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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 12/11/1999
 Volume 12, Number 12                           Circulation:        706
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Storm Dancer II              Jon Evans              Seber 13, 1014
 Price of Sin                 JD Kenyon              Ober, 1016
 In a Stew                    Cheryl Spooner and     Naia 21, 1017
                              Mark A. Murray
 Talisman Two 2               Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Midsummer, G331

========================================================================
 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 12-12, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 1999 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>

     It hardly seems possible that DargonZine has been going strong for
a decade and a half, yet today I find myself writing a fifteenth
anniversary Editorial for the magazine I initiated (as FSFNET) over the
Christmas break back in 1984. It's kind of funny to realize how far
we've come from that first mailing, where I said "I would like to see
FSFNET expand to include more exotic ideas, such as original fiction",
when today I can look back and see nearly three hundred original
stories! At the end of that initial announcement and call for
submissions, I added the following:

     This is your fanzine, more than it is mine. It is up to you to keep
     it going. I have merely brought you together. Now it is your turn.

And boy, did people keep it going! Even through my five-year absence, we
cranked out 82 new stories in 34 issues!
     So since this is something of a watershed point for us, in addition
to the usual end of year wrap-up and predictions for the coming year, I
think it makes sense to look back at all our history and also take a
look further ahead. Let's take those one at a time.
     First, let's talk about 1999, which was another record-breaker. We
printed an even dozen issues, which is as many as any year except 1985,
our inaugural year (when issues were one-quarter current size). We
printed more stories than ever (34), and more volume than ever (about a
megabyte). We also printed more writers than ever before (seventeen),
and four of those writers were new this year. Our Web site surpassed
30,000 visitors, doing two gigabytes of Web traffic and an additional
300 megabytes at the FTP site. But beyond the numbers, some great things
happened in the past twelve months. These include the cutover to the new
dargonzine.org domain, converting more than thirty back issues to HTML
format, the awesome reviews we got from the Open Road and Dark Matter
Chronicles, and the first stages of the deployment of our new database
(mainly in the form of an updated Online Glossary).
     Looking back, DargonZine has been amazingly successful. In our
fifteen-year history we've brought nearly fifty writers together to
print 275 (Dargon) stories in 126 issues. That's enough writing to fill
more than a dozen paperback novels! Over the years we changed writers,
editors, computer networks, and delivery mechanisms, but today the
Dargon Project and its milieu are still viable, and our mission of
bringing writers together to practice their craft is as vital as ever.
     So what does the future hold? Well, next year will be a big one. Of
course we plan to continue to crank out stories and issues just as fast
as we can. But the big changes that you will notice will be the planned
enhancements to the Web site, which include a major visual redesign and
functional restructuring, new detailed maps with built-in interactivity,
more quick surveys, and, if time permits, the ability for readers to
rate each story. We've got a ton of ideas about how to make DargonZine's
site more interesting and more interactive, and you'll see it happening
very soon!
     And in the long term? Well, the goal will be to continue to serve
new writers and interested readers in whatever ways we can, however the
Internet evolves. But rather than try to anticipate what will happen,
we're focusing inward. Our writers are our leaders, and we need people
with a passion for writing and helping others grow, with a sense of
ownership and commitment to the project, with a compelling vision of
what the Dargon Project could be, and with the wisdom and flexibility to
adapt and change what we do. By establishing that kind of culture, we
will be able to meet whatever challenges might arise in our trip into
the coming decades.
     It's been as much of an adventure for us as any of the tales we've
spun!

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

                            Storm Dancer II
                              by Jon Evans
                          <godling@mnsinc.com>
                             Seber 13, 1014

     Thedos gazed over the stern of the _Storm Dancer_, shielding his
eyes from the ocean's glare with his right hand. His left hand held
tightly to the ship's wheel, straining to hold the ship on course
against the ocean current, while his eyes strained to make out the flag
on the pursuing vessel. She had been closing for the past bell, aiming
directly for Thedos' vessel. He was sure she was a pirate ship, and that
meant battle.
     "Thedos," a man called. Thedos ignored him. The pirate ship was
getting closer. He could almost make out the crew: fifteen buccaneers,
armed with sabres and clubs, grappling hooks and ropes. Their skin was a
deep, leathery red from years in the sun, and their faces were scarred
from age-old battles. He imagined he saw the pirate-captain's saliva
dripping in anticipation of Thedos' blood. Thedos had run hard and fast,
but now there would be battle!
     "Thedos!" a man called again.
     "Aye, man, what is it?" He turned around to see his father standing
on the shore. Thedos' visions of ocean chases and heroic battles ended
suddenly.
     "Time to go, boy! The harbormaster's office will be open before
long."
     Thedos relinquished his dreams and the ship's wheel simultaneously.
He crossed the eight feet of the aft, and hopped down the five steps to
the main deck. The small door leading to the aft castle caught his eye,
and he admired the workmanship. The carvings indicated that this was no
simple cargo ship: this might have been a personal yacht of someone
wealthy.
     The main deck itself was perhaps fifteen feet in length, about ten
feet wide, and adorned with barrels, locks, and ropes: the usual
accouterments of sea-faring vessels. However, when Thedos had found the
ship two days previously, there was no sign of a crew. The only things
Thedos had found were a box and a small sword, and neither he nor his
father could determine the origin of the ship.
     When he had first told his father about the ship, and how he wanted
to claim it as an abandoned craft, Braewen had refused. His mother,
Lianna, had also refused: the family needed the money to pay for his
sisters' apprenticeships, and paying fifteen Rounds to claim an
abandoned craft was out of the question.
     Thedos had eventually stolen the fifteen Rounds -- from his own
family. He had regretted it, and had returned the money when he had been
unable to claim the ship. To Thedos' surprise, his father had not only
forgiven him, but had agreed to help him file the claim.
     Thedos had made another mistake: he had informed Skar Jansen of his
find. Skar was a ruthless, old ship dealer whose reputation was
questionable in terms of business ethics. However, her prices for fixing
ships were low, so Thedos had confided in her. When she had left the
cove yesterday afternoon, Thedos had had the feeling she was up to no
good. It was when he had told his father of it that evening that Braewen
had decided to help Thedos.
     Since before the morning's sun rose over the mountains, they had
been searching the boat. They had been looking for any indication of the
ship's name. She would need to be named, and an existing name might
speed the process of claiming the ship. It also might give credence to
Thedos' declaration for the vessel, but he hoped he would not have to
count on that.
     In the aft castle, Thedos' father had found the one remaining
indication of the ship's origin: a plaque, written in Beinison, with the
words "Verdin Cadar." Braewen had translated it as "Storm Dancer" and
claimed it must have been the ship's name. Thedos' eyes were wide with
excitement. The _Storm Dancer_! All that remained was to file the claim,
and get her sea-worthy.
     "All?" Thedos thought. Getting her sea-worthy was going to be a
long and expensive undertaking. Then of course, Thedos had to develop a
business for her. And man her. Thedos made a silent promise to his ship.
"You're mine, _'Dancer_, and I'm yours. We'll take care of each other."
     Braewen, having been a sailor before marrying Lianna, estimated
that five men could easily crew the ship, and perhaps nine were required
for extended voyages. Given the amount of room in the hold and above
decks, the _Storm Dancer_ could easily serve as a small cargo or
passenger ship. She was light, that much was certain, and made for speed
with her double-masted design. She was no war ship. So how had she
gotten here, stranded on a sand bar, with no crew? That mystery was one
of many, on this ship.
     "Come on, boy, we don't have all day!" Thedos' father called from
the shore. Thedos took a running start, dove off the main deck and swam
to shore. In a mene, he was back on shore. Braewen threw him his shirt.
     "Put that on, and let's get to town. Skar will be there before us
as it is. But if we hurry, we might be lucky."

     As they walked to the city of Dargon, only a few leagues from
Cabot's Field, where they lived, Braewen looked at his son and marveled
once again at the similarities in their looks. Thedos' hazel eyes and
brown hair were Braewen's exact colors. Only Thedos' build was slighter,
being a mere 16 years of age to Braewen's 37 years.
     He was glad to be doing this for his son. Perhaps it would make
Thedos' life easier. Not that Braewen had had a difficult life. His
father had been a sailor, and his mother had worked at a store that
*her* father had owned. They had not been rich, by any means, but they
had had a better life than the farmers who worked the Duke's lands. The
sailor's life is a risky one, however, and Braewen's father had died
when his ship was lost at sea. He had determined to have a family, then,
and to do so would mean leaving the sea.
     And then he had met Lianna. Not a beautiful woman, Lianna, but she
was possessed by an inner strength and determination that rivaled his
own. She was strong of mind and body, and had actually thrown him to the
ground when he first approached her. Braewen chuckled when he thought of
that moment, and Thedos looked at him sideways.
     "What?" Thedos asked.
     "Just thinking of when I met your mother," Braewen answered. "A
sailor's charms aren't what he thinks they are. He's used to bawdy
wenches and taking a roll for a Round or two, or maybe just a few pints
of ale. Your mother was not entirely taken with me when I tried to court
her."
     "Why did she marry you?" Thedos asked.
     "Good looks, son!" Braewen answered. "You've seen your aunts on her
side of the family. She knew her children would be outcast if she didn't
marry the handsomest man in town. Women'll be lining up for you the same
way, 'cause you've got your father's good looks!" Braewen tousled his
son's hair while Thedos smiled and blushed lightly.

     By mid-morning, Thedos and Braewen arrived in Dargon. Braewen led
them to the harbormaster's office. Thedos protested that they should go
to the city clerk's office and speak with Galwyn, but Braewen corrected
him. Any papers the clerk filed would have to make their way here,
eventually, and the Harbormaster was the ultimate source of information
on who owned a ship, who captained it, who her crew was, what her cargo
was, and where she was headed. It stood to reason they could register
the ship at the harbormaster's office, and save time.
     Thedos had little hope. If Skar were registering the ship, she
would have had it done by this time. But Braewen told him to keep heart:
if Skar wanted to register the ship, she had to prove she was the owner,
or at least prove there were no other owners. Since she didn't know the
ship's name, she would have to take a scribe to the ship before the
forms could be completed. Braewen hoped they could make it back before
the deed was done.
     They entered the harbormaster's office, a little flushed from
running. The Harbormaster's clerk looked them over once, and decided
they were of little importance. He returned his attention to the work in
front of him before saying, "Yes?"
     "We need some help," Braewen said.
     "What do a couple of landlings want from the Harbormaster?"
     Braewen bristled. "Landlings? And this coming from a desk ornament?
Until you've tasted sea salt in your beard, boy, you'll address me with
more respect. My name is Braewen Choedwyr, and I'm here about a ship."
     The clerk sat up. "Yes, sir. And what about a ship? Are you looking
for passage? Do you work on board one?"
     "We're claiming one. By order of Duke Dargon, any abandoned ship
found on the shores of Dargon can be registered. We found an abandoned
ship; now we want to register it."
     "Of course. The Harbormaster will be mostly busy today, but I can
assist you with the work." Thedos noticed how the clerk became more
amiable when his father insulted him. Thedos wondered if insulting
someone was a means of gaining their respect. He shook his head. He also
noticed that his father looked a little different. Braewen stood a
little taller, straightened his shoulders, and was breathing from his
chest instead of his stomach. He stared intently at the clerk, just like
Lianna stared at Thedos when he was in trouble. His father exuded
conviction, and the clerk recognized it.
     The clerk dug through a few parchments on his desk. Galwyn's
office, which Thedos had entered two days previously, had been neat and
organized. By comparison, this office was quite disorganized. Disheveled
stacks of parchment melded into each other, on the desk and on the
floor. A small area had been cleared for the clerk to use to write, and
a mug of water balanced precariously on the ink pot. The quill itself
was all but hidden beneath yet another pile of scrolls, its presence
marked only by a blot of ink on an unused parchment, where the tip
protruded from the scrolls. The clerk was young, perhaps only a year or
two older than Thedos, but in a position of authority. He worked
directly for the Harbormaster, and as such would eventually have some
influence on trade and commerce at the docks. However, given his youth,
he had much to learn about dealing with applicants at the harbormaster's
office. His initial treatment of Thedos and Braewen indicated he was
either new to his position, or soon to be departing it.
     The clerk stammered an apology to Braewen. "My name is Albert. Let
me just find the right document ..." Albert searched for another moment
before pulling a scroll, seemingly at random, from a pile of similar
scrolls. He unraveled it and placed it on top of the pile. "This will
do. Now," Albert then pulled a blank parchment from another pile and
placed it on the small writing space available to him. "I'll just be
able to copy the words on this parchment, and fill in the details.
First, the owner's name. That'll be Brae-"
     "No," Braewen interrupted. "Thedos. Thedos Choedwyr."
     "Thedos. Alright." Albert scribbled on the document. "And the name
of the ship?"
     "The _Storm Dancer_."
     "Just a moment." Albert opened a drawer in his desk and removed a
large tome. He turned a few pages and read, "_Storm_, _Storm Crest_,
_Storm Runner_ ... nope, no _Storm Dancer_. You're all set for that." He
closed up the book and returned it. "How did you come to choose that
name?"
     "I found a Beinison name plate in the aft castle, and translated
it."
     "You read Beinisonian?" Albert asked.
     "Some. It may not be perfectly accurate, but I think it's close."
     "What are those other names?" Thedos asked.
     "Other ships with the name 'Storm' at the beginning. They all
seemed to have been destroyed during the Beinison invasion, though. I
suppose they couldn't weather the storm ..." Albert looked at Thedos and
Braewen expectantly. Braewen sighed, and Thedos rolled his eyes.
     "Very witty," Braewen said. "Can we proceed?"
     "Straight. Now, which dock is she in? I need to confirm her."
     "Uh ... she's not," Thedos offered. "She's in a cove, outside of
town."
     "Alright. How far?"
     "About six leagues."
     "Looks like we've got a walk ahead of us."
     Thedos looked at his father. "Another bell! How much longer do you
think this is going to take?"

     All the way to the cove, Thedos kept worrying about Skar Jansen. He
was sure she would have had the ship registered by now. Was this all
just a waste of time? If Skar registered the boat first, then it was all
for nothing. His dreams of the ocean, the wind, his own boat, his own
life ... they would all fall apart. True, he could always sign on the
next ship leaving port. But he wouldn't *own* the ship.
     Never before had he ever owned anything that was truly his. Not
truly. Half his clothes were handed down from his family or neighbors.
His bedroom had been a wood closet beforehand. He knew someone else had
owned the ship before him, but it was new to his world, and so it was
new to him. And the ship was damaged. Wounded, in a way. Thedos would be
the person to heal that ship; make it new, make it his own. It already
felt like a part of him. His dreams were tied to that ship. If he lost
her, he would lose those dreams.
     It was before noon when they arrived at the cove, and Thedos' worst
fears were confirmed. Skar was already at the cove, and she was talking
to Galwyn, the clerk. When she noticed Thedos arriving in the cove, she
turned and smiled. It was Albert, however, who spoke first.
     "Galwyn. It's a surprise to see you here."
     "Likewise, Albert. What brings the Harbormaster's lackey to this
little cove?"
     "Better than being *your* lackey," Albert replied. "I'm here to
register a ship. These men found it two days ago, and I've almost
completed the paperwork."
     "Well, I hope it's not for *this* ship." Galwyn waved out to the
_Storm Dancer_ with his right arm. "I've just finished it."
     The two groups stood toe to toe, like opposing armies anticipating
battle. Galwyn with his balding pate, angular facial features and large
nose had an air of superiority as he faced Albert. Albert -- with his
full head of hair and smooth, pale skin -- was a perfect contrast of
Galwyn. Skar stood facing opposite Braewen, but she seemed enough to
handle both him and his son. She wore an old, brown leather doublet with
copper buttons over a white shirt and black, loose-fitting pantaloons.
Braewen and Thedos wore the simple shirt and breaches of the commoner.
     "I found this ship first!" Thedos yelled.
     "No, I did," Skar calmly stated. "I showed you where it was,
yesterday."
     "My son," Braewen interrupted, "came to me about this ship two days
ago."
     "Perhaps," Galwyn stated, "and he did show up at my office, that
afternoon." He cast a sideways glance at Skar.
     "Was it two days ago?" she asked innocently. "I've been so busy. I
really should have taken care of this sooner."
     Galwyn continued, looking back at Albert. "But it's still one man's
word against another's." He looked at Skar. "Or woman's."
     "Out of curiosity," Albert asked, "how did you translate the name
plate for the ship?"
     "It's a bare ship," Skar answered. "There are no markings on it."
     "You don't know about the name plate?" Braewen asked.
     "What name plate?" Galwyn asked.
     "This one," Braewen answered. He reached into his pack and removed
the Beinison plaque. "It was in the aft castle."
     Skar pointed at Braewen. "You're lying!" She looked at Galwyn.
"He's lying. It's a bare ship. Where did you get that piece of fakery,
anyway?"
     "It's not a fake," Braewen answered. "I found it myself in the aft
castle." He looked at Galwyn. "I could show you."
     "Humph!" Galwyn looked down his nose at Braewen. This was not a
simple task: Braewen was a good two inches taller. Somehow, however,
Galwyn managed it quite well. "Certainly, *one* of the scribes ought to
go. And since I'm the senior scribe, here ..." He stared at Albert.
     "Oh, straight!" Albert glared at Galwyn. "Always sending the
younger ones to do your work!" Albert began to remove his coat and
shirt. "Plenty happy to pontificate about how difficult your work is,
but as soon as something hard really comes along --"
     "You never could do anything without complaining." Galwyn
interjected.
     "But at least I did it!" Albert replied. He was down to his
trousers, now, and turned to face Braewen. "Where was the plaque taken
from?"
     "I'll show you," Thedos replied and he began taking his shirt off.
     "No, no, son." Braewen placed his had on Thedos' shoulder. "I'll
show the man where it came from." He gave a smile to Galwyn.
     "Well, I'm not going to sit here and watch this ship get stolen
from me," Skar said. "I'm going, too"
     The three of them swam to the ship, Albert a little slower and less
used to swimming. When Albert and Skar saw the place on the wall where
the plaque had hung, it was obvious it had come from the ship. Skar
conceded the fact, and they swam back to shore. She had thought about
denying the plaque belonged to the ship, but the wood design and the
bare spot were too close a match to be coincidence. She then thought
about denying there even was a bare spot, when they got back to shore,
but that would have just prolonged things until Galwyn had to actually
swim to the boat. If he then saw the placement of the plaque, she would
still not have the ship, but she would have made an enemy of a useful
man to know.
     "There's no doubt," Albert said to Galwyn. "The plaque belongs on
that ship."
     Galwyn sighed and stared at Skar. "According to the ruling that
Duke Clifton proclaimed, you can't just go and register every freed
vessel floating in the water. You actually have to investigate it."
     "I know," she growled. She knew she was beaten, and her anger
smoldered.
     "Therefore," Galwyn proclaimed, "since you did *not* follow due
process, and the boy did, my only option is to let Albert register the
ship for the boy, here." Albert looked at Thedos. "Register the ship,
boy, she's yours."
     "Is she?" Skar exclaimed. "For how long?" She looked directly at
Thedos. "How are you going to repair her, boy?" Skar pointed to the
ship. "When your dreams are beached on that sand bar, rotting away with
your ship, you'll give her up. It'll break your heart if you don't, I
promise you. And then I'll have her."
     Skar looked at Galwyn. "Don't get rid of that parchment yet,
scribe. It'll have its use soon enough. And I'll pay you double for it."
     Skar made her way back through the brush, breaking branches and
pounding dirt for as long as Thedos and the others could hear her. "Skar
is not taking this lightly," Albert observed. "At the risk of sounding
obvious --"
     "You?" Galwyn interjected with mock surprise. Albert stuck his
tongue out at Galwyn.
     "Skar is now your enemy," Albert finished.
     "Insightful," Galwyn mumbled sarcastically.
     "But why?" Thedos asked. "All I did was claim my ship, and she
knows it. She didn't have any right to do that."
     "She was caught trying to claim the ship first. There's no law
against that, so she's not going to gaol, but now there's living proof
that she doesn't have good business ethics. When this gets around, her
business might drop, and a lot of men who work for her may decide not
to. She'll lose customers, too, probably. Make no mistake: you've made
an enemy."
     "She got her due," Braewen said. "Don't worry about it, son. We'll
deal with it when the time comes."

     Braewen left Thedos with Albert and the ship. He was smiling after
the morning's proceedings, and there was a spring in his step. He felt
young again. The sight of the ship, the sound of the ocean, and the
smell of the salty air all suddenly reminded him of his youth. He
remembered the first time he spent a night above decks, on his first
voyage. It had rained all night, he had been soaked through to his
bones, and he had caught a fever. But it had been the best night of his
life. He had not thought of that night in a long time.
     When Braewen arrived home, he was surprised to find his wife
already waiting for the noon meal. "Lianna, my sweet!" He rushed to her,
picked her up and spun her around, knocking over the kitchen stools in
the process. "We've got a ship!"
     "We what?" she cried incredulously. "Put me down!"
     "We've got a ship!" Braewen placed his wife's feet firmly on the
ground. "Thedos and I took fifteen Rounds to the Harbormaster's office
this morning, and registered her. There was a sign in the aft castle.
Skar Jansen brought a scribe to register her too, but he recognized
Thedos from two days ago, and we had the ship's name, so we got her!"
     "You gave our thieving son fifteen Rounds?" Lianna's eyes went wide
with astonishment and anger. "He was under my punishment, Brae! How dare
you undermine me like that?"
     "Lianna, he's not a thief." Braewen placed his hands on his wife's
shoulders. "He was desperate. And I can understand his feelings: the
call of the sea, the salt air ..." Braewen stared at the ceiling and
balled his right fist. "Cirrangill's beard, it's been a long time since
I've felt the roll of the sea beneath my feet."
     "Cirrangill?" Lianna's eyebrows raised. "You're a Stevenic."
     "Well, you know," Braewen replied, stepping away from his wife.
"He's the sea god. Every sailor prays to him, whatever their religion."
     "Really?" she asked skeptically.
     "Really. Listen," Braewen continued, "I know you're not happy about
this situation, but I need to give something to my son. You've given
your trade to our daughters."
     "I can only teach them blacksmithing, Brae." Lianna insisted. "It
cost us twenty-five Rounds to apprentice Cara to the silversmith.
Stevene knows how much it will cost to apprentice Lysande!"
     "Lysande is three years from finishing her apprenticeship with you,
Lianna. And at least she'll have a skill to use, even if she doesn't go
further. Thedos knows nothing besides farming, chopping wood, and how to
make coal."
     "My father did that. So did my grandfather."
     "Perhaps, but *my* father was a sailor, and his father before him.
And I am."
     "You gave that up."
     "For you! And I'll give it up again. But Thedos doesn't need to be
locked up here all day, going nowhere, not seeing the world. Can't you
see? Why do you think he stole the money? Has he ever stolen anything
else in his entire life?"
     "No," Lianna answered.
     "Exactly. He's just got a bit of the wanderer in him, and he wants
to do something with his life besides chop wood. This is our opportunity
--"
     "*Our* opportunity?" Lianna's eyebrows raised, again.
     Braewen sighed. "His opportunity."
     "You want to go with him, don't you?" Lianna asked.
     "Part of me, yes," he replied. Lianna sighed. "But I'm not going
to," he added quickly. "I just want to get him started. I still know a
few people at the docks. I can get men for his ship, and help him get
started."
     "But you're not going anywhere?" Lianna asked.
     "I promise. I'm staying right here, with you." Braewen stated.
     "Alright." Lianna conceded. "But I'm still not happy with this."
     Braewen smiled. "You should have seen the look in his eyes when I
told him the ship's name was _Storm Dancer_."
     "You named the ship?" Lianna looked sideways at him. "I'd think
that was Ted's right."
     "No, no," Braewen replied. "There was a plaque in the aft castle.
It read 'Verdin Cadar'."
     "That's Beinison, isn't it?"
     "Yes." Braewen answered quickly and turned toward their pantry.
"That's how we got the name. Are you hungry? There's some fresh veg --"
     "Just a moment," Lianna placed her strong arms on Braewen's
shoulder and turned him around to face her. "You don't read Beinison.
You barely read Baranurian."
     Braewen was caught. He smiled. "But you should have seen the look
in Thedos' eyes when he heard it!"
     "You made it up!" Lianna's eyes went wide with surprise.
     "Yes. But Thedos doesn't know that. And now it really is the ship's
name."
     Lianna smiled.

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

                              Price of Sin
                              by JD Kenyon
                         <janine_dee@email.com>
                               Ober, 1016

     The bed creaked, thudding against the wall with growing regularity
as his ponderous body heaved back and forth on top of her. Della could
feel his pudgy hands on her skin, pinching her nipples and bruising her
tender aching breasts. His corpulent flesh was grinding into her with
every thrust and grunt as she tried to cast aside her revulsion. His
fetid breath smelled sour in her nostrils. She twisted her head away and
stared at the shabby curtains draped over the room window, her hands
gripping the coarse blanket beneath her. As his panting reached a
strident pitch, his fleshy jowls brushed hard against her face -- and
she tensed, waiting for his moment of release.
     "Aaaahhh!" His body shuddered and she briefly felt his full weight
until he flopped aside. "That was good, woman."
     He rolled onto his back and cleared his throat. She could feel the
stickiness between her legs as she moved away from him. He was already
nodding off, as he always did. Della pulled the covers up and listened
to his labored breathing, which would eventually become a loud snore.
She closed her eyes and willed her body to relax. It was over for now
and the money she had just earned was on the washstand.
     After a few moments, when she was sure that he was asleep, she
stood up to dress. The dingy room above the tavern stank of stale body
odors and was anything but quiet, with the sounds of inebriated patrons
floating up from the drinking room below: tankards clanking, feet
thudding, noisy stomps and cheers and loud chatter. She picked up the
two Rounds and looked over at the bed as she slipped them into her
purse. He lay exposed, his flabby flesh almost concealing his now
shriveled manhood. His breath rasped through his open mouth, a trace of
spittle at the corner of his lips. Della bent over the basin on the
rickety washstand and used a rag to wipe herself clean -- the water was
cold and the rag rough as she rubbed her flesh hurriedly. Gathering her
things, she dressed, eager to get out into the Dargon sunlight and home
before darkness encroached.
     Downstairs the Shattered Spear was busier than usual: a merchant
ship had sailed into the harbor that morning and the room was crowded
with regulars and rowdy sailors slaking their thirsts. Della paused in
the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, wishing she could leave without
being seen. But she had to pay Jamis, the tavern owner, for the "use of
the room" as he termed it. If she didn't, his partner Jahlena would be
sure to collect the money. There was no sign of the big rough woman, but
Jamis was busy filling two tankards for a sailor who was propping
himself up against the counter. Della ignored the jeered calls and bawdy
comments as she crossed the noisy room, pressed four Bits into the
tavern owner's cold hand, then headed for the door, shoving aside the
men who brushed against her and pushing at the hands that strayed.
Outside she leaned up against the wall and inhaled the cool evening air.
After a long moment, she wrapped her shawl more tightly around her
shoulders and set off across the road.
     Home -- the pokey rooms she shared with her mother and daughter --
was at the top of a set of weathered stairs above a disused smithy. She
pushed the door open quietly, aware that Ginny would probably be asleep.
Her mother, hunched over a bucket of washing in the corner, turned and
raised her finger to her lips as Della entered, then wiped back the
wisps of gray hair and bent to her task again.
     "Ginny's been niggling the whole day." She sounded tired, and Della
noted a faint trace of resentment in her mother's weary tone.
     "Thanks, Mother." Della paused to adjust the blanket over her
daughter's cradle, then collected a jug of water from the stovetop and
tiptoed across to the basin on her bedside table. She tugged at the
faded curtain that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the room
and, in this small private space, stripped quietly before soaping and
washing in the soothing warm liquid. As she dressed again, she could
hear her mother dishing in a plate of food and setting it on the table.
     "You look all done in," her mother chided when she sat down. "It's
from being with those wrongdoers in that sinful place." Della heard the
same refrain every day. She shut off as her mother's voice droned on. "I
have never set foot inside a tavern of ill repute my whole life long.
'Tis shameful that a daughter of mine should serve tables there."
     The food was tasteless in her mouth as she chewed and swallowed it.
     "A disgraceful mess, by Stevene." There was contempt in her
mother's voice.
     "It won't be like this for long, Mother." Della reached into her
pocket, pulled out a Round and placed it on the table in front of her.
"For food."
     Her mother's fingers curled around the dull worn edges of the coin.
She picked it up and put the coin back down next to Della's plate. "It's
money you earned in that wicked place."
     Della sighed and carried on picking at her food. Tomorrow she would
buy bread, cheese and milk and bring them home, and the woman who
scorned her now would eat. Three months had passed since she had
returned to Dargon to stay with her mother out of necessity. Work was
scarce for someone with a baby who still needed regular nursing.
Moreover, she had no skills and was considered too old to learn a trade.
When she had inquired about work at the Shattered Spear, she had
initially been shocked when Jamis had told her how she could earn her
keep. He had serving wenches aplenty, he had said, but he was a firm
believer in seeing to all the needs of his patrons. He had reached
across the counter and trailed his fingers across her profile, tracing a
line down her neck and letting his hand come to rest on her breast. A
cold shiver crawled across her skin as she recalled the incident. She
realized that her mother's hard eyes were on her and turned away.
     There was a soft whimper from the cradle. She looked down at
Ginny's delicate face and marveled at this perfect little person with
features a miniature of her own, complete in every way down to the tiny
fingers that peeked from the edge of the blanket. She was determined to
make a life for them and she was doing it the only way she could.
     She had just finished rinsing and drying her plate a short while
later when Ginny woke up with a squall, clenching the coverlet in her
tiny fists and scrunching up her face to emphasize her unhappiness.
Della picked her up and rocked her gently, murmuring soothing words. The
crying stopped, but as soon as she laid her down in the cradle, it
started again.
     "Aye. It's the gripe she has," her mother sighed. Della found a
chair, sat down carefully and shifted the baby in her arms, then
unbuttoned her shift, coaxing her nipple into Ginny's mouth. She felt
the small lips clamp tightly and begin to suck fervently. With her free
hand, she played with the tendrils of dark hair on her baby's head, and
held her close.
     "Precious child," she whispered, content in the intimacy of the
moment. It was getting dark outside and the room was cold, but the
swaddled bundle felt warm against her. She closed her eyes and her
thoughts drifted sleepily.
     She woke with a jolt as the door banged open. Her mother was busy
lifting the bucket over the edge of the rail, ready to toss the dirty
water into the black alley below. She listened as it splashed against
the wall. The fourth bell rang somewhere in the distance. Della shivered
and tucked the blanket more tightly around Ginny.
     "Now there's a sight to warm a faithful woman's heart," her mother
said. She was resting against the doorframe and staring across the road.
     "What is it?"
     "'Tis a priest, coming from that tavern of yours -- no doubt been
preaching to those shameful sinners."
     Della pictured him leaving the tavern, his portly frame lumbering
up the road to Temple Street in the dark, shielded against the growing
cold by his thick robe.
     He probably looked just the way he did when she had seen him
earlier. Except, she thought wryly, now his purse was two Rounds
lighter.

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

                               In a Stew
                  by Cheryl Spooner and Mark A. Murray
         <cheryl@towngate.force9.co.uk> and <mmurray@weir.net>
                             Naia 21, 1017

     Opening the door, Sian blinked as the early morning sunlight
sparkled in her eyes. Although the sun had barely risen over the
rooftops, there was a warmth enveloping her while the breeze that
ruffled her hair was comforting. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky;
it was going to be a glorious day in Dargon. She stepped outside, almost
tripping over the brace of rabbits that lay waiting on the stoop.
     "Again?" she asked aloud as she bent to retrieve them. They were
still warm, so she knew they couldn't have been there long. This was the
tenth time in three sennights and she wondered who was leaving them
there. "It can't be anyone I know," she thought in an attempt to
determine who was leaving the rabbits. "It can't be a friend," she
decided. They would have simply given her the rabbits, without resorting
to such secrecy. "Maybe it *is* a friend," she thought. Was someone
having a little fun by making her try to guess? "Whomever you are," she
thought, "thank you for the extra meat."
     "Thank you," she said aloud, wondering if the giver was near enough
to hear her. She took the rabbits inside, placing them in a bucket. With
a few vegetables and some herbs, they would make a tasty stew for
supper. Footsteps on the wooden stairs made her turn to see Aren, the
oldest of the children she cared for, yawning and running his fingers
through his tousled sandy hair.
     "Good morning," she said with a bright smile, passing him the plate
of bread and cheese she'd prepared for herself. "You're early."
     "I know." He grinned as she began to cut more bread. As he
approached the table, he stopped and peered into the bucket. "More
rabbits?" he said with a smirk. "Your admirer is generous."
     "Admirer!" Sian turned to him with hands on hips. "Get away with
you! It's probably just someone who wants to help us."
     "Ha!" Aren's blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "More like someone
who's sweet on you. Like that man at the market who always gives you an
extra fish."
     Sian couldn't help but laugh. The fishmonger was old enough to be
her father. He always said something along the lines of "For the little
'uns," as he wrapped the extra fish. It couldn't be the fishmonger. Aren
knew that, but it didn't stop him teasing her whenever the chance arose.
     "Never mind that," she said with mock severity. "So, what brings
you down from your bed so early?"
     "I woke early, so I decided to start looking for work," he replied
with a shrug.
     "I thought you were going to wait until Derill was ready for a new
apprentice?" Sian frowned as she passed him a mug of hot tea. Aren had a
talent for woodcarving and Derill, a furniture maker in Dargon's
commercial district, had promised him an apprenticeship.
     "I know, but that won't be for another year," Aren shrugged. "I
need something to do now, so I can pay for mine and Kerith's keep."
     "You know that you don't have to pay for your keep." Sian sighed as
she settled opposite him with her breakfast. "I'm not rich, but I have
money enough to keep us all fed and clothed."
     "You help us," he reasoned, "So why shouldn't I help you if I can?
Besides, I'm fourteen now; whoever heard of someone my age not working?
Even the shadow boys are working the streets by that age."
     Sian could see from the stubborn light in his blue eyes that he
wouldn't be swayed. "So what do you want to do?" she asked. "And the
shadow boys aren't a very good example. They live on the street because
they don't have a home. And their work is stealing," she told him.
     "I didn't mean I want to do what the shadow boys do," he said
quickly. It's just that I don't know what to do, but I'm sure I can do
something. I could work at an inn, or at the marketplace. Anything
really."
     "Fair enough," she nodded, taking a bite of bread. She wasn't sure
that she would be able to accept money from him, but that problem could
be addressed if and when he actually did find work. "Well, hadn't you
better hurry? There's a big market today and plenty of inns for you to
try," she suggested.
     "I'll go and wash," he said, rising from his seat. "Shall I call
the others?"
     Sian looked down at her empty plate, then back at Aren with a wry
smile. Like every day, her time to enjoy a quiet breakfast had
evaporated. "Yes, you better," she sighed. "And make sure that Finn
doesn't go back to sleep. You know what he's like."
     Aren gave her a wide grin and took the stairs two at a time as Sian
began cutting more bread and cheese. As the other children came
downstairs, she gave each a plateful. With that done, she went outside
to fetch water from the pump in the yard. On seeing a stout, dour-faced
woman already at the pump, she grimaced. Not wanting her day to be
ruined, though, she smiled, and set herself to make the best of things.
     "Good morning, Elise," she said, approaching the pump. "How are you
faring? How is Tom? It looks as though it will be a fine day for
washing."
     "Well don't you think you're using my lines, Sian Allyn," the woman
scowled. Her face looked as if it wanted to sag as far towards the
ground as it could get. Her chin doubled over itself and her cheeks
wobbled and jiggled as she talked. "And you needn't worry about my son,
Tom. He's a fine boy who works hard and keeps out of trouble! Now, I've
a cart-load of washing to do myself, so I'll be needing all the space I
can find."
     "I wouldn't think of using your lines," Sian forced herself to
continue smiling, "In fact, I hadn't planned on washing today, so if it
would help, you could use my lines as well as your own."
     "Humph." Elise Madden gave her a look that would have made a lesser
woman run and hide, but Sian held her ground and kept her smile fixed
firmly in place. "And have those unruly brats of yours putting their
scruffy hands all over my clean sheets? No thank you! I'll keep to my
part of the yard; you just make sure those ruffians of yours keep to
theirs." With those words, Elise picked up the two buckets she had
filled, stuck her nose in the air and set off across the yard to her own
back door.
     "Old flinger," she mumbled as she hung her pot over the spout and
began pumping. There was a time when Elise had been a good neighbor.
That had been when Tom came over to play and Elise hadn't cared. In
truth, Elise hadn't minded any children playing in her yard. She had
changed when Sian began taking in homeless children.
     Sian had once lived on Dargon's streets and had been adopted by the
old couple she thought of as her mother and father. They had treated her
like she was their own blood daughter. When they had died, three years
ago, they had left their house and all their money to her, much to the
dismay of their blood-kin. It was then that Sian had made her decision
to try to help other homeless children, to repay the love and kindness
of the old couple. Her neighbors, Elise especially, didn't agree.
According to Elise, she was asking for trouble by bringing in orphans
and *beggar-brats*.
     Sian shook her head angrily as she finished pumping. Anyone would
think that the children were criminals, the way these people treated
them. They weren't perfect, but what children were? She remembered the
tricks she and Tom had played when they were younger, but then Elise
appeared to have conveniently forgotten all that. Tom, too, by the way
he acted these days.
     Sian picked up her pot with a shrug. There was nothing she could do
but try to keep the children out of trouble and to be as pleasant as she
could with her neighbors, despite their provocative comments. Perhaps
they'd come around in time. As she approached her door, she thought of
the rabbits and couldn't help grinning to herself. There was at least
one thing she knew for certain: Elise Madden was not her mysterious
benefactor.
     As she entered the house, the children were finishing their
breakfast. Finn, a scrawny, copper-haired boy of eleven, was clearing
the table, humming cheerily to himself. Sian was immediately suspicious.
Finn never did anything without being told, nor was he ever this
cheerful so early in the morning. She looked to the others, her eyebrows
raised in question. Briam, a short, stocky boy with brown eyes and hair,
was doing his utmost to suppress a grin, while Kerith, Aren's younger
sister, was giggling behind her hand.
     "All right, you scamps," Sian said in her best stern voice, "what
do you find so amusing?" Finn turned towards her, his freckled face a
picture of innocence.
     "Nothing, Sian, honest," he said, his hazel eyes wide with a
sparkle of impish delight. "I just thought I'd give you a hand with the
dishes, that's all." Kerith spluttered behind her hand, while Briam's
neck went scarlet as he seemed to find his empty plate fascinating.
     Sian looked around, searching the room for signs of mischief, but
she could find nothing out of place. The clothes she had dried by the
fire the night before were still folded in their basket by the door; the
logs were still in a neat pile by the side of the hearth; the rabbits
were sitting on the table; her broom was still in its place in the
corner ...
     "The rabbits are sitting on the table?" she thought. "That can't
be." She looked again and there they were in the middle of the table,
just sitting there looking at her. Frowning, she rushed over to take a
closer look, and found that they had been propped up against the water
jug. The three children erupted into loud laughter as she picked them up
and placed them back in the bucket.
     "Very funny, Finn Harlen!" she said, giving him another stern look,
this time with her hands on her hips. "Just for that you can clean them
for me."
     "Aww, Sian!" Finn's face fell. "I hate that messy task!"
     "You should have thought about that before you decided to make a
jester out of me," Sian retorted. "And as for you two," she turned and
scowled. "Briam can peel and chop the vegetables and Kerith can wash the
dishes." Amid groans from all three children, Sian picked up her broom
and moved to the foot of the stairs. "I'm going to make the beds and
sweep the upstairs floors now," she told them. "So no more of your
trickery, do you hear?"
     "Yes Sian," they chorused gloomily.
     "Good," she said, suppressing a smile of her own. "Now, if it's all
done by the time I come back down, you can all go out into the yard and
play for a while, but if it's not, I'll find you some more work." She
climbed the stairs, smiling as she heard scrambling and the clattering
of dishes behind her. They would complete their tasks quickly and with
little argument now.

     Making the beds and tidying the upstairs rooms took her a little
longer than she expected, especially the room Finn shared with Briam and
Aren. Aren's part of the room was quite neat, and Briam's wasn't too
bad, except that his nightshirt was on the floor. But she wondered how
Finn managed to make such a mess every day. He was rarely in the room
between breakfast and supper, and yet he somehow managed to make it look
as though a whole family had been shut in there for a month. All his
clothes were scattered over his bed, which was full of crumbs, there was
candle-wax all over his night-stand, and he had managed to splash water
from his washbowl onto the bed and the floor. Cleaning it all had taken
her so long that she had barely begun to sweep the floor when Finn
called up from downstairs.
     "Sian! There's someone at the door. We've finished our work, can we
go out now?"
     "You can wait until I've seen that you've done the work properly,"
she called back, placing the broom in the corner of the room. "And if
there's someone at the door, for goodness' sake answer it!" As Sian
reached the bottom of the stairs, Finn was leading someone into the back
room.
     "Lieutenant Darklen!" she smiled, genuinely pleased. "Is this a
friendly visit, or have you come to arrest Finn?" She laughed softly as
Finn's cheeks paled. Kalen Darklen, lieutenant of the town guard, raised
an eyebrow, his dark eyes full of amusement as he looked at Finn, who
was staring at his feet as though by doing so he might render himself
invisible.
     "No, not this time," Kalen laughed, "although I am keeping an eye
on him. Actually, I've just come off duty and I thought I'd see how my
young pickpocket was doing before I went home to bed."
     "Briam?" Sian looked towards the boy, beckoning him over and
placing an arm around his shoulder. Finn took the opportunity to
silently shuffle out of the room as the attention shifted to Briam.
"He's fine, aren't you Briam?" Briam nodded, looking up at Kalen with
something akin to adoration in his wide brown eyes. Kalen smiled and
ruffled his hair before turning his attention back to Sian.
     "There's been no problem with ...?"
     Sian shook her head. Kalen had found Briam trying to pick a man's
pocket in the market. It had seemed that the boy was new to thieving as
he had not been very good at it. He had been in the care of his
grandmother, who had recently died, and rather than let Dargon's less
savory characters get their hands on him, Kalen had brought him to
Sian's house.
     "I think you found him just in time," she said, her tone serious.
She remembered Aren's friend Jal, who hadn't been so lucky in avoiding
the attentions of Dargon's criminals. "Although I've kept him close to
the house up to now, just to be on the safe side."
     "Good," Kalen nodded, "I don't think you'll have any problems. If
anyone had taken an interest in him they'd have come looking for him by
now." He looked to Briam again, who had flushed deep red as they
discussed the circumstances of his arrival at Sian's house. "You just
make sure you do as Sian tells you, lad," he said, his tone a little
more stern. "I don't want any cause for me to regret bringing you here
instead of taking you to the guardhouse."
     "Yes sir," Briam said, his eyes moistening at the mention of the
guardhouse. "I mean ... I won't ... I mean ..."
     "Lieutenant Darklen knows what you mean," Sian grinned as the boy's
color deepened even more. "Would you like some tea?" she asked Kalen. As
the lieutenant shook his dark head apologetically, Finn appeared behind
him. Holding up a freshly cleaned rabbit, Finn pointed to Kalen and
smiled.
     "I can't stay," Kalen explained, raising his hand to cover a yawn.
"It's been a long night and I really need to get some sleep. I'm
grateful for what you're doing with him. If there's ever any trouble
..."
     "Don't worry," Sian grinned, trying to suppress laughter. Finn was
making the rabbit hop in the air towards Kalen. "You'll be the first
person I'll come looking for."
     "Good-bye then," he nodded. Finn quickly ran away as Sian led Kalen
to the door. "I'll call again soon, and if I can't, I'll send one of my
men. It won't hurt for people to see members of the guard here now and
then."
     Sian nodded. If anyone was watching Briam, then they would soon
lose interest if it meant coming up against the city guard. Closing the
door, she yelled, "Finn!"
     "Kalen can't be the one," she thought as she went into the kitchen.
"He would just have given them outright to me. Oh, Stevene's mouth," she
mentally cursed. "Who's giving me these rabbits! If it isn't Kalen and
it isn't the fishmonger and it isn't Elise and ..." An idea started to
form in her mind. "What was it Aren told her? Something about paying his
keep.
     Can it be Aren? Or one of the other children?"
     "It could be him," Finn said, in the way of an apology.
     "It could be the Stevene himself, too," Sian said sternly, all the
while looking closely at Finn. "Can it be one of the children?" she
thought.
     "Can we go out now?" Finn asked, attempting to change the subject.
"Look, it's all done. I put the rabbits in the pot with the vegetables
Briam chopped."
     "And all the dishes are clean and back in cupboard," Kerith said,
appearing from the other room, her blue eyes hopeful. Sian looked in the
pot. They had even added the water and hung it over the fire to cook.
All it needed now was a few herbs.
     "Go on then," she said, "but mind you keep away from Mistress
Madden's washing, do you hear?"
     "Yes, Sian," all three called out together as they ran outside.

     After cleaning the downstairs rooms, Sian took the childrens' clean
clothes upstairs to put them away. She had just finished when she heard
a knock at the back door, followed by a voice she recognized.
     "Hello, anyone here?"
     "Be with you in a moment, Rachel," she called, closing the lid of
Kerith's clothes chest. "Another visitor," she thought. "The way things
are going today, I'll be lucky to finish my daily chores." Then again,
Rachel was a good friend, and friends came before chores. She had met
Rachel and her friend Eileen through Finn. Eileen's son Matthew and his
friend Ben had befriended Finn while he was living on the streets.
Matthew and Ben often stopped by to visit. Rachel had accompanied them
on one such visit and she and Sian had quickly become friends.
     When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw Rachel pouring
herself a mug of water from the jug on the table.
     "I hope you don't mind," Rachel smiled, pushing her short blonde
hair back from her forehead before taking a large gulp of water. "It's
warm and dusty out there."
     "Of course I don't," Sian said. "In fact I was just about to make
myself some tea before calling the children in. Would you like some?"
     Rachel shook her head regretfully. "I'm sorry, I can't. I'm on my
way to work. I called because they need a pot-boy at the Golden Lion and
I thought of Finn."
     "Finn?" Sian laughed. "You have to be joking! He'd have the place
in an uproar in half a bell!" Then she sobered. "Seriously though,
Rachel, it's good of you to think of him, but I don't think he's quite
ready for the responsibility of paid work yet. I don't think the Golden
Lion is the right place for Finn."
     "Maybe not," Rachel sighed. "I should have known really,
considering all the mischief he gets himself into. Oh well, I'm sure
they'll find someone soon enough."
     "There is Aren," Sian remembered. "He wants something to do until
Derill is ready to apprentice him. He mentioned that he might like to
work at an inn."
     "Really?" Rachel said. She took another deep draught of the water
before continuing. "Then I'll put in a good word for him. Sensible lad,
Aren, I'm sure he'd make a good pot-boy; and he wouldn't end up losing
half his wages every sennight to pay for breakages ..."
     "Unlike Finn," Sian finished for her with a grin.
     "So what's in the pot?" Rachel asked, sniffing appreciatively.
     "Rabbit stew," Sian replied with a wry smile.
     "Again?" Rachel's eyes widened. "How many times is this?"
     "At least eight," Sian replied.
     "And you still don't know who's leaving them?"
     Sian shook her head. "No, I have no idea. Whoever it is doesn't
want me to know who they are. I'm up with the sun and they're always
gone by then."
     "You have a secret admirer," Rachel smiled, filling the mug with
more water. "Some handsome young man might be trying to get your
attention."
     "By leaving dead rabbits?" Sian laughed. "Who in their right mind
would do that? Who would want the attention of a woman with four
children to care for? Besides, if he really wanted to attract my
attention, he wouldn't be so secretive. What reason could there be for
that?"
     "Perhaps he's shy." Rachel teased after draining the mug. "I recall
one of the children saying James took an interest in you."
     "You're as bad as Aren," Sian scowled. "James is married and he had
an interest in me when we were young. All of us around here played
together then. There was me and James and Beth and Tom and Gilly. I
think it's just someone who wants to help us."
     "Then why the secrecy?"
     Sian's reply was drowned out by a loud cry from outside that made
both women jump. Sian groaned.
     "Finn?" Rachel's eyebrow raised.
     "More than likely," Sian sighed. The voice had been Elise Madden's.
     "Straight," Rachel said with a grin as both women moved towards the
door. "I have to go anyway."
     Sian waved hurriedly to her friend as she rushed out into the yard.
     "Look at the state of this!" Elise appeared beside her, brandishing
a very soiled, torn bed-sheet. "Ruined, it is! I told you to keep those
brats of yours under control, Sian Allyn!"
     "I'm truly sorry Mistress Madden," Sian began, biting back the
angry retort that formed on hearing the word 'brats', although she felt
her cheeks flush. "What happened?"
     "What happened?" Elise screeched, her narrow face dark with rage.
"What happened? That carrot-headed troublemaker of yours is what
happened! Uncontrollable, that's what he is." Elise thrust the torn
sheet under Sian's nose. "Look at it! If he were mine I'd soon have him
in line. My Tom would never had done something like this! That brat of
yours needs to feel a switch across his backside. That'd soon have him
behaving himself!"
     "And what exactly has Finn done?" Sian asked, fighting the urge to
take a switch to her neighbor.
     "He got tangled up," Kerith interrupted, earning herself a look
from Elise's dark, angry eyes. She edged closer to Sian, grabbing hold
of her dress as though for protection. "We were playing hide and seek
and Briam was chasing him and he got tangled up in the sheet. He didn't
mean to tear it. It was an accident. Then Mistress Madden came out and
started shouting."
     "And where is Finn now?" Sian asked.
     "Hiding in the privvy with Briam."
     Sian took hold of Kerith's hand and marched towards the privvy,
yanking the door open. "Out!" she snapped at the two sheepish-looking
boys. Both reluctantly came out into the sunshine, their heads held low.
     "He wants a good spanking," Elise had joined them by now, still
clutching her ruined sheet. "They all do. You let them run wild, Sian
Allyn."
     "I'll be the judge of who needs a spanking," Sian said, feeling the
anger rise again. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain
calm. It would only make matters worse if she lost her temper now.
"Finn, apologize to Mistress Madden." Finn mumbled something without
raising his head.
     "Do it properly, Finn!" Sian was becoming exasperated. The boy
could find trouble even when it was hiding from him!
     "I'm sorry, Mistress Madden," Finn said, still not lifting his
head.
     Sian turned to Elise, doing her best to look apologetic. "I'll pay
for a new sheet," she said. "In the meantime, if there are any chores
you need doing, Finn will be only too happy to try to make amends."
     "If you think I'm letting that ... that ruffian near my house
you'll need Cephas himself to plead his case!" Elise snorted. "Just keep
him away, or he'll be sorry." Again, Elise prevented Sian's reply by
walking away.
     "Straight," Sian told the children. "Inside. And don't think you're
going out to play again today. This sennight in fact. I can't turn my
back for a moment!"

     As Sian was serving supper, Aren came through the door, looking
tired, although he was grinning broadly.
     "I was beginning to worry," Sian said, gesturing him over as she
ladled stew into a bowl for him. "What took you so long?"
     "I went to the Golden Lion," he said breathlessly, taking the bowl
from her, along with a hunk of warm bread. "Rachel was there. They gave
me a trial as pot-boy."
     "And?" Sian prompted as he went to sit at the table with the
others.
     "I start tomorrow," he replied through a mouthful of bread. "First
thing."
     Sian smiled to herself as she filled her own bowl with stew. She
would have to make sure he was awake early. It seemed strange, thinking
of Aren going out to work. He had only been with her for a little under
a year, but he had grown up a lot in that time. "We'll see if he's the
one leaving the rabbits," Sian thought. "Working at the inn, he won't
have the time to hunt and leave them. So if I stop getting the rabbits,
I'll know it was Aren. If not, then it has to be one of the other
children. But who? No, it has to be Aren."

     When all the children were in bed, Aren included, Sian collapsed in
her rocking chair by the fire. It had been a long day, and a trying one
at that. Her head was throbbing, and she yawned. She looked at the pile
of dishes on the table and grimaced. She yawned again and tried to force
her eyes to stay open. There were dishes to do, and she had to mix the
dough for tomorrow's bread. Another yawn and this time she let her eyes
stay closed. The dishes could wait a few menes, just while she had a
little rest.
     She awoke with a stiff neck to find that the fire had gone out and
the lamp on the table was flickering, almost out of oil. She stood,
groaning as she stretched to try to get rid of the cramp in her legs and
back. She didn't know what time it was, but it was still dark outside,
so perhaps she might manage a bell or two in her bed. The dishes and
everything else could wait until morning. She filled the lamp before it
could go out completely and moved towards the stairs. A noise made her
stop short. It came from near the back door and she tiptoed over. The
rabbit-giver! Now she'd catch Aren in the act! The young scamp should
have been in bed! At the next noise she pulled the door open, holding
out the lamp to see if her suspicions were true. A young man, bent in
the act of laying a brace of rabbits on the doorstep, looked up at her,
his expression one of guilty shock.
     "Tom Madden!" Sian said in shock.
     "Ssssh!" he hissed, collecting his wits. He straightened and bolted
past her into the house, gesturing wildly for her to close the door. "My
mother!"
     "Exactly!" Sian cried. "Your mother! So why are you leaving rabbits
on my doorstep?"
     Tom looked at the floor for a moment, his face hidden from view by
his thick, dark hair. "We were friends once," he said as he raised his
head, his grey eyes pleading.
     "Yes we were," Sian nodded. "But you've spent the last couple of
years ignoring me."
     "You know what mother's like," he sighed, his shoulders hunching.
"I wanted us to stay friends, but she wouldn't hear of it, not after you
started taking those kids in. I have to live with her, you know."
     "I know," Sian said, smiling, although her eyes were brimming with
tears. She had missed Tom's friendship. Elise Madden's dislike of her
caring for homeless children had robbed her of her best friend. "So,
about the rabbits?"
     "I just wanted to help," he said with a shrug of his broad
shoulders. "I think what you're doing with those kids is good, but
mother would have a fit if I said that."
     "So you decided to sneak around and leave me rabbits on my
doorstep?"
     "I thought you'd appreciate a little extra meat," he said. "I
couldn't think of anything else that wouldn't send mother into a fury."
     "I do appreciate it, Tom," Sian told him, placing her hand on his
arm. "I'd appreciate having my old friend back a whole lot more,
though."
     "I suppose I could try to drop by now and again," he suggested
hopefully. "Mother often goes to visit my aunt on Thockmarr Street. I
could come and see you then."
     "I'd like that," Sian smiled. "Now you'd better get home before she
finds you missing. How do you manage to sneak out, anyway?"
     "Same old way," he grinned. It was a grin Sian had missed seeing,
although she hadn't realized how much until that moment. "Do you
remember?"
     "I do," she laughed. "Although I wonder she hasn't figured it out
by now. Father caught me the first time I tried it."
     "That's because you're a girl and girls are no good at climbing
ropes."
     "Why, you ..." she felt her color rise, then seeing him grinning
she shook her head with a laugh. He always had known how to make her
rise to the bait.
     As she watched him climbing the rope to his bedroom window, she
almost laughed. Tom was the last person she would have suspected of
being her mysterious benefactor. Yet he was the most likely. It was
exactly the kind of thing he would do. It would be good to have him back
in her life again. She turned to go back inside, then remembered the
rabbits. She bent to pick them up from the stoop and as she rose she saw
that the sky was beginning to lighten. She sighed. So much for bed.

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

                              Talisman Two
                                 Part 2
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.edu>
                            Midsummer, G331

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 12-11

     Gerthafel, Duke Arvinsosh's chief Justicer, found the duke's summer
processions to be an odd mixture of light work and festival
celebrations. Normally, he spent the summer riding the quarters of the
duchy, distributing high justice where it was needed, serving in the
duke's, and when necessary, the king's stead. But during the duke's
periodic processions his role was more than official. He usually only
had to take up his office when a decision by local justicers was
questioned by someone of high enough influence in an area the procession
was passing through.
     It was the second day of the summer festival and the procession was
once again lodged at the somewhat excessive Mordairi Holding.
Gerthafel's quarters within the manor house were opulent in the extreme,
almost uncomfortably so, but he preferred being able to sleep in a real
bed rather than a cot in a tent like the bulk of the personnel on the
procession. Mordairi manor was large enough that the senior members of
the procession were given their own rooms, while normally everyone but
the duke and his personal staff slept in tents set up somewhere on the
landholder's property.
     The midday meal had just finished, when a group of seven riders
rode up to where the food had been set out on long tables in a cleared
field next to the house. They dismounted and walked straight to the
duke, one distinguished older man in the lead. That man said, "If it
please your grace, I am Franal, Lord of Granavil. I have come looking
for the new Mordairi bard; there has been a murder and a robbery at
Granavil and we believe that he is responsible."
     Duke Arvinsosh stood and said, "Yes, I remember you, Master Franal.
Who has been murdered and what has been stolen?" He turned and scanned
the group gathered around the meal until he spotted Gerthafel, whom he
motioned over.
     "Your grace, it was our resident artist, Eilonvil, who was
murdered. And our luck-stone was stolen. The Mordairi bard, Bonavec,
visited us yesterday; he seemed quite taken with Eilonvil, who has been
mourning the loss of our second son, Derokein, whom she loved deeply. He
cheered Eilonvil up greatly, for which we were glad. We gave him a room
last night, but this morning we found her dead in the main room, and the
luck-stone, a fox-carved fragment of sculpture, was missing."
     Gerthafel took up the questioning. "You are sure that the man was
the bard?"
     "Well, he said that he was. Why would he lie?"
     Gerthafel looked at Master Franal with a steady, knowing look. The
man had the decency to look a little sheepish. Gerthafel said, "Well,
describe him, just so we can be sure." The prospective bard for the
Mordairi Holding had traveled from Sengintol with them, so he knew what
the young man looked like fairly well.
     "Ah, he was tall and had brown hair. He dressed in fancy clothes,
and played the lute. His eyes were green and he had a big nose, and a
scar under his left eye down his cheek. He played like a Master Bard,
but he didn't sing all that well."
     Gerthafel compared the description he had been given and found some
discrepancies. Bonavec was tall, brown-haired, green-eyed, and had a
large nose. However, he had no scar, played only middling well, and sang
like a songbird. Something was wrong.
     "Tell me more, Master Franal." Gerthafel listened to a recounting
of the evening meal and Bonavec's musical performance. Several different
versions were given, but all were essentially the same. He wasn't
absolutely certain, but he thought that the man that the Granavil family
had entertained was not the young bard Bonavec.
     Gerthafel turned to one of the Mordairis and said, "Have you seen
your new bard lately?"
     "Well, no, I don't think so," was the reply.
     "When did you last see Bonavec?"
     "Yesterday? No, the day before."
     "I don't suppose he's here now, is he?"
     There was a general scuffle of feet as people looked around for the
young man, but he was not among their company. Then, because he was
thorough and knew that something was wrong, Gerthafel asked whether
anyone else was missing. In all, four people besides the bard were not
present. Two were servants of the Mordairis, known to slip away from
their work at any and every opportunity. The other two missing people
were from among the duke's party, two sisters named Maeanat and
Tironvil. With some difficulty, he recalled that Maeanat -- who was with
the duke's personal guard -- was tall, green-eyed, big nosed, and bore a
scar down one of her cheeks.
     With some suspicions building, Gerthafel organized a group of
guards to ride back to Granavil Holding. The eight of them, including
the duke and Lord Granavil's eldest son, rode as fast as possible for
the neighbor holding; it had already been too long since the robbery and
murder to hope for any good clues, but Gerthafel hoped that one of them
might be able to pick up the murderer's trail.

     Maeanat took her time getting to the meeting point, obscuring her
trail as much as possible. She wasn't concerned with being found
eventually, just as long as she and her sister had the time to enact the
charm. After that, being caught wouldn't matter all that much.
     As she rode, she found herself regretting having to kill Eilonvil.
Befriending her had been a spur of the moment action; she had been
riding around the Granavil manor house to make sure that no one was home
before breaking in and stealing the stone, when she had spotted someone
in the graveyard. Putting on her Bonavec performance that she had been
practicing for weeks, she had gone up and introduced herself as the new
bard from the Mordairi holding. She had been surprised at the connection
she felt with the grieving woman. Even though she had never met Eilonvil
before, she felt like she had known her for years. Even playing at being
a young man, she hadn't found it difficult at all to be a companion to
the woman.
     The secondary plan -- to get the woman to let her into the manor,
then slip away and steal the stone -- had also been abandoned as it had
seemed more natural to slip away into the Granavil lands and spend the
afternoon together. Once the two of them had returned to the manor
house, it had been relatively easy to continue her role and be the bard
for the whole family. Even though she had spent most of her life
fighting, first on the streets of Sengintol and later in the service of
the duke, she had always had an aptitude for playing music, able to pick
up any instrument and with just a little experimentation, play it with
ease. This served her well in her charade, and as far as she knew, no
one saw her as anyone but Bonavec the bard.
     Perhaps she should have waited longer before trying to steal the
stone, which had been on the mantel just as she had remembered. But she
knew that Tironvil was already waiting at the meeting place, and the
sooner they met up the better, which was when Eilonvil had surprised her
in the manor house's main room. The act had been easy, almost
unthinking, a product of her upbringing rather than her immediate
desires. But she needed time to get away, and a witness to her crime
wouldn't provide nearly enough of that. Whereas with Eilonvil dead and
the supposed bard Bonavec missing, suspicion would naturally fall on the
group of people at the Mordairi Holding, giving her even more time to
get to the Veneletri Stones and enact that charm.
     She thought herself fortunate that her ride wasn't further hampered
by the darkness she rode through, but the roadway was clearly if crudely
marked and both moons were in the sky providing plenty of light. In due
time, she met up with Tironvil at the crossroads as they had arranged
and without even a word of greeting, both started off on the next leg of
their journey.
     As they rode side by side, Maeanat said, "So, Ahnev, did everything
go well with Bonavec?"
     Tironvil replied, "Oh yes, just perfectly. He never even noticed
his missing clothes or instruments. Fortunate, I suppose, that they
weren't his favorite instruments. And he seemed to have no reservations
about the story of you wanting to meet him at the Veneletri Stones. But
I still wonder whether it was wise to send him there. I doubt he will
have stuck around there for so long, since he left for them two days
ago, but still, it is some kind of clue as to where we are."
     "Maybe I want them to find us," said Maeanat. "And it is not as
though I know many of the local landmarks after all. It isn't important
anyway, as long as they don't find us until we've completed the charm.
And then ..."
     "Right, and then it won't matter. *If* the charm and the stones
work as promised."
     "Oh, they'll work. I know it. I *feel* it. Don't worry, sister. Our
future is assured." And somehow, Maeanat really believed that, as though
her entire life had been leading up to this series of events, and soon
it would be complete. Nothing had gone wrong yet, and she knew that
nothing would. This was their destiny!

     Tironvil said for the hundredth time, "We're lost."
     Maeanat sighed. "Yes, we're lost," she answered, trying to restrain
herself from hitting her sister.
     "How could we be lost?" Tironvil whined.
     "Because, Ahnev, I've never been here before!" Maeanat shouted.
     "Sorry, no need to get angry. But, I thought that you said that it
would be a snap to find the Veneletri Stones from anywhere south of the
Mordairi and Granavil lands."
     "And I'm sure it would be, if only everyone wasn't off at their
summer celebrations. But we'll either find the stones or someone to ask
directions of eventually. If, that is, I don't end up killing you before
then. So, if you wouldn't mind, please stop reminding me that we're
lost!"
     "I'll try, sister. I'll try."

     Even riding as hard as possible, Gerthafel and his group didn't
have very much daylight left by the time they arrived at Granavil
holding. The best tracker among them scouted the grounds around the
manor house, but didn't find anything of much promise. Giving up the
search for morning, the group entered the manor house. Eilonvil's body
had been wrapped and moved to the salt house, but nothing else had been
touched. Unfortunately, a detailed examination of the main room revealed
no clues. Neither did the body, save for the knife, which bore the crest
of the Sengintol Bardic school. The Granavils invited the duke's people
to supper and to stay the night. There was no entertainment after the
meal that night; everyone was eager for morning light when perhaps more
clues could be found outside.
     Gerthafel was trying to coordinate a methodical search of the
grounds around the manor house in the middle of the next morning when a
familiar figure rode up on horseback. All of the duke's men recognized
Bonavec, and immediately surrounded him while he was still mounted,
swords drawn. The duke called out, "Come down from there, bard Bonavec.
We have some questions for you."
     Bonavec dismounted cautiously, confusion evident on his face. The
horse was led out of the circle, and the duke's guards closed in around
Bonavec. Then, when some of the Granavil family had come over, cries
went up that the man within the circle of swords was not Bonavec.
     Gerthafel wasn't surprised. He questioned the family, and they said
that this man was not the one who had visited them two days ago, which
Bonavec himself confirmed. The bard told a story, somewhat hesitantly,
of being promised an assignation with one of the duke's guards, named
Maeanat, at the local monument called the Veneletri Stones. He had
ridden away without telling anyone, waited for a time at the stones, and
then started riding back. He had taken a different path on the way back
and had ended up at Granavil instead of Mordairi.
     Closer questioning revealed that it had been Tironvil, Maeanat's
sister, who had informed the bard of the desired meeting. That answered
everything for Gerthafel, except for where the sisters were.
     It was the duke who asked, "What if they went to those very
stones?"
     "Why would they do that?" asked Gerthafel.
     "Well, if I recall," answered Arvinsosh, "the sisters are native to
Sengintol. They are not likely to be familiar with local geography,
true? Except for such famous places as the Veneletri Stones. So, if they
really did want the bard to disappear for a time, to bolster their
story, it wouldn't make much sense to tell him to just travel in some
arbitrary direction for some arbitrary number of leagues and wait. And,
having sent the bard to the stones, they are likely to believe that we
won't think that they are going there themselves. There you have it."
     Gerthafel couldn't fault the duke's logic, even if he didn't
necessarily believe in it. But they didn't have any other leads, and so
within a very short time, there were ten riders racing south for the
Veneletri Stones: the original eight, plus Lord Granavil and the bard
Bonavec.

     Maeanat was not the most pleased of people, but at least she and
her sister had finally found the 'unmissable' monument of the Veneletri
Stones. She was not very happy that it was late in the day, two days
after she had acquired the fox-carved stone. It had taken them too much
time to find the stones, but now they were here and there were, as yet,
no signs of pursuit.
     She and her sister rode in among the many rings of standing stones,
every other pair of which supported a third stone on top of them. They
passed ring after ring, and finally arrived in the center.
     There they found a large cleared space, empty except for a single
standing stone that seemed to be made of a different material than those
in the rings. It was also half-again as tall as the outer stones, and
its other obvious feature was a large hole in the center.
     Maeanat dismounted, unhooked her saddlebags, and carried them over
to the central stone that was known as the Peace Stone, while her sister
took care of the horses. Dropping the bags in front of the center stone,
she walked around it, marveling at the amazing upright mass of it.
     Tironvil walked over and dumped her own saddlebags and a bundle of
sticks next to Maeanat's bags, and as she walked back to where she was
working on the horses, Maeanat said, "Do you know the legend of these
stones, Ahnev?"
     "No, should I?"
     "Its a fascinating story, sister," said Maeanat, running her hand
along the smooth edges of the hole in the stone. "A thousand years
before the Fretheod conquered these lands, even before Gerolevan
existed, there were people here. Small tribes, small by the standards of
Sengintol that is, who wandered across these lands trying to survive.
     "Two such tribes came into conflict here. They battled over this
land, each trying to claim it for their own people. But neither was
superior to the other, and the war just continued on and on.
     "Eventually, the battle came to be known to a powerful wizard who
thought it within his power to halt the war. He kidnapped the families
of the rulers of both tribes, and held them for ransom. At first, the
tribes' leaders didn't believe him but once the wizard had turned both
of their fathers into beasts of the field, they gave in.
     "The ransom was a pact, signed in blood and binding 'til the end of
time. The wizard erected this stone right here, and he told the tribal
leaders that they would have to suspend their war until the time when
his task was completed. And that task was for them to wear a hole
through the stone using no tools, but only the rubbing of their hands.
     "With no choice but to obey, the two tribes set to their task. One
person from each tribe worked on the stone from either side. Day after
day, year after year, the tribes worked at their task. As the years
passed, the two tribes began to erect stones in rings around the central
stone, capping two with a third stone every fifth year. Stone after
stone, ring after ring, and finally, hundreds of years later, the
central stone was pierced.
     "By then, of course, the two tribes were one. Working together for
so long, any differences between them had vanished long since, and been
forgotten in the dictates of the task. And that is how the Venel and the
Eletri tribes became one, and how this monumental creation came to be."
     "Very interesting, sister," said Tironvil, "but how does that help
us right now? It will be dark shortly; perhaps you could help me light a
fire while you contemplate the supposed history of that punctured
stone."
     Maeanat made a rude noise, but bent to help her sister. Tironvil
had never been much for imagination. The fire was laid and lit, and
Maeanat thought all the while about composing a song about the legend.
Maybe she would call it 'Stone of Peace'. She was surprised that no one
had set the tale to verse and music yet.
     The fire was soon burning well, and Tironvil once again interrupted
Maeanat's thoughts with, "So, could we get this over with? We've taken
far longer getting here than we should have, and our pursuers could be
here any moment."
     "And how do you know there are pursuers? Or that they're coming
here?"
     "It doesn't hurt to be cautious, sister," said Tironvil. "We're
here, the stones are here, and as soon as we get them bonded together
and then bonded to us, the better off we will be. Then it won't matter
whether or not there are pursuers, right?"
     "Right, right," sighed Maeanat. She pulled her saddlebags over,
opened the pouches and pulled out both wedge-shaped fragments of stone.
Setting them carefully aside, she next extracted a candle and the scroll
tube bearing the chant Melajoof had written out. She handed the candle
to Tironvil and said, "If you could light this, Ahnev, and hold it over
my shoulder so I can read the scroll, I'll start this ceremony."
     Tironvil took and lit the candle, while Maeanat removed the
parchment from the scroll tube. Settling herself comfortably in front of
the fire, she dragged the two stones over in front of her. As the gentle
glow of the candle appeared over her shoulder, she looked at the carved
stones before her. There was something strange about those stones,
though. She stared at them, and noticed that it looked like the stone
fragments actually belonged together. There were fragments of the limbs
of each animal on the other piece of stone, and the bands of weaving
looked like they would match up perfectly.
     She reached down with her free hand and pushed one stone toward the
other. Her sister reached over her shoulder and helped by pushing the
other stone as well. They met in the middle, and Maeanat felt a tingle
from the stones. Then, with a flash that blinded her momentarily, the
two stones fused together. When she could see again, there was only one
stone fragment in front of her, with a cat and a fox intertwined, and
with fragments of interwoven bands interlaced across the top of them.
     "Did you feel that?" asked Maeanat.
     Tironvil said, "Yes, I did. Maybe Melajoof was right, maybe there
is magic in these pieces of stone."
     "Of course he was right! And that tingle was the stones bonding to
us. Now, we just have to read the incantation to reactivate the
protective enchantment on the stones, and we'll be invulnerable, just
like that castle they came from. Ready?"
     Without waiting for the reply, Maeanat unrolled the parchment and
started to recite the incantation. The rhythm of the words felt good to
her, like a song, and she almost started singing it but wasn't sure
whether that would harm the spell. She read every word out perfectly,
and then let the parchment fall to her lap as she waited for some kind
of signal that the spell had worked. She had seen no lights, felt no
tingle, but perhaps she had missed them ...
     "Tironvil, did you feel or see anything?"
     "No, Nati, nothing. But it must have worked. Melajoof said it
would."
     "You're right, sister. But, how can we be sure?"
     As she pondered a test, she heard a noise from her left. She turned
and saw a group of people ride into the center ring. Among them were the
duke, the bard, and the duke's chief Justicer, Gerthafel. It looked like
the test had found them.
     The duke called out, "Stand fast, you two," as he dismounted from
his horse. All the men with him did the same.
     Lord Granavil stepped forward into the firelight and said, "Well,
she's wearing different clothes, and her hair has become lighter, but
that is the face, scar and all, that sat at my table and ate with my
family. And there on the ground in front of them is what looks like our
luck stone. This must be the one who impersonated Bonavec and killed
Eilonvil."
     "The evidence is clear," said Gerthafel. "Do you deny it? Can you
refute it?"
     The duke said, "Answer!"
     Maeanat had risen and her sister stood beside her. She debated
constructing a lie, but decided that it was not needed. The stones --
stone -- protected them now, so there was nothing to fear from the duke
and his men. So, she said, "Yes, that was me. But there's nothing you
can do to us now."
     She tilted her head toward her sister and whispered, "Come, sister,
let's run. Upon thought, they could always cage us even if they cannot
hurt us with weapons."
     Tironvil nodded, and Maeanat stooped quickly, scooped up the
unified stone, and said, "Now!"
     She turned and ran, sensing her sister half a pace behind her.
Shadows from the fire showed the duke's men chasing them, but the stones
were very close and if she and her sister could reach them, surely they
could make good their escape.
     She felt the steel enter her back just as she was about to step
beyond the inner ring of stones. She heard Tironvil cry out beside her,
and at that moment knew that Melajoof had fooled them for a final time.
And she had been sure, so sure!

     Gerthafel stood over the bodies of the two sisters, wondering why
they had run. How could they have hoped to get away? And what had
Maeanat meant by 'there's nothing you can do to us now'?
     The duke stepped up beside him and said, "Now that's the kind of
justice I like: swift and sure. I can't believe that the palace
sheltered such as these."
     As Arvinsosh walked away again, Gerthafel bent and took the stone
from Maeanat's dead hand. It was a fine piece of sculpture, if
fragmented, done in excellent Gerolevan style. He wondered what it was,
and where it had come from.
     He turned from the bodies with the stone in his hand, and decided
that it didn't matter. As the duke had said, justice had been done. He
just hoped that this incident wasn't an example of what this season's
ducal progress was going to be like.

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