The snapping thundercrack of a
collapsing interplanar gate echoed across the massive, tree-strewn courtyard of
the ancient fortress. The guards
standing before the palace gates scarcely noticed; it was a common mode of
travel for visitors to Arx Dentis. The
woman who stepped out of the dissolving cloud of lightning-flecked arcane
energy and stormed up the gatehouse steps, however, could not be so readily
dismissed or ignored.
She was a vision of utter loveliness. Tall for her race, with a shapely figure and
the most delicate of features, her raven hair caught up in a priceless coronet
of mithral and pearls perched delicately atop pointed ears, and gowned in silk
as the Queen that she was, she was accustomed to portraying a stately and regal
bearing. Not this time. Her tresses – the envy and despair of the
assembled ladies of the Starhall – fluttered behind her like the battle-flag of
a towering warship quartering into the wind.
Her measured stride was more a hunter’s stalk than a lady’s graceful
progress, and her eyes – the magnificent amber orbs that for more than a
thousand years had torn men’s hearts from their breasts and crushed them –
blazed as if afire. The effect,
altogether alarming, was mitigated somewhat by her complexion which in her
jovian rage had taken on a peculiar mottled mixture of flaming red and dead
white, like a badly-conceived quilt.
The guardians standing before the
pillars that flanked the palace gate watched the elf-woman – for that was what
she was – ascend the marble risers, first snickering at the manner in which she
hiked up her skirts to climb the nine-and-ninety stairs, then shooting each
other meaningful glances as her grace, womanly figure, and startling beauty
hove into view. Both men were humans,
tall and broad-shouldered, and were clad head to toe in silver-brushed steel
plates. Towering helms were atop their
heads; helms burnished so brightly that they flashed with silver fire, their
beavors figured like the snouts of dragons argent; and long spears tipped with
glinting glaive-blades of the same fierce aspect were in their hands.
Frank desire at the elf-woman’s
undulating glory painted their faces…at least until she came within a spear’s
length, and both men, seeing her ears, her eyes, and her crown, realized who
she was. Armoured forearms jerked sloped
spears to a hasty vertical; armoured heels rang as they snapped together; and
armoured hands, outstretched, proclaimed the salute of the Fangriders.
“Hail, Majesty!” the elder of the
two men began. “On behalf of the Master,
I bid you –”
“Where is he?!” Ælyndarka shrieked,
spattering the knight with a most un-monarch-like spray of spittle.
The younger warrior shot a worried
glance at his senior. This latter
worthy, who knew what he was facing, did not take his eyes off the smouldering
visage of his diminutive visitor. “The
Master?” he asked nervously.
“Who else?” the Queen snarled. “In his study, I suppose? Dreaming up new ways to irritate me?”
“It is vylas, Majesty,” the knight said in what he hoped was a placatory
tone. “The Master…he is holding court.”
“Excellent.” Ælyndarka took a deep breath. “Open the doors.”
Now it was the senior who glanced
worriedly at his second. “Majesty…” he
began.
“Well?”
The man clenched his teeth to keep
them from chattering. “It is vylas,” he said gently, as if that
explained everything. “Private petitions
only, by appointment, between the sixth and sixteenth hours. That is the Master’s will.”
The Queen turned her amber eyes on
the terrified veteran. With exaggerated
calm, she said, “I have a private
petition, rider. And believe me when I
tell you that I don’t need an
appointment. So ring your bell and warn
the scaly old pervert that I’m coming.”
Caught between the majestic terror
of the Master of Silverstair and a fuming Queen of the Elves, the knight
swallowed heavily. His right eye began
to twitch. “Majesty…”
“Never mind,” Ælyndarka
growled. “I’ll ring it myself.” Facing the iron doors of the palace – each of
which was four times her height and a thousand times her weight – she held out
her hands and uttered a single syllable.
A shrieking blast of light whiter than snow and hotter than a thousand
stars burst from her slender form.
The iron doors of Arx Dentis were of dwarf-make, and
had stood, magnificent, impenetrable and rust-free, for the better part of four
millennia. A thousand years ago,
Karventää, the ancient red wyrm who styled herself ‘Lady Deathscorch’, had, in
the course of challenging the Master, tried the furnace-fire of her breath
against them, to little effect. Hung
with exquisite precision and lubricated by a cadre of professionals, they could
be opened with a single hand, and had never uttered so much as a squeak. Ælyndarka’s curse tore them from their hinges
as though they were made of pasteboard, partially melting the ancient alloys
and hurling the shattered remnants, accompanied by a spray of vaporized metal,
into the shining space beyond.
Stepping gingerly around the smouldering debris, the
Queen of the Elves stalked into the enormous, many-pillared hall. Surrounded by steaming, smoking puddles of
molten iron, in a voice full-laden with terrible menace, she cried, “Perky, my
love…I’m home!”
♦♦♦
“This is ridiculous!” Valaista complained.
“No, this is a courtblade,” Karrick replied. “It’s the way you’re holding it that’s ridiculous.”
He twitched his wrist.
Steel rang on steel, and the girl’s sword clattered to the
flagstones.
“Ow!” She stuck
a finger in her mouth. That made the
warrior grin; it wasn’t a very draconic gesture. She was picking up Kindred mannerisms at an
alarming rate.
“Gods, girlie, you’re embarrassing me,” Karrick
chuckled. “Why’d you have to pick a
public park to practice in, eh?” He
nodded at the sword. “Once more.”
“If I do it the way you showed me, my wrist is going
to break!”
“Nah, it won’t,” he snorted. “You’re tough. Someday, though, I will show you how to break a wrist.” He bent down, retrieved the elven greatsword,
and passed it back to her, cradling the blade carefully in the crook of his
elbow. “Let’s try it again.”
Irritated by the constant interruptions at Domus
Casia, Karrick had proposed that they find a different venue for Valaista’s
next lesson in swordplay. The girl had
agreed, suggesting in turn that they try one of the groves that lay along the
Via Alnus. Between the lack of flowers,
the temperature, and the gently-falling snow, they were unlikely to be
disturbed.
“Try it? I can’t even hold onto it!” the girl said
despairingly.
“That’s ‘cause you’re holding it all wrong,” he said
with exaggerated patience. “The reason
the elfy blades are so tough for the rest of us is that they’re made for
finesse, not force. You caress’em. You don’t clench’em like a coal-miner
swinging a pick.”
He held the hilt of the sword out. “Watch.
This’ere’s the waist-hook.”
Moving with extreme slowness, he bent his left ring finger around a
curved protuberance extending from the lower half of the grip. Then, letting the sword slide off of his
sleeve, he allowed the blade to swing earthwards like a scythe. The razor-edged steel swung back and forth
like a pendulum. “See? One finger.
That’s all it takes.”
The dragon-girl frowned. “What’s the use in that? You can’t swing a sword with one finger.”
“Oh?” Karrick laughed.
He stepped over to one of the flower beds and, holding his ring-finger
ostentatiously out of the way, rubbed the rest of his right hand in the chill
muck. Then he transferred the sword, by
the waist-hook, to his right hand, suspending it on the single clean
digit.
“Hold out that latha,”
he commanded.
Valaista picked up the wooden practice sword and
extended it towards her mentor. Before
it was half way to his face, Karrick slid his left foot back, crouched, and
swung his right arm in a slashing motion.
The curved blade snapped out, hissed through the air…and, with a light,
musical tzing, the first third of
Valaista’s hardwood weapon sailed off and thudded into a snow-bank.
To her credit, the dragon-girl only flinched a
little. Karrick nodded his approval at
her increasing steadiness, then extended his hand towards her, the sword still
swinging from his ring-finger. “Check the
hilt.”
She did. “It’s
clean.” She glanced up at him in
astonishment. “You really did that with one finger?”
“With one finger,” he confirmed, switching the sword
to his left hand and scrubbing the muddy right one against his tunic. “I wouldn’t recommend it in combat, but I
wanted to show you what kind of weapon this is.” He spun the blade through a complex,
spiralling series of manoeuvres that ended with him handing it back to her,
hilt first. “Elfies make good swords,”
he added approvingly.
Valaista took the weapon and, after a struggle, got
her hands properly around the hilt. “So
why don’t you carry one?”
“Courtblades take two hands. I’m a shield man,” the warrior shrugged.
He was about to go on when he saw that she was
glancing apprehensively over his shoulder.
Turning, he saw an elf striding briskly towards them from the
roadway.
The fellow halted a few paces away and, noting their
practice armour and weapons with a raised eyebrow, bowed. “Master Karrick,” he said formally, “and
milady Valaista. Amorda’s doorman told
me I might find you here. Greet the
day.”
“Ka-Mai, isn’t it?” Karrick recognized the wizard’s
unusual brush-cut hair. “From the
embassy. The magical mason.”
“The same,” the elf replied curtly.
The warrior extended a paw. “Nice to see you again.”
The wizard eyed the grubby limb with a dubious
air. Ignoring it, he stepped closer to
the dragon-girl. “Fair one,” he said
unctuously, “I have not slept since last we met. My every waking moment is consumed with
dreams of your beauty.” He bowed so
deeply that Karrick thought he might fall over. “I swear, I shall not rest
until you are mine.”
“H-hello,” the stunned girl replied. She shot the warrior a panicked look.
Ka-Mai straightened up and turned to face
Karrick. “I have heard nothing from your
master, the lady’s guardian. I presume
that means that you failed to inform him that I wished to speak with him.” He sniffed.
“Do I err?”
Karrick stared down at the little man. His welcoming grin had cooled
noticeably. “Nope.”
The wizard bristled visibly. “Why did you fail to execute my request?”
“ ‘Cause you look flammable,” the warrior shrugged,
“and the boss ain’t fond of chicken-fuckers.”
Valaista blanched.
Ka-Mai blinked.
“I’m afraid I’m not au courant
with that particular manifestation of the popular Ekhani idiom.”
The warrior nodded towards his charge. “Means she’s not looking for a husband right
now.”
“Due respect, my good fellow,” the elf said, frowning,
“but that’s not really for you to decide, is it? This is a matter for your master, her
guardian, and me to resolve. Between
men.”
Karrick looked the elf up and down. “The boss usually lets me ‘resolve’ the little problems.”
He jerked his head at the gate.
“Now, take your narrow arse home before I lose my sunny
disposition.”
Turning back to Valaista, he made a show of dusting
his hands, and winked. “There. Another matter resolved. I swear, I deserve a raise.” He nodded at the blade in her hand. “Let’s carry on. Firm up that grip, and we’ll –”
“Sir!”
Karrick turned back to their visitor. The wizard was red-faced and visibly trembling.
“You still here?” the warrior asked mildly.
“Ego te poscimo!”
the little man shrieked.
“Sorry?”
“Challenge, you oaf!
Challenge!” Ka-Mai screamed. “Are
you deaf as well as stupid? I challenge
you!”
Karrick blinked.
“To what, a hair-dressing match?” he asked.
“To a duel!” the wizard howled. “Here!
Now!”
The warrior shrugged.
“Okay. I get pick of weapons,
right?”
“Weapons?” the wizard laughed. “Weapons? This is the Realm! You have insulted me, you clod! A wizard!
We duel with spells!”
Valaista leapt forward, her eyes wide with panic. “He is not a caster! You cannot chall…” Her voice trailed off. To her astonishment, Karrick was holding a
finger to his lips and making calming gestures.
He turned back to Ka-Mai, shrugged, and said, “Okay. Fire away.”
The little elf snorted derisively. “This is the duel arcane, bumpkin! First, we defend. Second, we prepare. And third, we fight.” He stuck out his chin. “To the death!”
“Whatever,” Karrick shrugged. “Let’s get on with it. I’m in the middle of a lesson, here.” He bowed elaborately.
The wizard bowed back.
He was about to spin on his heel to pace off the customary distance when
Karrick unexpectedly held up a hand. “A
moment, if you don’t mind? To consult my
second, here?”
Ka-Mai frowned.
“If you wish.”
Karrick leaned over to Valaista and stage-whispered,
“How do you cast that…that light-dart…thing?”
The dragon-girl looked startled. “Do you mean magic missile?”
“That’s the one!” the warrior nodded. “Can you teach me that?”
Valaista blinked several times before responding. When she did, her voice was faint. “Right now?”
Karrick nodded toward the impatient wizard. “Sooner the better, eh?”
If the girl’s eyes had been any wider, her eyeballs
might have dropped from their sockets.
The soldier grimaced.
“No, hunh?”
Valaista shook her head.
“Hunh.” Karrick
nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Guess I’ll have to rely on my own magic. As usual.”
He turned back to the wizard.
“Ready when you are, big guy.”
Ka-Mai shot the human a scornful glance. He was about to turn once more, when Karrick
held up his hand again. “Gods, what now?”
the elf complained.
“Where I come from,” the warrior explained, “we shake
before we fight.”
The wizard sniffed.
Karrick raised an eyebrow. “I thought you Third-House lot were all about
courtesy. If we’re gonna kill each
other, can’t we at least be civilized about it?”
Rolling his eyes at the bumptiousness of all
round-ears, Ka-Mai extended his own hand.
Karrick took it and gave it a firm shake. “You know how to cast stilled spells?” he
asked suddenly.
Ka-Mai blinked in surprise. “Of course not!” he said, bristling. “I am a master of the Ludus Astralis, not some conjurer of cheap tricks!”
“That’s what I figured,” Karrick nodded. Shifting his grip slightly, he twisted the
smaller man’s wrist in an entirely inappropriate direction.
Bones cracked audibly.
The wizard screamed and fainted.
Karrick stepped back and let the snow cushion his fall.
After making certain that the little elf was still
breathing, the warrior turned back to his apprentice. Valaista was staring at him in utter shock. “That,” he
said with immense satisfaction, pointing at his unconscious opponent, “is how
you break a wrist!”
Then he noticed the jagged, protruding bones and the
scarlet stains spreading across the snow, and winced. “Oof.
And an arm too, I guess.”
♦♦♦
Discretion, they say, is oft the better part of
valour. The troop of Riders that stood
vigil outside the burnished silver doors of the Arx Dentis throne room took one
look at Ælyndarka’s face and, as a man, stepped back, sloped their glaives, and
bowed. Their commander, a grizzled
captain with the almond eyes and brushed-bronze complexion of a native of
Shorheit, swept the drake-jawed helm from his head and dropped to one knee.
Scarcely noticing the assembled knights, the Queen
stormed past, her long skirts trailing her like a smoke-cloud after a Jarlin
war party. An imperious flick of her
fingers, and the silver doors rumbled open.
Beyond them stood the throne room of the Master. It was a little unconventional, at least from
a mortal perspective. For one thing, it
was round. And for another, it had no
roof. It was, in effect, a courtyard
that stood at the centre of the concentric ring of multi-leveled towers, each
tipped with a spike of gleaming silver, that formed the main body of Arx Dentis
– the Fortress of the Fang, the colossal edifice that towered over the bustling
metropolis of Silverstair like a raptor poised to strike.
The lack of a ceiling was no impediment to the
function of the place. Arx Dentis, and
for that matter Silverstair and all of the surrounding land, from the Vatnhugr
to the Mountains and beyond, lay in Dracosedes, the extraplanar realm of Holy
Miros herself. Suspended in the
celestial æther a hundred leagues and more above the endless rolling hills and
sylvan woodlands of Fulgoris (the home of Hara Sophus, Lord of Elves),
Dracosedes – Dragonhome, in the common tongue - was illuminated not by
inconstant sun and stars, like the benighted cities of the mortal realms, but
rather by the Everlight, the divine, undulating radiance which, according to
the sages, was generated by the Anari, and sustained them, too. The Master did not fear cold, because of what
he was; nor did he fear wind, rain, or unseemly heat. All things in Dracosedes, including the
weather, obeyed the will of Holy Miros; and the Master, as her viceroy and
acting in her name, ordered them as he saw fit.
The rotundity of the place served the Master’s
preference. In the centre of the massive
chamber-court, a low, broad platform wrought of sandstone supported his
unimaginably vast bulk. To the uninitiated,
he looked like a hillside wrought of purest silver – at least until he moved. Then legs like the trunks of trees, wings the
size of a dromond’s main-sail, and eyes as wide across as a man was tall took
shape. Anyone unprepared for such a
sight never forgot its first impact, assuming they survived the encounter; for
the ancient silver wyrm, eldest and mightiest of his race, was as harsh and
implacable with his foes as he was gentle and generous to his friends.
Most ancient of the hopea, the wyrms of argent; colleague to Oroprimus; confidante of
Divine Miros; acquaintance of men and women, elves and dwarves, angels and
devils and gods. To the citizens of
Silverstair, he was The Master. To the
ancient sages of Elvehelm, he was the grandchild of Olowartan, leader of the
Argent Three, the dragons who had brought the Book of the Powers to Starmeadow,
ending the Eon of Darkness. To men he
was known as Ancient Iceblade, a nom de
guerre that was usually appended by the innumerable appellations of battles
that he had won. To the denizens of
Dracosedes, he was Venastargenta Æternus,
Silver Mercy the Eternal. To
Cymballargenta, Nitorisargenta, and Cymballanatora, he was Grandfather; to
Svardardgenta of Cloudspire, he was Father; and to Her Serene Majesty Ælyndarka
the Fair, jewel of House Æyllian, by the grace of Hara Sophus and the Holy
Mother Queen of the Third House of Ancient Harad, he was -
“Perky!”
The dragon had been speaking to someone on the other
side of the room. Like a planet shifting its orbit, the immense head, bigger
than a house, swivelled around to face her.
The Queen was no infant; nor was she a doddering
novice. She was a monarch, ancient in
years, mighty in the arcane arts, and the daughter of a divine house, possessed
of wisdom, grace, and ever-lasting beauty.
And, too, she was Captain-General of an enormous army. She had no intention of trembling in the
presence even of the most ancient and powerful dragon – save two only – in all
the breadth and width of the Universe.
Nonetheless, as Venasta turned his mammoth, man-sized orbs towards her –
eyes so silver-shot and reflective that she could see herself and the whole of
the room behind her in their mirror-bright convex surfaces – she felt her knees
quiver. Just a little.
His mind-speech – which, Ælyndarka knew from personal
experience, was potent enough to kill foes where they stood – felt like an old
and familiar embrace. Hello,
Elly, the monstrous dragon sent softly.
“Hello yourself,” she replied faintly, cursing herself
for falling prey so readily to the overwhelming power of his presence. She knew all too well the effect that his
aura had on mortals – her most especially.
She knew, and she had been ready for it; and yet, as ever, she proved
entirely unable to resist it. Her heart
raced, her mouth went dry, and her legs began to shake…but not with fear. Never with fear.
It’s wonderful to see you, Venasta said.
He shifted his bulk to face her more fully. It’s been…how long?
“Four…nearly four hundred years,” the elf-Queen
sighed.
Incredible,
the colossal dragon sighed. And
yet…you’re even more beautiful than I remembered.
Desperate to preserve the few remaining shreds of her
dignity, Ælyndarka squeezed her eyes painfully shut. Remember,
remember! she commanded herself. Remember why you’re here!
It wasn’t working.
The dragon’s form, his unimaginable size, the alien majesty of his
argent gaze…none of that mattered. Not a
bit. The feathery feel of his mind was
like the silken touch of lips on hers, a caress so gentle, so intimate, and so
well-recalled that her heart all but burst with the pain of memory, and she
nearly cried out with joy at tasting his thoughts again. She felt hot dampness in her eyes; the same
dampness that had stained her cheeks each of the few times that their paths had
crossed since their parting; each wonderful, terrible, heart-rending time.
Three times; only three, in nearly eight long and
lonely centuries.
Remember!
Swallowing heavily, she reached into the embroidered
purse at her girdle and threw something to the floor. A trio of shrivelled, blood-stained fingers,
each bearing a ring, clattered to the stone.
One of the rings bounced clear and rolled, tinkling merrily to a halt
beneath the dragon’s muzzle.
Venasta looked down at the rings, then up again
without expression. Or at least, without
any expression that she was able to interpret.
You received my message, he sent softly. That’s good.
How are our young?
“The same as you remember,” she replied
automatically. “Landioryn…he’s strong
and loyal. And wise. Our daughter…she…she’s still…”
Be gentle with Cæfalys, Venasta murmured.
Her frailties… they are not her fault. He sighed heavily, and the elf-Queen smelt
ice and mountain air. There
is too much of me in her. I had not yet
perfected the magic when she was born.
“Perky, about that…we need to talk,” Ælyndarka
said. She was proud that her voice
trembled only a little.
The dragon regarded her evenly for a long moment. Then his form shimmered, glinting like an
image wrought of quicksilver in the Everlight, and he vanished in a cloud of
brilliant, snow-coloured sparks. In the
same instant, in place of the dragon stood a tall, grey-haired elf. His cheeks were hollow and lined, and his
waist-length locks, caught up in a ring of hammered silver, were more white
than argent; but his eyes – eyes of mirror-silver – were still bright, still full
of wisdom, laughter, and love. There
was a sheepish wrinkle at the corner of his mouth, as if he were eternally
embarrassed, amused and delighted by everything he saw. The tilt of his lips was so familiar to her
that it tore her heart in twain.
At the sight of her lifemate of old, Her Serene
Majesty Ælyndarka the Fair, jewel of House Æyllian, Queen of the Elves, lost
the last vestiges of her carefully-conserved self-control. She laughed aloud, clapping her hands and
bursting into floods of happy tears.
Yes, my dearest love, the gray-haired ‘elf’ said, stepping forward to take
her hands, kissing them before enfolding the weeping Queen gently in his
arms. Yes, I’m afraid we do.
♦♦♦
Ælyndarka, not surprisingly, wasn’t
the only angry elf-woman confronting an infuriating and errant spouse.
“Have you LOST your MIND?” Amorda
screamed.
Breygon winced. In a life thus far replete with memorable
encounters, his lifemate was one of the most rhetorically gifted individuals he
had ever chanced to meet. She had a
trick of adding a vibrating falsetto declension to her expostulations which, he
had quickly realized, was effective because it actually triggered a target’s
survival instinct by inflicting sensations that were somewhere between abject
panic and physical pain. It was, he had
been interested to discover, an effect not too different from that generated by
a dragon’s roar.
Of course, he preferred it when his good lady’s ire
was directed elsewhere. Once again, he
found himself wondering what he had gotten himself into. And not – as an ancient skald had once
written – for the last time.
He decided to brazen it out. “Louder, dear,” he replied mildly. “I don’t think they heard you in Jarla.”
“Berani
bodoh!” Tua whispered under his breath, full of admiration at his master’s
audacity. The old fellow was standing
beside Breygon in a gesture of moral support.
Thus far, the ranger hadn’t found his sotto voce commentary especially useful. As a further example, the Wilder elf
whispered, “Can I have your armour, Lewat? After she kills you?”
“Shut it,” Breygon muttered.
Amorda’s face went from rose-red to
snow-white with alarming rapidity. “Is
that really the tone you want to take
with me, husband?” she whispered.
“Because if it is, I’m happy to treat this as a comedy and farce. Instead of the unspeakable tragedy you’ve
made of it.”
She drew herself up.
“In that spirit, my love…
curse Ekhan! And curse you!”
‘Curse’ was, of course, not the word that she
used. As Breygon winced, the elf-woman
hawked and spat. Then she hurled a vase
at him.
Tua, who despite his age retained all of the grace of
his birthright, dodged nimbly out of the way.
Breygon snagged the vase – there were some benefits, after all, to
having quick hands – then caught the old fellow’s eye and jerked his head
toward the door. With a relieved nod,
the Wilder elf half-bowed, then bolted for the dining room, making good his
escape.
When his equerry was safely out of the picture, the
half-elf turned back to his fulminating spouse.
He set the vase – a lovely thing of painted porcelain which, he was
certain, Amorda would have regretted destroying – on a low table. “Now we can discuss this in private,” he said
as soothingly as he could.
“ ‘In private’?” Amorda gasped. “ ‘In private’?” She put her hands to her hair in
exasperation. Breygon, fairly certain
that she would do nothing to permanently injure her magnificent locks, remained
frozen in place. “You didn’t once consider telling me about the
situation at the Gyrus and asking me for my counsel, in private? Before deciding
to play Jolly Jared the brigand in front of half the city?”
“Who’s Jolly Jared?” Breygon asked, confused.
When Amorda’s eyes widened even further, he held out
his palms. “Sorry! Doesn’t matter!”
“You couldn’t have taken an hour,” the elf-woman snarled, “to find out whether swooping in
and carrying the ‘mayden fayre’ off over your shoulder might be…oh, I don’t
know…ill-advised?”
“She was fighting a pair of hill giants,” the ranger
protested. “And she was in bad shape
already. You saw her! She wouldn’t have lasted much longer!”
“Really?” Amorda asked, her voice dripping with
venom. “And this is the first time you’d
ever heard of the legendary Swiftspear, is it?”
Breygon blinked.
“Well, I –”
“Because,” the woman interrupted
acidly, “I seem to recall her name
coming up at Danoria’s table in Novaposticum nearly two weeks ago! How she was
fast becoming the star of the Circle, with fabulous sums being won and lost on
her spear-point!”
The half-elf’s brow wrinkled. “So what?
She was dying!”
“She’d been fighting as a gladiator
for at least a fortnight, and probably much longer,” Amorda sniffed. “Moreover, you said that you knew she was
‘first hunter’, or some other barbarian leader, of her people. And yet, you were worried that she was going
to drop stone dead the moment you and your…your enabler, that armour-bound idiot…you convinced yourselves that she
was on the very brink of death the moment you two happened to show up? Really?”
She spat again. “What are the
odds of that? Seriously, don’t they
teach you woods-walkers to do sums?”
Breygon blinked again. The elf-woman had a point. “She did
manage to drop both those giants,” he admitted.
“Before you and Thanos intervened,
I’ll bet.”
The ranger nodded.
“What an astonishing coincidence!” Amorda
sighed. “Here’s another question. She was the property of your idiot uncle,
correct?”
“I saw him there,” Breygon
nodded. “It was his show. And that’s certainly what the restraint brand
suggests, yes. And the handbill, too.”
“Hmmm.” She put a finger on her desk and slid the
parchment that Thanos had found towards him.
“And according to this, he’s promised five-score thousand orries to
anyone who kills her in the ring.”
“Yes.”
“That seemed like a genuine offer,
did it?”
“Why not?”
Amorda rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t have a hundred thousand aureae! You’d’ve known that, if you’d brought this to
me first.”
“You said that he had access to his
lifemate’s ‘bottomless coffers’!” Breygon objected.
“For spending money!” Amorda shrieked.
“Gods, do you think Inscia’d mortgage Heron Gate to bail that cretin out
of a gambling debt? How thick are you?”
The ranger frowned. “So what happens to him if Swiftsp…if Mata
dies in the ring? And he can’t pay
up? Would he go to debtor’s prison, or something?”
The elf-woman stared at her lifemate
for a long moment. Then she shook her
head, laughing sadly. “Holy Mother!” she
murmured. “With that kind of charming naiveté there’s just no way I can stay
angry at you!”
“What d’ye mean, ‘naiveté’?” Breygon
bristled.
“What makes you think that that was
an honest fight?” the elf-woman snorted.
“What on earth makes you think
Bræagond – a man you know to be a lying, conniving, two-faced, addle-arsed
ne’er-do-well – would ever let such a valuable asset actually die in the
ring? Or even come close to the chance of dying? Especially with that kind of money on the
table?”
The half-elf grimaced. “Cheating.
Of course.” He shook his head
tiredly. “For a moment there I forgot
what country I was in. So, you’re saying
she was never in any real danger?”
“Never,” Amorda replied with an
answering shake. She took a deep,
shuddering breath. “But you are.
Now.”
“Me?” Breygon laughed
humourlessly. “Not ‘we’?”
“ ‘We’?” Amorda snorted. “Why should I be in danger? I didn’t break the law.”
The ranger’s face fell. “So what was the point of all that
jibber-jabber about vows binding us beyond death, then?”
“They don’t cover this,” the
elf-woman replied, barking a laugh.
“You’re aware, of course, of article eight-oh-eight.”
Breygon put his face in his
hands. “Here it comes,” he murmured to
himself. Glancing up at his three-day
bride, he asked, “And what, pray, my dearest love, does article eight-oh-eight
govern?”
“Contract law,” Amorda snapped. “Eight-oh-eight prohibits any member of the
nobility from entering into a binding contract with a convicted felon. And, more to the point, it voids
retroactively any contract when one of the parties is convicted sub judice of an offence against the
Codex.”
Breygon blinked. “Even marital vows? Even the votum
magnus?”
“That’s a good question, isn’t it?”
the elf-woman sighed. “I can’t think
when it’s ever come up before.”
He frowned.
“Are you telling me,” he said sceptically, “that no married member of
the nobility has ever been convicted of a crime? Here?”
“Convicted?
No. It never gets that far,”
Amorda said coldly. “There are plenty of
other options. Bribery, for
example. Corruption at court. Silencing of witnesses. And if all that fails, self-imposed
exile. Or suicide.”
“None of those seem like very palatable choices,”
Breygon mused.
“Not that any of those are necessary,” Amorda went on
coldly. “The Queen could simply request a vote of the Council. With a two-thirds majority – which, as you
can imagine, wouldn’t be much of a challenge to obtain – your nobility could be
rescinded and you could be struck from the ranks of the Duodeci. You would face the
judge and accusator, and eventually
the headsman, as a commoner. A single
one,” she added unnecessarily.
“Nobility doesn’t mean a dire rat’s rectum to me,”
Breygon growled. “But there’s no way
anyone’s taking you away from me.
Legally or otherwise.”
Amorda smiled wanly.
“Then you’re going to make some jurist very famous. After four thousand years, it’s not often
that new legal precedents get set.”
“I’ve only just begun setting
precedents,” the ranger said in a voice as cold as the Lymphus. “So, freeing slaves is an offence against
High Elven morals, is it?”
“Not morals, laws. And yes – across the river, in Lamboris where
your bloody uncle Bræagond is Duke, it is,” Amorda snapped. “Of course, you’d’ve known that if you’d
bothered to ask me. Gods, even that
moron Karrick could’ve told you that much!”
“I rather doubt that,” the ranger
snorted. “Karrick is a lot of things,
but a lawyer isn’t one of them.”
“He doesn’t have to be a lawyer!” his wife hissed back. “It’s enough to be a whoremonger! Love for money is illegal here! Why did you
think the Fang is on Eastbank, eh?
Instead of right across the street from my house?”
“I thought it probably had something
to do with property values,” Breygon snarled.
Amorda’s lip twitched. “I counsel thee to mind thy tone, husband
mine,” she said frigidly. “Thou’rt aye
in shite up to the neck. Wouldst rather
swim?”
Breygon held up his hands in a
gesture of surrender and apology.
The elf-woman glared at him for a long
moment – long enough for Breygon to begin to feel nervous. At length, though, she said only, “No. No.
Not property values. Landioryn’s
values.”
The half-elf frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Amorda passed a weary hand across
her brow. “Landioryn is Grand Duke of
Starmeadow,” she explained patiently.
“That’s just the Great
Island
Breygon ground his teeth, but held his silence, as
Amorda was watching him closely.
“Landioryn,” she went on, “has outlawed indentures, sure and certain…but
of course his word only holds sway within the walls. Without, ‘tis thy scabby uncle’s word that
rules.”
“Why doesn’t the Queen just forbid
indentures in the whole of the realm?” Breygon asked, puzzled.
“Because,” Amorda sighed, “your
uncle’s not the only filthy swine in the realm.
A good half of the Great Houses – especially those with incomes from
mining and farming – are strong supporters of the ‘ways of our fathers’. For obvious reasons.” She rubbed thumb and forefinger
together. “Money.”
“And great grand-mama,” Breygon said
bitterly, “can’t afford to alienate the noble houses.”
“Praise Miros!” Amorda cried,
raising her hands to the heavens. “He
learns! A day late and a ducat short,
but he learns.”
She threw herself into a chair. “I’ll say this for you, lupino,” Amorda murmured exhaustedly. “Being your lifemate
certainly isn’t boring.”
“I’m learning that boredom’s
underrated,” Breygon growled. “Me, I’m
thinking better and better of it.” He
tapped a finger against a table as if trying to decide whether to ask what was
bothering him.
His wife, in addition to her many
other qualities, was a shrewd judge of character. She glanced up at him. “You’ve a question,” she said quietly. “Let’s hear it.”
Breygon smiled wryly. “You always know what’s on my mind, don’t
you?”
Amorda shrugged. “You kill people, I know people,” she said without a trace of acrimony. “Each to his own. Ask.”
Breygon took a deep breath. “Do you allow indentures in Arx Incultus?”
“ ‘Allow?’” Amorda snorted. “It’s not up to me anymore.” She waved a
hand at him. “Such questions must be
addressed to the manor’s lord, my lord.”
The ranger clenched a fist
spasmodically. “Did you? Allow indentures, I
mean?”
The elf-woman gaze up at him without
expression. “What do you think?”
Breygon had no idea. He decided to go with gallantry over…well,
over nothing. “I think you outlawed it.”
Another laugh. “A one in two chance, and you struck in the
white,” Amorda snorted.
The half-elf’s heart plummeted into
his boots. “You allow slavery?”
“Indentures,” she corrected
immediately. “And I don’t just allow it,
I encourage it. I keep indentured
servants myself. Hundreds of’em. And there are thousands more throughout the
barony. Especially in the capital,
Gaudior.”
Breygon felt sick. “I don’t…how could you?”
“Easily enough,” Amorda
shrugged. “But that’s not the question
you meant to ask. You mean ‘why’, don’t
you?”
The ranger rolled his eyes. “Of course, ‘why’.”
“That’s easy, too,” the elf-woman
said flatly. “Article four-forty.” She fell silent.
Breygon waited. After a long moment he began drumming his
fingers on the table.
Amorda watched him.
At length, Breygon shook his
head. “What,” he asked tiredly, “is
article four –”
“Noblesse
oblige.”
“I don’t…what idiom is that?” the
ranger asked, confused.
“It’s the Wanderers’ dialect,”
Amorda replied. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is what it means. Noblesse
oblige is the law detailing the obligations of those who hold indentures
towards those in their care. It means
that we, as masters – or, as you would have it, ‘slave-holders’ – are obliged
to provide protection to our servants, and have the right to determine
conditions for manumission, decide whether or not to allow them to marry, set
conditions for inheritance, and determine what proportion of their earnings we
feel it appropriate to accord them.”
Breygon scratched his head. “I still don’t…I’m sorry,” he said at
last. “All that means to me is that you
have slaves and control every meaningful aspect of their lives.”
Amorda nodded. “That’s right. I do.
Just like Bræagond.” She held up
her hands. “Once Thanos gets back, you
can have him fireball me too, if you like.
Or,” she added without a trace of mirth, “seeing as you’re now lord of a
slave-holding barony, he could fireball you,
and I could take half of it. Appropriate
punishment, don’t you think? For a pair
of filthy flesh-traders?”
No fool, the half-elf sensed that he
was terribly close to a dreadful precipice.
He racked his brains for something appropriate to say, and finally, in
desperation, settled upon a term he had once heard whilst squiring a long-winded
lawyer around the Æryn woods.
He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “My lady,” he said solemnly, “I throw myself
upon the mercy of the court.”
Amorda’s lip twisted momentarily into a hint of a
smile. “Thou’rt claiming benefit of
Article Nine-Seventeen, husband mine? ‘Let the lifemate’s sentence heal all’?”
“Whatever article you care to invoke,” Breygon
murmured fervently. “I give up. In manus tuum. Anything you say. Anything!”
The elf-woman laughed.
Bending down, she took his ears in her hands and kissed him on his
forehead. “Then hear’st thou my verdict,
miscreant wretch. Thou’rt guilty of
appalling ignorance. Thus do I amend
it.” Smiling, she swatted him gently on
the ear. “I keep slaves, to use your word, because it’s better for them.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that argument,” Breygon
said darkly.
Amorda stared at him.
Breygon stared back, realized what he had done, and shut his mouth with
a snap.
She waited.
Breygon counted past one hundred, began again, and got to seventy before
she spoke. “Any more comments?” his wife
asked acidly.
The half-elf shook his head.
“Good. As I
said, it’s better for them. The devil,”
the elf-woman raised a finger, “of course, is in the details. You recall that I said that nobles who hold
indentures are obliged to provide protection, decide on manumission, permit or
deny marriages, determine inheritance, and decide what their servants earn?”
Breygon, keeping his lips clamped shut, nodded. He held up four fingers on each hand, then
mouthed a ‘zero’.
“Precisely.”
Amorda smiled slightly. “Dîor’s Law is, first and foremost, about
balancing freedom with responsibility.
Every free man is responsible for himself. As lord of Arx Incultus, therefore, I’m not
obliged to protect outlying farms held by free farmers – but I am obliged to ride to the aid of
indentured farmers. And you know where
my…where our barony is.”
Breygon nodded.
“On the edge of the Wastes.”
“On the edge of the Wastes,” the elf-woman
nodded. “You wouldn’t believe what sorts
of horrors creep and crawl out of the sands.
Magical monstrosities, living spells, undead, abominations, orcs and
jackals…you name it. The Free Holders
are on their own, but I have to sortie the knights whenever the Helders –
that’s the indentured farmers – whenever they call for aid.”
“Sounds like a better deal for them,” Breygon
shrugged.
“It is. So can
you guess how many of my farms are free-holds?”
“Half?” the ranger asked tentatively.
“About one in a hundred,” Amorda replied. “The other ninety-nine are Helders. All indentured, and all willingly.
“Now, manumission.
Do you know how that works in the Realm?”
Breygon shook his head.
“Indentured servants are manumitted by written order
of the seigneur,” the elf-woman said.
“So every Mid-Summer’s Day I hold a feast, and require every Helder to
attend. I fête them all, and present
them – each and every one, man, woman and child – with a certificate of
manumission. And, as they kneel to
receive it, there’s a brazier to hand, where they can burn it if they’d rather
remain my servants.”
The ranger’s eyes bulged. “You free them annually? Don’t most of them walk?”
“No,” Amorda shrugged.
“Most of them stay. A few, every
now and then, accept their freedom.
There’s strong incentive, after all; I give a hundred orries to every
manumitted servant.”
Breygon’s eyes bugged out. “You pay them to leave you?”
“Yes. It’s seed
money. Of course, as I said, most of
them don’t leave at all,” the elf-woman snorted. “But that’s how I operate. Presumptive liberation. That way, I can be certain that nobody’s
being held against their will.”
The half-elf put his head in his hands. “But…I mean, surely freeholders can band
together to protect their farms. That’s
what happens in Zare. So why do so many
remain in bonded servitude?”
Amorda shrugged.
“Because of the other…wrinkles, that I’ve put into my interpretation of
the Codex.”
“ ‘Wrinkles’.”
“Certainly. For
example, marriages. I’ve never denied
one.”
“Free elves,” the ranger said ironically, “don’t even
have to ask permission.”
“No,” Amorda allowed.
“But they have to pay a tax.
Indentured servants don’t.”
“Nobody asked me
to pay a tax,” the ranger objected.
“You were marrying an orphaned noblewoman,” the
elf-woman pointed out. “You had to pay
the nymphaliceor. That supersedes the marriage tax.”
“Right, right,” the half-elf muttered. “Is it a lot?”
“Depends on the newlyweds’ respective trades,” Amorda
shrugged. “It’s high enough to make a difference. That’s not the only reason, though.”
“There’s more?” Breygon said, his voice dripping with
irony.
Amorda frowned.
“There’s that tone again, my love.”
Breygon bowed his head, all contrition.
“Yes,” the elf-woman said slowly, fixing her mate with
a gimlet eye. “There’s more. Inheritance and earnings. First, servants pay no tax to the Crown on
any inheritance. They only have to pay
me.”
“How much?”
“I take two-thirds of what the Crown would take,”
Amorda shrugged. “Most lords would take
as much as the law allows, which is twice the Crown’s share, as a surtax. So folk’re saving two coins in three by
remaining in bondage to me.”
“That’s generous of you,” Breygon said
cautiously. “I suppose.”
“Lastly,” Amorda shrugged, “earnings. I told you that Arx Incultus is wealthy. Do you know why?”
Breygon shook his head.
“Creative financing,” his lifemate shrugged. “Larceny’s in my blood, my love. Do you know what the difference is between
petty larceny and grand larceny?”
“Not ever having…no.
No I don’t.” Breygon clamped his mouth shut again.
Amorda smiled.
“You are learning!” She leaned forward and patted him gently on
the cheek. She leaned back in her
chair. “The difference,” she intoned,
assuming a professorial demeanour, “is simple.
The petty thief breaks the law.
The grand thief,” she smiled, spreading her hands and indicating
herself, “exploits it.”
“How?”
“Indentures,” the elf-woman winked. “The crown levies a tax on earnings, yes?”
“If you say so,” Breygon shrugged. “Nobody’s asked me to pay any taxes so far.”
“It’ll come.”
Amorda waggled her fingers. “Not
quickly, though. Where adventurers are
concerned, ‘earnings’ is a fluid concept.
Sell-swords tend to have a lot of business expense write-offs. Besides,” she added, smiling, “you gave the
Queen back a priceless, gods-wrought artefact, an ancestral relic pried off a
dragon’s corpse, and a sword taken from a demon. You’re probably entitled to deduct those.”
“Glad to hear it,” the ranger said laconically.
“Where it really matters,” his lifemate went on, “is
in how the tax laws treat freeborn citizens versus Helders. It’s a little complicated in the details, but
in essence, indentured servants aren’t taxed on their earnings.”
Breygon blinked.
“Excuse me?”
Amorda nodded happily.
“The Queen takes two argies in ten from the income of every free-born
citizen – man, woman, or child. But from
Helders…” she puffed a breath from betwixt her lips. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” the elf-woman chuckled. “I tax them one in ten as their feudal lord –
about a quarter of what some free farmers pay – and the Queen taxes me on my
income alone. My Helders get off
scot-free.”
“So you’re paying for their…what, for their
prosperity?” Breygon asked, perplexed.
“Exactly.”
The ranger blinked.
“That’s pretty selfless of you.”
Amorda burst out laughing. “How do you figure?”
“Well,” Breygon said slowly, “you’re paying the Queen
a…a portion of your own income, yes?
Which you earn by taxing the income of your…your ‘Helders’? Is that right?”
“Absolutely.”
“So…how do you make any money?”
Amorda smiled.
“You woodsy types really don’t understand economics, do you?” When Breygon frowned, she went on, “Sorry,
love. Rhetorical question. Look, in your experience, who works harder,
the free man, or the slave?”
“The free man,” Breygon said instantly.
“Why?”
“Because he’s working for himself.”
“Right,” Amorda nodded. “But what makes
a man free?”
Breygon blinked.
“What?”
“Is it a piece of paper?” the elf-woman asked. “Is it a law?
Is it something so…intangible?”
She poked him in the chest. “What
makes you free?”
The half-elf briefly considered muttering something
about wondering whether he was, anymore, but thought better of it. He frowned.
“I go where I want, and I do what I want. I suffer no man’s command. And…” he smiled. “I see your point. I keep what I earn, and spend it as I
like. That’s what you’re talking about,
isn’t it?”
“More or less,” Amorda nodded. “I’m sorry; I hadn’t meant to make you ponder
philosophy and economics. I love you,
but you’re hampered by a surfeit of honesty.
And you do lack schooling in the finer points of ethics, rhetoric, and estate
management.”
“To name only a few,” Breygon smiled. “Besides, we’ve a new estate manager
now. Amatlee, remember?”
Amorda’s face darkened dangerously. “Then I hope for her sake that she’s as good
on her back as she is with an abacus,” she growled, “because there’ll be little
else for her to do. Unless you command
me otherwise, my lord, I’m going to keep running my…our lands, the way I see fit.
“And regardless of what else you might decide to let
her ‘handle’ for you,” she added with a narrow-eyed glance, “I’d strongly
recommend that you not let your great grandmother’s little auditor-kitten
anywhere near our ledgers.”
Breygon cleared his throat nervously. “You were telling me about freedom,” he said.
The elf-woman took a deep breath, visibly willing the
rage to wash out of her. “I was. Let me put it a different way: what advantages
do free men enjoy, that my so-called slaves do not?”
Breygon thought about that for a long moment. “Well, I suppose your people can leave any
time they want. With at most a year’s
notice. And,” he went on more slowly,
“they…I guess they get to keep more of what they earn, when all is said and
done.”
“Exactly,” the elf-woman said with a victorious
grin. She tapped his nose with a
manicured nail. “Exactly. And more to the
point, I get to keep more of what
they earn. Everybody wins.”
“Except the Queen,” Breygon said, smiling slightly.
“Piss on the Queen.”
Amorda glared at him stonily.
Then she lost her composure and grinned like a schoolgirl. “I don’t know who she sold her soul to, but
the old bat looks like she has yet to hit two hundred. I swear,” she went on, laughing, “that if
Ælyndarka would share her beauty secrets, I and half the ladies in the realm
would trundle the contents of our strong-rooms to the palace gate in a
heart-beat!”
Breygon sensed that the mood was lightening, and knew
that he had to strike while the iron, as it were, was hot. He caught his lifemate’s hand and pressed her
fingers to his lips. “My lady love,” he
said solemnly, “is the most beauteous woman alive. She needs no secrets to outshine the
Lantern. By her grace and visage fair,
she holds my heart.”
“I commend thy ardour, sirrah, and congratulate thy
lady love,” Amorda snorted. “Whomever
she might be.”
“My only wish,” Breygon went on, grinning at the
amused scepticism on Amorda’s face, “is to stand foremost among my lady’s
willing servants!”
“Hah!” Amorda cried, snatching back her hand. “Scoundrel!
Thou hast yet to hear my verdict, and receive just condemnation for thy
many crimes!”
Grinning, the ranger abandoned his genuflection and
sank to both knees. “Fair mistress,” he
intoned solemnly, “deliver thy sentence.
I swear I shall obey!”
Amorda’s artificial haughtiness dissolved. “Idiot!” she giggled. Then she winked and nodded toward the bed.
Breygon waited until she had turned her back and had
begun to struggle out of her gown before sighing and wiping his perspiring brow
in relief.
When the knock came a short while later he was under
the covers, attacking the task at hand with all of his considerable powers of
concentration. Out of sheer habit he
nearly dove for his longsword and dagger, but refrained at the last instant; he
had recognized the footfalls. Abandoning
his disappointed bride, he knotted a sheet around his waist, padded over to the
door, slid back the latch, and opened it a crack.
As expected, it was Tua. Breygon groaned when he saw that the old man
was bearing the silver salver that he was beginning to dread, and, atop it, a
carefully rolled, sealed and tied parchment scroll.
Tua sniffed the air and grinned. “Apology went all right, heya?”
“Can’t you carry a letter in your hand like a normal
person?” the ranger asked testily.
Tua passed his master the missive, cleared his throat
meaningfully, and said, “If you’re bestowing blessings, Lewat, and feel up to a
dip, there’s still one pretty lonely-looking rusalka splashing around in the
willow pond…”
The ranger snatched the scroll, straight-armed the
Wilder elf out of his bedroom, and slammed and locked the door. “I need to set some rules about disturbing
us when the door’s closed,” he grumbled.
“Messages can wait until morning!”
“To be fair, it’s only mid-afternoon,” Amorda reminded
him primly. “Normal people are still
working, not…well…” She blushed and waved a hand at the jumble of bed-clothes.
“Normal people aren’t married to you,” Breygon chuckled.
“There’s no work I’d rather be doing, believe me.”
“Yes, I suppose this beats digging ditches,” the
elf-woman murmured.
“You know what I meant,” Breygon said. “And you know my heart. If the world wasn’t ending, there’s nothing
I’d like better than to spend the next ten-year in your arms.”
“Holy Mother!
You still have that long to live?” Amorda exclaimed in mock horror.
Breygon shot her a dark look. She giggled again. Collapsing back into bed, he glanced
momentarily at the inscription beneath the seal on the scroll, then handed it
to his lifemate. “Another one for
you.” Diving back under the sheets, he
returned to what he had been doing – and enjoying immensely – just before they
had been interrupted.
To his annoyance, Amorda ignored his conscientious
ministrations, snapping the seal, unrolling the scroll…and freezing into gelid
immobility when she saw what it contained.
More good
news.
He paused, sat up, and waited for her to finish. When she did, she dropped the scroll to the
mattress and immediately began gnawing at a painted thumbnail.
The ranger grimaced.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“More like a battalion of lawyers,” Amorda
sighed. “But it’s not you that needs
them. You’re just named as a witness.”
“Really?” he asked, astonished. “That’s good.
From your face, though, it’s still trouble, isn’t it?”
She nodded dumbly.
“Thanos, then?”
“You might say that.”
She pushed the scroll toward him.
Breygon picked it up.
“Hmph. Who’re ‘Sortis et Sombris’?”
“Lawyer’s guild.
A nasty one,” his lifemate replied, looking a little ill. “I looked into them a few years back, on the
Bird-Catcher’s orders. It’s a snake-pit,
populated by idealists and windmill-tilters.
And Lustroares.”
Breygon’s face went flat. “Maybe I should answer this with my bow,
then.”
“You don’t fight lawyers with arrows. You fight them with better lawyers,” Amorda
said grimly. She shivered. “Much
better lawyers. Rumour has it the Sombris barristers eat children, piss
fire, and shit money.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Karrick,”
Breygon grunted. He read on. “Hang on.
This is only a copy. The original
went to…who’s Count Amilosta?”
“The Chancellor,” Amorda said with a shiver. “Amongst other things, he’s responsible for
foreign relations.”
“What’s he care about a lawsuit?”
“Keep reading.”
He did. At the
next line, his lip curled in an involuntary snarl. “There’s
a name I recognize: everybody’s favourite steaming mound of offal, my dear
uncle.”
“Keep reading, I said.” Her fingers were trembling, and she made
fists to still them.
He did, frowning.
“Good heavens! Assassination,
murder, attempted murder, attempted mass
murder, kidnapping, robbery, robbery by violence, causing a public disruption,
causing an arcane hazard, unlawful emancipation, breaking and entering – that
one’s nonsense; we paid for our tickets! – arson, failure to register as a
mage, irresponsible use of magic…”
He squinted at the paper. “What the hells is ‘miscegenation’?”
“Cohabitation with non-kindred,” Amorda said,
suppressing a snicker.
Breygon hissed in annoyance. “Sounds like Ara kisses and tells.”
“It’s not about Ara.”
The elf-woman tapped the scroll.
“The citation names Valaista.”
“That’s ridiculous!” the ranger snapped. “Even if she weren’t, what, three months old,
she’s his apprentice! Thanos would never…”
Amorda waved him to silence. “It doesn’t matter what he’d ‘never’. The allegations are just a formality. Read on.”
He did. At
length, his eyebrows rose in surprise. “Eh? ‘Postulatus publicus’? It’s a
lawsuit? These aren’t criminal
charges?” He glanced up at his lifemate,
eyebrows drawing together in puzzlement.
“Bræagond’s suing Thanos?”
“No,” Amorda sighed.
“Though your colleague’s named in it, as procurator princeps, for obvious reasons. That means he’s the ‘chief agent’ in all the
to-do.”
She stared at him, puzzled. “I thought you could read elvish?”
“I can read
Elvish,” the half-elf snorted. “This is
lawyer-ish.” He read further. His face suddenly went white.
“And there
it is at last,” Amorda murmured.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” Breygon
exclaimed.
Amorda essayed a nervous smile. “The Sortis-Sombris
partners, amongst other things, are publicity whores. And, as they correctly note, Thanos, at the
time of the alleged crimes, was both a senior officer and a lawfully-designated
plenipotentiary representative of Norkhan, personally appointed by the
Vendicar. So…”
“So my uncle,” Breygon sighed heavily, “isn’t asking
for prosecution. And while he’s
definitely after compensation and damages, he isn’t suing you, or me, or
Thanos.”
“No,” Amorda shook her head, “he’s not. He’s suing Ekhan.”
♦♦♦
The
Tale of Perky and Ella, Part One
(By
Ryskankanakis, the Golden Sage)
Percorian
of Duiveltine, a scion of a noble line,
And
Astrapratum’s highest lord, desired him a wife; But nary an elven maiden fair his storied temper wished to dare
Or risk his every-ready sword, all notched and stained with strife.
Fair Ælyndark, the daughter of a house of kings bethought her of
The lengthy line of suitors that her loveliness attracted;
But not a one amid the throng that pled their suits with gifts and song
Aroused in her the ardour that might lead to vows contracted.
Percorian of Duiveltine, all decked and clad in raiment fine
Called on the throne of Callaýian, his sister fair to claim;
And swore an oath in mighty tones upon the Starhall’s ancient stones
That Ælyndark would join his clan, and bear his ancient name.
Stern Callaýian, the elven king, was ill-disposed to such a thing
And with the suitor’s brazen claim was deeply unimpressed;
He turned unto his sister fair and asked the maiden then and there
How stood her heart to bear the name of Callaýian’s brash guest.
Fair Ælyndark, a clever girl, jeered at the foul-mouthed, cocksure churl
And asked him if he had two knees, and whether they were sound;
Her puzzled suitor answered “Aye”; Fair Ælyndark bespoke him, "Why,
"They creak and groan like windshorn trees; pray, place them on the ground.”
Percorian of Duiveltine, empurpled by a choler fine,
Spat on the Starhall’s hallowed stones, and drew his bloodstained sword;
He swore by the heights of the Duivelmark to take as his mate fair Ælyndark
And thus, by his Perfidelis bones, he pledged his solemn word.
♦
This
grim-spoke threat from a warlord stark did justly frighten fair Ælyndark;
She
trusted not the Duke’s dread ire, nor desired him as her spouse; She’d always longed to wed for love, so in her need bethought her of
A friend of her long-dead, lordly sire, allied unto her house.
Atavens of Silverstair, gray-haired, tall, answered the princess’ panicked call
And came at a run to assist the maid, with blade and with spell in hand;
A myrmidon-mage known far and wide; a hero to all who for justice cried,
He knelt to the princess' plea for aid, and swore at her side to stand.
He was silver-eyed, stern, and he laughed aloud; and wise and assured, with a brow unbowed
And swift on his feet, like he walked on air; and petrified foes with his argent glare.
A bowman of ages; a swordsman strong; a master of poesie, dance, and song.
Little wonder it was that the princess fair fell in love with Atavens of Silverstair.
♦
Percorian,
Duke of the Duiveltine, his courage bolstered by good red wine
To
the palace crept on a moonless night, on an errand fell and dire; A suitor scorned with his blade in hand, a hank of rope, and a burning brand
And his two fierce brothers of mickle might, stern sons of a sterner sire.
At the palace the wall they swiftly climbed, and they reached her window as Vespers chimed
Silent as shadows they entered in, but sought for the maid in vain;
Silver they found there, jewels, and gold; but the hearth and the bedding were both stone-cold,
And they pondered how back to the walls to win, and hie them home again.
Then out of the shadows a lantern flares, and catches the miscreants unawares;
And a figure steps from the silent dark, and greets them in frosty tones:
“Sons of the Duiveltine, drop thy blades, and forebear to bedevil reluctant maids;
“Get thee hence from the house of fair Ælyndark, lest I feast on thy shattered bones.”
Percorian cursed; “Fool, stay thy sword! I am sworn to be Ælyndark’s love and lord,
“And to take up my rightful place and all, upon Tîor’s abandoned throne;
“Stay me not, lest you die; you are but one man, and we three are chiefs of a war-wise clan!
“Should you face us here, you are certes to fall, and seek Tvalt’s Halls alone.”
“Thrice hast thou erred, thou foolish lord,” quoth the voice from the shadow; “I bear no sword;
“Nor do I face ye three alone, thou son of foresworn clan;
“If thine eyes were sharper, then thou mighst mark that here with me standeth fair Ælyndark;
“Nor ever shalt thou ascend the throne – for, wretch, I am no man!”
Then the lamp-light died, and the screams began – fell sounds to hear from the mouth of man! –
And the red blood flowed, and it stained the floor of the elf-maid’s charnel room.
And when the last of the cries were done, and the battle lost, and the battle won,
The light of the lantern flared once more, and the princess learned her doom.
♦
Three
corpses lay on the chamber floor, and one man stood by her bedroom door;
Of
the dead, only two were of Duiveltine – the third was from Silverstair; And Ælyndark wept at her love’s demise, ‘till she spied Duke Percorian’s argent eyes -
And together they drank of love’s sweet wine,
Did the silver-eyed Duke of the Duiveltine,
And the princess descended of Tîor’s line, hight Ælyndark the Fair.
♦♦♦
