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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 12/15/1996
 Volume 9, Number 7                             Circulation:        615
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 A Touch of Dargon            Mark A. Murray         Mertz 1014
 The Broken Staff I           Mike Adams             Seber-Ober 1015
 Sleepers Awake               Alan Lauderdale        Summer 1009

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

 DargonZine 9-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 1996 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>.
 All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual
 contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without
 the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, 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>

     Describing the Dargon Project to people, I usually refer to it as a
collaborative writing project for aspiring writers which has been
producing fiction on the Internet since 1985. Almost invariably, one of
the first questions I am asked is whether any of our writers have gone
on to write on a professional level.
     It's always a slightly awkward question to answer, because most
people generally equates "successful writer" with "published novelist",
and although we are all "aspiring writers", very few of our contributors
actually aspire to become paid novelists in the mass market.
     For most of our writers, writing is a passion, and a pursuit which
we want to be good at. However, the desire to write doesn't necessarily
imply a similar desire to find a publisher who will pay for one's work
and go through the arduous process of seeing a novel through to
appearance on local bookstore shelves. In many cases, being printed in
DargonZine is sufficient to fulfil a writer's desire to have his or her
works in print.
     But if that's the case, it's a fair question to ask what *are* our
goals, and how do we measure ourselves against them? If we're not trying
to become professional writers, what *are* we trying to accomplish?
     For most of us, the goal of participation in the Dargon Project is
to practice writing, and improve through contact with other writers,
both through their critique of our works, as well as learning how other
writers work. In writing for DargonZine, we are doing something we
really enjoy, and hopefully are improving our skills.
     We gauge how well we are doing by giving one another copious
amounts of feedback, and poring over what feedback we get from our
readers. The Internet is an awesome tool for aspiring writers to get
experience writing for a real audience, and for establishing a dialogue
between the writer and his clients. Because this is a rare opportunity
for us to interact with a group of genuine readers, we enthusiastically
encourage reader feedback, and hope you will drop us a line when we do
something you particularly like or dislike.
     Despite the fact that none of our writers are published novelists,
I believe that we have met our goals in providing value to our two
constituencies: our writers and our readers.

     Those of you viewing this on the Web will note some new artwork
gracing our story pages, contributed by Scott Kossack. Scott has been a
visual artist for approximately nine years, working in pen & ink,
pencil, pastels, photography, and acrylic paints. By joining the
project, Scott is hoping to expand his abilities, improve his art, and
receive feedback on his work. Some of his influences include Salvador
Dali, Ansel Adams, Bill Watterson, and Cezanne.
     In other Web enhancements, we've recently added a text search
capability to the Online Glossary page, to make it easier to look up
particular people, places and things that are specific to the world of
Dargon.

     Mark Murray opens this issue with a story involving his new
characters, young Matty and Ben. We were introduced to them in "A Shadow
of a Life", which appeared in the previous issue. Mark encourages us to
accompany them as they run into some "ordinary" people on the street in
Dargon.
     "The Broken Staff I" is the first in a series of stories by new
writer Mike Adams which follows the life of his all-too-human character
Bren kel Tomis. Expect to see more of Mike and Bren in coming issues.
     And Alan Lauderdale continues his series of Mouse Tales in
"Sleepers Awake". Mouse's story began nearly two years ago in "I Am My
Lord's Possession", and was featured most recently in last issue's
"Falsehoods". Alan's wit adds a bit of humor to this story. After the
long stretch of seriousness which accompanied the effort to wrap up the
war storyline, it's nice to once again be able to print a couple
whimsical stories.
     So enjoy the stories and the holiday season, and look for us in
1997, as we begin our *thirteenth year* of publication!!!

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

                           A Touch of Dargon
                           by Mark A. Murray
                            mmurray@weir.net
                        Dargon City, Mertz 1014

     "Is," Matthew said.
     "Is not," Ben replied.
     "Is!"
     "Is not!"
     "Is too!" Matthew argued.
     "Unh uh," Ben said shaking his head. "My dad said so!"
     "Your dad's wrong," Matthew told Ben as he lifted his stick again.
"We'll have a duel and whoever wins is right," he said as he swung
lightly at Ben. Ben lifted his stick and tried to block but missed, not
that it mattered as Matthew missed Ben on the swing. Matthew jumped back
when Ben recovered and swung.
     "Missed me," Matthew teased.
     "Knights wouldn't say that," Ben said.
     "Would too," Matthew said.
     "Would not!"
     "They might," Matthew replied swinging at Ben.
     "Yeah, when?" Ben asked swinging back. Neither had yet hit the
other.
     "Well, um ..." Matthew started but quit as he stooped and swung at
Ben's feet. Even though they were far enough away that they couldn't hit
each other, Ben still jumped high in the air to avoid getting his feet
cut off.
     "Missed me," Ben said automatically as he landed. Ben stood still
and looked at Matthew. He let the far end of his stick settle on the
ground as he gave Matthew a confused look. Then he broke out laughing.
It didn't take long for Matthew to realize what Ben was laughing about,
and he joined his friend in the laughter.
     "Touch," Ben said as he reached over and touched Matthew on the
chest. "You've got the Red Plague!" Ben ran away from his friend and
down the alley. Matthew was right behind trying to catch him.
     As Ben turned the corner, there were two large Dargon guards in
front of him, and he stopped as quickly as he could. He was right in
front of both guards when Matthew came around the corner and ran into
him, sending both of them into the guards. The larger guard faded back
but the other guard reached for his sword *and* tried to step out of the
way. The two children got tangled in his legs and the three of them
fell. The fallen guard was sputtering and squirming to get his feet
untangled from Ben and Matthew, while the remaining guard stood
watching.
     "You've chosen your guard well today, M'lord," chuckled a man
behind the fallen guard. "He readily throws his life at your feet to
protect you."
     "Bartol, when you compose your poem about this incident," the lord
said smiling, "and I know you will, leave the name of our fallen guard
out of it. No need to shame our new recruit any further."
     As the two men laughed, Ben and Matthew stood. The fallen guard had
regained his feet also.
     "My apologies, M'lord," he said.
     "We will overlook this incident," the lord said smiling. "This
time. The good sergeant, being a well-trained veteran, did not fall prey
to the children and we were still protected."
     "'overlook' and 'did not fall prey'?" Bartol repeated. All three
men started laughing, and the young guard blushed. He looked at Ben and
Matthew and then started laughing also.
     "What are they laughing at?" Ben whispered to Matthew.
     "I don't know," Matthew replied. "They're grown-ups," he said as if
that would explain it. Ben shrugged and waited for them to stop
laughing.
     Matthew looked at the guard next to him. He was tall and big. The
guard's legs were about as big as Matthew's body. He was dressed in
black leather and carried a sword at his waist. Looking over at the
other guard, Matthew noticed that he was younger and his leather wasn't
as well worn. In fact, it looked new. He wasn't as big as the sergeant,
either, but he did wear a sword at his waist.
     "What were you running from that you tripped our guard?" the lord
asked.
     "I was running from him," Ben said pointing to Matthew. Ben leaned
in close to him and whispered, "I touched him and now he's got the Red
Plague." When Ben stepped back and noticed the confused look on the
man's face he continued. "It's a game. You touch someone and tell them
they've got the Red Plague and they have to touch you back to get rid of
it. If you can't touch them back, you touch someone else to get rid of
it."
     "I see," the lord said. "Does that mean that my young guard here
has the Red Plague then?" Ben looked at Matthew and Matthew looked back
at Ben. It was a question that hadn't come up before.
     "I guess so," Matthew answered. Ben and Matthew moved closer to the
sergeant and farther from the young guard.
     "Don't even think about touching me," the sergeant warned smiling.
     "Is your name really 'Mlord'?" Ben asked, slurring the "m" and "l"
together.
     "Ben!" Matthew exclaimed before anyone could answer. "That's the
name for people who don't work. It's a title, like sergeant." There came
a chuckle from Bartol and the guards could barely hold their own
laughter in. All three were silenced by a glance from the lord.
     "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know," Ben apologized. "Are we supposed to
call you Mlord, too?"
     "That is the proper way to address him, yes," Bartol answered. "And
it's Milord. Try not to slur it so much."
     "Mmailloorrdd," Ben said slowly trying to emphasize it the way
Bartol did. "How come you said it faster before?"
     "I didn't mean to say it slowly. I meant ..." Bartol said but was
interrupted by laughter from the lord.
     "You're losing an argument to a child," the lord laughed.
     "Well, Mmailloorrdd," Bartol said, "I'm only trying to teach them
some manners."
     "Ben, we could ask them," Matthew said suddenly. When Ben gave him
a questioning look, Matthew said, "You know. Whether there is one?"
     "You think they'll know?" Ben asked.
     "He seems to know a lot," Matthew said using his finger to point at
Bartol.
     "It is impolite to point," Bartol told Matthew. "Now what is your
question?"
     "See, he knows lots of stuff," Matthew said to Ben. "He'll know."
     "Yeah, but he was confused on the mlord thing," Ben whispered back,
but not quiet enough as both the lord and the sergeant laughed. The
sergeant quieted quickly at a glance from Bartol.
     "Please, ask your question," the lord chuckled.
     "Well, um," Matthew began, "I say there's dragons and Ben says
there aren't!"
     "There aren't!" Ben emphasized.
     "Are too," Matthew said.
     "Ahem," Bartol said clearing his throat. "You are both right."
     "Confused," Matthew mouthed silently to Ben, and Ben nodded his
head.
     "I am not confused!" Bartol said heavily, and then laughed as he
realized that the children were getting the better of him. "Let me
explain. Once, long ago, there were dragons that roamed these lands
freely. They were the lords of the land, for nothing could challenge
them."
     "Why don't we see any now?" Matthew interrupted.
     "Sometime between then and now, they disappeared. No one really
knows what happened, except that dragons do not roam our lands today.
Some say that they are just sleeping deep in the earth and one day will
awaken to rule again. Others say a great catastrophe occurred and killed
them all. It is a debate between many scholars as to what happened. So
you see, you were both right. Dragons existed, but there are none now."
     "What did they look like?" Ben asked. "How do you know so much?
What do you do? Are you ..."
     "Slowly," Bartol said, "I can only answer one question at a time.
Unfortunately, I'm afraid there isn't enough time to answer any of your
questions. We are expected someplace, and if we don't show up soon, a
lot of people will start to worry."
     "Where are you going?" Matthew asked.
     "We are returning to the castle," Bartol answered.
     "Are you going to see Duke Dargon?" Ben asked. "I saw him once!"
     "You did?" the lord asked, smiling.
     "Yeah," Ben said, "he was walking down a street -- I don't remember
which one it was, I was little then -- and there was a lot of people
around him. I was too far away to really see him, and my mom wouldn't
let me get closer, but I'd sure like to meet him one day."
     "I think that one day, you will meet him, Ben," the lord said.
     "You think so?" Ben asked.
     "I know so," the lord replied and then turned to Bartol. "We must
be going. We wouldn't want to keep 'Duke Dargon' waiting."
     "No mmailloorrdd, we wouldn't," Bartol said smiling as they
continued on their way. Matthew and Ben watched them go until they
turned a corner and were out of sight.
     "Touch," Matthew said to Ben as he touched him and ran. "You've got
the Red Plague!"

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

                            The Broken Staff
                                 Part I
                             by Mike Adams
                       meadams@sunherald.infi.net
                            Seber-Ober 1015

     As quickly as that, it was over. His spurs lay in the mud of the
road and the two pieces of his broken staff were gripped in his hands.
Bren kel Tomis was knight and herald no more. Everything he had striven
for was now lost because of a boyish lust for a woman. As he knelt
before his king, shorn of honor, position, his life now forfeit, he
could not even form a coherent thought. The sword rose high, and sped
towards him --

     Bren awoke with a start. His body was clammy with sweat, not only
from the dream, but also from the heat and closeness of the small cabin.
     He reached down to touch the two long pieces of wood, which were in
the bag that held his few possessions. He knew he wouldn't sleep
anymore, so he dressed and went on deck, where the first gray tendrils
of dawn were beginning to light the eastern sky. He slept rarely now,
and when he did he was often troubled by bad dreams. Each time he woke
there was a moment of disorientation, always followed by the crushing
realization that his life had gone straight into the cesspit.
     The crew was familiar with his habits by now. He spent almost all
his waking moments in the bow, looking forward, as if he yearned to see
his destination. Sailors can gossip well enough to make old women seem
like rank novices, but no one knew anything about this passenger except
the captain and first mate, who weren't saying anything, because there
was very little to know. After dramatically dumping the disgraced herald
on the deck, the soldiers had remained in place, keeping onlookers away,
and saying nothing other than shouting at the crew to make ready to
sail.
     The Friendly Lion had left port before the next bell rang.
     It had become a habit by now for the sailors repairing rigging in
the mornings to talk about the stranger. Kodo, the bosun, was the first
to sight Bren heading towards the bow. "I says he's a wizard traveling
in disguise, I do. He always keeps that bag with 'im. He's prob'ly got
spells and such in it."
     Blen Sailmaker laughed at that. "Oh, Kodo, you see wizards behind
every porthole. It's obvious that he's a king sent into exile by his own
people, take my word for it. Look at his face; no emotion. That's the
face of a man in command. Maybe he was a general, or somesuch, before he
killed the old king."
     Frog, the cabin boy, was sure he was a spy sent to ferret out the
deepest secrets of the Duke of Dargon, but he shared this with no one.
It was only his first voyage, and no one paid him any mind, even when he
did speak.
     "Look at that sword he's got," said Blen, his long, nimble fingers
patching a tear in a topsail. "That's a saber, like a horseman's sword.
What would a pissin' wizard need with a sword like that?"
     "You wouldn't know a wizard if he bit you on the ass," retorted
Kodo. "See the broach he has pinned on his cloak? I saw one like that
once in Dargon, and it was some wizard what was wearing it. I know that
'cause he was wearing one of those wizard hats; you know, the pointy
ones with moons on 'em."
     Blen made a rude noise. "Moons! You've gotten too much sun, bosun.
Ever'body knows its stars. Anyway, see those boots? Those are a
fighter's boots. He's got a blade in each of them, and I would be
surprised if he ain't got a few more stashed elsewhere. And what about
the way he moves? Like a cat, he is. I wouldn't like to meet him in the
rigging in a bad blow, that's for sure. He'd have your bollocks off in
no time."
     Kodo, sensing he was losing the argument, made one last, plaintive
effort. "But look at him. Black hair, reddish skin. Tell me that ain't
mystical!"
     "If you weren't so afraid of wizards that you got off the ship
every once in a while, you'd have noticed *all* those southern people
are like that. And they can't all be wizards, now can they?"
     Kodo grunted, and pretended to concentrate on his work. Blen gave
Frog a satisfied look, and went back to his own sewing.
     Despite the fact that their passenger hadn't said three words to
the crew for half a fortnight, the sailors didn't let that hinder them.
Further guesses ran the gamut from soldier-for-hire, to the cuckolder of
an important man.
     The object of their speculations stood in the bow, covered with
spray. He sent his thoughts back, to his old life. It seemed so long ago
...

     The youngest son of a minor lord, his prospects were small, but his
mother had blood in the court and managed to obtain her favorite son an
appointment to the College of Heralds. The Heralds were a group of men
who functioned as a combination of ambassador, diplomat, judge, and
war-leader for their monarch. The ten highest of these were called by
their ranking, from First to Tenth. The Great Heralds, the First and
Second, ruled large domains in the name of the King, and were powerful
lords in their own right. A landless son could do much worse than aspire
to the chair of a herald.
     About a year after being knighted, Bren became Ten, after Seven
died while trying to escape from an angry husband. The infamous Massacre
of the Heralds two years later elevated him to Third Herald. Only his
lifelong friendship with a bastard son of the king had saved him from
being executed by the King's Guard on that bloody night. The King now
looked very closely at anyone selected by the College to be a Herald.
Any sign of dissension was dealt with swiftly, and severely.
     And so, at the age of twenty-three he was the Third Herald. If he
survived the death of one of the Greater Heralds, his future would be
assured, for he would no longer be required to expose himself to battle
on a regular basis, but only on those occasions when the entire
kingdom's fortunes were at stake. It would be a time to accumulate great
personal power, perhaps enough to make up for the lack of a birthright.
He looked forward to the day when his snooty eldest brother would have
to address *him* as Milord, and not the other way around.

     As a herald, Bren carried his staff of office wherever he went. It
came in handy in any number of situations, from rapping recalcitrant
young student heralds on the head, to gaining quick entry through the
castle to the King's court, where he was bound today.
     Bren didn't normally attend court, being kept too busy by the
business of his position to do much social mixing. This morning,
however, a young page relayed the message that his presence was
*requested* in court today. The page beat a quick retreat upon seeing
the grim look shot at him by the obviously hungover herald. Bren had
spent much of the previous night drinking in celebration of his friend
Toran's elevation to Sixth Herald, and was in no mood to attend court.
However, a King's page meant the King, so he must attend, ill or not. He
quickly tied up his shoulder length black hair, dressed, and headed to
the castle.
     His heraldic staff passed him through the numerous guard posts,
until he finally mingled with the courtiers wandering around the Great
Hall. Periodically, a petitioner would appear before the dais, the
courtiers would lower their voices, and justice would be dispensed, or
not, depending upon the King's whim.
     Bren glanced around, and noted with surprise that fewer had
attended court today, compared to his last visit several months ago. In
fact, the courtiers were almost matched by the group of petitioners in
the corner, many of them attempting to bribe the chamberlain in order to
receive an audience sooner than the others. At least the chamberlain
always attended, thought Bren, a wry smile creasing his handsome face.
The smile faded as he realized how few landholders were represented in
court.
     The King ruled his country with a mailed fist, having put down
several rebellions by various lords over the last few years. Many now
considered it safer to remain on their holdings, pay the always
increasing taxes, and make their plans behind closed doors. Bren had
gained much of his extensive battle experience against rebel lords and
their knights.
     Even the heralds had their rebellious moment, when the previous
Third led four other heralds and their men in a rising. After killing
the Great Heralds, they stormed the Hall, unaware that the King was
ready for them. That night, blood flowed through the College like a
river, as the King cleansed his heralds. Much of the work of the current
First and Second Heralds was intended to restore the College to its
former glory.
     A sudden feeling that he might disgrace himself by vomiting on the
marble floor brought him back to the present. He grudgingly decided he
couldn't slip out without being noticed, so he was more grateful than he
normally might have been when the Lady Kira tel Hon entered the court.
Her beauty not only took his breath away, but also his headache and
nausea.
     Being a herald, Bren had the opportunity to bed many women, no
small number of them high born, but he had never fallen in love. As a
soldier-diplomat he felt himself immune to such emotions, but in reality
he was only a young man of twenty-four years, and certainly not able to
withstand the rush of lust he now felt.

     Even her voice sounded like music to him, as she spoke to the King.
     "Sire, as you well know, I hold my manor from the estate of my dear
husband. I recently learned that Regan kel Bor, who holds land bordering
mine had an agreement with my late husband to cede certain lands to our
estate in return for services long rendered. I have asked Lord kel Bor
to give me my right due, but he has refused, saying that as a woman I
have no right to the proceeds of an agreement between himself and my
lord. I ask justice, majesty, for a helpless woman." With those words
she dropped to the floor in a deep curtsy, her head bowed to her
magnificent chest.
     "From what I have heard of your recent doings, milady, you are far
from helpless", chuckled the King. "Several years ago, you were a
landless woman from nowhere. Today you are the mistress of tel Hon. Now
it seems you wish to become the mistress of kel Bor as well.
Nevertheless, I shall send a herald with you to deal with this problem."
     The King searched the crowd, until his eyes rested on Bren. He
spoke to the First Herald in a voice that reached across the hall, "Lord
Skel, do you think young kel Tomis is up to this task?"
     Lord Skel replied, "I think so, my liege. We must keep him busy, or
he will soon be in *my* chair!"
     The court laughed politely while Bren blushed furiously. His dark
complexion covered most of his embarrassment and he regained control of
his features quickly. He bowed to the king and said clearly, "Majesty, I
would be honored to escort the lady to her home, and make a just
resolution."
     "Very well, herald", replied the King, "You shall leave in the
morning."

     It was a three day ride to the holding of Lady tel Hon. During
those three days, Bren grew even more enthralled by the dark-haired
beauty. The first evening, as they dined, she shared with him a special
wine she had made at her holding. After that, they talked for several
bells, and he went to his blankets fuzzy, but quite contented. The
second evening was much the same, but on the third evening, after dark,
a figure slipped into his tent. Kel Tomis was completely shattered by
the pleasure she brought him. Never before had a woman taught him so
much in so short a time. When she left in the gray pre-dawn, he lay in
his blankets, his gray eyes staring at nothing for quite a time. His
mind raced with thoughts of the promised visits to come, if only he
would perform a small service for her. He had not hesitated to say yes.
     They arrived at tel Hon before the sun had reached its zenith, and
lunched in the main hall. Kel Tomis was surprised at how small the manor
was, and how little land Lady tel Hon actually held. It was no wonder
she was eager to have a generous portion of Lord kel Bor's holding,
especially as that portion included a small castle on a well-travelled
river. After the meal Bren had a messenger sent to inform kel Bor that
the King's Herald would hear the dispute on the morrow at the second
bell after sunrise. That night as Bren held her close, Kira whispered
softly in his ear. By sunrise, he would have sold his mother into
slavery.

     When the second bell rang out, all the principals were in place.
The herald sat on a camp chair in a clearing a short distance from the
manor. He was dressed in his customary black, his cloak trimmed in
silver. His hair was tightly pulled back, and tied, giving his clean
shaven face a stern appearance. Behind him were two banners; that of the
king, whose power he represented, and that of the College of Heralds,
showing his training for such work. A squad of the King's Guard were
arrayed behind the banners. For those who were not impressed by pieces
of cloth, the hard-bitten visages of those battle veterans made a
powerful argument for heeding the herald's words.
     The mistress of tel Hon sat to the left, in an ornate chair taken
from her main hall. She wore a dress in the dark green favored by the
House of tel Hon, cut conservatively, teasing the herald with
remembrances of the lush body now hidden by the heavy folds of cloth.
Her servants had gathered behind the chair, quietly talking. Several
young men and women, of apparently noble birth, clustered around the
chair, competing for the lady's attention. She sat quietly, paying no
mind to the chattering crowd around her, a small smirk flirting with her
mouth.
     To the right stood Regan kel Bor, and his retinue. He wore leather
armor, as if he anticipated conflict. His hair was steel gray, cut to a
short length. He looked at no one, maybe feigning indifference to the
whole procedure, but the men with him made no secret of their ill
feeling for Lady tel Hon. Most stared directly at her, venomously. Some
few spoke loud enough to be heard by kel Bor, who cut off the remarks
with a curt gesture. Behind the nobles stood a large contingent of
peasants and servitors, obviously there to support their lord.
     Bren stood, and the quiet murmurings of the onlookers ceased. "I am
Bren kel Tomis, Third Herald of our king. Is there any here who denies
my authority in this matter?" The question went unanswered, as it
generally did. "This matter concerns the proper ownership of land
disputed between Lord kel Bor and Lady tel Hon. All here are warned to
speak only the truth. My guards will deal harshly with those who cannot
keep their mouths shut unless I request it." One noble shook his head,
and explained to his friends, "Since the Massacre, these young heralds
don't get enough seasoning. I hope this one can conduct a court without
turning it into a circus." At the same time kel Tomis was asking Lady
tel Hon to state her case.
     Lady tel Hon rose slowly, and then curtsied in the general
direction of the herald and his banners. She turned slowly, ensuring
that every eye was on her before she spoke. "I was not born here, but no
one has more love for this holding than I, and no other had greater love
for my late husband, Traven tel Hon. When we were wed, I had no inkling
of the agreement he had reached with Lord kel Bor some years before.
However, on his death bed, even as he was consumed by fever, and wracked
by coughs, he made me swear to uphold that pact. He seemed to think that
Lord kel Bor had become reluctant to speak on this topic of late, and he
told me of the instrument I was to use in case he refused to honor his
bargain."
     She turned and took a scroll from the chair she had vacated moments
ago, and held it high. "When first Regan kel Bor made this offer, he was
sincere, and put words down on this scroll to that effect.
     My lord tel Hon demurred, trusting his friend to make good his
obligations, but kel Bor pushed the scroll on him. My lord, not wishing
to offend, took the paper, and put it aside, never intending to refer to
it again. Until now it has not been necessary.
     Lady tel Hon faced the herald, and handed him the scroll. "Examine
this document, and you will have all the knowledge you need to resolve
this matter. Kel Bor's seal is on it, and it is genuine." Now openly
smiling, she returned to her seat.
     Lord kel Bor strode forward, jaw jutting, face red. "Herald, this
bitch is lying through her overly painted mouth." A loud gasp went
through the crowd, but the lady only smiled the wider. "I agreed to cede
Traven tel Hon that land; I make no issue of that. He saved my life on
more than one occasion, and I pay my debts. But I did not agree to give
anything to that wench, and by all the gods, I never will. Traven and I
needed no agreement. I have no sons left, he would have had it all, had
he lived."
     He now glared at Lady tel Hon with unadulterated fury. "What I
think we should be questioning is why Traven tel Hon, never sick a day
in his life, until he met *her* that is, suddenly is taken with an
unknown fever, dying within four days. I loved that boy like my own son,
and I'll never give his murderer anything but the back of my hand." He
then glared at Bren, stumped back to his place, and resumed staring at
nothing.
     "Why do you impugn the Lady in this manner, Lord kel Bor? What
evidence is there to support a charge of murder, especially the murder
of a husband?" Bren drew kel Bor's eyes back with these questions.
     Kel Bor responded, "She summoned no physician, and even refused
*my* physician when he arrived at her manor. Not one other person became
sick with this supposed fever. You are a soldier; you know that just
does not happen." He gestured to a mild looking man near him. "Tell him,
Master Gondo."
     "I must concur with Lord kel Bor in this matter, herald. I have
never seen an isolated case of fever, especially in a well kept manor,
like tel Hon. The symptoms described to us later by Lady tel Hon
coincide with those of many fevers, some of them deadly, but I have no
reason to believe that this is true." The physician paused, and then
continued, reluctantly. "Many potions that we as physicians use to cure
can also kill, if used improperly. Lady tel Hon has often said that she
is a healer of some power, and if she is, she would no doubt be able to
cause someone's death without a great deal of notice. I do not say that
this is true, only that it could be." The thin man, apparently saddened
by what he had to say, retreated to his lord's side. "This is madness!",
broke in the Lady. "Why on earth would I kill my own husband, for land
he was already entitled to?"
     "That is a question I would like answered," responded kel Bor. "Why
did you kill him? Couldn't you wait? Did you have to have it all right
now?" Lord kel Bor seemed close to tears. "I loved him like he was my
own flesh, and like my own flesh he will not go unavenged!"
     "Lord Kel Bor!" The shout from the herald startled everyone. "This
will not become a forum for your mad accusations. Control yourself,
milord." He continued, "Milady tel Hon, I am sure you can explain the
circumstances of your husband's death better than anyone else here. It
may be painful, but I ask your to recount the circumstances surrounding
that incident."
     "I admit it was my fault that my lord died." A gasp went through
the crowd, but kel Bor did not respond. "I thought that I was a good
healer, but I wasn't good enough. My lord wanted me to save his tenants,
and in doing so, I did not realize that he had contracted the fever. By
then it was too late for me to save him." She pulled a kerchief from her
sleeve and dabbed her eyes in a gesture that seemed to impress no one.
She then motioned some rather nervous looking peasants forward.
     "All of these people, and others, had the fever. I know as well as
Master Gondo that these things do not come to one person only."
     Bren examined the group, which consisted mainly of old folk. They
all looked frail, as if recovering from the fever had wasted them, or
maybe they were just worn out from a lifetime of work; it was hard to
tell.
     He gestured to the youngest, a young man who'd barely grown his
first whiskers. "You, tell me about this fever you had."
     The young man, nervously wringing his straw hat, shot a quick
glance at Lady tel Hon before speaking. "Well, milord, it's like the
mistress said, it was all hot, and coughing like. I can't remember much
'bout it, really. But mistress saved us, she did." He ducked his head at
the herald and scurried back to the group.
     The next recovered victim Bren called forward was an old woman. She
recited much the same story as the youth, as if she had memorized it by
sheer dint of repetition. The crowd behind kel Bor started to mutter,
and one brave soul shouted out, "Liar!" Several guards moved in that
direction, and the muttering quickly ceased.
     "We shall leave that question for a while, I think," said the
herald. "What do you say about this scroll, milord?" He brandished the
scroll for all to see. "I have read it, and it does seem to uphold
Mistress tel Hon's claim."
     One of kel Bor's retainers came forward. He took the scroll from
the herald, and handed it to his lord, who opened it. Kel Bor examined
the seal, and said, "That does seem to be my seal." He examined the rest
of the document, and an incredulous look came over his face. "That
two-faced bastard! That lying, scheming, son of a Beinisonian whore!"
     He threw the scroll on the ground. "The scroll is a forgery, as
anyone with eyes can tell. That scroll contained another agreement, and
someone has used some sort of magic to remove that, and add these words,
and that someone has more power than this hedge witch can gather
together. Bastard!" Master Gondo moved forward quickly, concerned about
his master's deep red complexion, but was savagely pushed back.
     Bren rose, and again quiet descended on the meadow. He looked at
the two adversaries, then spoke. "I will now retire to consider my
decision. I will return within a short while." He turned and entered a
pavilion that had been set up by the guardsmen. He picked at a lunch of
bread and cold meat, and then sat quietly examining the scroll.
     The scroll had been altered, that much was evident. Whoever had
done the work had done a poor job, because Bren felt he could almost see
the old words, just beyond his vision.
     As for the supposed victims of the fever, Bren was sure they had
been coached, which was apparently why no children had been in the
group.
     Since Traven tel Hon's purported murder could be seen as
unconnected to the land dispute, Bren decided he could safely ignore the
deception about the fever victims.
     But how was he to use the scroll to make a decision in favor of
Kira tel Hon, he asked himself. It was then that he noticed the pattern
of his thoughts. He had *already decided*, and was just trying to come
up with a way to justify it, without looking a complete fool! Why was he
thinking like this? He couldn't focus, and stumbled to his feet, not
wanting to face kel Bor again, but now urgently needing to speak the
foul words trying to crawl off his tongue.
     He walked slowly out of the tent, and had to make an effort to
control his features. He had never betrayed himself before, and for a
moment thought again of making the correct judgement. But as soon as he
started to think of his duty, his mind became confused and cloudy. He
paused for a time, attempting to concentrate on the oaths he had given
when he had been made a herald, but was unable to focus his thoughts on
anything but *her*. When he thought about anything else, he became
blinded by pain. By the time he reached his place, he had stopped even
trying.
     He stood before his guards and spoke. "I have reached a decision.
Lord Regan kel Bor is directed to forfeit the property in question
within one month."
     A buzz went through the crowd, and kel Bor leapt to his feet and
shouted, "No!"
     Bren spoke in the penetrating voice taught to heralds, "I direct
you, Lord kel Bor, to forfeit the lands mentioned in your agreement.
This is my will, and the will of your king."
     Kel Bor bellowed, "No, you dishonorable scum. She has bewitched you
while you slept with her. I will not do this thing. You are wrong!"
     Bren blushed bright red at kel Bor's words, and was stunned by the
conviction with which kel Bor had spoken. How could he have known,
thought Bren. That thought was closely followed by another; I must get
rid of him, it's the only way. He stepped towards the older man and
spoke in a hoarse tone, "I will take your head for that challenge to my
authority. Prepare your second, and pray to whatever gods you wish, for
you shall meet them soon." With that he strode to an empty spot in the
field, drew his sword, and plunged the point into the ground at his
feet.
     He turned towards the onlookers, and spoke, "Lord kel Bor has
challenged my judgement, and therefore the authority of your king. The
penalty is death." One of kel Bor's men shouted "No!"
     Bren screamed at the man in a rage, spittle flying from his lips,
"Quiet, scum! He has defied me and he shall not go unpunished. At least
he shall die with a sword in his hand. I await you, milord," he said to
kel Bor. He stood, breathing heavily and looking into the distance,
waiting for his opponent to make himself ready.
     Kel Bor stared at the herald, stunned into speechlessness. Then he
turned and spoke to a man near him, who nodded, and left immediately.
Kel Bor then limped to a place ten paces from the herald. He drew his
blade. He turned to face the confused crowd and spoke.
     "You are all witnesses to this travesty of justice and honor. This
herald will likely kill me, old man that I am. Do not forget me, and do
not forget the man who did this to me."
     With that he let out a roar, and charged at the herald. He fought
like a maddened bear, hacking wildly, but the herald was young, strong,
and talented. The fight was short, and soon the former lord of kel Bor
was lying on the ground, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky.
     Bren looked at the corpse, and a fresh surge of rage rushed through
him. "Why didn't you leave well enough alone, old man?", he hissed. He
kicked the body in frustration, and several of kel Bor's men, seeing the
body of their lord treated in such an insulting manner, made towards kel
Tomis, baring their blades as they came. The guards, having not had much
to do as yet, gladly interposed themselves between the herald and his
erstwhile attackers. Seeing that they would not prevail, the nobles
sheathed their weapons, and stepped back, grumbling loudly.
     Bren looked at the crowd and shouted, "Well, what are you looking
at? It's over! Go!" Seeing the enraged herald waving his sword over his
head, his wild eyes moving from face to face, the crowd started to break
up.
     The herald, now disheveled and flushed, dismissed his guards,
instructing them to return to the capital on their own. He quickly
walked from the field directly to his horse, without looking back. The
crowd dispersed into small groups, the buzz of conversation getting
louder the further the herald rode away.
     Bren rode quickly back to the manor house, and waited in the main
hall for Kira. She did not return for several bells, by which time kel
Tomis was almost frantic with worry and jealousy. "Where have you been,
my love?" he asked. "I have been waiting for you."
     Kira drew the young man aside and spoke in a purr, "My dear herald,
you know that you cannot stay here with me. Your place is in the
capital, at the College. You must leave now; you know how the court is.
     And the King does not pale at killing heralds, everyone knows that.
I will contrive a way to see you again, be assured." She kissed him
gently on his cheek.
     Bren tried to argue with Kira, but she was adamant that he must
leave, and leave now. He could see no way to change her mind, and so
made ready to leave, his spirits low.
     He shuffled to the stables, and retrieved his horse. As he mounted,
the skies opened up, and the rain poured down on him. No one noticed as
he rode away alone. It was fortunate his horse knew where it was going,
for the herald paid no attention to the way.

     Three days later he approached the outskirts of the capital. He had
spent the first day in a melancholy mood, recalling the blissful time
spent in Kira's bed. During the second day he felt his head start to
clear, as if he had been in a cloud for some time. By the third day, he
was sure he had been used by Kira, and the realization that he had
betrayed his calling shocked him to his inner being. And why had the
King sent *him* with Kira? What part had the Crown played in his fall?
His thoughts became more black and depressing, spiraling down like a
whirlpool, into a state of numbness, unable to reconcile himself with
his actions. Finally, his mind was blank, overcome. Therefore, it took
him a moment to realize that his horse had stopped in a clearing several
bowshots from the city wall. There in the middle of the road stood a
mounted squad of the King's Guards. Behind them were the King, and the
First Herald, and their personal guards.
     This shock, piled upon the past several days proved too much for
Bren. He sat in the saddle, speechless, and stunned, his jaw hanging
open. A soldier reached up and grabbed him by the leg, and pulled him to
the ground.
     "Kneel, scum", he grated, "And don't speak, 'less you're spoken
to."
     With that, he drew his sword, and placed the point at kel Tomis'
throat.
     Bren, his mind screaming in near madness, presented a sorry image,
hair straggling over his face, his fine clothes filthy and wet.
     The King dismounted, and came to where Bren knelt in the mud. He
spoke in a quiet, almost ritual tone. "A knight must be filled with
honor. You have forfeited your honor, and are no longer fit to be a
knight." He unsheathed his sword and raised it high. Bren's heart rose
to his throat, but he wished to remain strong in the face of death, and
so held his head up to face his liege. When the King went behind him, he
was puzzled for a moment, and then felt his spurs being struck from his
boots, first one, then the other.
     The King returned to his previous place, and the First Herald
stepped forward, speaking in the same low tone. "A herald is impartial,
giving credence to that which is proper, not that which is desirable.
You have abused your position and authority, and sold yourself like a
common whore. You are no herald." He took Bren's staff of office, which
a guard had retrieved from Bren's horse, and cracked it across his
thigh.
     He threw the pieces on the ground in front of the disgraced herald.
     The king approached again, and spoke in a voice filled with
loathing, "My first instinct was to kill you out of hand for the insult
to my crown and kingdom. But I soon realized that would be too final and
quick a punishment for such a crime. I have decided to exile you to live
the rest of your life in a state of shame and dishonor. My guards will
place you on a ship bound for the north; to let you remain here would
have you killed by outraged former colleagues much too soon for my
liking, although that may still occur." He turned to the guards and
said, "Take him to the harbor."

     The storm that had sent the Friendly Lion to that far southern land
had lasted three days, and sent them so far off course it had taken them
two days to find land. No sooner had they repaired the damage done to
the ship than a contingent of soldiers had dumped their passenger and a
bag of gold on the deck, with orders to transport this man as far north
as they were going. The ship was *requested* to leave immediately, with
not even a chance to sample the delights of the town. Captain Tennent
had planned to return all the way to Dargon this trip in any case. He
wanted to lay up in a friendly port, and make sure his ship was in good
condition to return to the trading routes. He also had important cargo
for several Dargon merchants, so Dargon it would be. A fortnight after
leaving that southern port, the crew finally started to recognize
familiar landmarks, and knew it would not be too long before they were
home.
     The morning was cool and gray with fog when the pirate ship
appeared as if from nowhere. Tennent silently decided to have ol' Kitley
in the crow's nest swallow the anchor if they survived the attack. He
shouted out "Prepare to repel!", and turned the wheel over to Kodo. If
they were lucky, they could steal the pirate's wind, and so make an
escape, as unlikely as that seemed.
     Shortly, in an eerie silence that fog seems to foster, the pirate
craft grappled on, and with a mighty explosion of noise, they swarmed
aboard. From the quarterdeck the captain saw his passenger draw his
sword, and attack a pirate near the portside gunwale. He fought like a
madman, as if he were angry at that particular pirate, hacking away and
finally forcing the intruder overboard. As the pirate fell, flailing his
arms, his razor sharp sword sliced through one of the three grappling
lines connecting the two ships.
     Looking up at the quarterdeck, Bren shouted, "Captain!" and
gestured to the lines with a questioning look.
     "Yes, cut the lines," roared Tennent over the din. He made a
slicing gesture with his hand.
     Down in the maelstrom, Bren moved towards the midships grappling
line. None of the pirates were especially proficient with their weapons,
usually relying on fear to carry the day, especially considering they
normally only attacked trade ships. Two pirates, not relishing the
thought of attacking a real swordsman, retreated before Bren, allowing
him several moments to slice the second line. As he moved to the bow, an
order came from the marauder ship, "Stop him, you scum, or we'll not be
able to take this tub!"
     Now the way to the forward line was a gauntlet of sailors, whipped
into a frenzy by their leader. Bren made a step forward, then was
pressed back. One pirate raised his sword for a might slash, but with
the rusty blade held high, staggered and fell with a crossbow bolt
through his head. Looking aft, kel Tomis saw the captain recocking his
crossbow.
     "To the line, now!" shouted Bren at the crew. With a hoarse shout,
he attacked, the crew of the Friendly Lion right behind him. Deciding
this was now a lost cause, the pirates scrambled back to their own ship
over the last line, several dropping in the water. Bren chopped the line
free, and the ships started drifting apart. One pirate, who had slipped
from the line into the water, started to shout, as several sharks swam
closer to investigate. His shipmates did nothing to help as the
terrified sailor was dragged under.
     Captain Tennent shouted out orders, canvas was piled on, and
headway was made, just in case the marauders changed their minds.
     Bren walked back to the wheel, while cleaning his blade with a
gaudy piece of cloth previously worn by one of the pirates.
     "Thank you, milord," said the captain, "That was quick thinking. It
saved us."
     "Thank you captain," replied the dark-haired man. The captain
beamed at the supposed compliment. "Yes, thank you indeed," said Bren.
"If you weren't so inept, those vagabonds might have passed us by. At
least I could forget my shame for a moment while killing some of those
bloody bastards."
     Tennent turned bright red. "Why, you insolent pup, I saved your
hide from being punctured and now you want to insult me?" He pulled a
large knife from his side, while Bren raised his sword and stepped back.
     The two men stood there, staring at each other, not moving. The
crew stared, waiting for one man or the other to explode into action.
While unconsciously preparing to fight, Bren was thinking furiously. He
had no friends in this place, there was no chance he could overcome the
entire crew. Was he mad? Then, Bren started to smile. Maybe he was mad.
When Bren started to laugh out loud, Tennent started to smile. When Bren
actually rolled on the deck, holding his sides against the ache of so
much jollity, Tennent said in a wondering voice, "Are you gone mad,
then, milord?"
     "Only temporarily, captain," came the gasping reply from the deck.
"How else could I explain attacking the only man who has tried to help
me in a long while. It seems like such a long time since there was
someone I might try to make a friend, and here I am, trying to stick my
sword in his gizzard. What a fool I have been. But, no more!"
     Bren hauled himself up and held out a hand to the captain. "I
apologize for my offensive remark. I am just finding it hard to live
with my own failings, so to improve my temperament, I look to the
supposed failings of others. Please do not call me lord. I am Bren kel
Tomis, and although I have stained my name beyond redemption, it is all
I have in the world besides my sword."
     The captain hesitated before replying, "Well, you say not to call
you lord, although it seems obvious that you are, at least to one such
as me. I may be captain on this ship, and proud to be so, but I was born
in the Fifth Quarter of Magnus, just like most of this bunch. However
that might be, you are one hell of a fighter, and if you wanted to join
my crew, I'd sign you on right now. As for any offense, none taken." He
put out his hand and grasped Bren's forearm in friendship.

     The rest of the voyage was without major incident. Bren now ate
with the crew, and would even talk on occasion, but never about himself.
     He spent some time with Tennent, learning what he knew about Dargon
and its people, for that city would now be his home. As the ship neared
the mouth of the Coldwell, Bren could see the three towers of the
castle, and somewhere inside himself he felt a small spark. He reached
back in his bag and felt again the two pieces of wood, which, in a way,
resembled his broken life. Maybe a new life was possible. Who knew,
maybe even redemption. Feeling better than he had for a month, he
stepped down the gangplank, and turned to wave goodbye to the crew of
the Friendly Lion.
     Then he turned to face the city in which he would try to remake his
broken staff.

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

                             Sleepers Awake
                           by Alan Lauderdale
                    lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu
                              Summer 1009

     Brother Muskrat watched the wagon roll up the track to the yard.
     His real name was Gerevin, but weeks could go by between uses of
that name. Day to day, his name was Muskrat. And his real role at
Rockway House was Master of the Scriptorium, but on as pleasant a day as
it was today, he awarded himself a day off and was strolling outside the
house, enjoying the air and the view. So he happened to be the first to
see the wagoners arrive.
     He could see -- and wave to -- Bretin and Olink long before any
shouting would've communicated anything, so he contented himself with a
gesture and then waited for them to pull up. They were arriving later in
the day than they usually did, but Brother Muskrat was unconcerned. This
was firstly because he was not disposed to worry much about exactly how
much time had passed and how much remained. And secondly, he was not
worried because he was not going to be the one finding himself still
driving the return trip when the sun went down.
     So he waited contentedly as the wagon rattled up and Bretin shouted
his greetings and Olink yelled at the horses and the dust flew up and
then began to settle. And when the bustle of arriving seemed ready to
clear itself away, then did Brother Muskrat deign to begin the
ceremonies of negotiation:
     "Greetings, Bretin!" he called to the scrawnier man. "Greetings,
Olink," he added to the one who was still preoccupied with directing the
horses. "A good day to you both. I trust you had a pleasant --"
     Olink, however, had some other matter on his mind besides a smooth
flow of economic interchange.
     "We found a doll," he cried, with a good deal more excitement than
a remark like that seemed to merit.
     "A *magic* doll," Bretin amended. This correction did a lot to
justify Olink's excitement. It also gave Brother Muskrat some concern.
     "A magic doll?" he repeated. "How do you know?"
     "It's breathing, isn't it?" Olink said. He reached over the
buckboard of the wagon and carefully lifted up Bretin's folded up
jacket. He stepped a few paces away from the wagon, placed the garment
on the ground and then gently unwrapped it. Albeit shallowly, the doll
was definitely breathing.
     Maybe three hands high, it looked like a young woman or girl,
wearing a simple beige peasant's dress and little else. The bare feet
were exquisitely well formed and the hair -- brown, straight, and tied
in a ponytail -- was very realistic. Her eyes were closed and her lips
were just slightly apart -- as if she were asleep. Exactly as if the
doll were asleep.
     "What d'you think?" Bretin said proudly. "We found her -- it -- I
don't know --"
     "How do you know it's a doll?" Muskrat asked, before Bretin could
finish articulating the gender issue.
     "'Course it's a doll," Olink exclaimed. "Ain't never seen a person
that small, anyway."
     "I thought I'd heard stories," Muskrat said thoughtfully. "Some
years past, a girl named M-something. Melissa?"
     "Oh sure," Olink declared. "There's always stories. You can find
stories about anything. Dragons and skeletons and witches and little
people and fey princesses. But you don't find no fey or little people
lying beside the road in the middle of the day. They dance -- and they
do their dancing at night --"
     "Olink knows the stories very well," Bretin explained.
     "This here ain't no fey," Olink declared authoritatively. "It's a
magic doll."
     "The word of an expert," Bretin said proudly.
     "It's rather unusual for a doll to have closed eyes," Brother
Muskrat suggested cautiously.
     "Not magic dolls," Olink assured him. "See, they keep their most
powerful magicks in their eyes, so they got to shield them a lot of the
time. Why, might be the only reason Bretin and I are alive right now is
because this magic doll's kept its eyes closed."
     "Damn! Really?" Bretin breathed.
     Olink nodded.
     "Wow!" Suddenly, Bretin frowned. "Olink! You son of a bitch! That's
the last time I'm letting you stop and make us pick up a doll by the
side of the road. Why, it could've leveled us and three stands --"
     "All right," Muskrat interrupted. "Suppose it's a magic doll --"
     "A *powerful* magic doll," Bretin amended.
     "That too." Muskrat sighed, knowing the answer to his next question
and knowing it involved money. "Why are you showing it to me?"
     "Well," Olink said. "We were sitting there in the road, staring at
that powerful magic doll --"
     "So powerful, it glows in the dark," Bretin added. "We checked."
     "Yeah," Olink glared at his partner. It was the sort of glare that
indicated there was some disagreement as to who was in charge of this
story. "Anyway, we're looking at that doll --"
     "Just radiating that serious magic."
     "Uh, yeah. So we're considering our options --"
     "I can understand now why it took you so long to get here today,"
Brother Muskrat observed mildly.
     "Will you guys just shut up and let me finish!?" Olink shouted.
     "Mmph?" the doll squeaked.
     "Hey, it didn't do that before!" Olink exclaimed.
     "You didn't shout that loud before," Bretin told him.
     "What's going on?" the doll asked. It also opened its eyes. With a
cry of panic, Bretin dropped and rolled, not stopping until he'd come up
on the far side of the wagon.
     "Who're you?" the doll asked Olink and Brother Muskrat. "And what's
the matter with him?" she added.
     "I am Gerevin," Brother Muskrat identified himself. It never stuck,
but he did like to promote his proper name -- at least with strangers.
He, unlike Olink or Bretin, had the equanimity to deal calmly with dolls
who opened their eyes and immediately started asking questions. "And
this is Olink," the brother identified the petrified wagoner. "He
rescued you."
     "Oh," the doll said, before considering this information
thoughtfully. "Thank you," she eventually decided, and then asked "From
what?"
     Muskrat looked at Olink. Olink looked around for Bretin, but Bretin
was still unhelpfully on the far side of the wagon. So Olink looked
instead at the doll. The doll looked patiently at Olink.
     "Well," Olink temporized. "You know," he suggested. But this was
the wrong audience to suggest that to. None of them seemed to know what
they were supposed to know. A silence threatened to settle in. "Well,"
Olink tried again. "From sleeping in the middle of the road."
     "Ah," Brother Muskrat said. "Yes. A bad habit -- and a dangerous
one. Hazardous to one's health, I'm sure. I can't recommend it," he told
the doll. "I'm sure there are other, safer places to sleep. Do you
sleep?" he inquired, just in case it should turn out that she didn't.
"And have you a name?"
     "I'm Mouse," the doll replied, choosing to answer the easiest
question first. "And yes --"
     "That's good!" Olink exclaimed. "A Mouse and a Muskrat."
     There was an awkward pause.
     "What muskrat?" the doll finally asked.
     "Him," Olink said, pointing at his host. "He's Brother Muskrat."
     "But I thought you said your name was --"
     "My *name* is Gerevin," Brother Muskrat sighed. "But everyone calls
me --"
     "Brother Muskrat," Olink finished cheerfully.
     "Yes. I see," the doll said doubtfully. She glanced about and asked
quickly "Where are we?"
     "Rockway House," Brother Muskrat answered. "Welcome to Rockway
House, Mouse."
     "Thank you," Mouse said absently. She ran a hand through her hair.
"And you saved me from sleeping in the middle of the road? What road?"
     "The Dargon Road," Olink said. "Not many other roads around here
worth mentioning," he added.
     "It leads to Dargon, then?"
     "Be pretty stupid to call it that if it didn't," Olink declared.
     "Now Olink," Bretin called from his safe vantage. "Don't annoy her.
You don't know what she might do if she gets mad at you. She might wink
at you or something."
     The doll frowned. "Are you sure he's all right?" she asked Brother
Muskrat. "Because, I don't know why I'd wink at someone if I were mad at
him."
     "They think you're magical," Brother Muskrat tried to explain.
     "Uh, huh?"
     "And winking is a very powerful thing to do if you're magical."
     "Uh, huh?" Mouse repeated. Her doubt was quite obvious.
     "Shilsara's Bed, girl!" Olink exclaimed. "Everyone knows that!"
     "I wish you wouldn't use that phrase," Brother Muskrat muttered.
     Olink shrugged. "So are you going to pay us or aren't you?" he
asked Brother Muskrat.
     "Pay him for what?" the doll demanded, as loudly as she had yet
managed to shout. "For rescuing me from a nap? In the middle of the
road? What's going on here?"
     "Yeah," Bretin agreed, apparently deciding it was safe to come back
over by the others. "Are you going to reward us proper or aren't you?"
     "What do you mean, reward?" Mouse asked. Both Olink and Bretin
started to respond to her question and also explain to Brother Muskrat
why a mouse was worth a king's ransom. They both spoke loudly and
quickly (and not very comprehensibly, even if only one of them had been
speaking). As it was, they produced a lot of noise but scarcely advanced
anyone's understanding.
     "Please be quiet," Brother Muskrat said. He said it very softly, so
no one heard him. After a pause, he repeated himself, but the shouting
continued unabated. He waited and said his three words again, continuing
to do the same thing until Bretin finally became curious to know what he
was saying and walloped Olink so he could hear.
     "Now," Brother Muskrat said to Mouse, "Olink and Bretin are aware
that Rockway House will provide remuneration in exchange for magical
things that are brought here. They think you are a magical thing --"
     "I am *not* a magical thing!" Mouse exclaimed.
     "Yeah? Well, you'll have to prove that to us," Olink insisted. "We
don't often run into people that's only a couple of hands high --"
     "I am *three* hands high!" the mouse shouted.
     "Two, three. You're still too tiny to be a person," Olink declared.
"I say you're magical and I say pay up."
     "I am a person," the mouse screamed. "I'm not too tiny -- I'm --
me!" She broke into tears and collapsed on Bretin's jacket.
     "Now look what you've done," Bretin glared at his partner.
     "The pursuit of money can be a very cruel thing," Brother Muskrat
observed loftily.
     "Look who's talking!" Bretin turned his attention to him. "You and
your rhubarb relish! Why, the price you charge for your 'secret' recipe
is --"
     "All right," Brother Muskrat reached down and picked up the jacket
and Mouse. "Let's not go off on that argument. We have a little girl to
cheer up." He turned and walked into the kitchen.
     "I still say she's a doll," Olink grumbled, following him.
     "Yeah, she *is* cute," Bretin agreed.
     "That isn't what I meant."

     A change of locale and an offering of watered mead as well as a
fair amount of patience served after a while to calm down the Mouse.
Still sniffling a little, she seated herself on a sunny part of a table
in the refectory, curling up around the small glass that contained her
drink.
     "So," Brother Muskrat said, swirling his own mug. "You're a person,
Mouse. Where are you from?"
     "Kervale," she replied.
     Her statement was met by a silence that implied a complete lack of
recognition.
     "Well, that's all right," she said. "I'd never heard of Rockway
House, either."
     "What's Kervale near?" Bretin asked.
     Mouse frowned. "Well, it's not that far from Riverside," she said.
"It only took me a week or two to walk there from Sir Ongis' house."
     "Sir Ongis?" Brother Muskrat asked. "Is that like in Ongis' Fish?"
     "What's Ongis' Fish?" the emphatically unmagical little girl asked.
     "It was something that was promised but never appeared," Olink
explained.
     "Some years ago, shortly before a Festival, this Sir Ongis wrote to
the Duke and promised that he would be bringing to court a present that
would astound the whole duchy," Brother Muskrat said. "But when the man
actually arrived, all he had was a lame story about some two-headed
brook trout that got away."
     "Well, if it *is* the same Sir Ongis," Mouse shrugged, "he makes a
habit of doing stupid things."
     "I've never heard otherwise," Bretin said. "Anyway, you say you're
from Kervale?"
     "My family's there," Mouse agreed. "My brothers and sister, at
least. I *think* they're still there. I haven't seen them for a few
months. I had to leave because of Sir Ongis. He wanted me to be some
sort of fairy princess."
     "But you're not," Brother Muskrat said.
     "I am not," Mouse agreed. "I'm a girl and my father was a farmer
and my mother's name was Sophie --" She stopped.
     "Was," Brother Muskrat repeated softly. "They're dead?"
     Mouse nodded.
     "The fever?"
     "What fever?"
     "The Red Plague, of course," Olink said.
     "Did they get sick?" Brother Muskrat asked.
     "No," Mouse said shortly. "Anyway, I had to leave. And then I spent
the summer at Riverside. That was very pleasant, though a bit lonely.
But then this awful man grabbed me and took me away from there."
     "He grabbed you?" Bretin asked.
     Mouse nodded. "I'd just been swimming and he -- he grabbed me. I
screamed," she admitted.
     "Very understandable," Brother Muskrat said.
     "But didn't you -- couldn't you --?" Bretin fumbled for his
question. Mouse stared at him, waiting to see if he could sort something
out. "Couldn't you punish him?" Bretin finally asked.
     "No," Mouse said levelly. "I'm not a fairy. I can't 'punish'
people. I'm Mouse, not Melisande --"
     "Melisande! That was the name," Brother Muskrat exclaimed.
     There was a silence while everyone waited for him to explain. He
said nothing more, however.
     "I, uh, told that to Sir Ongis," Mouse resumed. "That I wasn't
Melisande -- though I don't know if he believed me. I tried to fake
being a fairy to Theris the Potter and failed. I don't know what the man
who grabbed me wanted, a Melisande or a Mouse. He stuffed me in a sack
and made me stay in there pretty nearly all the time. He spoke to me
only to give me a few commands and explain that if I cooperated, it
would all go much better for me."
     "Where did he take you?" Brother Muskrat asked.
     "To a chapel in the woods."
     "A chapel?" Bretin asked. "There's a ruined chapel pretty close to
where you were on the road. But that place's haunted."
     "That's probably it," Mouse agreed. "The roof's gone. So he put me
(inside my sack) in a hole in the floor of the chapel and told me to
wait. There was someone who was challenging him to a fight.
     "A while later, someone else came along --"
     "What happened to the bad man?" Olink asked. "Didn't he come back?"
     Mouse shook her head. "I guess that after a while of waiting, I
fell asleep. I slept maybe quite a while. And then this other man came
along. He opened up the hole in the floor and he took out some of the
things that were there with me. But he left me alone; he might not even
have seen that I was there. If he had, I think he would have taken me
out of there; I think he was nice. But he didn't see me and I was too
tired to move or do anything. So he took the stuff he wanted and went
away."
     There was a silence.
     "Then how did you get from the chapel to the road?" Brother Muskrat
asked.
     There was another silence.
     "I don't know," Mouse finally admitted.
     "You're sure you're not magical?" Bretin asked.
     "Yes, I'm sure," the tiny girl insisted.
     "And you spent the summer in this town named Riverside?" Brother
Muskrat asked.
     "Almost in it. There was this nice tree very close to the town. It
was very big and had a wonderful hollow. I lived there." Mouse sighed.
"Up until just a few weeks ago, I think."
     Brother Muskrat looked out at all the bright new growth in the
kitchen garden. "Mouse," he said, "it's springtime now but you're saying
it was summer a few weeks ago."
     "Oh!" Mouse exclaimed. "Oh my! Winter's over already? That was
quick."
     "And you don't remember anything last year about the Red Plague?"
     The girl shrugged. "Maybe they didn't get it in Riverside," she
suggested.
     "And the bad man who grabbed you, while you were swimming, did he
also collect your clothes for you?"
     "He did not!" Mouse exclaimed with remembered indignation. "He just
grabbed me and shoved me in that sack, all wet and cold and shivering.
It was awful! Someone yelled at him just as he was grabbing me, so he
was kind of in a hurry. And he never stopped to get me anything to wear.
It was -- it was very embarassing every time I did have to get out of
that sack."
     "Then, Mouse, where did you get the clothes you're wearing?"
Brother Muskrat asked.
     "Oh!" Mouse looked at her dress. "But this -- this is what I
usually wear," she said, fingering it uncertainly. "I -- I don't know."
     "Are you sure you're not magical?" Bretin asked again.
     "Yes I'm sure!" Mouse screamed at him. "All my life, people've been
telling me I'm magical and I. Know. They're. Wrong!" She took a deep
breath. "You want magical?" she demanded. "I'll give you magical. The
man who came to me while I was sleeping under the chapel. He didn't take
away all the magic stuff. There's some still left there. You want
magical? Go get that."
     "Yes, perhaps we should," Brother Muskrat said.
     "Dibs on the magic stuff!" Olink and Bretin shouted simultaneously.

     It was now too late in the day to start back to the ruined chapel,
not if the quartet wanted to look around the place under daylight -- and
Bretin and Olink most strenuously wanted to avoid the place after dark.
     "It's haunted," Bretin reminded Brother Muskrat.
     "Get your throat slit if you linger near it after the sun goes
down," Olink explained.
     "J'mirg's Bones, Olink!" Bretin exclaimed.
     "Hold it!" Brother Muskrat shouted even louder. "Bretin! I've told
you before. There are certain --"
     "Yeah, yeah. I know," Bretin said wearily. "Don't mess with the
nastier gods. Don't even talk about them. Sorry Brother. But Olink takes
us driving past that place and he's never even told me I could've gotten
my throat opened up."
     "Didn't want to make you nervous."
     "I didn't know that ghosts kept their knives sharp," Mouse said.
     "I didn't know they even *had* knives," Brother Muskrat added. "How
do you know about this slashing ghost?" he asked Olink.
     "Everybody knows about that," Olink said vaguely.
     "All right," Brother Muskrat said. "We'll go first thing tomorrow.
You all can stay to supper tonight --"
     "What about her?" Bretin asked.
     "What about her?" Brother Muskrat responded.
     "What about me?" Mouse echoed, understandably interested in the
question.
     "Are you going to pay us for her?" Bretin tried one last time.
     Brother Muskrat shrugged. "She's a person," he said. "I don't find
anything particularly magical about her. It was good of you two to pick
her up off the road and bring her here. I'm sure she appreciates your
help --"
     "Thank you," Mouse said, responding to her cue.
     "Yeah, sure. You're welcome," Bretin said without much enthusiasm.
     "That, I think, is enough on that," Brother Muskrat declared. "Now
come along. We have a stew to help prepare."

     The group reached the chapel around midmorning the next day. They
left the wagon (and a pair of horses who appreciated the respite in
their journeying) a little ways off the road.
     "Get your throat slit, huh?" Bretin asked on the short walk to the
remains of the building.
     "Only at night," Olink told him. "And then only if you're stupid
enough to go where you're not invited. Folks say that lots of nights
there's a horrible clanging and clashing around the chapel, as if some
swordsmen were having some terrible fight. Well, one evening, someone
traveling to Dargon -- some idiot who couldn't wait til he got to the
city to have himself an adventure -- had too much ale at the Whistling
Pig and decided that he'd go tell the swordfighters to please try to
practice a little less noisily. So he stumbled off into the night --"
     "Oh, and he was the one who got his throat cut?" Bretin asked.
Olink nodded. "Served him right, then."
     "Incidentally," Brother Muskrat asked "was his purse missing also?"
     Olink stared at the brother. "Don't know about that," he finally
said.
     "There's the place," Mouse announced from her vantage on Brother
Muskrat's shoulder. She had listened with half an ear to Olink's story,
but her eyes had remained focused on the forest ahead. She pointed at
the gray stone wall that was scarcely visible under a green tapestry of
vines and creepers. There were gaps (partially filled with more
greenery) where windows had once been and a couple of fissures where the
wall itself had parted. The top of the wall simply ended roughly with a
crown of leaves and tiny flowers rather than any kind of roofline.
     "Not much to look at," Bretin admitted.
     "Not if you wanted a building," Brother Muskrat half-agreed.
"Celine might approve of this place, though -- as it is now."
     "Except for the haunting," Olink said.
     "She wouldn't care for the ghosts," Brother Muskrat nodded.
     "The treasure's inside," Mouse prompted.
     "Treasure?" Brother Muskrat raised an eyebrow.
     "The magic stuff that was with me."
     "Mmm, that."
     There was a choice of entries to the interior (loosely speaking) of
the chapel. They decided to be choosy, though, and walked around the
outside until they found a fairly large gap that was ill-defended by the
briars. Within, the floor was covered with leaf litter and a few
pioneering vines and seedlings, but the ancient altar was still quite
obvious and as yet untouched by the vegetation. The trio walked over to
it and Mouse pointed out for Bretin the catch that would open the hole
in the floor.
     "Now be careful," she said, herself skipping back several feet from
the altar. "When you release that catch, the altar itself will move
some."
     "Yes," Brother Muskrat said, observing where the leaf litter had
been pushed around. "We can see that. Well, Bretin, you and Olink have
'dibs' on the magic stuff. Will you do the honors?"
     Bretin did the honors. With a growling grinding that implied to
Brother Muskrat that the thing might not be willing to perform this
trick many more times, the altar shifted forward away from Bretin and
toward the center of the room. Brother Muskrat walked around the shifted
altar to look at the opening below. As he did, he heard a gasp from
Olink.
     "Something?" he said, peering with Bretin at the darkness below.
     "Uh, yeah," Olink said cautiously. "You know, I really think you
were wrong and we were right."
     "About what?"
     "About that mouse."
     "What about Mouse?" Brother Muskrat stood up and glared at Olink
over the altar. "I thought we settled that yesterday."
     "Well, she just scuttled out of here through that hole in the wall
over there." Olink pointed at a small gap that was close to the ground.
Not easily, perhaps, but Mouse could probably have gotten out through
it.
     Brother Muskrat glanced at the hole and then back at Olink. "So?"
he asked.
     "Well, before --"
     "It's junk!" Bretin exclaimed in disgust.
     Brother Muskrat looked down at his feet. Bretin was dumping some
small stones near his sandals. "All of it?" the brother asked.
     "Some rotten cloth, these moldy stones and some more rotten cloth,"
Bretin said. "If there was ever anything magical here, that other guy
took it all."
     "Hmph." Brother Muskrat felt disappointed. "And Mouse just ran
off?" he asked Olink again.
     "She did?" Bretin asked. "She was the one who suggested we come
here for magic stuff. And then she goes -- The wagon!" he shouted
suddenly. "We left it!" He sprang to his feet and raced out of the
chapel.
     "That's an awful lot of work to go to just to steal someone's
wagon," Brother Muskrat said to the fleeing man. He did not follow.
Neither, he noticed, did Olink. "You don't think Mouse wanted to steal
the wagon either?"
     "No, no," Olink laughed. "What would a mouse want with a wagon?"
     "Well," Brother Muskrat said reasonably, "to ride around in. Or to
sell. She'd have needed an accomplice, though -- if that was what was
going on here."
     "But she's a mouse," Olink said. "What would a mouse want with a
wagon?"
     "What do you mean, she's a mouse?"
     "I mean she turned into a mouse and then ran away."
     "A mouse? You mean with paws and whiskers --"
     "-- and a tail, yeah. And fur. She turned into a mouse and ran off
through a mousehole. She was magic."
     "But she was a person," Brother Muskrat said. "She'd been places
and done things and gotten kidnapped and brought here and --"
     "Wagon's still there," Bretin announced, coming back into the
chapel. "So are the horses. You know, Olink, I don't think I pay enough
attention to Chester or Marybelle. They gave me a very strange look when
I came running up to them."
     "Mouse's a mouse," Olink told him.
     Bretin stared at Olink. "You're not much better than Chester," he
said. "Except that he manages to be enigmatic without moving his lips."
     "Hah! Mouse isn't a mouse!" Brother Muskrat exclaimed. "The mouse
wasn't really Mouse."
     Bretin looked over the altar at Brother Muskrat. "You're worse than
he is," he said.
     "Look at this." Brother Muskrat stood up from the hole in the
floor. He held gently something wrapped in the last of the rotting cloth
and, stepping around to the side of the altar, he unwrapped it slightly.
Olink and Bretin looked.
     "Another doll?" Bretin asked.
     "No," Brother Muskrat said, looking down at a tiny face that was
identical to that of Mouse. The eyes were closed; she seemed to be
asleep. "It's slight, but she's breathing."
     Olink sighed. "Here we go again," he said.

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

                It waits at the edge of a frontier town.
 It waits for a group of adventurers to begin an unprecedented journey.
                   But most of all, it waits for you.
                        Dargon: Deep Woods Inn.
                    In March the wait will be over.

                     It waits in a frontier Duchy.
It waits for a female warrior to guide a band of determined adventurers.
                   But most of all, it waits for you.
                        Dargon: Deep Woods Inn.
                    In March the wait will be over.

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