DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 9 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 12/15/1996 Volume 9, Number 7 Circulation: 615 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb A Touch of Dargon Mark A. Murray Mertz 1014 The Broken Staff I Mike Adams Seber-Ober 1015 Sleepers Awake Alan Lauderdale Summer 1009 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 9-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 1996 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Describing the Dargon Project to people, I usually refer to it as a collaborative writing project for aspiring writers which has been producing fiction on the Internet since 1985. Almost invariably, one of the first questions I am asked is whether any of our writers have gone on to write on a professional level. It's always a slightly awkward question to answer, because most people generally equates "successful writer" with "published novelist", and although we are all "aspiring writers", very few of our contributors actually aspire to become paid novelists in the mass market. For most of our writers, writing is a passion, and a pursuit which we want to be good at. However, the desire to write doesn't necessarily imply a similar desire to find a publisher who will pay for one's work and go through the arduous process of seeing a novel through to appearance on local bookstore shelves. In many cases, being printed in DargonZine is sufficient to fulfil a writer's desire to have his or her works in print. But if that's the case, it's a fair question to ask what *are* our goals, and how do we measure ourselves against them? If we're not trying to become professional writers, what *are* we trying to accomplish? For most of us, the goal of participation in the Dargon Project is to practice writing, and improve through contact with other writers, both through their critique of our works, as well as learning how other writers work. In writing for DargonZine, we are doing something we really enjoy, and hopefully are improving our skills. We gauge how well we are doing by giving one another copious amounts of feedback, and poring over what feedback we get from our readers. The Internet is an awesome tool for aspiring writers to get experience writing for a real audience, and for establishing a dialogue between the writer and his clients. Because this is a rare opportunity for us to interact with a group of genuine readers, we enthusiastically encourage reader feedback, and hope you will drop us a line when we do something you particularly like or dislike. Despite the fact that none of our writers are published novelists, I believe that we have met our goals in providing value to our two constituencies: our writers and our readers. Those of you viewing this on the Web will note some new artwork gracing our story pages, contributed by Scott Kossack. Scott has been a visual artist for approximately nine years, working in pen & ink, pencil, pastels, photography, and acrylic paints. By joining the project, Scott is hoping to expand his abilities, improve his art, and receive feedback on his work. Some of his influences include Salvador Dali, Ansel Adams, Bill Watterson, and Cezanne. In other Web enhancements, we've recently added a text search capability to the Online Glossary page, to make it easier to look up particular people, places and things that are specific to the world of Dargon. Mark Murray opens this issue with a story involving his new characters, young Matty and Ben. We were introduced to them in "A Shadow of a Life", which appeared in the previous issue. Mark encourages us to accompany them as they run into some "ordinary" people on the street in Dargon. "The Broken Staff I" is the first in a series of stories by new writer Mike Adams which follows the life of his all-too-human character Bren kel Tomis. Expect to see more of Mike and Bren in coming issues. And Alan Lauderdale continues his series of Mouse Tales in "Sleepers Awake". Mouse's story began nearly two years ago in "I Am My Lord's Possession", and was featured most recently in last issue's "Falsehoods". Alan's wit adds a bit of humor to this story. After the long stretch of seriousness which accompanied the effort to wrap up the war storyline, it's nice to once again be able to print a couple whimsical stories. So enjoy the stories and the holiday season, and look for us in 1997, as we begin our *thirteenth year* of publication!!! ======================================================================== A Touch of Dargon by Mark A. Murray mmurray@weir.net Dargon City, Mertz 1014 "Is," Matthew said. "Is not," Ben replied. "Is!" "Is not!" "Is too!" Matthew argued. "Unh uh," Ben said shaking his head. "My dad said so!" "Your dad's wrong," Matthew told Ben as he lifted his stick again. "We'll have a duel and whoever wins is right," he said as he swung lightly at Ben. Ben lifted his stick and tried to block but missed, not that it mattered as Matthew missed Ben on the swing. Matthew jumped back when Ben recovered and swung. "Missed me," Matthew teased. "Knights wouldn't say that," Ben said. "Would too," Matthew said. "Would not!" "They might," Matthew replied swinging at Ben. "Yeah, when?" Ben asked swinging back. Neither had yet hit the other. "Well, um ..." Matthew started but quit as he stooped and swung at Ben's feet. Even though they were far enough away that they couldn't hit each other, Ben still jumped high in the air to avoid getting his feet cut off. "Missed me," Ben said automatically as he landed. Ben stood still and looked at Matthew. He let the far end of his stick settle on the ground as he gave Matthew a confused look. Then he broke out laughing. It didn't take long for Matthew to realize what Ben was laughing about, and he joined his friend in the laughter. "Touch," Ben said as he reached over and touched Matthew on the chest. "You've got the Red Plague!" Ben ran away from his friend and down the alley. Matthew was right behind trying to catch him. As Ben turned the corner, there were two large Dargon guards in front of him, and he stopped as quickly as he could. He was right in front of both guards when Matthew came around the corner and ran into him, sending both of them into the guards. The larger guard faded back but the other guard reached for his sword *and* tried to step out of the way. The two children got tangled in his legs and the three of them fell. The fallen guard was sputtering and squirming to get his feet untangled from Ben and Matthew, while the remaining guard stood watching. "You've chosen your guard well today, M'lord," chuckled a man behind the fallen guard. "He readily throws his life at your feet to protect you." "Bartol, when you compose your poem about this incident," the lord said smiling, "and I know you will, leave the name of our fallen guard out of it. No need to shame our new recruit any further." As the two men laughed, Ben and Matthew stood. The fallen guard had regained his feet also. "My apologies, M'lord," he said. "We will overlook this incident," the lord said smiling. "This time. The good sergeant, being a well-trained veteran, did not fall prey to the children and we were still protected." "'overlook' and 'did not fall prey'?" Bartol repeated. All three men started laughing, and the young guard blushed. He looked at Ben and Matthew and then started laughing also. "What are they laughing at?" Ben whispered to Matthew. "I don't know," Matthew replied. "They're grown-ups," he said as if that would explain it. Ben shrugged and waited for them to stop laughing. Matthew looked at the guard next to him. He was tall and big. The guard's legs were about as big as Matthew's body. He was dressed in black leather and carried a sword at his waist. Looking over at the other guard, Matthew noticed that he was younger and his leather wasn't as well worn. In fact, it looked new. He wasn't as big as the sergeant, either, but he did wear a sword at his waist. "What were you running from that you tripped our guard?" the lord asked. "I was running from him," Ben said pointing to Matthew. Ben leaned in close to him and whispered, "I touched him and now he's got the Red Plague." When Ben stepped back and noticed the confused look on the man's face he continued. "It's a game. You touch someone and tell them they've got the Red Plague and they have to touch you back to get rid of it. If you can't touch them back, you touch someone else to get rid of it." "I see," the lord said. "Does that mean that my young guard here has the Red Plague then?" Ben looked at Matthew and Matthew looked back at Ben. It was a question that hadn't come up before. "I guess so," Matthew answered. Ben and Matthew moved closer to the sergeant and farther from the young guard. "Don't even think about touching me," the sergeant warned smiling. "Is your name really 'Mlord'?" Ben asked, slurring the "m" and "l" together. "Ben!" Matthew exclaimed before anyone could answer. "That's the name for people who don't work. It's a title, like sergeant." There came a chuckle from Bartol and the guards could barely hold their own laughter in. All three were silenced by a glance from the lord. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know," Ben apologized. "Are we supposed to call you Mlord, too?" "That is the proper way to address him, yes," Bartol answered. "And it's Milord. Try not to slur it so much." "Mmailloorrdd," Ben said slowly trying to emphasize it the way Bartol did. "How come you said it faster before?" "I didn't mean to say it slowly. I meant ..." Bartol said but was interrupted by laughter from the lord. "You're losing an argument to a child," the lord laughed. "Well, Mmailloorrdd," Bartol said, "I'm only trying to teach them some manners." "Ben, we could ask them," Matthew said suddenly. When Ben gave him a questioning look, Matthew said, "You know. Whether there is one?" "You think they'll know?" Ben asked. "He seems to know a lot," Matthew said using his finger to point at Bartol. "It is impolite to point," Bartol told Matthew. "Now what is your question?" "See, he knows lots of stuff," Matthew said to Ben. "He'll know." "Yeah, but he was confused on the mlord thing," Ben whispered back, but not quiet enough as both the lord and the sergeant laughed. The sergeant quieted quickly at a glance from Bartol. "Please, ask your question," the lord chuckled. "Well, um," Matthew began, "I say there's dragons and Ben says there aren't!" "There aren't!" Ben emphasized. "Are too," Matthew said. "Ahem," Bartol said clearing his throat. "You are both right." "Confused," Matthew mouthed silently to Ben, and Ben nodded his head. "I am not confused!" Bartol said heavily, and then laughed as he realized that the children were getting the better of him. "Let me explain. Once, long ago, there were dragons that roamed these lands freely. They were the lords of the land, for nothing could challenge them." "Why don't we see any now?" Matthew interrupted. "Sometime between then and now, they disappeared. No one really knows what happened, except that dragons do not roam our lands today. Some say that they are just sleeping deep in the earth and one day will awaken to rule again. Others say a great catastrophe occurred and killed them all. It is a debate between many scholars as to what happened. So you see, you were both right. Dragons existed, but there are none now." "What did they look like?" Ben asked. "How do you know so much? What do you do? Are you ..." "Slowly," Bartol said, "I can only answer one question at a time. Unfortunately, I'm afraid there isn't enough time to answer any of your questions. We are expected someplace, and if we don't show up soon, a lot of people will start to worry." "Where are you going?" Matthew asked. "We are returning to the castle," Bartol answered. "Are you going to see Duke Dargon?" Ben asked. "I saw him once!" "You did?" the lord asked, smiling. "Yeah," Ben said, "he was walking down a street -- I don't remember which one it was, I was little then -- and there was a lot of people around him. I was too far away to really see him, and my mom wouldn't let me get closer, but I'd sure like to meet him one day." "I think that one day, you will meet him, Ben," the lord said. "You think so?" Ben asked. "I know so," the lord replied and then turned to Bartol. "We must be going. We wouldn't want to keep 'Duke Dargon' waiting." "No mmailloorrdd, we wouldn't," Bartol said smiling as they continued on their way. Matthew and Ben watched them go until they turned a corner and were out of sight. "Touch," Matthew said to Ben as he touched him and ran. "You've got the Red Plague!" ======================================================================== The Broken Staff Part I by Mike Adams meadams@sunherald.infi.net Seber-Ober 1015 As quickly as that, it was over. His spurs lay in the mud of the road and the two pieces of his broken staff were gripped in his hands. Bren kel Tomis was knight and herald no more. Everything he had striven for was now lost because of a boyish lust for a woman. As he knelt before his king, shorn of honor, position, his life now forfeit, he could not even form a coherent thought. The sword rose high, and sped towards him -- Bren awoke with a start. His body was clammy with sweat, not only from the dream, but also from the heat and closeness of the small cabin. He reached down to touch the two long pieces of wood, which were in the bag that held his few possessions. He knew he wouldn't sleep anymore, so he dressed and went on deck, where the first gray tendrils of dawn were beginning to light the eastern sky. He slept rarely now, and when he did he was often troubled by bad dreams. Each time he woke there was a moment of disorientation, always followed by the crushing realization that his life had gone straight into the cesspit. The crew was familiar with his habits by now. He spent almost all his waking moments in the bow, looking forward, as if he yearned to see his destination. Sailors can gossip well enough to make old women seem like rank novices, but no one knew anything about this passenger except the captain and first mate, who weren't saying anything, because there was very little to know. After dramatically dumping the disgraced herald on the deck, the soldiers had remained in place, keeping onlookers away, and saying nothing other than shouting at the crew to make ready to sail. The Friendly Lion had left port before the next bell rang. It had become a habit by now for the sailors repairing rigging in the mornings to talk about the stranger. Kodo, the bosun, was the first to sight Bren heading towards the bow. "I says he's a wizard traveling in disguise, I do. He always keeps that bag with 'im. He's prob'ly got spells and such in it." Blen Sailmaker laughed at that. "Oh, Kodo, you see wizards behind every porthole. It's obvious that he's a king sent into exile by his own people, take my word for it. Look at his face; no emotion. That's the face of a man in command. Maybe he was a general, or somesuch, before he killed the old king." Frog, the cabin boy, was sure he was a spy sent to ferret out the deepest secrets of the Duke of Dargon, but he shared this with no one. It was only his first voyage, and no one paid him any mind, even when he did speak. "Look at that sword he's got," said Blen, his long, nimble fingers patching a tear in a topsail. "That's a saber, like a horseman's sword. What would a pissin' wizard need with a sword like that?" "You wouldn't know a wizard if he bit you on the ass," retorted Kodo. "See the broach he has pinned on his cloak? I saw one like that once in Dargon, and it was some wizard what was wearing it. I know that 'cause he was wearing one of those wizard hats; you know, the pointy ones with moons on 'em." Blen made a rude noise. "Moons! You've gotten too much sun, bosun. Ever'body knows its stars. Anyway, see those boots? Those are a fighter's boots. He's got a blade in each of them, and I would be surprised if he ain't got a few more stashed elsewhere. And what about the way he moves? Like a cat, he is. I wouldn't like to meet him in the rigging in a bad blow, that's for sure. He'd have your bollocks off in no time." Kodo, sensing he was losing the argument, made one last, plaintive effort. "But look at him. Black hair, reddish skin. Tell me that ain't mystical!" "If you weren't so afraid of wizards that you got off the ship every once in a while, you'd have noticed *all* those southern people are like that. And they can't all be wizards, now can they?" Kodo grunted, and pretended to concentrate on his work. Blen gave Frog a satisfied look, and went back to his own sewing. Despite the fact that their passenger hadn't said three words to the crew for half a fortnight, the sailors didn't let that hinder them. Further guesses ran the gamut from soldier-for-hire, to the cuckolder of an important man. The object of their speculations stood in the bow, covered with spray. He sent his thoughts back, to his old life. It seemed so long ago ... The youngest son of a minor lord, his prospects were small, but his mother had blood in the court and managed to obtain her favorite son an appointment to the College of Heralds. The Heralds were a group of men who functioned as a combination of ambassador, diplomat, judge, and war-leader for their monarch. The ten highest of these were called by their ranking, from First to Tenth. The Great Heralds, the First and Second, ruled large domains in the name of the King, and were powerful lords in their own right. A landless son could do much worse than aspire to the chair of a herald. About a year after being knighted, Bren became Ten, after Seven died while trying to escape from an angry husband. The infamous Massacre of the Heralds two years later elevated him to Third Herald. Only his lifelong friendship with a bastard son of the king had saved him from being executed by the King's Guard on that bloody night. The King now looked very closely at anyone selected by the College to be a Herald. Any sign of dissension was dealt with swiftly, and severely. And so, at the age of twenty-three he was the Third Herald. If he survived the death of one of the Greater Heralds, his future would be assured, for he would no longer be required to expose himself to battle on a regular basis, but only on those occasions when the entire kingdom's fortunes were at stake. It would be a time to accumulate great personal power, perhaps enough to make up for the lack of a birthright. He looked forward to the day when his snooty eldest brother would have to address *him* as Milord, and not the other way around. As a herald, Bren carried his staff of office wherever he went. It came in handy in any number of situations, from rapping recalcitrant young student heralds on the head, to gaining quick entry through the castle to the King's court, where he was bound today. Bren didn't normally attend court, being kept too busy by the business of his position to do much social mixing. This morning, however, a young page relayed the message that his presence was *requested* in court today. The page beat a quick retreat upon seeing the grim look shot at him by the obviously hungover herald. Bren had spent much of the previous night drinking in celebration of his friend Toran's elevation to Sixth Herald, and was in no mood to attend court. However, a King's page meant the King, so he must attend, ill or not. He quickly tied up his shoulder length black hair, dressed, and headed to the castle. His heraldic staff passed him through the numerous guard posts, until he finally mingled with the courtiers wandering around the Great Hall. Periodically, a petitioner would appear before the dais, the courtiers would lower their voices, and justice would be dispensed, or not, depending upon the King's whim. Bren glanced around, and noted with surprise that fewer had attended court today, compared to his last visit several months ago. In fact, the courtiers were almost matched by the group of petitioners in the corner, many of them attempting to bribe the chamberlain in order to receive an audience sooner than the others. At least the chamberlain always attended, thought Bren, a wry smile creasing his handsome face. The smile faded as he realized how few landholders were represented in court. The King ruled his country with a mailed fist, having put down several rebellions by various lords over the last few years. Many now considered it safer to remain on their holdings, pay the always increasing taxes, and make their plans behind closed doors. Bren had gained much of his extensive battle experience against rebel lords and their knights. Even the heralds had their rebellious moment, when the previous Third led four other heralds and their men in a rising. After killing the Great Heralds, they stormed the Hall, unaware that the King was ready for them. That night, blood flowed through the College like a river, as the King cleansed his heralds. Much of the work of the current First and Second Heralds was intended to restore the College to its former glory. A sudden feeling that he might disgrace himself by vomiting on the marble floor brought him back to the present. He grudgingly decided he couldn't slip out without being noticed, so he was more grateful than he normally might have been when the Lady Kira tel Hon entered the court. Her beauty not only took his breath away, but also his headache and nausea. Being a herald, Bren had the opportunity to bed many women, no small number of them high born, but he had never fallen in love. As a soldier-diplomat he felt himself immune to such emotions, but in reality he was only a young man of twenty-four years, and certainly not able to withstand the rush of lust he now felt. Even her voice sounded like music to him, as she spoke to the King. "Sire, as you well know, I hold my manor from the estate of my dear husband. I recently learned that Regan kel Bor, who holds land bordering mine had an agreement with my late husband to cede certain lands to our estate in return for services long rendered. I have asked Lord kel Bor to give me my right due, but he has refused, saying that as a woman I have no right to the proceeds of an agreement between himself and my lord. I ask justice, majesty, for a helpless woman." With those words she dropped to the floor in a deep curtsy, her head bowed to her magnificent chest. "From what I have heard of your recent doings, milady, you are far from helpless", chuckled the King. "Several years ago, you were a landless woman from nowhere. Today you are the mistress of tel Hon. Now it seems you wish to become the mistress of kel Bor as well. Nevertheless, I shall send a herald with you to deal with this problem." The King searched the crowd, until his eyes rested on Bren. He spoke to the First Herald in a voice that reached across the hall, "Lord Skel, do you think young kel Tomis is up to this task?" Lord Skel replied, "I think so, my liege. We must keep him busy, or he will soon be in *my* chair!" The court laughed politely while Bren blushed furiously. His dark complexion covered most of his embarrassment and he regained control of his features quickly. He bowed to the king and said clearly, "Majesty, I would be honored to escort the lady to her home, and make a just resolution." "Very well, herald", replied the King, "You shall leave in the morning." It was a three day ride to the holding of Lady tel Hon. During those three days, Bren grew even more enthralled by the dark-haired beauty. The first evening, as they dined, she shared with him a special wine she had made at her holding. After that, they talked for several bells, and he went to his blankets fuzzy, but quite contented. The second evening was much the same, but on the third evening, after dark, a figure slipped into his tent. Kel Tomis was completely shattered by the pleasure she brought him. Never before had a woman taught him so much in so short a time. When she left in the gray pre-dawn, he lay in his blankets, his gray eyes staring at nothing for quite a time. His mind raced with thoughts of the promised visits to come, if only he would perform a small service for her. He had not hesitated to say yes. They arrived at tel Hon before the sun had reached its zenith, and lunched in the main hall. Kel Tomis was surprised at how small the manor was, and how little land Lady tel Hon actually held. It was no wonder she was eager to have a generous portion of Lord kel Bor's holding, especially as that portion included a small castle on a well-travelled river. After the meal Bren had a messenger sent to inform kel Bor that the King's Herald would hear the dispute on the morrow at the second bell after sunrise. That night as Bren held her close, Kira whispered softly in his ear. By sunrise, he would have sold his mother into slavery. When the second bell rang out, all the principals were in place. The herald sat on a camp chair in a clearing a short distance from the manor. He was dressed in his customary black, his cloak trimmed in silver. His hair was tightly pulled back, and tied, giving his clean shaven face a stern appearance. Behind him were two banners; that of the king, whose power he represented, and that of the College of Heralds, showing his training for such work. A squad of the King's Guard were arrayed behind the banners. For those who were not impressed by pieces of cloth, the hard-bitten visages of those battle veterans made a powerful argument for heeding the herald's words. The mistress of tel Hon sat to the left, in an ornate chair taken from her main hall. She wore a dress in the dark green favored by the House of tel Hon, cut conservatively, teasing the herald with remembrances of the lush body now hidden by the heavy folds of cloth. Her servants had gathered behind the chair, quietly talking. Several young men and women, of apparently noble birth, clustered around the chair, competing for the lady's attention. She sat quietly, paying no mind to the chattering crowd around her, a small smirk flirting with her mouth. To the right stood Regan kel Bor, and his retinue. He wore leather armor, as if he anticipated conflict. His hair was steel gray, cut to a short length. He looked at no one, maybe feigning indifference to the whole procedure, but the men with him made no secret of their ill feeling for Lady tel Hon. Most stared directly at her, venomously. Some few spoke loud enough to be heard by kel Bor, who cut off the remarks with a curt gesture. Behind the nobles stood a large contingent of peasants and servitors, obviously there to support their lord. Bren stood, and the quiet murmurings of the onlookers ceased. "I am Bren kel Tomis, Third Herald of our king. Is there any here who denies my authority in this matter?" The question went unanswered, as it generally did. "This matter concerns the proper ownership of land disputed between Lord kel Bor and Lady tel Hon. All here are warned to speak only the truth. My guards will deal harshly with those who cannot keep their mouths shut unless I request it." One noble shook his head, and explained to his friends, "Since the Massacre, these young heralds don't get enough seasoning. I hope this one can conduct a court without turning it into a circus." At the same time kel Tomis was asking Lady tel Hon to state her case. Lady tel Hon rose slowly, and then curtsied in the general direction of the herald and his banners. She turned slowly, ensuring that every eye was on her before she spoke. "I was not born here, but no one has more love for this holding than I, and no other had greater love for my late husband, Traven tel Hon. When we were wed, I had no inkling of the agreement he had reached with Lord kel Bor some years before. However, on his death bed, even as he was consumed by fever, and wracked by coughs, he made me swear to uphold that pact. He seemed to think that Lord kel Bor had become reluctant to speak on this topic of late, and he told me of the instrument I was to use in case he refused to honor his bargain." She turned and took a scroll from the chair she had vacated moments ago, and held it high. "When first Regan kel Bor made this offer, he was sincere, and put words down on this scroll to that effect. My lord tel Hon demurred, trusting his friend to make good his obligations, but kel Bor pushed the scroll on him. My lord, not wishing to offend, took the paper, and put it aside, never intending to refer to it again. Until now it has not been necessary. Lady tel Hon faced the herald, and handed him the scroll. "Examine this document, and you will have all the knowledge you need to resolve this matter. Kel Bor's seal is on it, and it is genuine." Now openly smiling, she returned to her seat. Lord kel Bor strode forward, jaw jutting, face red. "Herald, this bitch is lying through her overly painted mouth." A loud gasp went through the crowd, but the lady only smiled the wider. "I agreed to cede Traven tel Hon that land; I make no issue of that. He saved my life on more than one occasion, and I pay my debts. But I did not agree to give anything to that wench, and by all the gods, I never will. Traven and I needed no agreement. I have no sons left, he would have had it all, had he lived." He now glared at Lady tel Hon with unadulterated fury. "What I think we should be questioning is why Traven tel Hon, never sick a day in his life, until he met *her* that is, suddenly is taken with an unknown fever, dying within four days. I loved that boy like my own son, and I'll never give his murderer anything but the back of my hand." He then glared at Bren, stumped back to his place, and resumed staring at nothing. "Why do you impugn the Lady in this manner, Lord kel Bor? What evidence is there to support a charge of murder, especially the murder of a husband?" Bren drew kel Bor's eyes back with these questions. Kel Bor responded, "She summoned no physician, and even refused *my* physician when he arrived at her manor. Not one other person became sick with this supposed fever. You are a soldier; you know that just does not happen." He gestured to a mild looking man near him. "Tell him, Master Gondo." "I must concur with Lord kel Bor in this matter, herald. I have never seen an isolated case of fever, especially in a well kept manor, like tel Hon. The symptoms described to us later by Lady tel Hon coincide with those of many fevers, some of them deadly, but I have no reason to believe that this is true." The physician paused, and then continued, reluctantly. "Many potions that we as physicians use to cure can also kill, if used improperly. Lady tel Hon has often said that she is a healer of some power, and if she is, she would no doubt be able to cause someone's death without a great deal of notice. I do not say that this is true, only that it could be." The thin man, apparently saddened by what he had to say, retreated to his lord's side. "This is madness!", broke in the Lady. "Why on earth would I kill my own husband, for land he was already entitled to?" "That is a question I would like answered," responded kel Bor. "Why did you kill him? Couldn't you wait? Did you have to have it all right now?" Lord kel Bor seemed close to tears. "I loved him like he was my own flesh, and like my own flesh he will not go unavenged!" "Lord Kel Bor!" The shout from the herald startled everyone. "This will not become a forum for your mad accusations. Control yourself, milord." He continued, "Milady tel Hon, I am sure you can explain the circumstances of your husband's death better than anyone else here. It may be painful, but I ask your to recount the circumstances surrounding that incident." "I admit it was my fault that my lord died." A gasp went through the crowd, but kel Bor did not respond. "I thought that I was a good healer, but I wasn't good enough. My lord wanted me to save his tenants, and in doing so, I did not realize that he had contracted the fever. By then it was too late for me to save him." She pulled a kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes in a gesture that seemed to impress no one. She then motioned some rather nervous looking peasants forward. "All of these people, and others, had the fever. I know as well as Master Gondo that these things do not come to one person only." Bren examined the group, which consisted mainly of old folk. They all looked frail, as if recovering from the fever had wasted them, or maybe they were just worn out from a lifetime of work; it was hard to tell. He gestured to the youngest, a young man who'd barely grown his first whiskers. "You, tell me about this fever you had." The young man, nervously wringing his straw hat, shot a quick glance at Lady tel Hon before speaking. "Well, milord, it's like the mistress said, it was all hot, and coughing like. I can't remember much 'bout it, really. But mistress saved us, she did." He ducked his head at the herald and scurried back to the group. The next recovered victim Bren called forward was an old woman. She recited much the same story as the youth, as if she had memorized it by sheer dint of repetition. The crowd behind kel Bor started to mutter, and one brave soul shouted out, "Liar!" Several guards moved in that direction, and the muttering quickly ceased. "We shall leave that question for a while, I think," said the herald. "What do you say about this scroll, milord?" He brandished the scroll for all to see. "I have read it, and it does seem to uphold Mistress tel Hon's claim." One of kel Bor's retainers came forward. He took the scroll from the herald, and handed it to his lord, who opened it. Kel Bor examined the seal, and said, "That does seem to be my seal." He examined the rest of the document, and an incredulous look came over his face. "That two-faced bastard! That lying, scheming, son of a Beinisonian whore!" He threw the scroll on the ground. "The scroll is a forgery, as anyone with eyes can tell. That scroll contained another agreement, and someone has used some sort of magic to remove that, and add these words, and that someone has more power than this hedge witch can gather together. Bastard!" Master Gondo moved forward quickly, concerned about his master's deep red complexion, but was savagely pushed back. Bren rose, and again quiet descended on the meadow. He looked at the two adversaries, then spoke. "I will now retire to consider my decision. I will return within a short while." He turned and entered a pavilion that had been set up by the guardsmen. He picked at a lunch of bread and cold meat, and then sat quietly examining the scroll. The scroll had been altered, that much was evident. Whoever had done the work had done a poor job, because Bren felt he could almost see the old words, just beyond his vision. As for the supposed victims of the fever, Bren was sure they had been coached, which was apparently why no children had been in the group. Since Traven tel Hon's purported murder could be seen as unconnected to the land dispute, Bren decided he could safely ignore the deception about the fever victims. But how was he to use the scroll to make a decision in favor of Kira tel Hon, he asked himself. It was then that he noticed the pattern of his thoughts. He had *already decided*, and was just trying to come up with a way to justify it, without looking a complete fool! Why was he thinking like this? He couldn't focus, and stumbled to his feet, not wanting to face kel Bor again, but now urgently needing to speak the foul words trying to crawl off his tongue. He walked slowly out of the tent, and had to make an effort to control his features. He had never betrayed himself before, and for a moment thought again of making the correct judgement. But as soon as he started to think of his duty, his mind became confused and cloudy. He paused for a time, attempting to concentrate on the oaths he had given when he had been made a herald, but was unable to focus his thoughts on anything but *her*. When he thought about anything else, he became blinded by pain. By the time he reached his place, he had stopped even trying. He stood before his guards and spoke. "I have reached a decision. Lord Regan kel Bor is directed to forfeit the property in question within one month." A buzz went through the crowd, and kel Bor leapt to his feet and shouted, "No!" Bren spoke in the penetrating voice taught to heralds, "I direct you, Lord kel Bor, to forfeit the lands mentioned in your agreement. This is my will, and the will of your king." Kel Bor bellowed, "No, you dishonorable scum. She has bewitched you while you slept with her. I will not do this thing. You are wrong!" Bren blushed bright red at kel Bor's words, and was stunned by the conviction with which kel Bor had spoken. How could he have known, thought Bren. That thought was closely followed by another; I must get rid of him, it's the only way. He stepped towards the older man and spoke in a hoarse tone, "I will take your head for that challenge to my authority. Prepare your second, and pray to whatever gods you wish, for you shall meet them soon." With that he strode to an empty spot in the field, drew his sword, and plunged the point into the ground at his feet. He turned towards the onlookers, and spoke, "Lord kel Bor has challenged my judgement, and therefore the authority of your king. The penalty is death." One of kel Bor's men shouted "No!" Bren screamed at the man in a rage, spittle flying from his lips, "Quiet, scum! He has defied me and he shall not go unpunished. At least he shall die with a sword in his hand. I await you, milord," he said to kel Bor. He stood, breathing heavily and looking into the distance, waiting for his opponent to make himself ready. Kel Bor stared at the herald, stunned into speechlessness. Then he turned and spoke to a man near him, who nodded, and left immediately. Kel Bor then limped to a place ten paces from the herald. He drew his blade. He turned to face the confused crowd and spoke. "You are all witnesses to this travesty of justice and honor. This herald will likely kill me, old man that I am. Do not forget me, and do not forget the man who did this to me." With that he let out a roar, and charged at the herald. He fought like a maddened bear, hacking wildly, but the herald was young, strong, and talented. The fight was short, and soon the former lord of kel Bor was lying on the ground, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky. Bren looked at the corpse, and a fresh surge of rage rushed through him. "Why didn't you leave well enough alone, old man?", he hissed. He kicked the body in frustration, and several of kel Bor's men, seeing the body of their lord treated in such an insulting manner, made towards kel Tomis, baring their blades as they came. The guards, having not had much to do as yet, gladly interposed themselves between the herald and his erstwhile attackers. Seeing that they would not prevail, the nobles sheathed their weapons, and stepped back, grumbling loudly. Bren looked at the crowd and shouted, "Well, what are you looking at? It's over! Go!" Seeing the enraged herald waving his sword over his head, his wild eyes moving from face to face, the crowd started to break up. The herald, now disheveled and flushed, dismissed his guards, instructing them to return to the capital on their own. He quickly walked from the field directly to his horse, without looking back. The crowd dispersed into small groups, the buzz of conversation getting louder the further the herald rode away. Bren rode quickly back to the manor house, and waited in the main hall for Kira. She did not return for several bells, by which time kel Tomis was almost frantic with worry and jealousy. "Where have you been, my love?" he asked. "I have been waiting for you." Kira drew the young man aside and spoke in a purr, "My dear herald, you know that you cannot stay here with me. Your place is in the capital, at the College. You must leave now; you know how the court is. And the King does not pale at killing heralds, everyone knows that. I will contrive a way to see you again, be assured." She kissed him gently on his cheek. Bren tried to argue with Kira, but she was adamant that he must leave, and leave now. He could see no way to change her mind, and so made ready to leave, his spirits low. He shuffled to the stables, and retrieved his horse. As he mounted, the skies opened up, and the rain poured down on him. No one noticed as he rode away alone. It was fortunate his horse knew where it was going, for the herald paid no attention to the way. Three days later he approached the outskirts of the capital. He had spent the first day in a melancholy mood, recalling the blissful time spent in Kira's bed. During the second day he felt his head start to clear, as if he had been in a cloud for some time. By the third day, he was sure he had been used by Kira, and the realization that he had betrayed his calling shocked him to his inner being. And why had the King sent *him* with Kira? What part had the Crown played in his fall? His thoughts became more black and depressing, spiraling down like a whirlpool, into a state of numbness, unable to reconcile himself with his actions. Finally, his mind was blank, overcome. Therefore, it took him a moment to realize that his horse had stopped in a clearing several bowshots from the city wall. There in the middle of the road stood a mounted squad of the King's Guards. Behind them were the King, and the First Herald, and their personal guards. This shock, piled upon the past several days proved too much for Bren. He sat in the saddle, speechless, and stunned, his jaw hanging open. A soldier reached up and grabbed him by the leg, and pulled him to the ground. "Kneel, scum", he grated, "And don't speak, 'less you're spoken to." With that, he drew his sword, and placed the point at kel Tomis' throat. Bren, his mind screaming in near madness, presented a sorry image, hair straggling over his face, his fine clothes filthy and wet. The King dismounted, and came to where Bren knelt in the mud. He spoke in a quiet, almost ritual tone. "A knight must be filled with honor. You have forfeited your honor, and are no longer fit to be a knight." He unsheathed his sword and raised it high. Bren's heart rose to his throat, but he wished to remain strong in the face of death, and so held his head up to face his liege. When the King went behind him, he was puzzled for a moment, and then felt his spurs being struck from his boots, first one, then the other. The King returned to his previous place, and the First Herald stepped forward, speaking in the same low tone. "A herald is impartial, giving credence to that which is proper, not that which is desirable. You have abused your position and authority, and sold yourself like a common whore. You are no herald." He took Bren's staff of office, which a guard had retrieved from Bren's horse, and cracked it across his thigh. He threw the pieces on the ground in front of the disgraced herald. The king approached again, and spoke in a voice filled with loathing, "My first instinct was to kill you out of hand for the insult to my crown and kingdom. But I soon realized that would be too final and quick a punishment for such a crime. I have decided to exile you to live the rest of your life in a state of shame and dishonor. My guards will place you on a ship bound for the north; to let you remain here would have you killed by outraged former colleagues much too soon for my liking, although that may still occur." He turned to the guards and said, "Take him to the harbor." The storm that had sent the Friendly Lion to that far southern land had lasted three days, and sent them so far off course it had taken them two days to find land. No sooner had they repaired the damage done to the ship than a contingent of soldiers had dumped their passenger and a bag of gold on the deck, with orders to transport this man as far north as they were going. The ship was *requested* to leave immediately, with not even a chance to sample the delights of the town. Captain Tennent had planned to return all the way to Dargon this trip in any case. He wanted to lay up in a friendly port, and make sure his ship was in good condition to return to the trading routes. He also had important cargo for several Dargon merchants, so Dargon it would be. A fortnight after leaving that southern port, the crew finally started to recognize familiar landmarks, and knew it would not be too long before they were home. The morning was cool and gray with fog when the pirate ship appeared as if from nowhere. Tennent silently decided to have ol' Kitley in the crow's nest swallow the anchor if they survived the attack. He shouted out "Prepare to repel!", and turned the wheel over to Kodo. If they were lucky, they could steal the pirate's wind, and so make an escape, as unlikely as that seemed. Shortly, in an eerie silence that fog seems to foster, the pirate craft grappled on, and with a mighty explosion of noise, they swarmed aboard. From the quarterdeck the captain saw his passenger draw his sword, and attack a pirate near the portside gunwale. He fought like a madman, as if he were angry at that particular pirate, hacking away and finally forcing the intruder overboard. As the pirate fell, flailing his arms, his razor sharp sword sliced through one of the three grappling lines connecting the two ships. Looking up at the quarterdeck, Bren shouted, "Captain!" and gestured to the lines with a questioning look. "Yes, cut the lines," roared Tennent over the din. He made a slicing gesture with his hand. Down in the maelstrom, Bren moved towards the midships grappling line. None of the pirates were especially proficient with their weapons, usually relying on fear to carry the day, especially considering they normally only attacked trade ships. Two pirates, not relishing the thought of attacking a real swordsman, retreated before Bren, allowing him several moments to slice the second line. As he moved to the bow, an order came from the marauder ship, "Stop him, you scum, or we'll not be able to take this tub!" Now the way to the forward line was a gauntlet of sailors, whipped into a frenzy by their leader. Bren made a step forward, then was pressed back. One pirate raised his sword for a might slash, but with the rusty blade held high, staggered and fell with a crossbow bolt through his head. Looking aft, kel Tomis saw the captain recocking his crossbow. "To the line, now!" shouted Bren at the crew. With a hoarse shout, he attacked, the crew of the Friendly Lion right behind him. Deciding this was now a lost cause, the pirates scrambled back to their own ship over the last line, several dropping in the water. Bren chopped the line free, and the ships started drifting apart. One pirate, who had slipped from the line into the water, started to shout, as several sharks swam closer to investigate. His shipmates did nothing to help as the terrified sailor was dragged under. Captain Tennent shouted out orders, canvas was piled on, and headway was made, just in case the marauders changed their minds. Bren walked back to the wheel, while cleaning his blade with a gaudy piece of cloth previously worn by one of the pirates. "Thank you, milord," said the captain, "That was quick thinking. It saved us." "Thank you captain," replied the dark-haired man. The captain beamed at the supposed compliment. "Yes, thank you indeed," said Bren. "If you weren't so inept, those vagabonds might have passed us by. At least I could forget my shame for a moment while killing some of those bloody bastards." Tennent turned bright red. "Why, you insolent pup, I saved your hide from being punctured and now you want to insult me?" He pulled a large knife from his side, while Bren raised his sword and stepped back. The two men stood there, staring at each other, not moving. The crew stared, waiting for one man or the other to explode into action. While unconsciously preparing to fight, Bren was thinking furiously. He had no friends in this place, there was no chance he could overcome the entire crew. Was he mad? Then, Bren started to smile. Maybe he was mad. When Bren started to laugh out loud, Tennent started to smile. When Bren actually rolled on the deck, holding his sides against the ache of so much jollity, Tennent said in a wondering voice, "Are you gone mad, then, milord?" "Only temporarily, captain," came the gasping reply from the deck. "How else could I explain attacking the only man who has tried to help me in a long while. It seems like such a long time since there was someone I might try to make a friend, and here I am, trying to stick my sword in his gizzard. What a fool I have been. But, no more!" Bren hauled himself up and held out a hand to the captain. "I apologize for my offensive remark. I am just finding it hard to live with my own failings, so to improve my temperament, I look to the supposed failings of others. Please do not call me lord. I am Bren kel Tomis, and although I have stained my name beyond redemption, it is all I have in the world besides my sword." The captain hesitated before replying, "Well, you say not to call you lord, although it seems obvious that you are, at least to one such as me. I may be captain on this ship, and proud to be so, but I was born in the Fifth Quarter of Magnus, just like most of this bunch. However that might be, you are one hell of a fighter, and if you wanted to join my crew, I'd sign you on right now. As for any offense, none taken." He put out his hand and grasped Bren's forearm in friendship. The rest of the voyage was without major incident. Bren now ate with the crew, and would even talk on occasion, but never about himself. He spent some time with Tennent, learning what he knew about Dargon and its people, for that city would now be his home. As the ship neared the mouth of the Coldwell, Bren could see the three towers of the castle, and somewhere inside himself he felt a small spark. He reached back in his bag and felt again the two pieces of wood, which, in a way, resembled his broken life. Maybe a new life was possible. Who knew, maybe even redemption. Feeling better than he had for a month, he stepped down the gangplank, and turned to wave goodbye to the crew of the Friendly Lion. Then he turned to face the city in which he would try to remake his broken staff. ======================================================================== Sleepers Awake by Alan Lauderdale lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu Summer 1009 Brother Muskrat watched the wagon roll up the track to the yard. His real name was Gerevin, but weeks could go by between uses of that name. Day to day, his name was Muskrat. And his real role at Rockway House was Master of the Scriptorium, but on as pleasant a day as it was today, he awarded himself a day off and was strolling outside the house, enjoying the air and the view. So he happened to be the first to see the wagoners arrive. He could see -- and wave to -- Bretin and Olink long before any shouting would've communicated anything, so he contented himself with a gesture and then waited for them to pull up. They were arriving later in the day than they usually did, but Brother Muskrat was unconcerned. This was firstly because he was not disposed to worry much about exactly how much time had passed and how much remained. And secondly, he was not worried because he was not going to be the one finding himself still driving the return trip when the sun went down. So he waited contentedly as the wagon rattled up and Bretin shouted his greetings and Olink yelled at the horses and the dust flew up and then began to settle. And when the bustle of arriving seemed ready to clear itself away, then did Brother Muskrat deign to begin the ceremonies of negotiation: "Greetings, Bretin!" he called to the scrawnier man. "Greetings, Olink," he added to the one who was still preoccupied with directing the horses. "A good day to you both. I trust you had a pleasant --" Olink, however, had some other matter on his mind besides a smooth flow of economic interchange. "We found a doll," he cried, with a good deal more excitement than a remark like that seemed to merit. "A *magic* doll," Bretin amended. This correction did a lot to justify Olink's excitement. It also gave Brother Muskrat some concern. "A magic doll?" he repeated. "How do you know?" "It's breathing, isn't it?" Olink said. He reached over the buckboard of the wagon and carefully lifted up Bretin's folded up jacket. He stepped a few paces away from the wagon, placed the garment on the ground and then gently unwrapped it. Albeit shallowly, the doll was definitely breathing. Maybe three hands high, it looked like a young woman or girl, wearing a simple beige peasant's dress and little else. The bare feet were exquisitely well formed and the hair -- brown, straight, and tied in a ponytail -- was very realistic. Her eyes were closed and her lips were just slightly apart -- as if she were asleep. Exactly as if the doll were asleep. "What d'you think?" Bretin said proudly. "We found her -- it -- I don't know --" "How do you know it's a doll?" Muskrat asked, before Bretin could finish articulating the gender issue. "'Course it's a doll," Olink exclaimed. "Ain't never seen a person that small, anyway." "I thought I'd heard stories," Muskrat said thoughtfully. "Some years past, a girl named M-something. Melissa?" "Oh sure," Olink declared. "There's always stories. You can find stories about anything. Dragons and skeletons and witches and little people and fey princesses. But you don't find no fey or little people lying beside the road in the middle of the day. They dance -- and they do their dancing at night --" "Olink knows the stories very well," Bretin explained. "This here ain't no fey," Olink declared authoritatively. "It's a magic doll." "The word of an expert," Bretin said proudly. "It's rather unusual for a doll to have closed eyes," Brother Muskrat suggested cautiously. "Not magic dolls," Olink assured him. "See, they keep their most powerful magicks in their eyes, so they got to shield them a lot of the time. Why, might be the only reason Bretin and I are alive right now is because this magic doll's kept its eyes closed." "Damn! Really?" Bretin breathed. Olink nodded. "Wow!" Suddenly, Bretin frowned. "Olink! You son of a bitch! That's the last time I'm letting you stop and make us pick up a doll by the side of the road. Why, it could've leveled us and three stands --" "All right," Muskrat interrupted. "Suppose it's a magic doll --" "A *powerful* magic doll," Bretin amended. "That too." Muskrat sighed, knowing the answer to his next question and knowing it involved money. "Why are you showing it to me?" "Well," Olink said. "We were sitting there in the road, staring at that powerful magic doll --" "So powerful, it glows in the dark," Bretin added. "We checked." "Yeah," Olink glared at his partner. It was the sort of glare that indicated there was some disagreement as to who was in charge of this story. "Anyway, we're looking at that doll --" "Just radiating that serious magic." "Uh, yeah. So we're considering our options --" "I can understand now why it took you so long to get here today," Brother Muskrat observed mildly. "Will you guys just shut up and let me finish!?" Olink shouted. "Mmph?" the doll squeaked. "Hey, it didn't do that before!" Olink exclaimed. "You didn't shout that loud before," Bretin told him. "What's going on?" the doll asked. It also opened its eyes. With a cry of panic, Bretin dropped and rolled, not stopping until he'd come up on the far side of the wagon. "Who're you?" the doll asked Olink and Brother Muskrat. "And what's the matter with him?" she added. "I am Gerevin," Brother Muskrat identified himself. It never stuck, but he did like to promote his proper name -- at least with strangers. He, unlike Olink or Bretin, had the equanimity to deal calmly with dolls who opened their eyes and immediately started asking questions. "And this is Olink," the brother identified the petrified wagoner. "He rescued you." "Oh," the doll said, before considering this information thoughtfully. "Thank you," she eventually decided, and then asked "From what?" Muskrat looked at Olink. Olink looked around for Bretin, but Bretin was still unhelpfully on the far side of the wagon. So Olink looked instead at the doll. The doll looked patiently at Olink. "Well," Olink temporized. "You know," he suggested. But this was the wrong audience to suggest that to. None of them seemed to know what they were supposed to know. A silence threatened to settle in. "Well," Olink tried again. "From sleeping in the middle of the road." "Ah," Brother Muskrat said. "Yes. A bad habit -- and a dangerous one. Hazardous to one's health, I'm sure. I can't recommend it," he told the doll. "I'm sure there are other, safer places to sleep. Do you sleep?" he inquired, just in case it should turn out that she didn't. "And have you a name?" "I'm Mouse," the doll replied, choosing to answer the easiest question first. "And yes --" "That's good!" Olink exclaimed. "A Mouse and a Muskrat." There was an awkward pause. "What muskrat?" the doll finally asked. "Him," Olink said, pointing at his host. "He's Brother Muskrat." "But I thought you said your name was --" "My *name* is Gerevin," Brother Muskrat sighed. "But everyone calls me --" "Brother Muskrat," Olink finished cheerfully. "Yes. I see," the doll said doubtfully. She glanced about and asked quickly "Where are we?" "Rockway House," Brother Muskrat answered. "Welcome to Rockway House, Mouse." "Thank you," Mouse said absently. She ran a hand through her hair. "And you saved me from sleeping in the middle of the road? What road?" "The Dargon Road," Olink said. "Not many other roads around here worth mentioning," he added. "It leads to Dargon, then?" "Be pretty stupid to call it that if it didn't," Olink declared. "Now Olink," Bretin called from his safe vantage. "Don't annoy her. You don't know what she might do if she gets mad at you. She might wink at you or something." The doll frowned. "Are you sure he's all right?" she asked Brother Muskrat. "Because, I don't know why I'd wink at someone if I were mad at him." "They think you're magical," Brother Muskrat tried to explain. "Uh, huh?" "And winking is a very powerful thing to do if you're magical." "Uh, huh?" Mouse repeated. Her doubt was quite obvious. "Shilsara's Bed, girl!" Olink exclaimed. "Everyone knows that!" "I wish you wouldn't use that phrase," Brother Muskrat muttered. Olink shrugged. "So are you going to pay us or aren't you?" he asked Brother Muskrat. "Pay him for what?" the doll demanded, as loudly as she had yet managed to shout. "For rescuing me from a nap? In the middle of the road? What's going on here?" "Yeah," Bretin agreed, apparently deciding it was safe to come back over by the others. "Are you going to reward us proper or aren't you?" "What do you mean, reward?" Mouse asked. Both Olink and Bretin started to respond to her question and also explain to Brother Muskrat why a mouse was worth a king's ransom. They both spoke loudly and quickly (and not very comprehensibly, even if only one of them had been speaking). As it was, they produced a lot of noise but scarcely advanced anyone's understanding. "Please be quiet," Brother Muskrat said. He said it very softly, so no one heard him. After a pause, he repeated himself, but the shouting continued unabated. He waited and said his three words again, continuing to do the same thing until Bretin finally became curious to know what he was saying and walloped Olink so he could hear. "Now," Brother Muskrat said to Mouse, "Olink and Bretin are aware that Rockway House will provide remuneration in exchange for magical things that are brought here. They think you are a magical thing --" "I am *not* a magical thing!" Mouse exclaimed. "Yeah? Well, you'll have to prove that to us," Olink insisted. "We don't often run into people that's only a couple of hands high --" "I am *three* hands high!" the mouse shouted. "Two, three. You're still too tiny to be a person," Olink declared. "I say you're magical and I say pay up." "I am a person," the mouse screamed. "I'm not too tiny -- I'm -- me!" She broke into tears and collapsed on Bretin's jacket. "Now look what you've done," Bretin glared at his partner. "The pursuit of money can be a very cruel thing," Brother Muskrat observed loftily. "Look who's talking!" Bretin turned his attention to him. "You and your rhubarb relish! Why, the price you charge for your 'secret' recipe is --" "All right," Brother Muskrat reached down and picked up the jacket and Mouse. "Let's not go off on that argument. We have a little girl to cheer up." He turned and walked into the kitchen. "I still say she's a doll," Olink grumbled, following him. "Yeah, she *is* cute," Bretin agreed. "That isn't what I meant." A change of locale and an offering of watered mead as well as a fair amount of patience served after a while to calm down the Mouse. Still sniffling a little, she seated herself on a sunny part of a table in the refectory, curling up around the small glass that contained her drink. "So," Brother Muskrat said, swirling his own mug. "You're a person, Mouse. Where are you from?" "Kervale," she replied. Her statement was met by a silence that implied a complete lack of recognition. "Well, that's all right," she said. "I'd never heard of Rockway House, either." "What's Kervale near?" Bretin asked. Mouse frowned. "Well, it's not that far from Riverside," she said. "It only took me a week or two to walk there from Sir Ongis' house." "Sir Ongis?" Brother Muskrat asked. "Is that like in Ongis' Fish?" "What's Ongis' Fish?" the emphatically unmagical little girl asked. "It was something that was promised but never appeared," Olink explained. "Some years ago, shortly before a Festival, this Sir Ongis wrote to the Duke and promised that he would be bringing to court a present that would astound the whole duchy," Brother Muskrat said. "But when the man actually arrived, all he had was a lame story about some two-headed brook trout that got away." "Well, if it *is* the same Sir Ongis," Mouse shrugged, "he makes a habit of doing stupid things." "I've never heard otherwise," Bretin said. "Anyway, you say you're from Kervale?" "My family's there," Mouse agreed. "My brothers and sister, at least. I *think* they're still there. I haven't seen them for a few months. I had to leave because of Sir Ongis. He wanted me to be some sort of fairy princess." "But you're not," Brother Muskrat said. "I am not," Mouse agreed. "I'm a girl and my father was a farmer and my mother's name was Sophie --" She stopped. "Was," Brother Muskrat repeated softly. "They're dead?" Mouse nodded. "The fever?" "What fever?" "The Red Plague, of course," Olink said. "Did they get sick?" Brother Muskrat asked. "No," Mouse said shortly. "Anyway, I had to leave. And then I spent the summer at Riverside. That was very pleasant, though a bit lonely. But then this awful man grabbed me and took me away from there." "He grabbed you?" Bretin asked. Mouse nodded. "I'd just been swimming and he -- he grabbed me. I screamed," she admitted. "Very understandable," Brother Muskrat said. "But didn't you -- couldn't you --?" Bretin fumbled for his question. Mouse stared at him, waiting to see if he could sort something out. "Couldn't you punish him?" Bretin finally asked. "No," Mouse said levelly. "I'm not a fairy. I can't 'punish' people. I'm Mouse, not Melisande --" "Melisande! That was the name," Brother Muskrat exclaimed. There was a silence while everyone waited for him to explain. He said nothing more, however. "I, uh, told that to Sir Ongis," Mouse resumed. "That I wasn't Melisande -- though I don't know if he believed me. I tried to fake being a fairy to Theris the Potter and failed. I don't know what the man who grabbed me wanted, a Melisande or a Mouse. He stuffed me in a sack and made me stay in there pretty nearly all the time. He spoke to me only to give me a few commands and explain that if I cooperated, it would all go much better for me." "Where did he take you?" Brother Muskrat asked. "To a chapel in the woods." "A chapel?" Bretin asked. "There's a ruined chapel pretty close to where you were on the road. But that place's haunted." "That's probably it," Mouse agreed. "The roof's gone. So he put me (inside my sack) in a hole in the floor of the chapel and told me to wait. There was someone who was challenging him to a fight. "A while later, someone else came along --" "What happened to the bad man?" Olink asked. "Didn't he come back?" Mouse shook her head. "I guess that after a while of waiting, I fell asleep. I slept maybe quite a while. And then this other man came along. He opened up the hole in the floor and he took out some of the things that were there with me. But he left me alone; he might not even have seen that I was there. If he had, I think he would have taken me out of there; I think he was nice. But he didn't see me and I was too tired to move or do anything. So he took the stuff he wanted and went away." There was a silence. "Then how did you get from the chapel to the road?" Brother Muskrat asked. There was another silence. "I don't know," Mouse finally admitted. "You're sure you're not magical?" Bretin asked. "Yes, I'm sure," the tiny girl insisted. "And you spent the summer in this town named Riverside?" Brother Muskrat asked. "Almost in it. There was this nice tree very close to the town. It was very big and had a wonderful hollow. I lived there." Mouse sighed. "Up until just a few weeks ago, I think." Brother Muskrat looked out at all the bright new growth in the kitchen garden. "Mouse," he said, "it's springtime now but you're saying it was summer a few weeks ago." "Oh!" Mouse exclaimed. "Oh my! Winter's over already? That was quick." "And you don't remember anything last year about the Red Plague?" The girl shrugged. "Maybe they didn't get it in Riverside," she suggested. "And the bad man who grabbed you, while you were swimming, did he also collect your clothes for you?" "He did not!" Mouse exclaimed with remembered indignation. "He just grabbed me and shoved me in that sack, all wet and cold and shivering. It was awful! Someone yelled at him just as he was grabbing me, so he was kind of in a hurry. And he never stopped to get me anything to wear. It was -- it was very embarassing every time I did have to get out of that sack." "Then, Mouse, where did you get the clothes you're wearing?" Brother Muskrat asked. "Oh!" Mouse looked at her dress. "But this -- this is what I usually wear," she said, fingering it uncertainly. "I -- I don't know." "Are you sure you're not magical?" Bretin asked again. "Yes I'm sure!" Mouse screamed at him. "All my life, people've been telling me I'm magical and I. Know. They're. Wrong!" She took a deep breath. "You want magical?" she demanded. "I'll give you magical. The man who came to me while I was sleeping under the chapel. He didn't take away all the magic stuff. There's some still left there. You want magical? Go get that." "Yes, perhaps we should," Brother Muskrat said. "Dibs on the magic stuff!" Olink and Bretin shouted simultaneously. It was now too late in the day to start back to the ruined chapel, not if the quartet wanted to look around the place under daylight -- and Bretin and Olink most strenuously wanted to avoid the place after dark. "It's haunted," Bretin reminded Brother Muskrat. "Get your throat slit if you linger near it after the sun goes down," Olink explained. "J'mirg's Bones, Olink!" Bretin exclaimed. "Hold it!" Brother Muskrat shouted even louder. "Bretin! I've told you before. There are certain --" "Yeah, yeah. I know," Bretin said wearily. "Don't mess with the nastier gods. Don't even talk about them. Sorry Brother. But Olink takes us driving past that place and he's never even told me I could've gotten my throat opened up." "Didn't want to make you nervous." "I didn't know that ghosts kept their knives sharp," Mouse said. "I didn't know they even *had* knives," Brother Muskrat added. "How do you know about this slashing ghost?" he asked Olink. "Everybody knows about that," Olink said vaguely. "All right," Brother Muskrat said. "We'll go first thing tomorrow. You all can stay to supper tonight --" "What about her?" Bretin asked. "What about her?" Brother Muskrat responded. "What about me?" Mouse echoed, understandably interested in the question. "Are you going to pay us for her?" Bretin tried one last time. Brother Muskrat shrugged. "She's a person," he said. "I don't find anything particularly magical about her. It was good of you two to pick her up off the road and bring her here. I'm sure she appreciates your help --" "Thank you," Mouse said, responding to her cue. "Yeah, sure. You're welcome," Bretin said without much enthusiasm. "That, I think, is enough on that," Brother Muskrat declared. "Now come along. We have a stew to help prepare." The group reached the chapel around midmorning the next day. They left the wagon (and a pair of horses who appreciated the respite in their journeying) a little ways off the road. "Get your throat slit, huh?" Bretin asked on the short walk to the remains of the building. "Only at night," Olink told him. "And then only if you're stupid enough to go where you're not invited. Folks say that lots of nights there's a horrible clanging and clashing around the chapel, as if some swordsmen were having some terrible fight. Well, one evening, someone traveling to Dargon -- some idiot who couldn't wait til he got to the city to have himself an adventure -- had too much ale at the Whistling Pig and decided that he'd go tell the swordfighters to please try to practice a little less noisily. So he stumbled off into the night --" "Oh, and he was the one who got his throat cut?" Bretin asked. Olink nodded. "Served him right, then." "Incidentally," Brother Muskrat asked "was his purse missing also?" Olink stared at the brother. "Don't know about that," he finally said. "There's the place," Mouse announced from her vantage on Brother Muskrat's shoulder. She had listened with half an ear to Olink's story, but her eyes had remained focused on the forest ahead. She pointed at the gray stone wall that was scarcely visible under a green tapestry of vines and creepers. There were gaps (partially filled with more greenery) where windows had once been and a couple of fissures where the wall itself had parted. The top of the wall simply ended roughly with a crown of leaves and tiny flowers rather than any kind of roofline. "Not much to look at," Bretin admitted. "Not if you wanted a building," Brother Muskrat half-agreed. "Celine might approve of this place, though -- as it is now." "Except for the haunting," Olink said. "She wouldn't care for the ghosts," Brother Muskrat nodded. "The treasure's inside," Mouse prompted. "Treasure?" Brother Muskrat raised an eyebrow. "The magic stuff that was with me." "Mmm, that." There was a choice of entries to the interior (loosely speaking) of the chapel. They decided to be choosy, though, and walked around the outside until they found a fairly large gap that was ill-defended by the briars. Within, the floor was covered with leaf litter and a few pioneering vines and seedlings, but the ancient altar was still quite obvious and as yet untouched by the vegetation. The trio walked over to it and Mouse pointed out for Bretin the catch that would open the hole in the floor. "Now be careful," she said, herself skipping back several feet from the altar. "When you release that catch, the altar itself will move some." "Yes," Brother Muskrat said, observing where the leaf litter had been pushed around. "We can see that. Well, Bretin, you and Olink have 'dibs' on the magic stuff. Will you do the honors?" Bretin did the honors. With a growling grinding that implied to Brother Muskrat that the thing might not be willing to perform this trick many more times, the altar shifted forward away from Bretin and toward the center of the room. Brother Muskrat walked around the shifted altar to look at the opening below. As he did, he heard a gasp from Olink. "Something?" he said, peering with Bretin at the darkness below. "Uh, yeah," Olink said cautiously. "You know, I really think you were wrong and we were right." "About what?" "About that mouse." "What about Mouse?" Brother Muskrat stood up and glared at Olink over the altar. "I thought we settled that yesterday." "Well, she just scuttled out of here through that hole in the wall over there." Olink pointed at a small gap that was close to the ground. Not easily, perhaps, but Mouse could probably have gotten out through it. Brother Muskrat glanced at the hole and then back at Olink. "So?" he asked. "Well, before --" "It's junk!" Bretin exclaimed in disgust. Brother Muskrat looked down at his feet. Bretin was dumping some small stones near his sandals. "All of it?" the brother asked. "Some rotten cloth, these moldy stones and some more rotten cloth," Bretin said. "If there was ever anything magical here, that other guy took it all." "Hmph." Brother Muskrat felt disappointed. "And Mouse just ran off?" he asked Olink again. "She did?" Bretin asked. "She was the one who suggested we come here for magic stuff. And then she goes -- The wagon!" he shouted suddenly. "We left it!" He sprang to his feet and raced out of the chapel. "That's an awful lot of work to go to just to steal someone's wagon," Brother Muskrat said to the fleeing man. He did not follow. Neither, he noticed, did Olink. "You don't think Mouse wanted to steal the wagon either?" "No, no," Olink laughed. "What would a mouse want with a wagon?" "Well," Brother Muskrat said reasonably, "to ride around in. Or to sell. She'd have needed an accomplice, though -- if that was what was going on here." "But she's a mouse," Olink said. "What would a mouse want with a wagon?" "What do you mean, she's a mouse?" "I mean she turned into a mouse and then ran away." "A mouse? You mean with paws and whiskers --" "-- and a tail, yeah. And fur. She turned into a mouse and ran off through a mousehole. She was magic." "But she was a person," Brother Muskrat said. "She'd been places and done things and gotten kidnapped and brought here and --" "Wagon's still there," Bretin announced, coming back into the chapel. "So are the horses. You know, Olink, I don't think I pay enough attention to Chester or Marybelle. They gave me a very strange look when I came running up to them." "Mouse's a mouse," Olink told him. Bretin stared at Olink. "You're not much better than Chester," he said. "Except that he manages to be enigmatic without moving his lips." "Hah! Mouse isn't a mouse!" Brother Muskrat exclaimed. "The mouse wasn't really Mouse." Bretin looked over the altar at Brother Muskrat. "You're worse than he is," he said. "Look at this." Brother Muskrat stood up from the hole in the floor. He held gently something wrapped in the last of the rotting cloth and, stepping around to the side of the altar, he unwrapped it slightly. Olink and Bretin looked. "Another doll?" Bretin asked. "No," Brother Muskrat said, looking down at a tiny face that was identical to that of Mouse. The eyes were closed; she seemed to be asleep. "It's slight, but she's breathing." Olink sighed. "Here we go again," he said. ======================================================================== It waits at the edge of a frontier town. It waits for a group of adventurers to begin an unprecedented journey. But most of all, it waits for you. Dargon: Deep Woods Inn. In March the wait will be over. It waits in a frontier Duchy. It waits for a female warrior to guide a band of determined adventurers. But most of all, it waits for you. Dargon: Deep Woods Inn. In March the wait will be over. ========================================================================