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DDDDD ZZZZZZ //
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D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE ||
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 14
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-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 8
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DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
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\\
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\
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========================================================================
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DargonZine Distributed: 11/08/2001
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Volume 14, Number 8 Circulation: 751
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========================================================================
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Contents
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Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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Dance of the Dead Stuart Whitby 5th Yuli, 1018
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"A Wizard in Vibril" Charles F. Schweppe Vibril 30, 1016
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Talisman Eight 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 13, 1013
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========================================================================
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DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
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collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
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We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
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Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net>or visit us
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on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at
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ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
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discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
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DargonZine 14-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 2001 by
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the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
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Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
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All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
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and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
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without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
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of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
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Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
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========================================================================
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Editorial
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by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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<ornoth@shore.net>
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If you've been on the Internet for a while, you'll know that it's
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pretty normal for discussion groups to fall into philosophical debates
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about abstract questions from time to time. DargonZine's writers are
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just as liable to argue philosophy as any other group, but we recently
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had a long discussion that I'd like to share with you, because it raised
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some interesting questions and opinions about a particularly pernicious
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topic that means a great deal to us: are we artists or not?
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I think forms of expression like painting and architecture would
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fall into most people's definition of "art", but we found ourselves
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asking first whether any literature is art. Most, but definitely not
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all, of us thought that made sense, but then we started talking about
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what it is that makes one field qualify as art and another not. Is
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poetry an art? Music? Dance? Perhaps. Are fashion designers artists? Are
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interior designers? Could cooking be art? Or psychology? Advertising? Is
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it not possible that teaching is a form of art? Or the practice of
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politics? Law? Accounting? And above all, *why* are they (or are they
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not) "art"?
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This whole thread began when one of our contributors expressed that
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he viewed his writing as more of an engineering task than an artistic
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one. Other writers disagreed, but we all struggled to describe what
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makes one activity art and another activity a craft, and which would
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enable us to determine whether we were artists or not. In the end, we
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just wound up with a half-dozen different definitions that each had
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merits, but didn't encompass everything that art means to people.
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However, our debate did wind up reinforcing DargonZine's mission, and
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your role as readers in helping us achieve that mission.
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Of course, we started with the oft quoted "art is the creation of
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something from nothing" definition, but others went further afield. One
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person defined art as the creation of something that could be
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universally understood, while another contradicted that by saying that
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artists are people "whose work I can never quite understand". One person
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defined art as something that goes beyond what is necessary for the
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creation of an object; another said it's something wherein one can
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discern the creator's unique signature. And still another writer felt
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that art is subjective, something which only is meaningful in the
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context of use or interpretation by people.
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In the end, that there were two prevalent opinions. One group of
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people believe that art must have a sensory impact on a viewer, and that
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writing, which is a mental exercise, didn't qualify; the other group
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took a broader view, saying that all human activity can be a form of
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artistic expression, which would include literature as well as many
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other pursuits.
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Those two contrasting ideas were mirrored in our opinions about
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whether artistry is innate or learned. Half of us believe that although
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the craft of writing can be taught, you can't learn the spark of
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brilliance and inspiration that is creativity; meanwhile, the rest
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espouse the egalitarian view that everyone is born with the potential to
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incorporate art into our work, but that only some of us nurture it.
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We spent a lot of time trying to understand the difference between
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craft and art. The author who approached his writing as an engineering
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task pointed out that writing uses basic, learnable skills to create
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something. But anyone who has been to art school will confirm that much
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of art is the learning of these structured, methodical, technical skills
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whose results can be measured, tested, and enumerated. In that sense,
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writing (and art) is like engineering, but is there anything more to
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writing than just putting words together in the best way to make the
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reader understand what the author is trying to say? Most of us think so.
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So, are we, DargonZine's writers, artists or not? I'll leave you
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with several quotes as representative samples of how we felt about the
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question.
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"Do I consider myself an 'artist'? Definitely not."
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"I am an artist. An artist uses both craft and inspiration."
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"I don't think anyone *has* to consider themselves an artist. I
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don't, though I try like heck to be one ..."
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"We are most emphatically artists one and all, in my opinion."
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"Maybe I define 'art' as 'fine art', and I don't consider what I do
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to have enough merit to fall into this category."
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"We as writers *are* all artists, though we can suppress the *art*
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of writing and approach it merely as work."
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One of the definitions mentioned above asserted that art is
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something that is subjective and that can only be evaluated in the
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context of another person's reaction to it. While there's an objectively
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measurable, technical craft to our proper use of grammar and spelling,
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the vast majority of what we do as creative writers is indeed
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subjective. We can't say that we did a great job at plot, imagery,
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characterization, or tension without asking someone to give us his or
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her opinion.
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In the final analysis, because a "good" story is a subjective
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judgment, the only way for us to measure how "good" our stories really
|
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are is by showing our work to one another and to thoughtful readers like
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you who are willing to give us feedback and honest reactions to our
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work. That is the mission that DargonZine has pursued since it was
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founded back in 1984, and it's the reason why this project has succeeded
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and is on the verge of our 18th year online.
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And that underscores how important your feedback is to us. Thanks
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for playing your part in this experiment as together we help more and
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more aspiring literary artists grow and learn.
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Astute readers will note that it's been about ten weeks since our
|
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last issue. Usually, our issues come out about every six weeks, but as
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discussed in the Editorial from our last issue, the pipeline of
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submissions has been slow this year, and it looks like we'll be unable
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to put issues out as frequently as we have in the past.
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Rest assured, however, that there are some great stories currently
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in our peer-review process, and we'll bring them to you just as quickly
|
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as our writers finalize them.
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Today's issue includes two haunting single-part stories from
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newcomer Charles Schweppe and perennial favorite Stuart Whitby. The
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issue concludes with the second half of Dafydd's "Talisman Eight". I
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hope you enjoy it!
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And again, thank you for your interest in DargonZine. Please take
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the time to rate the stories you read, because since you are the only
|
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way for us to judge how "good" our fiction is, we really couldn't do it
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without you!
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========================================================================
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Dance of the Dead
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by Stuart Whitby
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<swhitby@legato.com>
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5th Yuli, 1018
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Jazz snuck into the crypt, armed with candle and tin whistle. His
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friends quietly jeered him between grunts and curses of closing the
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forbidding stone door. He hurriedly sparked flint to tinder in the
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fading patch of starlight, a murmuring flame from its cotton depths, and
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snapped it to the wick. A final heave as the door cracked shut, their
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laughs and calls muffled in the still.
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Never again would he allow drink to get the better of him; not with
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a mind so young and a body so old.
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The candle flared in his eyes and gleamed off the mess of massed
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bones which stood silent around the room. He sat, cross-legged, and let
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its flickering steady him, relaxing him in its caress. His mind drifted,
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past-tense.
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"Pour me another."
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Jasper sat at the small table with three of his friends, all
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students at the College of Bards. They were well into a skin of akvavit,
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not quite of the promised quality but smooth in its strength, and
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exchanging boasts. He didn't look as if he fit with the group: greying
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hair, age-lined face and haggard beard a sharp contrast to their
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cherubic features. However, they enjoyed many of the same pursuits, and
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all suffered similar failures when it came to wooing women -- Magnus
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wenches not being easily impressed by a sweet young voice. Not that
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you'd think it from the novices' stories. They crowed of their conquest
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of hearts by flattery and song, all the while vocally dismissing the
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claims of the others.
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"Jazz, you're too quiet," exclaimed Carris. "What's the matter, you
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never had a woman want to play with your whistle?" They laughed lewdly
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as he waved them to silence.
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"Boys," he mocked them, "I could tell. But you would not believe."
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"Oh-ho!" mocked Carris. "So the great Jazz has no tales to tell, no
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great stories of how he'd coerce a kiss from kith, kin or cousin?"
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"No, no, I have them. Hells, I had them all at one time," he smiled
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indulgently. "They'd all dance for me. I'd work them to a frenzy by
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playing my pipe, and they'd do anything, *anything*, just so the music
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wouldn't stop." His friends guffawed and hooted at him, none believing
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that "It wasn't just the people either. The cats would sheath their
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claws and dance with dogs, hissing and howling together along with the
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pipe." Jazz getting angrier, sounding righteous, as their jeers grew
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apace. "I'd bring the birds from the trees, doing backflips in the air,
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charm the snakes from the grass and the rats from their nests."
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Carris fell from his stool, still howling with laughter. "Yeah, and
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I'm sure you could raise the sleepers and make them dance like
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marionettes."
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Jasper slammed his fists on the table and stood, sending his seat
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flying. "I could make a dead man dance!"
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"Want a bet?"
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Silence awhile as Jasper stared them down. The mood sombred. "Aye,"
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he replied, quiet and determined as he swayed. "Right then."
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Thoughts were still there. No matter. Whistle would clear them.
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Leaden arms, too relaxed, raised the whistle to his mouth.
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Reflected flame gleamed blue along its length, burning embers on his
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cheek as his mouth carressed and clamped the wood. His tongue touched
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gingerly, tender and teasing as a virgin's kiss, but the wood was wanton
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and lustful, sucking his tongue and laving itself in his saliva. It grew
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damp with expectation and opened its flavours to him: raw and spicy, yet
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so familiar.
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A first-time actress.
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Opening night nerves.
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An eager lover.
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Ready to play.
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He stretched slowly for consciousness, noting only the beginnings
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of sensation. The bed below him was cool, his kidneys: chilled. He
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reached in dreaming to pull up his blanket, only to find he had none.
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His hands felt strange, heavy and unfamiliar. His mouth opened to
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breathe, taking its time to unstick his tongue from its roof.
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Thirsty. He opened his eyes to a darkness greater than the one
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behind his eyelids; listened, and found himself alone in the cold and
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dark. He gathered his legs and moved to perch on the edge of the bed,
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his weight swinging him upright in a most unfamiliar manner. He stood,
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disoriented, banging his head on the low roof as he did so, and
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scratched with concern at the coarse and unfamiliar matt of hair that
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covered his face and chin. He felt his way around the walls, taking
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small and hesitant steps as he learned to walk in this larger and denser
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form, finally finding the latch of a door. The mechanism clicked loud in
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the silence. It opened to more cold and dark, and he shuffled down the
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stone corridor with strange unfamiliar steps, his fingertips acting as
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eyes. He felt more doors as he made his way, trying the handle of each
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of them as he passed. Until one opened to a room with a window, through
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which snow flurries blew.
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Hadn't it been spring yesterday?
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He sighed into the opening, nervous about the dead around him. It
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was not the first time he had played for the dead, but it was the first
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time he had played for their pleasure alone. The first notes susurrated
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from the whistle, a tiny ripple which shattered the mirror surface of
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the black pool in which he sat. The flame twitched, pricked to rapture
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as the notes oozed out, each a wondrous flavour from the stirring
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cauldron of his flute.
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His eyes closed, opening himself to the quiet of music, but still
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aware enough to think back further.
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Jazz was trying to get to the College of Bards. He'd heard rumours
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that the bards had their own magics, and it was the only thing that he
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knew of that might be able to keep him sane. His tribe would hold no
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court with them in normal circumstances.
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He'd been walking for the entire day, ever since being discovered
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just before dawn as a stowaway on a riverboat headed for the capital.
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Within menes of discovery he was afoot; cold, wet and lighter of load as
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he had swum out of his jacket just to keep his head above water.
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He had wandered into the valley to get out of the wind as it
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chilled his adolescent frame, and was surprised to find a castle, under
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construction, hidden in its depths. He approached it, wondering if he
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could prove himself of service to the lord in residence or, if he was
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charitable, just find a bed for the night. However, the place looked
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strangely silent.
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He entered the gatehouse to find a man sleeping there. Or rather,
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lying comatose. Unable to rouse him with a simple touch, he cocked his
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head and pulled his whistle from his pocket, watching the man as he
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began to play. After a stanza, the man's eyes flickered and opened. It
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took a while to get some sense from him, by which time an older man
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arrived, asking who he was to have the talent to find the valley and
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wake the man from his possession.
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Talent? Possession? He grew disoriented as he pondered these Words.
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Only one other thing remained with him from that time. The name
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Roharvardenul.
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His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the tune. Enough of
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laments! The dead would surely have had enough of long, slow dirges at
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their funerals. These were bards he was playing to! They would
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appreciate the dance in which he would lead them.
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He stood, bringing the tempo up with him. His feet beat the rhythm:
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stomping and slapping in time to the tune as it started to quicken.
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Starting to lose himself as it quickened.
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Starting. Quickening.
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Rats.
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Rats were everywhere. Never uncommon, the summer of 989 had bred a
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surfeit of them in Sharks' Cove, and now, close to the end of winter,
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the people were really starting to suffer. The rats had got into the
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grain stores, eating until they were fat and lazy. They fouled the salt
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that cured the hams, and feasted when they uncovered the meat. They
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chewed on the wine barrels, opening their contents to the souring air,
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and infected bites grew commonplace. And in walked Jasper.
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He was well wrapped, but a day in the cold had left him wanting
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something hot. He wandered into the nearest inn and squeezed between the
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seated adults to get as close as he could get to the mean fire, rubbing
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his hands together try to get the blood flowing again.
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"What can I get you, son?" asked the bored looking barkeep.
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"Mulled wine and a bowl of something hot, please," he asked softly,
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his voice chittering.
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"No wine. We've got akvavit or ale. And whatever's hot is bread and
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porridge." The inkeeper thought a moment. "Actually, the bread's cold."
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"No wine?" He looked around incredulously, checking to be sure that
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he was in an inn. "Mulled akvavit then. And some meat along with the
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porridge would be welcome."
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"Your choice," said the barkeep, making his way into the kitchen.
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Jasper turned himself back to the fire, now noting the muffled
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laughs that the other patrons were sharing. "What's so funny?" he asked
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of the nearest back before blowing the droplet of snot from the end of
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his nose.
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"Ah, nothing," said the man, looking around at him. "Just that no
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one here particularly enjoys the thought of eating rat." A titter
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sounded from many of the patrons.
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"Rat?" Jazz asked, looking perturbed. "Would there happen to be a
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slightly more upmarket inn nearby?"
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The man laughed, weakly this time. "We've got another inn, but
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you're not likely to get anything better there. The only meat in this
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town is spoiled, and we've stripped the surrounding farms pretty much to
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the minimum they need to get by. Rats have eaten everything else, and
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even the fish seem to be avoiding us right now. I guess this is what we
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get for keeping the catfeast tradition alive." The man perked up as he
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thought for a moment. "Don't suppose you came in by horse, did you?"
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"M'Kivar!" he exclaimed in shock. "Erm, no, I walked in. Hasn't
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anyone done anything about them?"
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"Oh, people have tried. They breed worse than bunnies though. We've
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killed hundreds, but that's just because there are so many that they
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don't have room to hide any more."
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"I mean, has anyone thought to get someone in to get rid of them?"
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The man laughed openly. "There's no way one man could do anything
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significant about *that* number of rats. If it doesn't improve soon
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though, Sharks' Cove is going to be renamed Rats' Haven. We can't afford
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to live like this for another year."
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Jazz was silent a moment, thinking. "I can get rid of them."
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The quiet words echoed around the room. Men looked at each other to
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confirm what they'd heard. One turned to him, a sad smile on his face.
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"Yeah, straight kid. And just how are you going to manage that?"
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Jazz brought his flute from his pocket. "Watch me."
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Quickening. He leapt and twirled a frenzied fling, lost in the
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rapture of the dancing flame and echoing tomb. His eyes drum-rolled as
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the tune sang from him, infecting and injecting itself into the
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scattered bones of the bards as they started to shudder.
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Mere quivers from the bass of his feet they moved, traversing,
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coalescing their original form. With tune their tissue they arose, beat
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for blood and dance their deity, their ghostly glow fighting the light
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as they pranced and pitched in the black. And silently they sang with
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him, summoning him to stay.
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Jazz played on, lost to himself as he led the dance, never noticing
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his robes slowly stripped and his flesh freely falling. He shone with
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the afterlight, cavorting and decaying, never stopping playing. The beat
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of his feet rang hard through the ground, twin heavy hammers sounding
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out their mass. The music grew, the instrument glowing hot and bright in
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his hands as it entered the very essence of the stone, ringing clear to
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the outside as it crept and climbed to a cacophonous crescendo. He
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sprang into the air, the last of his tissue tumbling as he pulled the
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whistle from his mouth, breaking the spell as, all around, the bones
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unbound.
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And the bards took him home as silence settled through the
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candlelit crypt once more.
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Jasper was nervous. He was ten years old and being brought before
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the assembled elders of the Gwynt Gyrun tribe. His father awaited him
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with tear-filled eyes. And he'd never seen his father cry.
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Silence reigned awhile as he looked nervously at the elders. They
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sat in a semicircle around the fire as dusk settled over the campsite.
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Some looked sadly back at him, others harshly, and some could not hold
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his gaze at all.
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"The council has made their decision, Jasper," his father said
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shakily, taking him by the shoulders. "They say you're too dangerous.
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That a boy with your kind of talent has rarely stayed sane, and that
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whole families have been lost when they snap." Jazz started to blubber,
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grabbing onto his father's cloak and mumbling negatives. "Tribal law
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three generations back would have killed you. As it stands now, you're
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to be exiled." His father held him close and let the love flow between
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them as they each sobbed and grat into the other's shoulder. "M'Kivar! I
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wish it could have worked out different. I just wish I'd never given you
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that damned whistle. Take what you can carry from the caravan, and go.
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With love, my boy. Always with love."
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The massed body of the college was gathered around the Crypt of the
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Masters, though the bell was late. They waited in silence to see who
|
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would be the first to approach the door to investigate the perfect
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music. For to do so, they would have to cross a sea of mourning rats.
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========================================================================
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"A Wizard in Vibril"
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by Charles F. Schweppe
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|
<chschweppe@aol.com>
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Vibril 30, 1016
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|
You can talk all you want about how the Night of Souls is nothing
|
|
more than a bunch of silly tales no one believes, and that sitting
|
|
around the fire telling stories is merely some inn-keeper's way of
|
|
making money on gullible fools, and mostly I'd believe you. But not all
|
|
of the stories are false, and I'd know: I've been traveling this land
|
|
for a long time.
|
|
Who am I? My name is Haden Ley. I am, in no particular order, a
|
|
soldier, sailor, love-maker, tale-teller, horse-trainer, thief. I have
|
|
traveled from Dargon to Bitom, from Sharks' Cove to Pyridain City --
|
|
before the Bennies took it over -- and even into Comarr, and I have seen
|
|
it all. I've seen a giant beanstalk, towering in the sky, and a tiny
|
|
woman, two feet high. I've seen the fools of a king and the King of
|
|
Fools. I've seen it all. However, I should also tell you that I am Haden
|
|
Ley, notorious liar, and you will believe me or no at your own
|
|
discretion and at your own risk.
|
|
So you ask me, what do I know about the Night of Souls? Well, my
|
|
friends, let me ask you something: where are the wizards on the 30th of
|
|
Vibril?
|
|
|
|
You see, several years ago, I was in the employ of a wizard of some
|
|
power, called Vanshans. Now, most wizards I've run into look like
|
|
ordinary people, like you and me, and the only way you can tell if
|
|
someone is a wizard is if he does some feat of magic. Ol's balls, not
|
|
even that's always effective. I bet I could claim to be a wizard and
|
|
half the simpletons out there would believe me. I can even do a few
|
|
tricks that many would take for real magic. I wonder how many real
|
|
wizards there actually are and how many are just fakers and liars like
|
|
me.
|
|
Old Vanshans, now he was a real wizard. Looked and acted like a
|
|
proper one. He was tall, maybe half a head taller than I, and thin, not
|
|
much thicker than a staff. He had this long black hair with silver
|
|
streaks and wore robes of deep purple and blue. Lived in a tower built
|
|
like himself, tall and narrow. Always full of himself, too. No fear in
|
|
him, but I've got to admit that it wasn't unjustified. Why I remember
|
|
the time that Old Sharky's band tried to loot the tower. Vanshans wasn't
|
|
scared, even though I was the only one with him at the time, and hardly
|
|
enough to hold off that many mercenaries. No, he just ... but that's
|
|
another story. The important thing to remember is that he could be a
|
|
nasty old bugger when he wanted.
|
|
Anyway, I was his bodyguard some time back. An easy job, actually.
|
|
I mean, who wants to anger a wizard? Annoy him and get boils on your
|
|
butt. Hurt him and lose your sight or hearing or some such. Kill him and
|
|
-- well, I shudder to imagine. At least, that's what most people think,
|
|
and it amounts to the same thing. So, my main job was to slow down
|
|
anyone foolish enough to attack us until they realized what Vanshans
|
|
was, then let their fears do the rest. As for those who were too stupid
|
|
to get the idea ... well, my friend, Haden Ley may be no wizard, but my
|
|
sword is sharp.
|
|
One Vibril, Vanshans became annoyed by some young upstart getting
|
|
too big for his britches and went off in a huff to take care of the lad,
|
|
not thinking about much else but his business, and I accompanied him.
|
|
While it didn't take long for Vanshans to finish, it did take some time
|
|
to get there, and we set off back for home late in the month. About
|
|
halfway back, we found ourselves in the middle of a nasty storm. Wind,
|
|
rain, and lightning, all in abundance, and us in the middle of this
|
|
large forest, no town nearby. Luckily, we came across an inn, although a
|
|
rather rickety one with gaps in the walls, and took shelter there though
|
|
the day was not much past halfway done.
|
|
"I have never seen such a storm!" exclaimed my master, almost
|
|
losing his normal reserve as he shook the water from his robes.
|
|
I removed my own clothes and shivered, for while the roof kept out
|
|
the rain, the walls let in most of the wind. But I dug around in our
|
|
pack and found the driest robe I could for him, then something not too
|
|
damp for me. As I hung our wet clothes on a piece of rope to dry, I
|
|
asked him if our present predicament might have something to do with his
|
|
little spat with the lad. He just looked at me and said something about
|
|
how I knew nothing about the duel arcane, and thus the subject was
|
|
closed.
|
|
After I had dressed, I went down to the common room to get some
|
|
food for Vanshans and myself. As I waited for it, I noticed that some of
|
|
the locals were setting up in the fire pit a large pile of wood which I
|
|
could tell from the smell was nice and green. However, the walls down
|
|
there were as porous as the ones up in our room and the drafts were
|
|
blowing the rushes on the floor all around. So, when the wench came out
|
|
with the food, two bowls of a squirrel stew with onions and potatoes and
|
|
two mugs of ale, I asked her if they were going to be able to light that
|
|
fire, with all that wind.
|
|
She just cackled and pointed to a large, rough looking man who was
|
|
setting up the wood. "See Jocky over there?" she said. "Jocky's the best
|
|
woodsman in the kingdom. He could light that fire outside on a day like
|
|
this, if need be!" She gave another cackle and said, "Don't you worry
|
|
none. We wouldn't dare not have a fire on the Night of Souls." For it
|
|
was that night, as I damn well knew. I pay attention to such things. I
|
|
thought that Vanshans did, too, but I guess he hadn't thought things
|
|
through this time.
|
|
Anyway, I took the food and drink up to the room, where Vanshans
|
|
had dug out a brazier from somewhere and had it lit. He stood there
|
|
warming himself as I put a bowl and a mug on the table, where he sat to
|
|
eat while I sat on the floor by the door. We ate in silence, Vanshans
|
|
not being terribly talkative with the hired help. Afterwards, he went to
|
|
and sat on the cot, going into some sort of trance, while I got out my
|
|
sleeping roll and lay down, listening to the sounds of the storm. Being
|
|
a bodyguard can be damn dull at times, let me tell you.
|
|
Eventually, I felt the day wear away and the storm seemed to go
|
|
with it. The wind had died down to a hefty breeze by the time I gathered
|
|
up the bowls and mugs to take them down before nightfall, but the rain
|
|
was still coming down hard. As I opened the door, I turned and asked
|
|
Vanshans if we should be expecting him downstairs soon.
|
|
He gave me that look, the one people usually reserve for the really
|
|
foolish questions, like, "Will you be joining us in the town square to
|
|
throw eggs at the king as he rides by?" However, when he realized that I
|
|
was serious and had not lost my mind, he asked, "And why would I wish to
|
|
associate with the simple folk?"
|
|
Now while I was rather used to this kind of treatment, having been
|
|
with him for quite some time, I was surprised at his attitude on this of
|
|
all nights of the year. "Why, because it's the Night of Souls, sir,"
|
|
said I. "It's time to light the green wood and tell stories 'til dawn."
|
|
Of course, as I said this, I remembered that he had never joined me and
|
|
his few servants on previous Nights of Souls. Until that night, I had
|
|
never understood why.
|
|
When I mentioned the date, I saw something in his face that I'd
|
|
never seen before: fear. "That is tonight?" he asked quietly. "I was not
|
|
aware."
|
|
I shrugged and told him to come down when he was ready. "The more
|
|
the merrier," I said.
|
|
But he just shook his head and said, "No, I think not."
|
|
Well, I went down anyway, delivering the dirty bowls and picking up
|
|
some more food and ale for myself before finding a seat in the circle
|
|
forming around the wood pile. A local priestess for some god blessed the
|
|
wood and Jocky, true to the wench's word, lit that fire right up.
|
|
Someone asked if my master would be joining us, and I said no, he liked
|
|
his solitude. Mind you, I didn't really think much about it. You see,
|
|
I've always figured that the whole Night of Souls set up was just a nice
|
|
way of passing a night, sort of a one night festival, and apparently
|
|
most of the locals had similar thoughts, for no one batted an eye at my
|
|
statement. So we started to go around the circle, telling our stories.
|
|
Now, one thing I've learned in my travels is that the stories told
|
|
on the Night of Souls don't change much from place to place. Oh, certain
|
|
tales are told in one village that aren't told in another, and many of
|
|
the details alter, like which eye or hand the mysterious hermit had
|
|
lost, or whether it was a baby girl or boy who was killed by its mother,
|
|
but for the most part, the basics are all the same. That's one reason I
|
|
thought the whole myth about it was a load of manure. Still, I enjoyed
|
|
it. And for all the similarities in the stories, every area has at least
|
|
one story unique to it, which I have come to call "The Local Specialty,"
|
|
with some places having more than just one.
|
|
Now, this inn was not really in a village, just in a convenient
|
|
spot on the road, and the people around the fire were mostly local
|
|
woodsman and the few farmers from the area, so the crowd wasn't as large
|
|
as some I've seen. As far as I can tell, it was getting around four
|
|
bells of the night -- hard to tell, really, since there were no bells to
|
|
give the time anywhere near -- when the Local Specialty was told. It was
|
|
a rather dull tale about a family who declined to join the fire and
|
|
disappeared during an otherwise uneventful Night, so I won't bore you
|
|
with it. But soon after the teller finished, I heard someone come down
|
|
the stairs. I turned and saw that it was Vanshans. I was about to call
|
|
him over when I noticed that he was circling around us, trying to not be
|
|
noticed. I watched him as he went around us, then realized that he was
|
|
heading for the door. While the wind and lightning had almost completely
|
|
disappeared, the rain was still coming down hard, and I knew it was not
|
|
the kind of weather one goes out in. So I called out to him.
|
|
"Master Vanshans!" I said. "Where are you going? The night is not
|
|
fit for man nor beast. Come, sit by the fire and tell us your story."
|
|
Well, he just turned to took at me, and I know that he was not
|
|
terribly happy with me calling attention to him. Casting his gaze at the
|
|
circle, he said, "No, I think that would not be wise. I shall spend the
|
|
night outside. Alone." And he left.
|
|
Now I've met many people in my travels, and there are a few of them
|
|
who have a way of speaking which demands instant obedience. I don't know
|
|
if it's magic or what, but Vanshans had that knack, and he used it then,
|
|
which is why no one rose to stop him. I've always been rather spooked
|
|
when anyone spoke like that, but it was worse when a wizard did it, like
|
|
lightning just hit nearby. That tingling was a bad feeling on Vibril 30,
|
|
and from the faces around the fire, I guess the others felt something
|
|
similar. But we soon shook it off, ignored my strange employer, and went
|
|
back to the stories.
|
|
Or rather, we thought we shook it off, but some of us seemed to
|
|
still be affected by it, because for the next bell, people kept on
|
|
looking around, as if they heard something. Even I thought I heard what
|
|
sounded like scratchings and voices at the shuttered windows and doors,
|
|
whispering strange and bizarre things, too quietly for understanding. It
|
|
was rather unnerving, but on we continued, although I saw some of the
|
|
locals looking around, as if trying to locate the source of the noises.
|
|
Near the middle of the night, one of the locals finished the Three Eyed
|
|
Monster story ... I'm sure you've heard it. I swear, I've heard it
|
|
everywhere I've been, and no one believes the silly thing past the age
|
|
of ten. Anyway, this yokel told it, amazingly believing every line from
|
|
the look on his face, while the rest of us either yawned or smirked,
|
|
waiting for the idiot's turn to end so that we could hear a real story,
|
|
when the bell tolled.
|
|
Now, as I said before, there weren't no village anywhere near this
|
|
inn, and no bell tower, meaning no bell. So where did the bell come
|
|
from? No one knew, not even the locals. I know they heard it because
|
|
they were just as freaked as I was when that clear, deep tone echoed
|
|
through the common room. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five.
|
|
Five bells in the night. Midnight of the Night of Souls had come.
|
|
Then things got really weird.
|
|
The wind that had been dying all day suddenly picked up, howling
|
|
around the inn like a full gale, blocking out the sound of the rain as
|
|
it rattled the old structure. And in that wind, we heard the voices. No
|
|
doubting them now, and though we couldn't make out what they were
|
|
whispering, we weren't sure that we wanted to know. But amazingly, while
|
|
the walls of the inn had been almost useless against the wind before,
|
|
this wind, while rattling the inn, did not enter. The common room was
|
|
dead calm. Jocky added another green branch to the fire, while the
|
|
priestess said a silent prayer to her god.
|
|
Well, we were pretty much scared out of our breeches and most of us
|
|
were just sitting there when the serving wench began to tell us another
|
|
story. I couldn't for the life of me tell you what it was about, nor the
|
|
next one, but we had silently decided that maybe telling stories really
|
|
was important. So for the next bell we sat there, scared, telling
|
|
stories about gods know what, while that, that *wind* howled around out
|
|
there. We just talked in our turn, trying to ignore it.
|
|
Then the bells sounded again, loud and clear over the wind. This
|
|
time they tolled six, and as the echoes of the last "gong" died down, so
|
|
too did the wind. Just as quickly as it had picked up, it was gone.
|
|
Along with those awful voices.
|
|
We all looked at each other for a while. Some wag suggested that
|
|
someone go outside to see what had happened, but no one volunteered. So
|
|
we sat there and, after a brief pause, continued telling stories.
|
|
The rest of the night was nice and quiet. When the bells took away
|
|
the wind, the rain went with it, so all we heard was the crackle of the
|
|
fire and our own voices. Some fell asleep, but not many and not only did
|
|
no one leave the room, no one left the circle. When day finally dawned,
|
|
I was one of the many still awake. With the light beginning to stream in
|
|
through the cracks in the window shutters, I felt positively normal
|
|
again. And I realized that Vanshans never came back inside during the
|
|
night.
|
|
Well, seeing as I was supposed to be his bodyguard and all, I got
|
|
up, stretching as my muscles protested against sitting down for ten
|
|
bells straight , and went to the door. It opened easily enough and the
|
|
front of the inn looked normal enough, just an extremely muddy road with
|
|
small branches fallen on it from the rain and wind. I walked out boldly,
|
|
which was absolutely not a show for the audience of several locals
|
|
following me, including old Jocky. I and my little following walked
|
|
around the building and noticed the large clearing behind the inn. Now I
|
|
didn't remember a clearing back there the day before, and neither did
|
|
Jocky, who had been coming here since he'd been a small boy.
|
|
As Jocky immediately mentioned, this was no natural clearing. It
|
|
was almost a completely regular circle in the middle of the forest, and
|
|
the ground around it was bare. I mean completely bare. Not a tree, a
|
|
leaf, a bush, or a blade of grass could be seen. Except in the very
|
|
center of it, where there was a patch of green in the middle of the
|
|
desolation. On that patch lay Vanshans, motionless.
|
|
Well, I went over to him, crossing that bare area, my hair standing
|
|
on end over the fact that while it was bare, it was also bone dry. I
|
|
looked down at him and thought that I saw the remains of some sort of
|
|
runes dug into the ground at the edge of the green patch.
|
|
"Is he alive?" someone called out from the edge of the clearing.
|
|
While they had followed me outside, they had decided to let me cross the
|
|
patch on my own.
|
|
I knelt down and felt his chest. Yep, he was alive, just
|
|
unconscious. So I picked him up and carried him back into the inn,
|
|
laying him on his bed. He remained unconscious for most of the day, and
|
|
we stayed there that day and that night, during which the wizard spoke
|
|
not a word. Whatever happened that night had really drained him.
|
|
Several months later, back in the safety of his tower, I got the
|
|
nerve to ask him what happened at that inn, and I guess I caught him in
|
|
a generous mood, for he told me. You see, while many people might run
|
|
into the stray spirit now and then, some wizards, like Vanshans, deal
|
|
with otherworldly creatures regularly, and they are particularly in tune
|
|
with them. When the barriers between this and the spirit world lowers on
|
|
the Night of Souls, then these wizards act as a lodestone to them,
|
|
especially the more malignant and powerful ones. Vanshans had taken to
|
|
spending that one night in a special room, in which he would be hidden.
|
|
Thus when he realized his mistake from being so far from his tower on
|
|
that night, he knew that he needed to leave the inn, for so powerful was
|
|
the attraction between himself and the spirits that not even the
|
|
greenwood fire would be protection enough, and the building would have
|
|
been torn apart. Even with all his skill and power, he had only barely
|
|
kept the spirits at bay, and had almost died that night.
|
|
And I believe him. Several years later, I went back to that inn,
|
|
and I've seen the clearing behind it. It's still there, and nothing
|
|
grows there. Also, Jocky says that no animal will ever cross it, nor
|
|
bird fly over it. So I believe what Vanshans told me.
|
|
|
|
Well, that's my story, and every word of it true. I give my word.
|
|
Now, who's next?
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|
|
Talisman Eight
|
|
Part 2
|
|
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
|
|
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
|
|
Yuli 13, 1013
|
|
|
|
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-7
|
|
|
|
Early in the morning of the 13th of Yuli, not much past second
|
|
bell, Rhonwn charged into the clearing where he and his father were
|
|
staying, crying, "Bobere! Murntedd!" over and over. His heart sank when
|
|
he saw that no progress had been made toward readying the wagon for
|
|
travel; there were crates of wares stacked on one side of the clearing,
|
|
the horses were bare of tack on the other side, and around the embers in
|
|
the fire pit was almost every cooking utensil they owned. Despite the
|
|
urgency of his news and the consequent need for a hasty departure,
|
|
Rhonwn knew that the wagon wasn't going to be ready to leave for well
|
|
over a bell.
|
|
After one more shout, the elder gypsy appeared at the door of the
|
|
wagon parked half-a-dozen paces from the fire pit. "What's the noise
|
|
about, murnmib? Your dawn returnings aren't usually so noisy, luckily
|
|
for me. I need more sleep than you, my son, as you well know."
|
|
Rhonwn rushed over to his father and said, "Disaster, murntedd,
|
|
disaster for all of us, that's what. I overheard a sinister meeting
|
|
gathered by our passenger-to-be, Lacsil, and it bodes disaster!"
|
|
"Calm down, Rhonwn, calm down!" Bobere said. "Come, sit and rest
|
|
yourself, and give me your news."
|
|
Rhonwn protested, "But we don't have time, Bobere!" even as he let
|
|
himself be led to the folding chairs set by the fire pit. He settled
|
|
himself into the cloth sling of the chair, took a few deep breaths, and
|
|
then said, "Father, I've learned that Lacsil is a member of the Bloody
|
|
Hand of Sageeza." He was pleased that his father's expression changed
|
|
from amused tolerance to the beginnings of concern. "It's true. He
|
|
revealed that the Bloody Hand has plans to intrude upon the gathering of
|
|
our people in the forests of the duchy of Dargon this fall, with the
|
|
intent of killing as many of us as he and his fellow malcontents can
|
|
manage. That would be bad enough under normal circumstances, but with
|
|
the numbers that will attend this gathering for the union between Maks
|
|
and Syusahn, it could be completely disastrous.
|
|
"But that's not the worst. It seems that Lacsil has learned that
|
|
you possess a map of the Rhydd Pobl trails, through an indiscretion of
|
|
my own. I've put everyone in grave danger, father. What can we do?"
|
|
Bobere's expression had changed to deepest worry. "We can leave, as
|
|
quickly as possible, son. Lacsil must not have that map. You harness the
|
|
horses, and I'll stow the interior of the wagon. We may have to leave
|
|
our stock and our kitchen gear, but those can be replaced. We must not
|
|
be anywhere near when Lacsil comes to find us. Go!"
|
|
|
|
Lacsil, dressed all in green as usual, rode with his assistant,
|
|
Hissek, through the woodland paths that surrounded Beeikar, the baronial
|
|
seat of Bindrmon. He rode with two of the towns-people who had been at
|
|
his dawn meeting of the newest recruits of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza.
|
|
He had sent the others at the meeting off to spread the word to other
|
|
groups of the Bloody Hand -- the word that Lacsil had finally gained the
|
|
key to striking a major blow against their foes, the gypsies!
|
|
For ages, the Bloody Hand had sniped at the gypsies, ambushing them
|
|
here, inciting people to rise up against them there. But Lacsil was
|
|
marshaling what would be their crowning glory: an attack in mass on the
|
|
annual gypsy gathering. And he would have the means to lead each and
|
|
every Hand right to their enemies!
|
|
All he had to do was meet up with the gypsies he had hired to
|
|
smuggle him north out of Welspeare. Somewhere along the way, he would
|
|
find the map they had, the only map in existence that cataloged the
|
|
hidden ways of the gypsies, and break away from them. Armed with that
|
|
map, and the legions of the Hand who would be gathering in Tench by the
|
|
end of Sy, he would strike a righteous blow against the "Reethe Pobul"!
|
|
Lacsil had been told the previous evening that the gypsies would be
|
|
leaving at about third bell. Knowing that he couldn't afford to be late,
|
|
he had set out as soon as the morning meeting had ended. How could they
|
|
object to his arriving early, after all?
|
|
Rhonwn's directions had been explicit, so Lacsil knew when he was
|
|
nearing the gypsy's clearing. He reined in his horse, signaling his
|
|
associates to stop as well. When they had all dismounted, he gathered
|
|
them around and clarified his plans.
|
|
"I want the three of you to wait within earshot while I continue on
|
|
into the gypsy's campsite. I'm sure there won't be any trouble, but this
|
|
is too important not to have a backup plan, and that's you three,
|
|
straight? If anything goes wrong, I'll shout out, which is your signal
|
|
to come running. Got it? Fine.
|
|
"Now then, since everything is going to go perfectly, when I leave
|
|
with the gypsies, you'll follow us, Hissek. Once again, as a, well and
|
|
well, contingency. You two have already been told where to take my
|
|
message as soon as you are finished here. Is everything clear? Then
|
|
let's be about it."
|
|
Lacsil took hold of the headstall of his horse and set out down the
|
|
path to the clearing. His intention hadn't been stealth, but he arrived
|
|
unnoticed to see both gypsies concentrating on preparing to leave.
|
|
Bobere, the older gypsy, was hurriedly stowing items into the wagon
|
|
parked near the fire pit while his foster son, Rhonwn, was draping the
|
|
horses in blankets, and buckling straps around them.
|
|
Lacsil knew that it was not very much past second bell, and the
|
|
haste with which the gypsies were acting alerted him that something was
|
|
not right. Surely, if his guides were still intending to leave at about
|
|
third bell, there was no need for such speed? Warily, yet putting on a
|
|
cheerful face, he said, "Greetings, fellow travelers! I didn't want to
|
|
inconvenience your departure plans, so I have arrived, well and well
|
|
early!"
|
|
Both gypsies stopped in their tracks and turned toward him when his
|
|
voice sounded across the clearing. Was that fear on their faces? Bobere
|
|
rattled off a sentence in their strange language, which set Rhonwn to
|
|
work harnessing the horses again, though at a more sedate pace. Then the
|
|
older gypsy approached Lacsil and said, "Ah, sir Lacsil, I regret that
|
|
you have made your journey in vain. Matters have rearranged themselves,
|
|
and the upshot is that our wagon no longer has an extra seat this
|
|
journey. Here, let me return your Crowns, and I hope that you will be
|
|
able to make other arrangements."
|
|
Lacsil cursed inwardly, but maintained his friendly mask. "Oh, but
|
|
are you sure? I fear that the forces of so-called justice are closing in
|
|
on me and I don't know how long I might have as a free man. You were my
|
|
best chance at escaping and reaching my friends in the north. I assure
|
|
you I would be no bother; I have my own gear and can fend for myself.
|
|
All I need is a guide. Perhaps you might change your mind for another,
|
|
well and well, two Crowns?"
|
|
Bobere was backing away as he said, "No, no good sir, the sticking
|
|
point is not the amount of payment. I'm afraid that, much to my regret,
|
|
there is no leeway for compromise this time. Fare you well, Master
|
|
Lacsil."
|
|
"So be it, Master Bobere," said Lacsil, with feigned resignation.
|
|
However, instead of turning and leaving, the man in green drew his knife
|
|
and shouted, "For Sageeza!" Not waiting for his companions to arrive, he
|
|
charged at Bobere. He didn't even regret the change in plans all that
|
|
much; after all, a gypsy dead now rather than at journey's end was still
|
|
a gypsy dead!
|
|
|
|
Yawrab closed the servant's door of Denva Manor and turned the key
|
|
in the lock, securing the residence. As chatelaine of the manor, Yawrab
|
|
had returned early to prepare it for the imminent return of the Lord and
|
|
Lady Denva and their twin children from their recent trip to Fremlow
|
|
City. Arriving the previous afternoon, she had worked well into the
|
|
evening getting the large house ready.
|
|
Despite being tired from her own journey from the ducal seat and
|
|
retiring rather later than usual, she still found herself rising with
|
|
the dawn, as was her habit. Faced with the prospect of sitting alone and
|
|
idle for the day -- her duties had been carried out, and the other
|
|
servants not yet returned from their holiday -- she chose instead to
|
|
take herself into Beeikar to visit her sister, Tillna. The Denva estate
|
|
was some distance from the town proper, but Yawrab faced the two-bell
|
|
walk in good spirits. She had spent quite enough time recently on
|
|
horseback, and the weather that fine Yuli morning was well suited to a
|
|
short trek.
|
|
As Yawrab started walking, she wondered how Tillna was. Her sister
|
|
worked at an inn in Beeikar, the Ring of Swine or something similar, and
|
|
seemed to like it. There had been a time when Tillna was little more
|
|
than a trollop, using her beauty and her body to earn favors from men.
|
|
Yawrab had found that both demeaning and personally repugnant, the
|
|
latter due to a particular incident in her past, the very one that had
|
|
led to her traveling north from Shaddir Barony to Barony Bindrmon. Her
|
|
sister, as her only family, had come along, though Tillna hadn't known
|
|
why her sister was moving so far away from home.
|
|
Things were getting better for Tillna now, though. Yawrab's younger
|
|
sister had set her cap for the handsome and dashing Lord Aldan, son of
|
|
Baron Bindrmon and heir to the title. She hoped that Tillna wasn't
|
|
aspiring too high. Could the baron-to-be really be romantically
|
|
interested in a bar-maid? Could the daughter and sister of servants
|
|
really aspire to a coronet of rank?
|
|
Sometimes, Yawrab found herself wishing for that kind of
|
|
uncertainty in her life, but in general she was happy with the boringly
|
|
familiar. She was ten years older than her sister, but it sometimes felt
|
|
more like fifty, so set in her ways was she. Her world was well defined
|
|
by the limits of the Denva estate, where she knew everyone and
|
|
everything, and even had some small measure of control over well
|
|
delineated portions of it. The largest source of discomfort over her
|
|
recent trip to Fremlow City had been in how she had been removed from
|
|
her safe surroundings for more than a sennight. Fortunately, she was
|
|
well used to that periodic upheaval by now. She had learned to adjust to
|
|
it by confining herself to the apartments that the family stayed in. She
|
|
would take them over from the normal staff and re-create her familiar
|
|
world, as much as possible, within them. All she had ever seen of the
|
|
ducal seat of Fremlow City was the Street of Traders that they rode in
|
|
on, and Harthone Hall, where they stayed. And she was quite content with
|
|
that.
|
|
Yawrab had trekked her way past several other estates and two farms
|
|
as she traveled along the road to Beeikar. It might have been around
|
|
second bell -- still very early, in any case -- when the road she was on
|
|
curved around some trees and neared the Renev River. She had stepped
|
|
well clear of the cover of the trees when she realized that in the
|
|
clearing between the road and a bend in the Renev there was an empty
|
|
barge pulled up on the bank of the river.
|
|
Barges weren't normal parts of the scenery and, moreover, they
|
|
usually implied bargemen. And bargemen were only trouble. Yawrab cast
|
|
about her for a quick exit or some concealment. The trees she had just
|
|
cleared were only a few steps behind her. The road continued on past the
|
|
clearing, but the trees didn't resume for at least three score strides.
|
|
The road branched about halfway across the expanse of the clearing, but
|
|
she couldn't see anything down that branch that looked helpful.
|
|
Her heart beating wildly, she continued on at an even pace, praying
|
|
to any and all gods of defenseless women that nothing would happen.
|
|
Her prayers were answered. Unfortunately, the answer was 'no'.
|
|
Two bargemen stumbled out of the trees on the opposite side of the
|
|
road from the clearing. Laughing suddenly and for no obvious reason,
|
|
they lurched to a halt almost directly in front of Yawrab but facing
|
|
away from her. One was tall and lean, the other was short and round;
|
|
both were obviously drunk, taking long swigs from the wineskins they
|
|
were carrying. The tall one turned first and spotted Yawrab, and wasted
|
|
no time elbowing his companion into noticing her as well.
|
|
"Look, Jurce, a fine, fine filly," said the tall one. "A fine filly
|
|
for to end our respite, yas?"
|
|
The round one chuckled, a low and utterly filthy sound. "Ah yas,
|
|
Essipt, a fit end, yas. Couldn't see getting back to the barge without
|
|
doin' for this filly so fine."
|
|
Yawrab began to shake. It was just like before, even if it was
|
|
nothing like before. These bargemen, these scum, these filth, these
|
|
dregs of humanity shunned by almost all polite society, were as far from
|
|
Lord Cranhull as one could get, but the look in their eyes was exactly
|
|
the same. Last time it had been in a wood paneled room with fine wall
|
|
hangings and elegant furniture; this time it would be in the grass like
|
|
an animal. But it would all be the same in the end: rape!
|
|
It wasn't until the two men actually grabbed her that she cried
|
|
out, shouting and flailing in anger and fear. It didn't inconvenience
|
|
the men in the least. The short one even said, "Good, she can talk. It's
|
|
better when they can talk, right Essipt?" The tall man's chuckle wasn't
|
|
as deep as Jurce's, but it was just as filthy.
|
|
As the bargemen dragged Yawrab off of the road and into the
|
|
clearing by their barge, the chatelaine saw a gypsy wagon up along the
|
|
part of the road that branched away. It was a large wagon, colorfully
|
|
painted, drawn by three horses, with two people on the bench in front
|
|
and another riding along side.
|
|
Hope dawned inside of Yawrab; she was going to be rescued! But that
|
|
brief ray of hope only made the despair that followed deeper, for the
|
|
wagon turned aside a good way from the clearing. Her shouts turned to
|
|
sobs as the golden fox painted on the side of the house-like wagon
|
|
vanished into the trees.
|
|
|
|
Ganba of the Rhydd Pobl, the Free People, had been riding her wagon
|
|
along the paths of Bindrmon since before the sun's awakening. It was now
|
|
something like second bell by rooted-folk reckoning, on the day they
|
|
labeled the 13th of Yuli. For Ganba, it was simply early on a day in the
|
|
middle of summer, and she loved the freedom that gave her. For her
|
|
purposes, it didn't matter what divided one day from the next; she
|
|
counted days and nights from event to event, like the number of days
|
|
from her last camping spot to her next. For her, the question of when
|
|
the 13th had begun was only interesting in as much as she had to
|
|
interact with those to whom it did matter. Whether it began at sunrise
|
|
or sunset, mid-day or mid-night, it was all the same to her. But as the
|
|
rooted-folk changed their numbers at sunrise, so would she.
|
|
Folk like those who lived in this part of the world -- Bindrmon,
|
|
Welspeare, Baranur -- grouped the passing of time into months and gave
|
|
the days within a month a number. The joke of it all was that, even with
|
|
all of their marshaling of time into twelve even months of thirty days
|
|
each, they still had to throw five, or sometimes six, extra days into
|
|
the middle so that the first of Yule fell on the summer solstice. Ganba
|
|
had never understood why the middle of their year had to be so precise,
|
|
since the beginning of their year only sometimes actually fell on the
|
|
winter solstice. She wondered how many times they had lost count of
|
|
exactly how many years had passed over the supposed one thousand
|
|
thirteen since they started trying to keep track.
|
|
Ganba and her brothers were currently making a detour from the rest
|
|
of the bantor, or wagon group, of her family, as it made its casual way
|
|
north for the annual gathering. This year the gathering would be made
|
|
even more special by the union between Maks and Syusahn, and she was
|
|
looking forward to the ceremony.
|
|
The detour was to meet up with Bobere and Rhonwn, who were supposed
|
|
to be stopping to sell their wares in a few cities in Bindrmon during
|
|
this second month of summer. Their last stop was to be Beeikar, from
|
|
which they would be setting out for the gathering. Of course, she wasn't
|
|
sure whether the pair had already left, or had even arrived yet; gypsies
|
|
seldom scheduled anything for a specific day beyond very large
|
|
gatherings since any number of things could delay one in travel. She
|
|
knew roughly where their camp would be though, and there would be blazes
|
|
on the surrounding trails to direct them to the right location.
|
|
Ganba was an artisan, as was most of her bantor. She carved figures
|
|
from wood with more than a little skill, according to her family. Bobere
|
|
often sold her wares for her, and she was always eager to see which of
|
|
her fanciful creations had caught someone's eye. The money her carvings
|
|
brought was secondary in importance, but well received in any case; even
|
|
gypsies needed gold from time to time.
|
|
Ganba's older brother, Hiranw, was driving the large, brightly
|
|
painted wagon on this trip. Ganba had the skill too, but Hiranw's touch
|
|
was more sure, especially with the larger wagons. Three horses pulled
|
|
their wagon along the wooded pathways around Beeikar, and although they
|
|
were well matched and used to the harness, Ganba was happy to let Hiranw
|
|
drive even though she had been given the leadership of the detour trip.
|
|
Her younger brother, Shaiff, was riding alongside the wagon on his
|
|
own horse for this trip. Shaiff and Rhonwn, Bobere's son, were friends
|
|
and when the detour had been approved he had asked to go along, even
|
|
though the wagon's steering bench wouldn't hold three comfortably for
|
|
any length of time. Which meant that he was riding alongside, instead of
|
|
along with, his siblings.
|
|
Ganba caught sight of the glint of sun on water well down the path
|
|
at the same time as she noticed the small blaze on the tree indicating
|
|
that they needed to turn away from the path they were currently on.
|
|
Since Hiranw was already coaxing the horses to slow and bear right, she
|
|
knew that he had seen the marking as well. As the wagon turned away from
|
|
their former trail, she looked back toward the sun-glint.
|
|
She was shocked to see three figures move into view in the clearing
|
|
at the end of the path. It looked as if two men were dragging a
|
|
struggling woman between them. Ganba knew that something was wrong, both
|
|
from the knife in the tall one's hand and the sideways-circle hats that
|
|
the men wore that marked them as bargemen. That woman was in trouble!
|
|
"Stefyll!" she commanded, indicating that they should stop.
|
|
Hiranw pulled back on the reins, and the wagon slowly ceased
|
|
moving. Shaiff drew up beside the wagon's seat on horseback, and asked,
|
|
"What's wrong, chwrd?" of his sister.
|
|
"Just as we were turning off the other trail back there, brwd," she
|
|
answered her brother, "I saw a woman being dragged along by two
|
|
bargemen. She was struggling, and one of the men had a knife. We have to
|
|
help her."
|
|
Hiranw said, "Well, the wagon won't turn around in this space. Do
|
|
either of you know whether this path meets that one again?"
|
|
Ganba sneered at her other brother. "What, has your brain shut down
|
|
from being sat on for so long? We don't need a wagon to get us down to
|
|
that clearing, Hiranw. Grab your bows, boys, and your knives too. We
|
|
need to hurry! Move!"
|
|
The men fetched their bows from the wagon, which Hiranw hurriedly
|
|
secured. As Ganba led them through the trees toward the clearing and the
|
|
water, she hoped that nothing spooked the horses -- the locked wheels of
|
|
the wagon wouldn't hold against three frightened animals if it came to
|
|
that.
|
|
As the edge of the trees came into view, Ganba needlessly hushed
|
|
her brothers and slowly crept closer. She could hear the bargemen
|
|
mumbling to each other, but nothing from the woman. Had she fainted, or
|
|
been gagged, or even killed?
|
|
Ganba sidled up behind a tree and peeked around. She saw the woman
|
|
on the ground, and the two bargemen kneeling on either side of her. They
|
|
were grinning at each other and making pleased-sounding, unintelligible
|
|
conversation with each other. The fat one was pawing at the victim's
|
|
breasts, while the thin one was waving his knife around while plucking
|
|
at the hem of her dress.
|
|
Ganba turned to her brothers, who had their bows ready and were
|
|
taking in the scene from their own concealment. She said, "Hiranw, can
|
|
you shoot the one with the knife? Not to kill, just to disable. They're
|
|
filth, but human for all of that."
|
|
Hiranw gazed thoughtfully across the intervening distance for a
|
|
moment, and then nodded. Ganba turned to Shaiff and said, "And the other
|
|
one?"
|
|
The younger brother took his own look at the situation, and then
|
|
said, "Sorry, Ganba, I don't see any target that wouldn't kill with that
|
|
one. The way he's kneeling and bending over ... I just don't see a
|
|
shot."
|
|
"Fine. Hiranw, put your arrow in the one with the knife. Maybe
|
|
that'll scare them both off. If not, well, be ready for anything."
|
|
They both nodded, and Hiranw pulled an arrow from his quiver and
|
|
nocked it. Taking a step sideways, he drew, aimed, and fired in a
|
|
smooth, practiced motion. By the time Ganba turned her head from her
|
|
brother to the bargemen, the arrow had already hit its target and was
|
|
buried deep in the knife-wielding arm. The knife slipped from the
|
|
bargeman's hand as he cried out and lurched backwards. Then he fell flat
|
|
on his back, clutching his wounded arm.
|
|
The other bargeman straightened up and looked around somewhat
|
|
stupidly for a moment. Then he noticed his companion with an arrow in
|
|
his arm, lying flat on the ground. "Essipt!" he cried. "What happened,
|
|
Essipt?"
|
|
The thrum of a bowstring to Ganba's left seemed almost coincidental
|
|
to the appearance of an arrow in the remaining bargeman's shoulder.
|
|
Whether Shaiff had been aiming for the same place as his brother or not,
|
|
his arrow had the same effect. With a grunt and then a grimace of pain,
|
|
the other bargeman fell over as well.
|
|
Ganba was up and running in a trice, her brothers following shortly
|
|
after. She knelt beside the woman, checking to see that she was still
|
|
breathing. Ganba couldn't see any sign of injury, and the woman seemed
|
|
to be breathing normally. Relieved, she said to her brothers, "You two
|
|
take care of these brutes. Dump 'em in their barge and push it off the
|
|
bank, yes? I'll see if I can revive her."
|
|
Ganba dipped her sleeve in the river and bathed the woman's face
|
|
lightly, hoping to wake her up without frightening her any further.
|
|
|
|
Yawrab was dragged across the clearing by the bargemen and dropped
|
|
carelessly to the ground. She had ceased to struggle, ceased to sob.
|
|
What was the use, after all? These two brutes were going to have their
|
|
way with her, and she was just as helpless as she had been in the face
|
|
of Lord Cranhull's advances. But this time, if she survived, there would
|
|
be no one to be her advocate against the injustice. No one to go to the
|
|
perpetrator and shame him into getting her a job at another estate on
|
|
the other end of the duchy. No daughter of Lord Cranhull, no Lady
|
|
Shorilen, to be her bastion of courage.
|
|
No, these bargemen would go free, back to their fellow animals,
|
|
free from recriminations, from justice. It was all so unfair! How could
|
|
this happen to her again?
|
|
As the two grease-smelling drunks knelt down on either side of her,
|
|
looming over her like the fate she knew she was going to suffer, Yawrab
|
|
felt an all-encompassing despair flood over her, as if she was at the
|
|
bottom of a cataract being battered by the water falling on her. The
|
|
water turned into years, pummeling down on top of her, drowning her in
|
|
time. Every year of her life pooled above her, and then twice that, a
|
|
hundred years, four hundred, a thousand, more. She was trapped by the
|
|
past, by a history that she didn't know but that seemed to be part of
|
|
her, borne down until she couldn't move, crushed, pulverized like herbs
|
|
in a mortar.
|
|
And then, the years turned into flames that ringed her all around.
|
|
But instead of bringing fear, they brought calm, safety, release. She
|
|
felt reassured, comforted, happy ...
|
|
The strange dream faded away slowly as Yawrab felt something cool
|
|
against her forehead. She opened her eyes to find the face of a young
|
|
woman hovering over her. Brown hair, brown eyes, pretty in a swarthy
|
|
way, something about the face connected with her fading dream and made
|
|
her feel safe, despite her sudden recollection of the bargemen and their
|
|
intentions.
|
|
"Are you all right?" asked the brown-haired face in a
|
|
slightly-accented voice. "Did they hurt you?"
|
|
Yawrab stared into the brown eyes and answered, "No. No, they
|
|
didn't actually hurt me. Are you ... are you from the golden fox wagon?"
|
|
"Yes, I am. I'm Ganba, and these are my brothers, Hiranw and
|
|
Shaiff. Do you think you can stand?"
|
|
Yawrab sat up with Ganba's help. She looked around and found no
|
|
sign of the bargemen or their barge. Ganba's brothers were squatting a
|
|
couple of paces away, and Yawrab was grateful that they had the sense
|
|
not to crowd her just at this moment. Even though she knew that they
|
|
were no threat, they were still men and she had just been through quite
|
|
an ordeal.
|
|
Yawrab was next helped to her feet and then, slowly and
|
|
solicitously, up the trail and to the gypsies' wagon. The back was
|
|
lowered into a platform, and Yawrab was given a seat on the steps while
|
|
the older brother, Hiranw, fetched her an herbal concoction to drink. It
|
|
smelled horrible, but tasted fairly neutral and she did feel more steady
|
|
once she had it inside her.
|
|
She said, "That does help, Hiranw. Thank you. And ... well, I ...
|
|
ah, I don't know how to thank you enough for rescuing me. It was ...
|
|
well ..."
|
|
Ganba said, "No need, no need. We were there, and able-bodied
|
|
enough to help, so we helped. What else could we have done?
|
|
"So, where were you headed when you were ... when it ... ah, this
|
|
morning?"
|
|
Yawrab smiled at Ganba's stumbling phrasing, and said, "I was
|
|
headed for Beeikar to visit my sister. Were you headed that way?"
|
|
"Well, honestly, no," said Ganba. "But, in the interests of not
|
|
having our good deed wasted by giving some other ruffians the chance to
|
|
attack you, we'll happily give you a ride into the town."
|
|
"That would be most welcome, Ganba. Thank you again. I just ...
|
|
thank you."
|
|
Ganba just smiled, and then the three gypsies were bustling around,
|
|
getting the wagon ready for travel again. Soon, the caravan was on the
|
|
move again, carrying Yawrab into Beeikar.
|
|
|
|
The sun was sliding past its zenith, what the locals would call
|
|
fifth bell, by the time Ganba and her wagon were once again among the
|
|
roads and paths through the forest around Beeikar, looking for the trail
|
|
blazes that would lead to Bobere's camp. She didn't regret the time
|
|
spent rescuing Yawrab, nor getting her safely to the Boar-Ring Inn where
|
|
her sister worked. This was just one of many things that could delay a
|
|
journey, and it was all for a good cause.
|
|
As Hiranw drove the wagon expertly through the forest, finding the
|
|
blazes left by Bobere with ease, Ganba couldn't stop thinking about
|
|
Yawrab. There had been something about the woman, something just on the
|
|
edge of familiarity even though they had never met before. Yawrab's
|
|
black hair, pale skin, and most especially her differently-colored eyes,
|
|
one blue, one brown, had struck a chord deep within her. That wasn't why
|
|
she had put herself out helping the woman, of course, but it was why she
|
|
couldn't get Yawrab out of her mind.
|
|
The older woman hadn't revealed much about herself during the ride
|
|
into Beeikar. Ganba had learned that she was the chatelaine of an estate
|
|
a short distance from the town, and that she had recently been to the
|
|
ducal seat of Welspeare with the noble family that lived at the estate.
|
|
Yawrab had also mentioned that Tillna was her younger sister, and worked
|
|
at the Boar-Ring Inn. But that was all, despite a ride of more than a
|
|
bell.
|
|
Ganba hadn't pressed, knowing that despite the woman's tough
|
|
exterior, she was probably still unsteady after the attack. They had
|
|
said farewell in front of the inn, then Ganba had left, probably never
|
|
to see the woman again. But that, too, was the way gypsy life was, ever
|
|
traveling, ever meeting and departing.
|
|
Her thoughts were still on the enigma of Yawrab when Hiranw said,
|
|
"Chwrd, we've arrived. But ... by the ocean's depth, what's happened?"
|
|
Ganba looked around, and gasped. Bobere's campsite was a shambles.
|
|
A stack of wooden boxes on one side of the clearing had been smashed
|
|
open, revealing the kinds of wares Bobere usually sold, including some
|
|
of her statues. Kitchen gear was scattered about the fire pit, and it
|
|
looked as if half of the contents of the wagon itself had been thrown
|
|
around the clearing. Several holes had been smashed into the side of the
|
|
wagon, and one of the wheels had been cracked. There was no sign of life
|
|
anywhere -- not Bobere or Rhonwn, nor the horses.
|
|
Ganba and her brothers hurried into the clearing and started
|
|
looking around. Shaiff called out, and Ganba raced over with Hiranw to
|
|
the back of the wrecked wagon. They found Shaiff kneeling next to
|
|
Bobere, who was breathing very shallowly and looked very pale as he lay
|
|
amongst the debris of his caravan. It was easy to see why; the older
|
|
gypsy's multicolored tunic was reduced to but one color by the blood
|
|
that soaked half of it, blood from a knife that was still impaling his
|
|
side and which was probably the only reason he hadn't yet bled
|
|
completely to death.
|
|
"Take a look around," said Ganba, "and see if you can find any
|
|
reason for this. Also, see if Rhonwn is lying under something, similarly
|
|
wounded. I'll see what I can do for Bobere."
|
|
As her brothers did her bidding, Ganba wondered what she might be
|
|
able to do for a fatally-stabbed man. This wasn't going to be made
|
|
better by a damp sleeve across the forehead. She touched his neck
|
|
gently, and could barely feel his life-beat. She could hear that his
|
|
breathing was raspy, even bubbly, which wasn't a good sound at all. She
|
|
took his hand, and it felt cold. She tried rubbing some warmth back into
|
|
it, as if that would heal his wound, but she knew that it was too late.
|
|
Only magic would have had a chance to reverse Bobere's course now, and
|
|
there was none to be had.
|
|
The older gypsy stirred, his head turning weakly. His eyes opened,
|
|
and focused with some effort on her. His lips moved slightly, and then
|
|
he said in a very faint voice, "Cytwer Ganba, is that you?"
|
|
"Yes, Amdan Bobere, it's Cousin Ganba. What happened, uncle? How
|
|
did you end up like this?" The gypsy convention of referring to the
|
|
members of other wagon-groups as cousins, and the leaders of those
|
|
groups as uncle, was even more poignant here, with her good friend
|
|
grievously wounded next to her.
|
|
"Attacked. Bad man, Lacsil, of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza, attacked
|
|
us. He wanted us to guide him north, to get away from some bad business,
|
|
but Rhonwn found out what he really wanted, who he really was. Where's
|
|
Rhonwn? Rhonwn!"
|
|
"Quiet, uncle, rest. I'll ask my brothers if they've seen Rhonwn.
|
|
You conserve your strength." Ganba looked up, but both Hiranw and Shaiff
|
|
shook their heads. She turned back to Bobere and said, "No, uncle,
|
|
Rhonwn isn't here."
|
|
Bobere said, "Did he get away? Did they take him?" He struggled
|
|
briefly to sit up, but cried out in pain as fresh blood oozed out around
|
|
the knife. "Ahh! Uhn, did they ... the map ..."
|
|
"Map, uncle? What map?"
|
|
"I didn't see. Lacsil stabbed me, I didn't see. Did they get the
|
|
map? Look, cousin, look for a map case. Tell them to look, and I'll tell
|
|
you ..."
|
|
Ganba gave her brothers the new instructions, and then sat beside
|
|
Bobere as he gasped out the story of the map. How he had set down the
|
|
hidden ways of the Rhydd Pobl onto parchment because of his bad memory.
|
|
How Rhonwn had let that information slip, and how Lacsil of the Bloody
|
|
Hand of Sageeza now knew about it. About how Rhonwn had overheard
|
|
Lacsil's plans to gather his fellow Bloody Hand followers and attack the
|
|
northern gathering in force, with the map as their guide.
|
|
Ganba was appalled. Bobere probably wasn't the first gypsy to set
|
|
the secret trails to parchment, but to have the bad luck of having a
|
|
fanatic like this Lacsil find out about it! She checked with her
|
|
brothers, but they had found no map case yet. There was a lot of debris
|
|
to search through, but since Lacsil had left, he had probably left with
|
|
the map.
|
|
Bobere squeezed Ganba's hand, drawing her attention back his way.
|
|
"Cousin, you have to find that map. That, or stop Lacsil. He's heading
|
|
north. Follow him and stop him. This is all my fault, but I can't do
|
|
anything about it any more. But you can. Promise, Ganba. Please?"
|
|
Ganba looked into Bobere's eyes, holding his hand tightly. There
|
|
was no question about her answer. She said, "I promise, uncle. I
|
|
promise."
|
|
Bobere smiled, and then he died. She felt it happen. She felt the
|
|
strength leave his hand, saw his chest halt in mid-rise, watched the
|
|
light fade from his eyes. In an instant, he was gone, leaving an empty
|
|
husk behind.
|
|
It happened so suddenly that Ganba was unprepared. Having his life
|
|
leave him like that, where she could all but feel it go, wrenched a sob
|
|
from her. She couldn't help herself, and soon she was crying full on,
|
|
bent over Bobere's chest.
|
|
Suddenly, Ganba seemed to be standing in the rain. Except it wasn't
|
|
rain falling on her, it was chips of wood. The sawdust piled up, higher
|
|
and higher, faster and faster, and she knew that each chip was a day,
|
|
one day of her life. The days piled up around her ankles until she felt
|
|
like she was standing in her lifetime's worth of sawdust. But it kept
|
|
spilling down from above. Another lifetime, and another, and the pile
|
|
around her rose higher and higher, to her knees and up her thighs, and
|
|
even higher. Decades of chips, and then centuries piled up, and just
|
|
kept piling higher and higher. She felt the constriction of so much
|
|
sawdust, so light one chip at a time, but smothering in their abundance.
|
|
A thousand years of sawdust, fifteen hundred years, and the sawdust rose
|
|
to her neck, squeezing her chest until she couldn't breathe. Higher and
|
|
higher, covering her mouth, her nose, almost to her eyes ...
|
|
And then, the chips turned into flames that flared up all around
|
|
her. But instead of bringing fear, they brought calm, safety, release.
|
|
Ganba felt reassured, comforted, happy ...
|
|
The strange vision faded, and she realized that she was no longer
|
|
kneeling over Bobere. Ganba was sitting on the rear platform of Bobere's
|
|
wagon, and she saw Hiranw covering the older gypsy's body with a
|
|
blanket. Despite the death of Bobere, despite the disappearance of
|
|
Rhonwn, and despite the threat of Lacsil's minions of Sageeza, she felt
|
|
hopeful, serene, at peace.
|
|
Ganba looked around and found one of Bobere's favorite carvings
|
|
lying on the platform next to her. It was a fragment of a strange stone
|
|
sculpture, about a foot and a half across and comprising perhaps a third
|
|
of what had once been a fully-circular, plate-like carving. It had a
|
|
series of glass, gold, and silver bands interwoven across the inner
|
|
two-thirds of it, while the outer third had a stylized fox facing a
|
|
stylized cat carved as if they were sitting on the outer, curved rim.
|
|
She remembered the piece well, because the shape of the fox was the
|
|
exact shape she had chosen as her primary decoration; the golden fox on
|
|
the side of her wagon looked exactly like the fox on the stone. The
|
|
memorable part was that she hadn't seen the stone until years after she
|
|
had chosen the shape.
|
|
Pulling the stone next to her, she decided to keep it in memory of
|
|
her Uncle Bobere. Ganba knew what needed to happen next. She would
|
|
return to her bantor with the news of Bobere's death and the news of
|
|
Sageeza and the map. And then she would head north to Dargon to find
|
|
Lacsil and avenge Bobere.
|
|
|
|
It was half past fourth-bell when Yawrab walked onto the grounds of
|
|
Bindrmon Keep. She instinctively walked up to the servants' gate, and
|
|
was admitted with no questions. Perhaps it was her serious manner, or
|
|
her severe expression that won her past the guards, or maybe it was her
|
|
unconscious air of 'I belong here,' gained through years as chatelaine
|
|
of a noble manor, that got her in.
|
|
Once in, however, she was at a loss as to where to go. Bindrmon
|
|
Keep was far larger than the Denva estate, with all manner of
|
|
outbuildings and store houses within the outer walls whose purpose she
|
|
didn't recognize. She did know the stables, though, so that was where
|
|
she headed.
|
|
Yawrab was at Bindrmon Keep because of what she'd learned at the
|
|
Boar-Ring Inn. She had asked the gypsies to drop her off at the inn
|
|
because Tillna often worked during the day there, and because even if
|
|
Tillna wasn't on duty, Yawrab had felt in need of a good hearty
|
|
breakfast after her morning ordeal.
|
|
But what she had found first at the inn was a stranger waiting
|
|
tables. She knew Aivney, the older barmaid that Tillna worked with, but
|
|
this willowy redhead was not Aivney. Yawrab had asked the newcomer about
|
|
her sister, and had then received the shocking news that Tillna was
|
|
dead.
|
|
"What?" she had asked. "Dead?"
|
|
"Yes," said the redhead. "Some man that Aivney said was Lord Aldan
|
|
came in last night and said that Tillna was dead. Then, he ran out
|
|
again."
|
|
"That's all? Who did it?"
|
|
"I don't know anything more. I didn't even know who Lord Aldan was
|
|
until Aivney told me that he was the son of the baron. I only just
|
|
arrived in Beeikar a few days ago, you know ..."
|
|
"Tillna's dead. No, it can't be true ..."
|
|
Yawrab had stumbled to a seat, overwhelmed by the realization that
|
|
the only family she had left was gone. The redhead had fetched Oablar,
|
|
the owner of the inn, whom Yawrab also knew. The unhandsome, but
|
|
basically kind, man had done his best to comfort her, while revealing
|
|
that there wasn't actually any proof that Tillna was dead save for Lord
|
|
Aldan's word, though she hadn't been seen anywhere for almost three
|
|
days.
|
|
Eventually, after some good, cold ale and some bread and cheese,
|
|
Yawrab had recovered from the shock and formulated a course of action.
|
|
Lord Aldan had brought the news, so Lord Aldan was the one she had to
|
|
find. After thanking Oablar for his help, she had set out for Bindrmon
|
|
Keep.
|
|
Entering the stables of that keep, she searched for someone to talk
|
|
to. In the tack room, she found a man repairing some leather straps. He
|
|
noticed her standing in the doorway, and said, "Good day, good lady. Can
|
|
I assist you?"
|
|
"Perhaps," Yawrab said, hesitantly. "I'm Yawrab, the chatelaine of
|
|
the Denva estate, and also sister to Tillna."
|
|
The man didn't seem to have any particular reaction to the mention
|
|
of Tillna's name, which puzzled Yawrab. He said, "My name is Ricce, and
|
|
my job is stablemaster to the Bindrmons. I've heard of the Denvas, and I
|
|
believe I've heard of your sister -- she works at the Boar-Ring down by
|
|
the river, right?"
|
|
"Ah, yes. Yes, she does," Yawrab said, not wanting to tell the
|
|
whole truth just yet. She continued, "I was wondering ... my sister has
|
|
mentioned the son of your employer, Lord Aldan, several times. I was
|
|
wondering if you knew where he was? I'd like to speak to him, ah ....
|
|
well, concerning Tillna."
|
|
"So those rumors are true, are they?" Ricce's grin and chuckle told
|
|
Yawrab that the rumors weren't of her sister's death, but of her
|
|
involvement with Lord Aldan. Ricce continued, "I can see why you'd want
|
|
converse with him; just looking out for family, straight?
|
|
"Just now, though, Lord Aldan's away. He came bursting in here in
|
|
the last few bells of last night, rousted me out of bed, and demanded
|
|
that a horse be saddled for him. I'll say that he was acting somewhat
|
|
strange, asking me how far away Dargon was, and all. Never been out of
|
|
Welspeare myself, so I couldn't tell him.
|
|
"Anywise, I got busy putting saddle to horse while he left for the
|
|
kitchens over there. By the time he returned with a few bundles, his
|
|
mount was ready. He thanked me over his shoulder as he swung up onto the
|
|
horse, and then he was galloping away.
|
|
"Of course, I wondered what the hurry was, but it wasn't my place
|
|
to detain him. Do you think that he and Tillna have eloped? Between you
|
|
and me, and no slight to you or your family, I doubt that Baron Bindrmon
|
|
could possibly have approved of his son and your sister. Have you heard
|
|
anything?"
|
|
Yawrab said, "No, no, no I haven't. Lord Aldan's gone, then? Fine.
|
|
My thanks, Master Ricce. You have been a great help. I'll take my leave
|
|
now."
|
|
She turned her back on the stablemaster and retraced her steps out
|
|
of Bindrmon Keep. Lord Aldan had fled to Dargon a few bells before dawn,
|
|
which could mean only one thing; he was fleeing the town because he was
|
|
guilty of murder. The murder of her sister!
|
|
Yawrab started walking back to the Denva estate, but she had no
|
|
intention of stopping there for long. She was headed for Dargon just as
|
|
surely as Lord Aldan was. Noble or not, Aldan was not going to escape
|
|
justice!
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|