitch," said Cail. "Get away from him. Now!" He
was red-faced and crazed now, a complete transformation from the docile
demeanor exhibited throughout the day but reminiscent of the frightening
way he had acted earlier that morning.
     Trish looked up at Cail in confusion. Varrus knew he needed to step
in and get the wild boy out of the cavern before things got out of
control, but unreasoning fear immobilized him. The ritual performed here
in the cavern made him nervous, but it was always reassuring when the
Rattler pronounced the spirit gone, chased away from the body for good
by the reflection cast in the Rattler's polished plate. Varrus' fear was
in full force now, though. Cail's behavior tapped into Varrus' dread of
the unknown just as surely as actually seeing a ghost would have.
     Despite Cail's demand, Trish didn't move and so Cail rushed to her,
grabbed her by the hair and yanked violently, sending her rolling across
the floor. Before Trish had even stopped rolling, Bohall leaped forward
and with a roundhouse punch knocked the big boy off balance. Cail landed
hard on his side as the air whooshed out of him. Bohall followed up with
a foot to the downed boy's face. Cail's nose audibly crunched upon
contact and then his head smacked the floor and he went still.
Splattered blood covered Cail's face and it swelled as blotches of
bruised purple appeared.
     Varrus stared at Cail but still couldn't bring himself to move.
     "What was that all about?" asked Dreidel as he helped Trish to her
feet. No one answered. Everyone's attention had shifted to the Rattler,
waiting for a reaction. The pale man seemed oblivious to his audience as
he glared at Cail. His face was creased with lines born of deep
contemplation. A moment later he set down the plate he had been holding,
leaning it next to his staff against the cave wall, and then he slowly
wormed his fingers around the twisted wood of his staff and pulled it to
him, letting the metal tip scrape across the stone floor. All the while,
he continued to stare at Cail, and with his free hand he made a few curt
gestures at Varrus.
     "Bohall, check out Cail," interpreted Varrus in a shaky whisper.
"Is he ... all right?"
     Bohall leaned over Cail, looked closely and said with
disappointment heavy in his voice, "He's still breathing. I guess he's
all right."
     Varrus looked back over at the Rattler to see him now staring
directly at him. The Rattler gestured again, this time asking a long,
pointed question of the frightened senior apprentice. Varrus' throat
locked up on him as his unspoken fears were dragged unmercifully to the
surface of his thoughts by the Rattler's question. The Rattler had asked
if it had seemed that Cail had been somehow seeing spirits during his
short stay with them.
     Varrus' spine quivered as he recalled Cail saying, "they need to be
whipped like lazy horses" in that awful, unnatural voice. Varrus' eyes
then widened a bit as his memory suddenly produced the whole shoe
incident between Cail and Bohall.
     The Rattler didn't need a verbal answer as he read everything he
needed to know right off of Varrus' face. He directed Varrus to have
Cail removed from the cave.
     The senior apprentice turned to the others. They were all watching
with various levels of interest. Bohall was massaging his knuckles and
waiting for instructions. Trish was fixing her braids while Dreidel
looked at Varrus in total confusion.
     "Bohall," croaked Varrus. He cleared his throat, swallowed. "You
and Dreidel get him out of here," he said as he nodded at Cail. As if
awaiting that exact order, Bohall reached down, grabbed Cail under the
shoulders and started to drag him to the cave entrance. Dreidel still
had a lost look on his face as he walked across the cave to help.
     The two boys eventually wrestled the boy through the narrow opening
but could be heard talking once they were out of sight.
     "What was that all about?" repeated Dreidel. There was still no
answer.
     The Rattler crossed the cave to Varrus while reaching under the
folds of his robe for his belt. As he got closer he pulled out his small
dagger and held it out to his apprentice. Varrus stared at it
uncomprehendingly, then he ignored it altogether as he glanced over at
the corpse still prone on the floor.
     He breathed deep and tried to bring himself under control. The body
was inanimate and unthreatening. No spirits had appeared to snatch his
life away. There had been no screeching wails of a Night of Souls
banshee to crack the very rock he stood on. The cave was quiet, calm and
cool. He latched onto that stillness and turned his attention back to
the Rattler who waited calmly before him, the dagger held out for Varrus
to take. Still not fully grasping the implication of the weapon, he took
the dagger and looked at absently. It was old with specks of rust
marring the dull metal gleam. It felt light and insignificant in his
hand, as if it were a toy.
     The Rattler snapped his fingers for attention and Varrus came back
to reality. The dagger suddenly gained weight and Varrus dropped the
hand holding it to his side. Before the Rattler began his signing,
Varrus finally realized what the dagger was for.
     The hand holding the weapon was numb. Varrus nodded absently at the
Rattler once the man had finished his short, simple instructions. The
boy was dangerous. He needed to be killed. Varrus' throat tightened and
suddenly his thoughts were of his dear friend Lovush. Lovush would have
foreseen the climax of this situation long before it happened and would
have done something about it. But now Varrus cursed himself for being
such a simpleton; he had had no idea what was going on and now he was
facing the consequences.
     Varrus turned and forced his leaden feet into motion towards the
cave's exit. There was no questioning the Rattler's orders; Varrus'
bruised leg, earned when he had not moved fast enough one morning, was a
clear reminder that one should never anger the Death Rattler. Even
without such an incentive Varrus knew that what he was about to do was
right. Anybody who was in contact with the spirits, like Cail obviously
was, had to be dealt with. Varrus just wished that he didn't have to be
the one to do it.
     He emerged from the cave into the bright, cold light of day.
Despite a thin cover of gray clouds, he had to wait for a moment for his
eyes to adjust to the brightness. As he stood there he briefly wished he
could see spirits too. He wished Lovush could appear before him and
reassure him that everything would be all right.
     His eyes eventually picked out the details around him. Just a few
paces away Bohall was talking to Dreidel while they both stood over
Cail's inert form. Dreidel was nodding with disbelief evident on his
face. It looked like the boy had finally learned what had been going on
during this long day.
     Varrus trudged over to them reluctantly. Bohall and Dreidel stopped
their conversation once they noticed him coming.
     "Do I need to finish him off?" asked Bohall evenly once Varrus had
stopped beside them.
     Relief suddenly washed over Varrus as he realized he would not have
to do the killing. Bohall was willing to do it for him. Varrus found his
breathing to be incredibly easier and the dagger that he had been
hauling along with him now didn't seem such a burden.
     Varrus even managed a sheepish grin. He thrust the dagger towards
Bohall and said, "Yes, the Rattler wants him dead."
     Bohall glanced down at the dagger but didn't move to take it. Panic
started to freeze up the flow of relief Varrus was feeling. He extended
his arm a bit more, silently imploring Bohall to take the dagger from
him.
     "You're not actually going to kill him, are you?" asked Dreidel.
The scrawny boy was staring at Bohall with his usual look of disbelief
on his face.
     "No," said Bohall. He looked Varrus directly in the eyes. "I think
Varrus will have the honor."
     Once again Varrus' throat clenched tight and he found it hard to
breathe.
     Cail moaned and all of the boys standing around him started in
momentary shock. Bohall recovered first and said with a barely disguised
chuckle in his voice, "Guess you better do it quick because I ain't
holding him down if he wakes up all the way."
     Varrus looked down at Cail and saw that he had tilted his head a
little but was now still again. His nose had been flattened against his
face and splattered blood covered him from chin to hair. At that moment
all Varrus could think of was Cail grinning innocently and laughing
about the sleepies getting a hold of Varrus.
     "Sheesh, does he really see spirits?" asked Dreidel in amazement.
"He was so quiet all day."
     That question broke through to Varrus' sense of reason. His
stranglehold on the innocent side of Cail loosened and the image of the
goofy grin transformed into the grotesque grin of the boy talking about
whipping lazy wenches. Varrus ground his teeth and dropped to his knees
beside Cail. He gripped the dagger with both of his sweaty hands and
rested the point on the boy's chest near his heart.
     Bohall started to say something, but Varrus didn't want to hear. He
tensed and then shoved the dagger down. It plunged deep, meeting little
resistance all the way to the hilt. Blood welled up around the dagger
and then cascaded down the boy's side in a flood. He yanked the blade up
and plunged again. He glanced away from his work to look at Cail's face.
The face was empty of emotion or pain. It was impassive in death and
Varrus was thankful. He had expected screaming demons or wailing spirits
to appear. But blood was the only thing produced by the boy, and that
was in great quantity.
     He left the dagger imbedded in Cail's chest after the second thrust
and he let go of it. He stood slowly, his eyes shifting from Cail's face
to Bohall's. What he saw there elated him. He didn't look upon Varrus
with disrespect or disgust. Bohall looked surprised. It occurred to him
that Bohall had not thought Varrus was capable of killing Cail. Varrus
wandered if he had finally earned the respect he had been craving for so
long.
     "Should I take him in?" asked Bohall, with a sincere tone in his
voice for the first time when talking to Varrus.
     All Varrus could do was nod. Bohall told Dreidel to help him, and
when the smaller boy balked, Bohall cuffed him and bullied him into
submission.
     The two boys hauled Cail back into the cavern, the dagger still
stuck deep in his heart.
     Varrus smiled and felt a sense of completeness. He had done what
was necessary. A dangerous boy was dead and Varrus had finally taken on
the role of senior apprentice in the eyes of the other apprentices. He
wouldn't need Lovush's spirit after all. Corpses and spirits would no
longer hold sway over him. Death was now just a routine matter to him.
No problem at all.
     A cold gust of wind shoved at Varrus and sudden shower of fat
raindrops splattered on him. He hurried back to the cave, anxious to
witness the spirit-releasing ceremony.

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

                     Leave the Ocean to Cirrangill
                              by Jon Evans
                          <godling@mnsinc.com>
                            Vibril 27, 1011

     "False gods, monsters, daemons," the priest spoke to the crew and
me. "All these things are as nothing to the Stevene, and his God."
     "Really?" I feigned interest. Holy men annoyed me, generally, but
it was a long journey to Sharks' Cove from Dargon, and the crew of the
vessel had their hands full. The salt air filled my lungs as the waves
rocked the ship, and a strong breeze blew in from the west. The winds,
coupled with the dark clouds that were many leagues off, signified a
coming storm. But we would be safe on board, well ahead of the rains.
Our southerly journey was taking us away from the danger of the storm.
     The shore of Baranur could be seen to the east, a league or so of
ocean separating the _Vanguard Voyager_ from dry land. Westward lay
ocean, leagues upon leagues of landless waters. Big and wide, it was a
world unto itself, with different rules and different gods. The priest
would have done well not to anger those gods, or the sailors who
worshiped them.
     The priest and I were both passengers on this ship. While I had
spent several years in Lord Dargon's navy, this was the priest's first
voyage. We shared the same cabin below decks. This morning, the priest
had told me of his intention to convert the crew to Stevenism during our
voyage. I had asked him what he knew of sailors. "One does not need to
understand sailors," he had replied, "to teach them the love of the
Stevene."
     Now, above decks with the crew, I saw an opportunity to teach him
something about sailors. "And does your god bring fair weather for
sailing?" I asked. I'd had this debate before, with other Stevenics, and
I knew how to win it.
     "Of course He does," the priest answered. He almost harrumphed his
reply. I suspected he knew where I was headed: he, too, had heard this
argument before. "But he also must bring rains for the crops, must he
not?" The priest had bushy, overbearing eyebrows -- the kind that large
birds could nest in -- and he raised them in question. His entire visage
was accusatory, his eyes wide and directed at me, as he stared down his
long beak of a nose. He folded his arms across his barrel chest, as
though this tactic were new and undefeatable.
     A few of the crew began to pay attention to the debate as they
worked the deck. Captain Brynna Thorne watched our debate from where she
piloted the ship. I turned on my heels, spread my arms wide and asked,
"Are you saying the Stevene cannot separate the winds and the rains?"
One of the crewmen, Jergen, smiled then. I winked at him, sharing the
joke.
     "God does not fulfill the dreams of every petty little man. He
strives to save *all* of mankind from its own sins!"
     This was an interesting delay to the answer I was seeking from the
priest. I egged him on a little. "What use a god, then, who does not
answer prayers?" I raised my voice to let the rest of the crew hear.
"Cirrangill, at least, sends his breath in front of the storm so that
ships may find safety." Some of the crew smiled: they knew the weather
we were traversing.
     "Cirrangill, indeed!" The priest feigned offense, his prodigious
jowls shaking vehemently. "A false god built up by the rumors and
stories of men who spend too much time at sea." At that statement, some
of the crew made warding signs and offered quick prayers to Cirrangill.
One of them cut a small lock of his hair and tossed it into the ocean. I
took a moment to glance westward at the coming storm; I would have to
time this properly.
     "Careful, priest," I said. I raised my arm and pointed westward.
"That storm is but a few leagues away. Our winds are fair at the moment,
but if Cirrangill's Breath does not favor us, we will be caught in it,
and possibly wrecked."
     The priest looked westward, as if noticing the storm for the first
time. The ocean can play tricks on a man who is unused to her. Clouds
that appear low and close may be many leagues away. And ocean storms are
often preceded by strong winds well in front of the rains. But the
priest did not know that. He also didn't swim.
     "If a storm that size," I continued, "with clouds that dark, comes
across this small vessel ... well, I hope the Stevene can teach you to
swim in the time it takes to fall overboard."
     "Don't be absurd," the priest ruffled. "You don't really think this
boat will be capsized." He said it as a statement, but I knew it was a
question.
     "Oh, aye," Jergen answered. He had been mending a sail while he
listened to our conversation. "I've been on ships twice this size what
got rolled over like a whore during shore leave. Beggin' your pardon,
sir," he added as the priest blanched.
     "Perhaps," I added to the fire, "now would be a good time to see
just how much the Stevene can help out."
     "Nonsense," the priest said, and he put on his best preaching face.
"The Stevene, and God, is also confident in man's ability to save
himself." He was nervous, but he put on a good front. "I'm certain the
captain and the crew can maintain the safety of this ship during our
travels."
     As if on cue, a loud slapping sound broke overhead, and one of the
sails let loose from the mast. I noticed one of the crewmen,
suspiciously near to the tie, trying to hide a smile. It seemed they
were all in on it with me. Poor priest. He didn't realize how boring
these trips can be, and that a good joke could break the monotony for a
long time. But by releasing that line, the crewman had endangered the
ship.
     "Mark your wind!" cried Captain Thorne. "Secure that sail, raise
the spreader! Unfurl the mainsail, or we'll be back winded!"
     The crewman who had released the sail was suddenly caught up in a
flurry of activity with several other crewmen. For a moment, the ship
pitched fore to aft. Jergen muttered to himself, "Roll, roll you son of
a bitch; the more you roll, the less you'll pitch." Then the mainsail
was set, and snapped to a billowy white cloud as the wind pulled it
taut. The _Vanguard Voyager_ steadied her course, but the momentary
distress shattered the priest's resolve.
     The priest dropped to his knees almost immediately and grasped at
his holy noose -- the symbol of his particular sect of Stevenism.
Several of the men snickered softly as the Stevenic's supplications were
offered up to his god. Jergen and I glanced westward at the storm and
smelled the wind. Shortly now, the storm's head winds would be picking
up, giving us the extra speed to get south of the on-coming storm.
     "Too late, priest," I said. "Your Stevene hasn't helped."
     "But ... nothing's happened, yet!" he protested. He glanced
westward. The storm, still a few leagues off, seemed almost upon us.
"What will we do?"
     "I don't know," I muttered, as if to myself. "Cirrangill's Breath
should have begun blowing us to safety by now."
     "Perhaps," the priest retorted, "your god cannot help in this
matter either." The priest stood up, as if his failure to summon the
winds was a sign of Cirrangill's falsehood. But Jergen played his part
perfectly.
     "More likely," Jergen said, "Cirrangill's mad at us for praying to
the Stevene on his waters."
     "What should we do?" I asked Jergen, letting him take the lead.
     "Tough decision," he said. He scratched the beard on his chin and
stared at the dark clouds to the west. His keen eyes could see the rain
front approaching. The priest was nervous. Then Jergen turned and looked
the priest in the eyes. "I've known crews to throw men overboard, as a
sacrifice. But the cap'n gets paid for your safe arrival at port. No
sense in angerin' her."
     "Then all we have to offer are prayers to Cirrangill," I said.
     "Bout 'majin," he replied.
     And then I began a prayer to Cirrangill that the whole crew knew.
It was actually a verse from a song about a sailor coming home to port,
but I hardly expected the priest to know that. I sang it soft and slow,
and the crewmen around me slowly added their voice to my own. The tempo
became a low, deep pulse that drove the crew in their work.

     "My sails been blowed, and torn, and laid down wet,
     They need all the mending that they can get.
     There's a storm on the horizon and I'm trying to get home,
     Cirrangill will save us from the waters way down low."

     Just as we were finishing the third repetition of the verse, the
wind picked up. "Cirrangill's Breath!" Jergen called out, and the deck
burst into action as crewmen who had been watching our joke suddenly
remembered the storm. The captain called out to batten down the hatches,
secure the lines, and tighten the rigging.
     "All passengers get to your cabins," she bellowed. The priest
stared wide-eyed at the confusion. "Now!" she yelled. And the storm was
upon us.
     The ship rocked wildly beneath us as we lurched toward the hold.
Using the mast, barrels, and several crewmen along the way, the priest
managed to get to our cabin, and hurl himself into its shelter. I was
only footsteps behind him, and the door was slammed shut by gale force
winds. The rain began suddenly, pelting the deck with heavy drops while
the crew scampered about, carefully now, to complete the captain's
orders. We could hear the beams stressing as the winds hurled the
_Vanguard Voyager_ along her course. Captain Thorne ordered all sails
unfurled and the ship lurched forward, her bow crashing through the
waves as the wind filled every sail.
     When Jergen opened the door to our cabin, we spied a brilliant bolt
of lightning against the dark sky. We counted the pause, then heard the
resounding thunder shake through the bowels of the ship. "Two leagues
... perhaps three," I thought. The captain was cutting it close. She was
dancing the westward edge of the storm, using its winds and waves to
speed us on our southerly journey. She was taking a small risk, but the
storm was paying off.
     As ever, the priest was unaware of our situation. The lightning had
revealed his terror, and the thunder had caused him to pale even
further. I feared he would soil his robes, and then I would have to live
with that fetid smell until the storm let up. "Will we live?" he asked
Jergen.
     "This is the _Vanguard Voyager_," Jergen replied. "She's the best
ship there is, and she's got the best cap'n. We'll get through it."
     "Then we're saved," the priest said. He sighed relief, but still
looked sad. "Cirrangill saved this ship, not the Stevene."
     I felt sorry for the priest. Bored sailors who didn't want to be
bothered by a well-meaning priest had played a joke. And while we were
not fearful of losing our faith, we had shaken his confidence in his.
The priest thought he could convert the sailors. His mistake was
thinking they would abandon their faith while they sailed in the very
temple of their god. "Keep your god on land, priest," I offered. "Leave
the ocean to Cirrangill."

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

                             Talisman Seven
                                 Part 2
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.Edu>
                             Yuli 8-9, 1013

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-11

     The baronial seat of Bindrmon was a medium-sized town called
Beeikar. It lay along the north bank of the Renev River, which ran
through Welspeare and Northfield to the sea.
     Situated against the Renev, east and upstream of the docks area,
was one of Beeikar's inns. It offered good ale and food that was usually
acceptable. The bargemen who worked the river, and who were known for
their rowdy behavior, only occasionally ventured as far from their own
dockside taverns as the inn; the few that did were seldom trouble. That
notwithstanding, the activity within belied the sign above the door
which displayed a circle of male swine.
     Lord Aldan Bindrmon, only son of Baron Chak Bindrmon, walked
through the streets of Beeikar towards his favorite inn. The twenty-two
year-old man was tall and slender, with chestnut hair that fell well
past his shoulders, and a full beard and moustache cropped close to the
skin. His dark grey eyes set off his handsome features and fair
complexion.
     He walked through the streets of Beeikar with a calm assurance. He
ignored the gathering shadows with the arrogance of ranking nobility; he
wasn't yet the baron, but he had been well trained for his eventual job.
He didn't always enjoy the responsibilities that came with his future
rank, but he wore the cloak of it with a natural ease.
     He was dressed in fine clothing as befit his rank: a dark grey
tunic that matched his eyes, black tights above calf-high boots, and a
dusky maroon vest that hung halfway to his knees. Embroidered onto the
upper left side of the vest was the heraldic symbol of the Bindrmon
family: a white shield-shape bearing a large brown diamond, which in
turn carried a yellow circle that bore a red oval.
     The ninth bell of the day had just rung and the sun was low in the
sky. By rights, he probably should have been heading away from the river
and back to Bindrmon Keep. His father had not yet returned from his trip
to Fremlow City to deliver the barony's taxes to Duchess Welspeare,
which left Aldan nominally in charge. He owed his father's staff the
courtesy of sitting down to dinner with them, but that didn't dissuade
him from his current path. They would get along without him for one more
night, and they had enough to do ensuring that the keep was ready for
the baron's return.
     The entire staff had treated the absence of the baron like a
holiday, which it had been, in that they were out from under the direct
command of Baron Chak. Without the elder Bindrmon's eyes always on them,
always watching, always judging, they had been free to go about their
duties as any other servant of a noble would. But with the impending
return of the baron, they were all constantly on edge, not sure when he
would be riding Thunder into his stables and demanding total, focused
attendance on his every need. Any freedom Aldan could give them from
further worries was sure to be a boon.
     Aldan reached the Boar-Ring Inn and stepped inside. The large
taproom was mostly empty, with only three of the dozen tables occupied,
but it was early yet. The pair of bargemen by the door were getting
ready to leave, which was just as well, as they were already very drunk.
An older man sat next to the empty fireplace, rubbing his hands in front
of it as if to warm them, and mumbling constantly to himself. On the
opposite side of the room three dusty farmers sat around a table talking
quietly over their tankards.
     Aldan walked over to his usual table in the corner near the
fireplace. Aivney, one of the two barmaids who worked at the Boar-Ring
Inn, arrived as he sat down. She was average in height but in little
else. Her black hair was long and thick, framing her round face set with
flashing brown eyes and full lips. Her body was amply curved and well
displayed in the outfit she wore. Her light blue leather bodice was
laced from her hips to just under her breasts, tied tight and positioned
just right so as to lift them and present them to the world in the white
chemise she wore under it. Her green skirt hung all the way to the floor
as was proper, but propriety was defeated by the way she had tucked a
bit of the hem by her left foot up under the bottom of the bodice at her
hip, revealing a great deal of tawny leg. Aivney was one of the best
features of the Boar-Ring.
     She draped her arm over his shoulder with the ease of long
familiarity, and said, "The usual, yer lawdship?" Her tone was mocking,
but her eyes twinkled with merriment.
     "Yes, thanks, Aivney," Aldan said, whereupon she sat in his lap and
kissed him on the cheek.
     "One bell or two tanight, yer lawdship? The rooms'r all free."
Aldan laughed at the jest even as his cheeks reddened slightly at having
the buxom woman's charms pressed so closely to his body.
     He responded in the same vein, putting on the voice of a poet
reciting lofty verse, and resolutely staring only into her eyes despite
the other temptations offered. "Your charms would require a whole ten
bells, my dear, for I couldn't possibly do them justice in less than the
night entire. However, I'm sure that my most darling Tillna would have
something to say about it were I to take you up on your offer."
     The raven-haired wench jumped to her feet again and said, "You're
right about that, Aldan my heart. She'd have both our hides for blankets
and the best parts for slippers, she would!" She laughed heartily, and
traced her finger along the fuzz-covered line of his jaw. "Ah well, we
shall just have to dream, straight?" She leaned down provocatively and
pretended to try to kiss him on the lips, but pecked at his cheek at the
last moment.
     Straightening up again and arching her back proudly, she continued,
"Speaking of our delicate flower, Tillna won't be in until the second
bell past dark. She starts early on the morrow. You remember, don't
you?"
     Aldan nodded, and said, "I'm sure she told me. I'll wait. I've no
more pressing duties calling me away."
     "I'm sure you don't, though your father's away and all. Well,
you're the baron's son, you know best. I'll bring you your ale, and make
sure she knows you're here once she arrives, straight?"
     Aldan watched Aivney's hips sway as she walked across the room to
the bar. The farmers called out to her for refills, "and some of what ya
were givin' the boy over there, too," as she approached their table, but
she only flashed her bare leg at them teasingly while shaking her finger
at them, saying, "Quiet down, you lot, and wait your turn!"
     Aldan wasn't angry that the farmers didn't recognize him. At that
moment, he was just another patron of the Boar-Ring Inn. There were
times when he wished that no one knew who he was, that the
responsibilities of his position as the baron's son would vanish like
fog in the sun. And then, at other times he welcomed the automatic
respect and deference his heritage brought him. He wished he could have
it both ways, though.
     Aldan was content with his life on the whole. It would be perfect,
however, if only he could travel more. He had been born in Beeikar and
had never been more than thirty leagues away from it in his entire
twenty-two summers. He knew he would someday make regular journeys to
Fremlow City like his father did, but he wanted to go farther. He wanted
to see Magnus, with its magnificent Crown Castle and the mysterious
College of Bards. He wanted to go farther, to Redcrosse or Narragan, or
even south into foreign countries like Beinison or Lederia. These were
only names on maps to him, but he wanted to walk on the soil of a
different duchy, to breathe the air of a different country, to see
strange sights for himself instead of only reading about the journeys of
others.
     It wasn't just the wonder of going someplace different that
motivated him, either. Sometimes, the need to go out and explore was
almost a physical ache within his body. Something was out there,
something he needed to find. It called to him, trying to pull him away
from Beeikar and Bindrmon, away from the things he knew, out into the
unknown. It was only his sense of responsibility to his father, a sense
that had been drilled into him ever since the death of his mother from a
spring fever in his tenth year, that kept him at home. Without that, he
would have been gone as soon as he had learned to ride.
     Aivney returned and set his ale in front of him. Aldan smiled at
her in thanks, then lowered his eyes back to the table and took an
appreciative sip. She took the hint and went to get the refills for the
farmers, leaving him to brood some more.

     About two bells and four refills later, Aldan was still sitting in
the taproom of the Boar-Ring Inn. The noise level had increased somewhat
as patrons slowly and steadily filtered in, but he found it to be
pleasant noise: noise that had nothing to do with him.
     He had just finished the last drop of his latest refill when Tillna
entered the room. He thought that the glow he saw around her as she came
through the rear door by the bar might be a reflection of the deep
feelings he had for her. It might also be the brighter light of the
kitchen fogged in his eyes by five tankards of ale. He almost giggled as
he struggled to decide which was more likely and watched Tillna cross
the room towards his table.
     Tillna was a short, slim, beautiful young woman, with long blond
hair that hung down to her waist and eyes that were so clear a blue that
they looked like glittering crystals. She dressed far more
conservatively than Aivney did, though Aldan could remember when Tillna
had worn clothes more like the older barmaid, back when she had first
arrived in Beeikar two years previously. She no longer wore a revealing
bodice, but a dress that went from her neck to the floor, and she never
pinned the hem of that dress under her belt to show off her spectacular
legs in public. She always acted like a courtly lady, at least whenever
Aldan was around. She almost seemed too good for her barmaid job and her
current surroundings.
     Aldan had been in love with her for almost as long as she had been
around, though they had been courting for eighteen months and sleeping
together for ten. He knew that her behavior had changed ever since they
had begun stealing a night together every sennight or so. Tillna had
gone from saucy wench to proper young lady as soon as his interest in
her had been proven to be more than passing lust. Their trysts together
were always in the rooms of the Boar-Ring because he wasn't quite ready
to introduce her to his father just yet. He did his best to treat Tillna
right, giving her presents frequently, making sure he never took her or
her time for granted.
     She seemed to glide across the taproom floor, the hem of her skirt
quivering only slightly as her toes flicked at it. She dodged questing
fingers with practiced ease, ignoring the questers totally, her eyes
fixed on her goal: Aldan.
     Tillna stopped in front of him and said, "Oh, Aldan, I'm so glad
you're here. I've missed you, love." She sat next to him on the bench
and kissed him on the cheek with remarkably less passion than Aivney had
feigned earlier. Aldan didn't notice the lack as that was how she always
kissed him, in public at least.
     He put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "I had to be
at the keep last night and the night before, since I expected my father
home then. He hasn't yet returned, but I couldn't bear another night of
waiting. So, I'm here. I missed you, too."
     Tillna leaned close and whispered in his ear, "If I was living at
the keep with you, then we could have waited for your father together.
I'm sure that would have been more fun than just sitting here for bells
like Aivney said you were doing."
     Aldan nodded absently, while inwardly cringing at the hint. Tillna
had been making those kinds of observations more and more lately, and he
knew that he was going to have to respond to them eventually. It was
only right that he formalize their relationship, and he wanted that as
much as she did. He would have been more eager if not for his father,
and if only it didn't seem like more responsibility.
     Aldan's musings were interrupted by the door slamming open to admit
a great deal of noise being made by four young men. He frowned as he
watched them cross the taproom laughing and shouting at each other. One
of the four was already very drunk, and much of the merriment came from
the others making fun of the inebriated one's state.
     The four young men arranged themselves around their usual table on
the opposite side of the taproom from Aldan and the fireplace. They were
known as the Menagerie: the children of several local nobles, close in
age and interests. Born into wealth and privilege but without
responsibility to go with it, they had fallen in together from a young
age and become fast friends. They had played and practiced together as
children; now that they were all in their early twenties, they spent
most of their time plotting mischief and getting up enough drunkards'
courage to carry out those plans.
     They called each other by animal nicknames, and so named themselves
collectively the Menagerie. For example, the large, dark-haired, and
very drunk young man was named Eywran, but was known as Bear because he
was often lumbering and clumsy looking, but he fancied himself a very
dangerous man.
     They were trouble-makers in Beeikar, threatening the merchants,
chasing people through the streets, causing fights in taverns. But it
wasn't the threat they posed that had led Aldan to learn so much about
them: he had once been one of them. He had been Falcon then, and a happy
part of the Menagerie. He had been friends with Bear and Fox, Owl and
Weasel, and the Rabbits, when he was younger. He remembered chasing
through the streets, brandishing sticks as they played warriors,
knocking over people and carts in their heedless dashing. He remembered
studying history with them, and hiking through the woods with them.
Those had been good times, when his heritage had meant nothing to his
friends, or to himself.
     That had changed about five years previously, when his father had
insisted that he grow up and start taking responsibility for his future.
Someday he would be baron, and he needed to know what that meant, and
what it didn't. According to his father, it certainly didn't mean
running wild with a group of delinquent young nobles.
     The rest of the Menagerie hadn't taken well to his leaving. None of
them had believed that it hadn't been his choice. Fox, a slim,
red-haired youth with a sly tongue and a wicked gleam in his eye, had
taken it very personally. Aldan had once considered Fox his best friend,
and the two of them had come up with the idea of the Menagerie together.
When he had told the others that his father had forbidden him to
associate with them any longer, Fox had tried to convince him to defy
the baron, remain part of the group anyway, in secret if necessary.
Aldan couldn't convince any of them that his father wasn't someone whom
you could hide things from.
     Fox's response had been disdainful, calling Aldan a stuck-up snob
who thought he was suddenly too good for their company. "We'll call you
Rat from now on!" he'd shouted. "The Rat who ran away!"
     Now none of them would so much as talk to him, except for Quinla.
Quinel and Quinla were the missing Rabbit twins, son and daughter of the
Denvas. Quinla, the only female member of the Menagerie, had once been
sweet on him in a childhood-crush kind of way. She, too, had been hurt
by his departure from the Menagerie, but she was also the kindest of
them, and she had forgiven him long ago. She was also a moderating voice
among the group, and her absence could mean real trouble. It was strange
that she and her brother weren't present. The group was ordinarily
inseparable and it was strange to see less than the full six-person
Menagerie out in public.
     "I wonder where the Rabbit twins are?" Aldan muttered.
     "Fremlow City," murmured Tillna. Aldan looked at her quizzically;
he didn't realize that he had asked the question aloud.
     She nodded, and repeated, "Fremlow City. Lord and Lady Denva had to
go to the ducal city on family business, and the twins went along."
     Aldan continued to stare, puzzled, and Tillna continued, "I've told
you before, my sister Yawrab is chatelaine of the Denva manor. They took
her with them, and she told me about it. I don't think it's fair that
she gets to see Fremlow City when I've never been farther north than
Beeikar, dear heart."
     Aldan responded to the tone in her voice automatically. "Don't
worry, love, someday you'll be able to go north with me when I have to
go for the tax-taking."
     While he was soothing her with promises of their future together,
he was recalling Tillna mentioning her sister. Yawrab was almost ten
years older than Tillna, and had been the housekeeper of a manor in
Shaddir Barony, far to the south of Welspeare. She had been hired away
from that family by the Denvas and had brought her sister along when she
traveled north to Beeikar. Aldan had never met Yawrab since the Denva
manor was a bell's ride outside Beeikar and Tillna lived in a boarding
house in town. He figured that she must be good at her job to have been
hired across such a distance. Maybe he could convince his father to hire
her to manage Bindrmon Keep. Maybe the baron would mind less if Aldan
wanted to marry the sister of his chatelaine, instead of just a barmaid.
     Tillna's kiss on his cheek drew him out of his reverie. He looked
up at the standing Tillna as she said, "I had better get to work. There
are certainly enough customers now."
     Aldan looked around at the half-filled taproom, flinching away from
the glares being cast his way from the Menagerie's table. Aivney was
hustling about, taking orders and throwing exasperated looks at her
fellow employee.
     "I'd better be going as well," he said, rising next to her. He
hugged her and tried to kiss her on the lips, but she turned her head
and all he pecked was her silken cheek.
     "Will I see you tomorrow? I start early, so I'll be getting off
early too." Her smile was coy, even if her eyes were cool.
     "Unless my father comes home in the meantime and has some task or
other for me to complete, yes. I'll be here." Aldan hugged her again,
then stepped back. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it
properly, smiling as she giggled and blushed. He said, "'Til then,"
turned, and walked to the door. He looked back as he opened it, and
their eyes met. They smiled at each other, and then he left.

     "Hey, Tillna!"
     Tillna turned from watching Aldan leave to the drunken Menagerie.
Fox was leering at her, and it had been he who had shouted.
     When she did no more than look their way, Fox shouted again, "Hey,
now that fancy-boy has gone, come on over and let me kiss you proper!"
     Tillna walked over to the Menagerie's table, which caused all four
boys to hoot and holler. Fox stuck out his tongue and waggled it, while
Weasel, a small man with brown hair and eyes and a narrow face, full of
nervous energy, turned on the bench and grabbed at his crotch.
     She stopped next to the table, frowning fiercely. Fox didn't catch
the hint, and said, "I knew you'd come back finally, sweet-roll. Get
tired of fancy-boy finally? Need some more of good old Foxy? Its only
been, what, four or five months; I'm sure you remember my touch. I'll
give you what you need, as much and as *long* as you need! Come here!"
     The slap was loud enough to stop conversation all across the
taproom. Fox sat there with a shocked expression, his hand to the side
of his face. Weasel just stared, jaw wide, hand still squeezing his
crotch. Bear, the one who had arrived falling-down drunk, was giggling
into his hands and staring at the table. Owl, who had been born
Lothanin, and had strangely grey hair and large eyes, was silent as
usual, but his knowing smirk said that he had seen it coming.
     Tillna pointed her finger right between Fox's eyes, and whispered
fiercely, "You and your miserable Menagerie had better just forget we
ever even met, much less anything else. I've got me my someday-baron,
and no petty lordling is going to ruin that for me. Remember that I'm
going to be your baroness someday; I have a long memory and I can make
you very sorry.
     "Am I understood?" No one moved, and she continued, "I'll take that
as yes."
     She turned and strode away like a conquering queen, disappearing
into the kitchen. The silence broke all at once as interrupted
conversations resumed a little louder than they needed to.
     At the Menagerie's table, the young men looked at each other with
hate in their eyes. All except Bear, who was still giggling. Their hate
burned for Aldan, once Falcon but no longer, and for Tillna, whom Aldan
had taken away from them. Someday, they both would pay.

     Aldan was in his room the next afternoon when the page arrived and
informed him that his father was awaiting his attendance. He'd been
expecting that the summons would come, and was ready.
     Upon returning from his brief visit with Tillna the previous
evening, Aldan had found the keep in an uproar: Baron Bindrmon had
returned while he was at the Boar-Ring. Aldan had hurried to his rooms,
knowing that when his father was ready, he would be called.
     He walked quickly through the corridors of the keep, and came to
the receiving hall as instructed. He had been rehearsing his report ever
since he had learned of his father's return, and he was confident of
what he was going to say about the time that the baron had been gone.
     Baron Bindrmon was standing to one side of the receiving hall,
talking with Ricce, the stablemaster. Aldan walked over just as Ricce
bowed and turned away.
     "Ah, Aldan, how have you been?" the baron asked. "I understand from
the staff that your brief stewardship of the keep went smoothly."
     Aldan nodded, and said, "Yes, yes it did. I --"
     He was interrupted as his father said, "Good, good. Now, before I
hear your report, I have some very good news. Come, let us sit."
     Aldan wondered what the good news might be. Had the duchess decided
to return some of the tax money? What else could his father have come
back from Fremlow City with? Two chairs had been placed in the corner,
and he sat in one while the baron settled into the other.
     Baron Bindrmon looked his son in the eye and said, "My boy, I've
arranged a marriage for you. Millicet, the daughter of Baron Durening,
our neighbor to the east, will be your bride. Groon Durening and I
discussed it and worked out all of the details. By the end of Sy, you
will be wed."
     Aldan didn't hear a word beyond the first sentence. He couldn't
believe what he father had said. Married? He didn't even know Millicet
Durening. He couldn't get married to someone he didn't even know. And
what about Tillna?
     "Ah, Father ..."
     The baron continued, "Now, Millicet's dowry will be extensive, a
great addition to our barony. She ..."
     Aldan wasn't concerned about dowries large or small. Once again,
his father was ignoring him, arranging his life without asking him his
preferences. He tried again to get the baron's attention. "Father,
please, I ..."
     "Millicet is a little old, but I'm sure she will make a fine wife,
and an excellent future baroness. Groon's family is of impeccable
lineage, so she has surely been ..."
     "Father!" Aldan tried to interrupt again, but Chak was intent.
Aldan could have been a statue for all that his responses mattered to
his father.
     "In a fortnight, Groon and his daughter will be visiting. You'll
get to see your future bride, properly chaperoned, of course, and
perhaps get to know her. Then ..."
     Aldan's frustration grew. He was again being treated like a child.
Then he had been told what to eat, what to read, who to be friends with;
now he was being instructed who to marry, who to spend the rest of his
life with. His father had no care for what he wanted, only what was best
for the barony. And he was tired of it.
     Resolve hardened in Aldan. It was time to make that decision he had
been putting off again and again. He needed something more than a
petulant "I don't want to" to forestall his father. He might not be
completely sure that marrying Tillna was the right thing to do, but at
least it was his own decision.
     "Father!" This time, Aldan's shout echoed all around the hall.
Baron Bindrmon stopped and looked at him, and he wasn't surprised that
there was no hint of shock on his father's face.
     He stood up from his chair and said, "I'm sorry, Father. I will not
marry this woman. I love another, and you cannot change that. You will
have to tell Baron Durening to find another husband for his daughter."
     He turned and left as swiftly as dignity would allow, leaving no
space for an argument. He didn't see his father's impassive face staring
after him, or the way that the baron's knuckles grew whiter and whiter
where his fists gripped the arms of his chair. And he was too far away
to hear the crack as Baron Bindrmon slammed his fists down on those arms
and snapped them in two.

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