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 11 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 04/11/1998 Volume 11, Number 3 Circulation: 676 ======================================================================== Contents Guest Editorial Mike Adams "And How Will You Believe?" Jim Owens Early Summer, 1010 The Gong Farmer Brandon Haught Summer, 1015 Quadrille 5 Alan Lauderdale 8 Sy, 1012 ======================================================================== 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.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 11-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 1998 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Guest Editorial by Mike Adams Greetings, and welcome to Volume 11, Issue 3 of DargonZine. Orny, our esteemed editor, has invited me to write a guest editorial. I thought I would give you, the reader, some insight into what happens when a new writer joins Dargon, and how a story goes from idea to published work. I joined Dargon in mid-April of 1996. Like most of you, I was widely read in both science fiction and fantasy, and like many of you, had a desire to write. I was surfing the 'net and stumbled across the Dargon website. I was amazed to find that I could be a part of the whole venture, and I signed up immediately. One of the first things a new writer tries to do is read all the back issues. I still haven't done it, and I've been here a while. After a few weeks you can get quite busy being a part of this group. Not only are you trying to write stories, but so are several other people, and you are expected to provide critiques of their stories, as well as debate the structure of the shared world. It can be intimidating to a new writer. I had an idea up and running within two weeks, and had tentative approval from the List to proceed. It took three weeks for me to come up with my first draft, and I was feeling very good about myself. That didn't last long, but I enjoyed it while it lasted. Soon, critiques began to appear in my Inbox. I eagerly read the critiques, and made quite a few changes to my story. Then came a late critique! It was brutal; very fair, honest, and correct, but tough to swallow, nonetheless. Looking back, I'm grateful to the guys for thoses reviews, because the story that came out the other side was a much better story because of the changes I made. By that time, I was pretty sick of the story, having written or rewritten it four or five times, but I made the effort. One last time, I posted the story to the List, and thankfully, it was ready to print. I was elated. I was almost a published writer. Now my story had to join the queue of other stories that were ready to print. It finally appeared in December of 1996. My story had taken eight months from inception to publication, probably an average turnaround time. Last, but certainly not least, in August of 1997, eight months after publication, I got an e-mail from someone who had read the story, and felt moved enough to write me. I walked on air for days. The feeling you get when someone says "I liked your story" is as powerful as almost any I've felt. A story is my own creation; it comes from inside, deep inside, and exposing that to complete strangers is risky. But with the help of the other writers on the List, I've found that it can also be very fulfilling. This time we've got Part 5 of 6 of Alan Lauderdale's "Quadrille." Also on board is Jim Owens with "And How You Will Believe?", a story of Stevenism and mystery. And finally, I'm proud to introduce Brandon Haught's first story, "The Gong Farmer", a tale about the "smallest room" in the castle. It's great to see new writers go the distance, and thanks to all of you for letting us do this. ======================================================================== "And How Will You Believe?" by Jim Owens Early Summer, 1010 Dulas followed the servant into the room. He stood at the foot of the bed for several menes before the figure on the bed noticed him and stirred. Dulas ran his fingers through his thinning, grey hair uncomfortably. He had stood in the presence of dying people many times before, but it was never an easy thing to do. This particular situation was especially strange. "Come to gloat, have you?" came the raspy greeting from the wasted man on the bed. The servant looked up at Dulas, a questioning look on his face. Dulas nodded, and the servant left, closing the door behind himself. "Hello Anarr," Dulas said. "How are you feeling?" "How the hell do you think I'm feeling?" snapped Anarr weakly. "I'm dying." "We all die, Anarr," replied Dulas gently. Anarr coughed weakly for a long time. When he spoke again his voice was fainter still. "You've always been a pain in the behind, Dulas." Dulas moved to sit on the stool beside the bed while Anarr spoke. "How long have I known you?" The sharp tone had bled from Anarr's voice, leaving behind only weakness and vulnerability. "I was nineteen when I first met you at Balthus Celerion's school. I'm sixty-nine now." "Fifty years. Half a century. Not that long at all. It just seems longer." "You had grey hair then, too," Dulas commented, staring at Anarr's mostly bald head. "It started falling out three years ago. The spells stopped working. Too much age pressing in on me," Anarr replied. "It didn't go back to grey at first," he continued, his voice rising and becoming more reflective. "It just started getting thinner. I didn't want to think about it at the time. I think I knew even then that the spells weren't working anymore." "You've lived a long life, Anarr," Dulas said. "Much longer than most. It's not a bad thing to die after such a long life." "It's always a bad thing to die, idiot!" snapped Anarr, the anger returning. "Death is the enemy." He lay for a moment, rolling his head on the pillow and his eyes in his head. "You fools. It's bad enough that you think that one man came back to life. Do you have to insist that everyone else will too? Idiots." "Stevene has shown us," Dulas corrected gently. "We will live again." "Stevene was a fraud," muttered Anarr, his burst of vigor fading fast. "A liar." Dulas sighed. "I had hoped, over the years, that I could convince you otherwise, before our relationship came to an end." "You didn't expect me to die, did you?" Anarr asked quietly, wistfully. "No." Dulas watched Anarr quietly, a gentle, almost sad look on his face. "Well, neither did I," Anarr replied. "Arrogant of me, wasn't it? To think that I thought I would live forever." They sat silently for a while. Outside the birds were singing, and from throughout the large complex sounds of daily activity drifted in. Finally Dulas spoke. "Have you made arrangements for your body?" "Quite to the point, aren't you?" Dulas sat for a moment. "I take it that you haven't." "It has been done for me. The council has decreed that my body will be burned and the ashes scattered. They don't want my empty shell coming back from the grave and wandering around the complex, I suppose. Too many years of applying spells to my own body, or so they fear." "Magic as powerful as you have used cannot always be trusted," commented Dulas. "Ah." Anarr was becoming hard to hear. "Nothing powerful about it. Careful use of well known thamaturgy, systematic study and practice over the years. It's barely even magic." "Most people don't live to be one hundred and sixty," commented Dulas. "Some live much, much longer," countered Anarr bitterly. Again there was silence. Finally Dulas cleared his throat. "I know you don't believe me," began Dulas, "but you will live again. Hear me out," he added quickly, when Anarr seemed ready to reply. "I know that you don't believe in the teachings of Stevene, but somehow I can't shake the feeling that I will be seeing you again, when we both shall live in eternal light." "Aren't you forgetting something?" replied Anarr. "Don't you have to believe in this 'god' before he will help you?" "And how will you believe?" asked Dulas. "In your 'god'? Why would I want to? So I can wear a noose around my neck? Not to mention jumping through flaming rings and dancing on my hind legs like some circus animal for him." He fell to coughing again. "You've never really understood Him," replied Dulas when Anarr stopped. The inflection in his voice clearly showed a respect for the subject that Anarr lacked. "You've studied the texts, but you've never really understood them, nor Him." "He sent his messenger to die. That's all I need to know," replied Anarr. "I don't need a god who wants me to die. I want -- I wanted -- I want to live." The last was spoken almost as a confession. "Stevene didn't come to die," countered Dulas. "He brought a message of love about the One, and we hated it so much we killed him." "You fools die every day. You wear that stupid rope around your necks like you're waiting in line for the gallows. Your prophet got himself killed and now you want to join him. I mean ..." Anarr tried to sit up, but couldn't quite manage it. Dulas moved to help, but Anarr shook his head. He lay panting for a while before resuming his thought. "I mean, you act like you have a real god who can actually do something for you. Why don't you face reality? Some fool blathered about some fictional god and gets himself killed for his trouble, and you people make him into some sort of god too, and go around wearing a noose on your necks. I mean, have you ever seen him bring someone back from the dead? Have you?" Anarr sank deeper into the bedding, exhausted from his outburst. "You ignorant fools can't even get your history right," he sighed. "Stevene was beheaded, not hanged." For a while the pair simply sat in silence. "I have seen people healed, and lives changed for the better," said Dulas finally. "You've seen people recover," replied Anarr, his eyes closed, "and seen people act like fools." "His spirit infuses us, and we live as He wants us to," replied Dulas gently. "You live as you want, and say it's the will of your god," countered Anarr, tired and still. "Stevene has shown us the will of God. His teachings bring light and goodness to us. They show us the proper way to live, the just and good way." When Anarr didn't reply, Dulas continued. "He sent Stevene to teach us goodness, and then has infused us with His holiness, so that we can live that way. We cannot live that way of ourselves." Dulas opened his shirt and extracted the worn noose that he wore around his neck -- the custom of some Stevenic sects. "Even as Stevene died to serve Him, so each of us must leave our lives behind to serve Him. In exchange He helps us live His life instead. We have His wisdom, through Stevene's words. We have His strength to endure the hurts of daily life. We pursue His goals, adopt His attitudes. Because Stevene showed us the way, we can live His life." Anarr sighed. "Dulas, do you know how many different religions there are in Makdiar?" Dulas sat silently, unanswering. Anarr paused, then continued. "I didn't think so." Anarr took several deep breaths, gathering strength for his reply. "There are one hundred twelve different religions in Makdiar. Of those, ninety-four teach a moral code similar in almost every way to the one taught by Stevene. Over half claim to represent one or more gods. Forty-two state that they have some form of invisible assistance from one or more gods that helps them live better than they could otherwise. Each of them teaches honesty, obedience to the law, respect for authority, and personal accountability. Most of them claim supernatural intervention in one way or another, although usually when we send someone to check it out, it turns out to be some simple form of magic or other." He stopped, panting. While he lay there, catching his breath, Dulas said nothing. "In every case, those people who make a real effort to live by the rules they are taught are better liked, have more wealth, and live longer than those who do not. That's good." He panted some more before continuing. "Of course, when we talk to people who don't believe in some god or other, and who also live good, clean lives, they also live longer, are better liked, and have more money." For several menes there was no sound in the room save Anarr's panting and the sound of birds outside. "Over one hundred years ago, I was a student here in the sanctuary. After one lecture about immortality spells, I decided that I would live forever. Since that day I have pursued life. I learned the secret incantations that prevent wrinkles, that thin and thicken the blood, and that cure infections." He paused to catch his breath. "I studied the foods to eat, the exercises and meditations to practice. For a while I moved to the south, and for ten whole years I went naked, because someone told me that clothes restrict the circulation. And yes, Dulas, the blood does circulate, despite what Goolten says." Anarr shook his head. When he continued his voice was softer, almost inaudible. "I did everything I could to live forever. And it was working. But life -- or death, actually -- caught up to me." He fixed Dulas with his stare, vigor returning to his voice. "And through it all I've not seen one thing to convince me that the followers of Stevene have any special grace above or beyond that of any other religion." There came a knock on the door. Dulas arose and opened it. A younger man in a red cloak entered. "Anarr, how can I help you?" "Ah, Gotrung. You made it." Anarr panted a moment or so while Gotrung took his place on the stool Dulas had vacated. "My thamaturgy is failing me. Can you see where the energies are going?" "Certainly," replied Gotrung. He removed a few amulets from his neck and set one at Anarr's head, one on his feet. He placed his hands palm-out in the air above Anarr's chest and stared straight across his fingertips for several moments. Dulas watched as a pink aura grew around Gotrung's eyes, then finally faded. Gotrung slowly gathered his amulets back up. "They aren't going anywhere, Anarr," replied Gotrung slowly, carefully. "They're simply exhausted." "What do you mean?" asked Anarr. "I had enough to last a lifetime!" "And they did," Gotrung explained gently. "And then some. And then some. But they're exhausted now." "You must give me more!" exclaimed Anarr weakly, trying to raise himself up. "From where?" asked Gotrung. "If there were time we could try an exchange or extraction, but there isn't." He was silent for a moment. "Your life energy is so low, you will be dead within the day. I'm sorry. You've used up all your life." Dulas hung his head, while Gotrung stood up and walked to the door. Anarr lay quietly, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. After Gotrung closed the door behind him, Dulas sat down on the stool. "Dulas, is that you?" asked Anarr, his gaze not leaving the roof. "Yes, I'm still here." "I imagine you plan on staying until I'm dead," remarked Anarr, not looking at his long-time acquaintance. "You were always a decent sort, that way, regardless of what I've said about you. But I don't want to waste any more of your time -- I of all people know how valuable time is. Go. You've made your effort, you've done your duty. I'm no more convinced of your god now than before, through no fault of your own. Go in peace, my friend. May you live as long as I have." Dulas took Anarr's hand for a moment, then turned and left. "... not one of the nicest rooms, but it's nicer than mine, or I'd let you have mine," the servant was saying as he let Dulas into the small room that he was to occupy for the night. "It will do just fine. I don't need more than a place to sleep," commented Dulas as he held his traveling lamp up and examined the tiny cell. "I shall be leaving in the morning anyway." "Anarr is stubborn," remarked the servant, "but I don't expect him to last the night. He'll most likely die in his sleep." "It's better that way," commented Dulas, "more peaceful." He turned to the servant. "Good night." The servant left, closing the door. Dulas set his lamp in the corner and stepped up to the window. It was open, letting some air in. The night seemed to intrude into the room: thick, inky velvet. Dulas satisfied himself that there was nothing to see, and knelt on the straw mattress. He extinguished the light, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. He began to pray. His words were barely audible, not spoken to be heard by any ear. Dulas' tone was that of the believer, the supplicant, one who has spoken often to someone that they have met, but not really ever gotten to know. His posture was one of habitual reverence. There was much to say. When he finished, Dulas rose and again looked out into the dark, then lay himself down to sleep. No more than a few menes had passed when suddenly the door flung open. Dulas bolted upright. There, in the door, stood Anarr, torch in one hand and a noose in the other. "You did this to me!!" he shouted at Dulas. Dulas stared. Anarr stood straight and tall, his muscles full and taut. Thick black hair covered his head, and his skin was smooth and clean. He was young again. "Anarr!! What happened?" Dulas exclaimed as Anarr stalked into the room. Frightened, anxious faces peered in the door, but no one interfered. "You did this, cursing me with your filthy noose and your filthy god!" He cast the noose at Dulas' feet. "But, but Anarr, that's not mine!" Dulas reached in his shirt and withdrew his own noose to show to Anarr. Anarr stared at it his eyes wide, his face white. "I did nothing but pray for you. He has answered my prayers and healed you!" "I don't even believe in your god!!" shouted Anarr, kicking part of the mattress away. "Well, perhaps he believes in you," Dulas replied, uncowed. Anarr stared, fear replacing anger in his eyes. He looked at his hands and stroked his face and hair. "It's some trick. You've placed some enchantment on me." "I've done nothing!!" assured Dulas. "It is He who has done this! He has shown His power to you, so that you might believe in Him!" "I'm a magician! I'm no Stevenic!" "Then perhaps it's time you were." Anarr staggered out into the night. He cast the torch away, running in the dark. He stopped in the main parade grounds, the black of evening all around. He held his hands up before his face, but could not see them for the darkness. Out of habit he conjured up a foxfire. The blue light flickered across his fingertips, illuminating and outlining their newly restored youth. He flicked his hands, spraying the cold flames away and dousing them. Then he collapsed on his knees, shaking his fists at the sky and howling. ======================================================================== The Gong Farmer by Brandon Haught Summer, 1015 Rish Vogel walked into the gong chamber, arched his back and grunted with satisfaction at the popping of his stiff vertebrae. After hunching over his desk all day, it felt divine to walk around and stretch. He carefully placed a worn leather scroll tube beside the garderobe bench and took from under his arm a fur pelt with a hole sliced from its center which he spread out over the wooden waste-chute seat. With a few yawns and some general old man grunts he eased gently onto the seat and sighed. As nature took its course, Rish picked up the tube, pried off the cap and with slow patience and care pulled out a tightly wound scroll. He smoothed out the precious parchment in smooth, practiced strokes with a bony hand as dry and browned as the crinkled old paper. He squinted at the neat, precise writings upon the scroll, blinked his eyes rapidly a few times and pulled the paper up close to his thin nose. Whispered curses slipped between his tight lips as he looked up high on the wall opposite him at the stingy hole of a window. A dull haze of light was all that could get through the head-sized opening; nowhere near enough for a pair of aging eyes like Rish's to see by. He tried to read some again anyway. Duke Dargon had stirred up a whirlwind of activity ever since returning from fighting naval battles in the recent war. The Duke's activity had blown like gale winds through Rish's office. The Chroniclers' scribes had been scribbling up documents and researching information at a pace even more feverish than before the war started. The duke's latest request concerned some farming territories out east. He had wanted some historical references on land ownership, crop production and a slew of other facts and figures. Rish had spent the morning tearing through everything he had, but had trouble locating the land owners' lineages; information that was important to the issue of land ownership. He had been fairly sure he had what he was looking for when the urge for "physical relief" hit him like a runaway apple cart. He knew he shouldn't have had Salamagundi's sunsweet stew earlier today, but it was the only thing his idiot of a new apprentice had brought him for the noon meal. As Rish sat painfully on the gong chamber bench, he thought of a few particularly long, boring scrolls that would need copying by the new boy this evening. He finally gave up reading the parchment and set it down beside him in frustration. It took many slow, agonizing moments to do his business, but he finally finished and stood with a protesting pop from each knee. He quickly arranged his robes, gave his bald head an invigorating scratch, and snatched up the fur seat covering, eager to be on his way. But he then gasped in horror as his scroll, which had been sitting on the edge of the fur, was launched into the waste chute. With a speed spurred on by sudden fear, Rish lunged for it. His stiff fingers brushed the paper just as it floated out of reach, but failed to grasp hold. The horror of this unthinkable event kept Rish rooted to the spot, arm outstretched, his mind as numb as his rear. He just stared into the chute. He put a shaking hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and willed himself to think. It was like trudging through a swampy mass of cluttered thoughts. What would Duke Dargon say if he was told this precious, important scroll was lost? Better not to think of such horrid thoughts just yet. Maybe the scroll could be recovered. How far down was it? What was down there? Where did the chute wind up? After a few more moments of nervous contemplation, Rish decided the best course of action was to find the sewers. If he just kept in mind the layout of the Keep, he should be able to figure out where the chute would empty into the sewer. With any luck he would find the scroll there in a legible condition. Rish sighed uneasily as the sarcastic thought ran through his mind -- "And when handwritten copying was no longer needed, I will become a master fisherman." The chances of finding that scroll intact were slim, but slim was all he had. Rish had an idea where the sewer entrance might be, but wasn't exactly sure as he had never been to that section of the Keep. There was never any reason to go there before. He first tried to find a direct way from the gong chamber into the lower levels. However, there was no obvious straight route for the waste chute under the chamber. He completely lost track of where the chute was; it seemed to head off at strange angles that made no sense to him. He gave up on that search method and decided to head over to the kitchen area. It was on a lower level and Rish reasoned its waste chutes would be closer and head more directly into the sewers. Cooks and servants were bustling madly about preparing the evening meal when Rish arrived. No one paid the old man any heed as he dodged through the commotion. He studied the waste chutes carefully and even stuck his head into one of the larger ones for clues as to where it headed. Long years of dealing with disasters helped keep him steady even though the beginnings of a headache pulsed in his forehead and a persistent gnawing in his stomach which had been eating at him for the past few years picked up a more intense burning than usual. He set aside his personal discomforts, though, and refused to acknowledge fear or despair. He focused his sharp mind on the task and plowed on. In the back of the vast kitchen behind crates of vegetables he found a disused doorway, which he walked through to find a set of stairs leading down. Three rats scattered from underfoot while a fourth one just hunkered down against the wall on a step and looked up at Rish in defiance. Rish pointedly ignored the rodent and strode confidently down the steps until they ended at a perpendicular hall. Rish looked left and right and despite the lack of clues as to which way to go, he turned left only to be stopped by unwelcoming darkness. He retreated to the kitchen, grabbed a torch from its holder on the wall, and without a look around to see if anyone noticed headed back through the door. With the torch thrust out determinedly before him, Rish pushed through the darkness until his light revealed another stairway. He stood for a few moments at the top of the stairs and peered down into the darkness. The blackness seemed to hang about him thickly, as if it resented his torch light. The clangs and shouts from the kitchen were gone, leaving absolutely nothing in their place. Rish shook his head and plunged an ear with his finger; the silence seemed unnatural to him and he felt his ears had maybe somehow failed him. He stood there for another moment, for the first time wavering in his resolve to reclaim his scroll. The torch shook a little and Rishs eyes pierced the bony hand holding it as if it betrayed him by letting his inner nervousness show through. He relieved the guilty hand of duty with the other and clenched it tightly in punishment. He set his jaw in renewed resolve and stomped down the steps with determination, all the while inwardly cursing himself for fearing the dark silence. The farther down he went, the muggier it got. The walls sweated a slime that kept Rish solidly in the center of the stairs. Repugnant smells wafted up causing Rish to gag. He had to stop a few times to clamp his teeth and fight back the nausea lurching up his throat. The stench was thicker and stronger than any he had previously experienced. Waste and rot were nothing new to Rish, but this was a mixture of all the vile smells he knew with a few unidentified ones thrown in. He had definitely found the sewers. He reached a landing and paused yet again, but this time couldn't fight back his natural reaction to the stinking cloud around him. His throat went numb and the vomit spilled out of him in a rush. He doubled over, nearly dropping his torch. Eventually his stomach emptied, but kept lurching in painful dry heaves. He could swear his stomach was going to climb out his mouth and run back up the stairs on its own. He finally regained control of himself, shook his head to clear it, and with slow steps he turned around to go back up to clearer air. No scroll in Dargon was going to propel Rish any further down those steps. Suddenly a voice rang out behind him, causing Rish to slip on the first step and stumble backward onto the landing. His hand brushed the slimy walls and he snatched it back in revulsion. "Hold where you are, stranger! Your torch light gives you away. For what purpose do you tread through my land?" The voice was deep, loud and dramatic. Rish eased around carefully; he was lightheaded from vomiting and unsure of his balance. He thrust the torch out before him unsteadily and peered into the darkness below. The stairs curved downward to the left and about ten steps down from the landing was a dark figure standing back against the inner wall. Rish tried to clear his throat, and with a hoarse voice said, "Who's there?" "You are confronting none other than Knight Commander of the Underkeep Armies." Then the dramatic tone dropped to a more normal voice. "Shut up! Get back! I'm in charge here," he said in a frantic whisper. Rish could see the figure move as if shoving someone behind him. Rish's brow furrowed. "Underkeep Armies?" he whispered to himself. The man turned back to Rish and resumed his formal tone. "Name yourself, intruder, so that I may determine friend or foe." Rish took a moment to answer. All he wanted to do now was get out of here. This strange "Knight Commander" piqued his curiosity, but the stench billowing through the stairway was threatening to make Rish retch again. "I'm Lord Chronicler Rish Vogel," he finally replied. "What brings you into my domain, Sir Chronicler?" "I've lost something of value. Now if you'll excuse me, I --" "Hold Sir Chronicler! It may be that I can be of assistance." There was a short pause and the mysterious knight added, "My spies inform me there are evil things lurking about the keep. Accept my services and I shall be your protector on your quest." "I really should be on my --" Rish was overwhelmed by the stench once again and he bent over to dry heave some more. Rish heard the knight move forward and a sudden unreasoning fear overtook him. He stumbled around and tried to make his way up the stairs backwards while still gagging. His breath came in gasps. A confusing array of bright colored cloth rushed at him and he thrust his torch out at it. His feet betrayed him, though, and he tripped, landing with a breath-stealing wallop on the stairs. The torch fell from his weak grasp and rolled down a few steps. An instant later the gaily clothed skeleton of a man thrust in close to Rish. "Be still, Milord. You are ill." The knight then beckoned behind him. "Come, Edgart. We have an sick man to care for." Rish gaped helplessly as the knight took hold of his robes and proceeded to drag him, backwards, down the steps into the horrific darkness. "No," Rish breathed as the light from the dropped torch faded and disappeared around the curve of the staircase. Rish deteriorated into a hyperventilating, groping, sobbing, blind man. His tailbone struck each step painfully as the knight dragged him by the collar down the seemingly endless stairs. He could hear the knight breathing heavily with the effort. Finally, the steps ended and Rish was dragged across a smooth floor. He clawed at the floor in futile resistance, only to come up with fingernails full of slime, adding fuel to his hysteria as he tried desperately tried to flick it away. His head seemed swelled with the fierce pain of a headache. He kicked his legs fiercely but finally gave in. A few moments later the knight let go, causing Rish to rap his head on the hard floor, sending a flurry of stars before his eyes. He felt hot and sticky, his stomach boiled like a cauldron, his throat burned and tears streamed from his eyes. The smell was horrible beyond anything he could have ever imagined. He just lay on the floor in misery, awaiting whatever his fate was to be. Any mene now he knew the strange knight was going to stab him, or beat him, or maybe even dump him in the sewer. His imagination soared through the multitude of gruesome deaths sure to come. Suddenly, Rish realized he could see. It was faint at first, but a green glow softly illuminated the room and gradually intensified. He tilted his head to the side and saw his kidnapper rubbing some type of moss coating the walls. As he rubbed it, it started to radiate light. He was in a small cave, apparently empty. His head hurt too much to look around. He could see the trail of ooze he had tracked in leading to a tall, narrow opening, beyond which was a terrifying darkness. Rish watched the thin man work. He wore a tattered cape that dragged the floor as he scooted around. A hodgepodge of clothing hung from his skeletal frame in a multitude of colors muted by the green illumination of the room. Various bits of cloth, coins, and unidentifiable metals adorned his chest and softly clattered a disjointed tune as the man hopped hurriedly about. The outfit was like a child's rendition of the regal uniforms worn by the knight commanders of Baranur. The knight finished rubbing the last bit of moss within his reach and headed to a corner of the cave where Rish was surprised to see a flower bed of sorts flourished. The man yanked up a handful of pansy-like flowers and brought them over to Rish and thrust them in his face. "Take these, sir scribe." Rish just raised an eyebrow and stared at the man with a mixture of disbelief and distrust. The knight waved the flowers a little bit and a sweet aroma was released. "By holding them to your nose, the sickly smell of the beast will be warded off." Rish hesitantly took the bouquet, held it close to his nose and breathed deep, all the while keeping an eye on his kidnapper. The aroma was wonderful and Rish immediately felt a little better. A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed. "What?!" hollered the knight in a sudden rage. Rish jerked reflexively and winced in expectation of a blow. The knight instead whirled to confront someone Rish could not see. The knight cocked his head as if listening then replied, "I was getting to that you fool. Shut up and attend to your duties!" Rish couldn't figure out who the man could be talking to as he and the knight were the only ones in the cave. "Pardon me for my squire's intrusion, Sir Scribe. He means well but can be rather rude at times." The knight then turned and wagged a finger at thin air while scolding, "A few pops with the flat of my blade ought to help him mind his manners, though." Rish quickly deduced that the man was strange in the head, as if his mother had not given him all his proper due at birth. He sat up and though his head felt unsteady, he thought about escape. The situation was hopeless, however, seeing as how the space beyond the cave opening was darker than a moonless night in a deep forest. The knight turned back to Rish and smiled pleasantly. It came across as gruesome, though, in the weird green glow of the moss. "You mentioned losing something of value which caused you to venture into my domain. Is there anything I can do to help?" Rish eyed the scarecrow of a man warily. He had yet to pass judgment as to whether or not the knight was dangerous. He ignored the knight's question and asked one of his own. "Why did you bring me here?" he asked through the pansies. "You were ill and weak, good Sir. I could not leave you in such a condition for the beast to find. Oh no, it was my duty to bring you to safety." "What beast?" "You know not of the beast?" "I'm afraid not." The knight crouched down to be level with Rish. A serious expression hardened his thin face as he looked right in Rish's eyes as he spoke. "A monster of evil lurks in this keep, Sir Scribe. I and my band of fighters have been battling the foul beast for years." He gestured around the room as if a squad of troops were present. "It steals objects of importance from the unwary and it tries to clog the waste chutes in an effort to drive the residents here out of the keep. It's a sly thing to be sure. I have fought it many times, but it always eludes the killing stroke in the end." Rish was now certain the man was completely insane. He felt a genuine fear the likes of which he had experienced only a handful of times before in his long, active life. He refused to let the emotion get the better of him, though. He focused on the sweet aroma of the flowers and the pulse of pain shooting back and forth between his tailbone and his forehead. "I will escape," he ordered himself. His nimble mind settled on playing along with the mad knight as his only means of escape for now. He took a deep breath through the flowers. "I think maybe the beast stole one of my scrolls. I could take --" The knight leaped to his feet as if bit by a snake. "Did you see it?" he asked wide-eyed. Rish was jolted by the knight's sudden reaction. Despite his thudding heart, Rish replied calmly, "Not actually. I think --" "How long ago did this happen?" "No more than half a bell ago. Help me up and I'll --" "Sound the horns, Edgart! Men to arms! Men to arms! We'll have the beast yet!" He danced about the cave like a marionette with tangled strings and a drunk puppeteer. He shoved at imaginary troops and yelled a quick succession of commands that echoed off the stone walls. In a blur of movement, the man dashed out of the cave. Rish could hear him still hollering commands and making enough noise to make Rish think an entire army was actually on the move. A moment later the knight burst back into the cave brandishing two pikes and a mad leer. He thrust a pike at Rish, butt first. Rish had to duck to avoid getting knocked on the head with the pike held in the knight's unsteady hand. "Take it and lead the way, Sir Scribe. A glorious battle is but a heartbeat away. Hurry so that the beast's trail may still be fresh." Rish grabbed the weapon, not so much because he wanted it, but because it wobbled so much in the knight's grip that Rish was going to end up getting whacked with it. Using the pike to pull himself up, he held the flowers firmly to his nose and went with the excited knight out of the cave. Rish stumbled hesitantly through the darkness into what was apparently a vast cavern. He could hear the knight ranging farther ahead. His hands trembled and his knees shook. The loony knight was going to leave him alone in the total darkness. Water lapped at an unseen shore somewhere nearby, and an occasional splash echoed off distant walls. The knight's belief in some horrible beast roaming the sewers sprang foremost in Rish's mind. "Hello?" he yelled nervously. "Edgart, you idiot! You're supposed to be watching the scribe," said the knight from a distance. "Lord Chronicler, where are you?" "Here," answered Rish and an instant later the knight was by his side. The knight took Rish by the arm and raced with him through the darkness. Rish rammed his toe into something hard and grimaced in pain. "Step up, Sir Scribe. We have reached the stairs." They made their way up the steps and Rish could see a faint glow ahead. As they rounded a curve, he saw his torch still sputtering on a step. The knight paid it no heed, though, and continued impatiently up, dragging Rish along. They finally topped the stairs in a familiar hallway. They continued onward and Rish eventually heard the sounds of salvation coming from the kitchen. In just a few moments he would be safe. The knight stopped when they came to the steps leading up to the kitchen. He looked up and then peered straight into the gloom of the continuing hallway. "Where to now, Sir Scribe?" asked the knight. Rish stalled for a moment. He was indecisive as the whether he should continue to play along now that he knew where he was. But how would he get rid of the knight? The crazed man was dancing from foot to foot causing his 'medals' to jingle and his face was set firmly like a man given a mission from some higher power. Rish figured the man was crazy and therefore unpredictable and even possibly dangerous. The sooner Rish could get away from him, the better. The knight tapped Rish lightly on the head with the business end of his rusty pike. "Are you all right?" "Yes." Rish took a deep shaky breath as if he was about to abandon ship and plunged into an attempt to rid himself of the lunatic knight. "Now, I'm not so sure that some beast took my scroll, sir ... um ... sir ..." Rish looked at the knight expectantly, waiting for him to fill in a name as yet unoffered. The knight ignored the subtle probe and stuck his face up close to Rish's, a mere finger's width nose to nose. Rish flinched back, but the determined man went on with his up-close examination. Without taking his eyes off the scribe he titled his head to the side and said to his invisible partner, "What do you think, Edgart? Pale face. Bloodshot eyes. Acting weird. Yes, I think so as well." He nodded, stepped back and commanded, "Disrobe, Sir Scribe. I must examine your buttocks." Rish gasped. "I really don't *think* so!" "For your own well-being, I must do so. When in the gong chamber, did you engage in a bowel movement?" "What?!" "Ahh. An onset of deafness as well. This could be severe, Edgart. We may need to fetch a hot poker." "*Hot poker*?!" "Did you experience a numbness of the buttocks when you stood up from your business, Sir Scribe?" the knight asked in a raised voice. "Because if you did, it could be a sign that the evil beast sneaked up and bit you on the rear, thus injecting a grossly debilitating poison that will race through your body causing --" Rish threw his pike to the floor, thrust the bouquet of pansies at the knight, shaking it to punctuate his words. "You are insane!" Then at a loss for anything else to say, he buried his nose back into the flowers, turned on his heels, and stormed up the stairs. "Give chase, Edgart! Do not let him get away! He needs our help!" Rish looked over his shoulder to see the knight bearing down on him like a left over spirit from the Night of Souls. His eyes were wide and possessed. His arms were raised with ragged clothing billowing about and the pike swinging wildly. Rish broke into a wild dash to get to safety and hollered madly for help. The knight was too quick for him, though. He tripped Rish with the pike and Rish plunged headlong to the steps, scattering pansies everywhere. Then the knight was on top of him, yanking his robes up. Rish let loose a long, high-pitched scream that even he didn't know he was capable of. The knight exposed Rish's rear end and proceeded to poke and smack the cheeks with abandon. Rish was on his stomach with the knight astride his back. All the old scribe could do was kick and scream. Then suddenly the knight jumped up. "He's fine, Edgart. Smoothest buttocks I've ever seen, but he's fine." Then he whispered to his imaginary squire, "I think he's just a little touched. Not quite armed for combat if you know what I mean." Just then three armed men stormed around a curve of the steps and came to a sudden stop before the prone, half-naked scribe. A few steps behind them came a tight-packed group of nervous servants and cooks curious to see what the commotion was all about. One of the armed men eyed Rish suspiciously then turned to the knight and saluted. "Sir Knight, we heard a woman screaming. Is everything all right here?" Rish gasped in humiliation. These fools thought his screams sounded like a woman's *and* they were saluting the lunatic. "Has this knight somehow infected my spirit?" thought Rish. "Am I seeing the knight's phantom army now?" "No, no. Everything is fine, good sergeant. The Lord Chronicler had sighted the beast and was leading me to it. It seems, however, that the scribe is not feeling well." The armed men, cooks, servants and a concerned, almost sane-looking knight looked down at the old scribe shaking uncontrollably on the floor. "Maybe you should adjust your robes," offered someone to Rish in hushed tones. Rish summoned all his will power to control his shaking and slowly made his way to his feet, adjusting his robes as he stood. He glared at the onlookers and saw that the armed men were in fact real castle guards and not the knight's apparitions. Rish could feel his own face radiating an angry red. "This, this ... man ... is ... is ... insane. He *attacked* me! He ... he ..." "Maybe you should just tell me where you sighted the beast and then get some rest, Sir Scribe. Obviously this adventure is a bit too much for you," said the knight. A guard looked at Rish meaningfully and said, "Yes. Just tell the knight where the beast was and I'll see you to your quarters." Rish couldn't believe his ears. Was he the only sane one here? He stared uncomprehendingly at the guard and managed to stutter, "But ... but ..." The crowd of onlookers whispered among themselves as if conferring about what judgment to pass upon him. The knight cleared his throat and raised a thin eyebrow impatiently. "The north tower," Rish finally said and buried his face in his hands. "Edgart, inform the troops. There is no time to lose." Rish looked up and saw that the guards didn't seem to find it strange that Edgart did not exist. The knight shook each guards hand. "Wish me luck. A great battle awaits." "Good luck, brave knight," one said. The knight then solemnly bowed to Rish and ran up the steps parting the crowd like wheat. "Why aren't you gone yet, Edgart? I told you to deploy the troops. You fool! We can't let the beast get away." His scoldings were soon lost in the distance. A guard stepped towards Rish and eyed the stained, stinking old man. Rish jerked back and eyed the guard distrustfully. "Relax, Milord Vogel. The gong farmer is harmless. You have to play along to get him on with his business." "Gong farmer?" "Yea. He's the guy who clears out all the clogs in the waste chutes." "Ol's Balls, I'd hate to have his job," said another guard. "He actually has to slide down the chutes to clean 'em out." "But the man is clearly insane," Rish protested. The sergeant nodded. "I think you would be insane too if you were the gong farmer." Rish nodded weakly and allowed the guards to lead him slowly upwards in the same direction as the knight. The kitchen workers closed in behind them. Rish could hear their mutterings and could only imagine the stories that would be spread throughout the keep in just a few bell's time. The parade made it to the kitchen where the cooks finally took charge of the servants and got back to business. With weary steps Rish wandered silently back to his room with the guards behind him. He opened the door, waved off his escort and entered. Once safely inside he collapsed almost immediately and passed out. Rish dreamed of a huge, worm-like beast with impossibly long fangs chasing him through dark, slimy caves. He heard a pounding that at first he mistook for the worm slamming against the walls. As his dream started breaking up, though, he realized he was sprawled out on the cold stone floor of his room and the pounding was coming from his door. He sat up and immediately regretted the sudden move. Every joint, muscle and bone sang out in protest from being dragged and abused the night before. He grunted and staggered miserably to his feet. A horrible cloud of stench accosted him from his own clothes and Rish had to clamp his hands over his mouth to keep himself under control. The steady knock became more intense. With slow, shuffling steps, Rish made his way to the door and pulled it open. Standing in the hall was the gong farmer. He was drenched. A thick liquid dripped off his clothes and creating miniature cesspools about his feet. He held his pike firmly and proudly at his side and thrust out something with his other hand. Rish staggered back, covered his nose and rapidly blinked his eyes. Before him was the human version of the beast-worm from his just-interrupted nightmare. He grabbed the door for support and moaned. "I am proud to present you this scroll, which I assume is the item the beast stole from you." The knight's face beamed with pleasure. Rish looked down at the man's extended hand and saw there a sodden, mutilated mass of parchment. The dripping wad could very well be his scroll, but there was no way of telling. He hesitantly took it and smiled weakly. Rish's entire purpose right now was to be rid of this madman. He took a step back and slowly began to close the door. "The beast left it behind in one of the chutes as I gave chase. Edgart here had the presence of mind to grab it for you while on the run." The knight elbowed the air next to him. Rish absently nodded a weak thanks to the empty air while still inching the door closed. "I'm now off, Sir Scribe. The beast has yet again eluded my final killing blow. It still stalks the keep and I must find it. Be more careful when in the gong chamber next time. Examine the seat before sitting." And with that warning hanging in the air, he turned and squished down the hall. "That was a fine battle, Edgart, wasn't it? Did you hear it roar in pain that time I thrust from above and ..." The knight turned a corner and was gone. Rish shakily latched the door and leaned against it while gingerly holding the slime-coated parchment. He looked disdainfully down at the ruined parchment and let it drop to the floor with a plop. He thought he certainly would be careful the next time he visited the gong chamber -- whether for fear of the beast or the lunatic knight crawling through the sewers. He felt his bladder was full, but decided to hold it ... for now. ======================================================================== Quadrille Part V by Alan Lauderdale 8 Sy, 1012 XVIII. A Visit From a Loyal Follower Finding Terkan's house had been easy, Alec thought to himself as he approached the door. It had simply required money -- more money -- and another consultation with that expert on all subjects, Aardvard Factotum. After all, he had been able to identify Terkan in the first place. It made sense, albeit expensive sense, that he could also tell Alec where the man lived. Still, the day had been pretty much wasted chasing after this Terkan -- alive or dead. Alec rapped loudly on the door of Terkan's house and then turned to admire a rather ordinary sunset. The door was opened eventually by a young man, the late Terkan's apprentice, most likely. An expression of appalled surprise flashed across the boy's face. "What're you -- ?" he rasped. The voice sounded familiar. But the expression quickly darkened. "What do you want?" the apprentice snarled. "I'm here to see Ariel," Alec said. The young man raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" he said sourly. "And who are you?" "Tell her that Iliara sent me." The man frowned, then said "Wait here" and closed the door. So Alec waited. There was that perfectly routine sunset to entertain him and that rasping voice to speculate about. Very soon, though, he heard running footsteps and the door was flung open. Ariel stood within, a very hopeful expression on her face. "You're from Iliara?" she asked, then added "Have I seen you before?" "On behalf of Iliara, yes," Alec said. "As for whether you've seen me before -- " He broke off. A short, balding man had hurried up behind Ariel, along with that sour-voiced apprentice. Alec stared at him. The man seemed fully recovered from that fit of leprousy he'd apparently been suffering in the house on the other side of town. "Terkan?" Alec asked. "Of course," the man replied, looking Alec over carefully. "This is my house, my front door, my assistant, my guest. It does rather make sense for me to be me, don't you think? However, as for you --" He shook his head. "I don't believe I know who you are." "I am Alec," Alec said, sure that, in spite of the evidence, this was not really Terkan. To Ariel, he said "And you, I believe, are in terrible danger." "Tell her something she doesn't already know," Mouse said, having caught up with the others. "From Haargon?" Ariel asked anyway. "From Haargon --" Alec agreed, before turning to stare at Mouse. "What are you?" he asked. Mouse put her hands on her hips and glared at Alec. "You know," she said, "I really don't feel like answering that question. It is very insulting." "She's a friend of mine," Ariel said, reaching down to assist the small person up to her shoulder. "Mouse." "So what do you know about the terrible danger from Haargon?" Mouse asked, seating herself. "I think," Alec answered, glancing from the small woman to Master Terkan, "that you'd better leave this house." "Why?" Mouse asked. "Does Haargon know I'm here?" Ariel asked. "Probably," Alec replied, still looking at Terkan. "But not definitely?" Mouse asked. "Then if that's not the terrible danger, what is?" She watched Alec's stare. "Do you have some problem with Brother Terkan? Is there some message from Iliara that you want to share?" Alec elected to ignore Mouse. To Ariel, he said "Please, I think you should come with me. Now." "Where to?" Mouse quickly asked. "I have a room where you can hide," Alec said to Ariel, still ignoring Mouse. "All right," Mouse shrugged. "But why now?" "I can't explain that," Alec said, improvising. "Not in the presence of people who aren't followers of Iliara. It refers to the secret knowledge of Barnaby." "Ah, Barnaby," Mouse said. "Well then, how about if Brother Terkan and Bret excuse themselves to go make us some tea and you can give us a quick explication while they're busy. Then, if we agree about the urgency, we can leave with you as soon as tea is concluded." "But you're not one of the followers -- " Alec protested. "Of Iliara?" Mouse interrupted. "Of course I am. I'll have you know that I'm one of her harder-working messengers, assigned right now to keep Ariel company through this her time of trouble." "You are?" Ariel asked. "I thought -- " "Sure," Mouse said quickly. "Why else would I have hung around with you this long? And as for you, Alec, you ought to have recognized the phrase 'Tell her something she doesn't already know' -- unless you haven't yet been admitted to the fifth circle." "You're fifth circle?" Ariel asked. "That would be telling," Mouse said. To Brother Terkan, she said "Tea, please?" "Come into the parlor, then," Brother Terkan invited. The group moved into that room. Then, the master of the house crooked a finger at Bret and the two went toward the back of the house. "So what's going on?" Ariel asked. Alec watched Brother Terkan out of sight and then dropped his voice to a very conspiratorial whisper. "I don't think your 'Brother' Terkan is who he claims to be," he said. "Then who do you think he is?" Ariel asked. "I suppose you think he's an agent of Haargon?" Mouse asked. "It's the most likely conclusion, don't you think?" Alec replied. "From your standpoint, perhaps," Mouse said, "if all you know is Iliara and Haargon. But you do have to admit that there's much you don't know. For example, I don't think you knew that I was the one who brought Ariel here to Brother Terkan's house." She smiled. "So if you impugn Brother Terkan's good will toward Ariel, you impugn mine also." Ariel frowned and seemed about to say something, but Alec spoke first. "I didn't mean that there was anything objectionable about Brother Terkan," he said, "because that man isn't Brother Terkan." "How did you know that?" Ariel asked. "Because I saw a great deal of Brother Terkan today and I know that the real Brother Terkan died a horrible and disfiguring death today at a house belonging to a certain Margala. That man is an imposter." Alec looked to see if his information had made a deep impression on his listeners. The response was disappointing. "And how do you know that this fake Terkan is doing anything for Haargon?" Mouse asked. "Why else would he be doing it?" Alec asked. "Well, do you know anything else about Terkan besides where and how he died?" "I know that he visited Aardvard Factotum today to find out what that old worthy knew about Iliara or Haargon." "And what did he know?" Ariel asked. "Nothing, actually," Alec shrugged. "Nothing again," Mouse repeated to Ariel. "I keep telling you their war is secret," Ariel said. "Very secret," Mouse agreed. "So secret that everything about it appears to be kept secret from pretty much everyone." "But what's your point about Terkan?" Alec asked. "Simply that you and I both knew very little about him," Mouse said. "And the fake Terkan you've just met is here for very good reasons that have nothing to do with Ariel or me or any of your secret gods. The real Terkan was a very unsavory man who trafficked in a different, extremely evil, but also fairly secret god. The substitute Terkan had a hand in killing off the real one and is working now on finishing up a mission to eradicate the worship of this other evil god." "What's the name of this other evil god?" Alec asked. "Uh, Jelly-something?" "Jhel," Ariel said. "Am I supposed to have heard of him?" Alec asked. "I don't think that's important," Mouse said. What's important is that we already knew that Terkan wasn't really Terkan and that both versions of Terkan had nothing to do with Haargon. Both of them, in fact, have never heard of Haargon and couldn't manage to find out anything about Haargon if they tried. But you do know about Haargon and show up trying to persuade Ariel to leave this place and go somewhere else. I think we should wonder whether you're the danger." "So you already knew that Terkan wasn't Terkan," Alec said. "That's right," Mouse said. "And you already knew that priests of Haargon are trying to draw you to their side in the secret war." "I'd figured that out already, too," Ariel said, smiling faintly. "And you already have a brave, valiant and competent protector," Alec added hopefully. Ariel nodded, but Mouse said "No. That job's available." "But what about you?" Ariel asked. "Aren't you my protector?" "You expect to get much protection from the likes of me?" "But you're at least fifth circle, aren't you?" Ariel asked. "You should be able to call upon some serious magicks if need be." "I should, but help would be nice anyway," Mouse said. "Are you applying?" she asked Alec. "All right," he said. "Good! Then we need references." She sprang across the table closer to Alec. At the same time, the door of the parlor opened. Cefn and Je'en, still in disguise, came in bearing a tray of tea things. Terkan was rich; the setting looked elegant. Tea was served out while Mouse explained to Cefn that Alec was aware of Terkan's demise and replacement, but wished to help protect Ariel anyway. "How did he know about Terkan's death?" Cefn asked, concerned how public that knowledge had become. Alec put down his teacup. "I was following Terkan today," he said. "Yes, we saw you," Cefn said. Alec turned to Je'en. "So you are the woman in the silver mask." She nodded. "You've had me wondering just how small a town Dargon is," she said. "Why were you following Terkan?" Cefn asked. "I wanted to find Ariel." "And how did you know that he had any connection to her?" "And why couldn't you just ask Iliara?" Mouse asked. "I learned that Terkan was asking questions about Iliara and Haargon," Alec said. "And I'm not as close to Iliara as I'd like to be," he continued. "You notice, I didn't recognize that phrase you used." "I do notice," Mouse said. She sipped some more tea. "And I wonder why you'd be looking for Ariel unless you were doing so for Haargon. Who're you working for, Alec?" XIX. Counterplot Alec sighed and set his teacup aside in case of overreaction. "A man named Cleo hired me," he said. "He's archon of the circle of Haargonites who are operating in this town. He wanted me to follow Ariel and report to him all her movements." "That makes sense," Je'en rasped. "Is it the truth or only a half-truth? Were you really hired or are you actually a member of that circle?" "I was hired," Alec said. "And the word on Haargonites is that they pay slowly and badly, so I have little desire to do any more work for Cleo -- or even complete this assignment -- " "Does he know yet that you've tracked Ariel here?" Mouse asked. "No. The last thing I reported to him was losing her in the harbor last night. The news that I'd lost her irritated him, but he seemed unsurprised -- almost pleased -- to hear that she dove into the harbor." "Perhaps because that's what the fake Ariel had done," Mouse said. "What fake Ariel?" Alec asked. "You didn't hear?" Ariel asked back. "I suppose that this Cleo wouldn't have wanted to confuse him by passing it along," Mouse said. "What fake Ariel?" Alec repeated. "Last night, someone who resembled Ariel killed Auditor Jarvis in Merchant Camron's warehouse," Cefn said. "The murderer then grabbed Mouse out of a barrel in the warehouse and ran away. There were, however, a number of witnesses." "Oh," Alec said, then asked Mouse "What were you doing *in* the barrel?" "Travelling," she replied. "Us mice are always using shipping barrels to get around." "Uh huh," Alec said. He decided he didn't want to think about that statement too carefully. "Speaking of traveling, Ariel, I have the backpack you dropped last night. It's back at my place if you want to come with me to collect it." "I'd like it back, yes, thank you," Ariel said, "though I feel a lot safer here than I would wandering through the streets. There's the Watch looking for me, not to mention the priests of Haargon. Do you think you could fetch it?" "There are no priests of Haargon," Cefn interrupted, before Alec could respond. "There's no such god as Haargon -- " "Of course there is!" Ariel exclaimed. "Stefan explained to me all about him. His priests have been harassing me since before I came here and often enough since I've been in Dargon. Alec's seen them too -- " "Oh, I don't deny that you've been harassed," Cefn said. "And I'm sure that several men have told you that Haargon was directing them. But they're lying. There's no Haargonic priesthood and no worship of any Haargon." "But Stefan said -- " "And I don't believe him," Cefn said. This brought Ariel to a full stop. "But I've known of the Haargonites for a long while," Alec said. "Everybody knows about them -- though no one knows very much." "Actually," Cefn said, "you and Ariel seem to be the only ones with any experience of Haargonites at all. And Ariel's is entirely recent and limited, though upsetting." "Well, I know what I know," Alec insisted. "Yes, but how do you know?" Cefn asked. "From Cleo, I suppose, but who else? Who else told you anything about Haargon or these priests?" Alec frowned. "Lots of people," he insisted. "A word here, a remark there. 'Beware the Haargonites!' That sort of thing." "But from whom?" Cefn insisted. "Can you remember clearly that sort of remark from any particular person?" Wracking his brain, Alec fell silent. "Try to be a little objective about this," Cefn said softly to Ariel. "I'm an expert in these matters -- " "Yes, that's *very* objective," Alec said dryly. Cefn looked at him. "All right," he said. "I've spent many years studying these sort of matters. I've never seen anything about any evil earth god named Haargon. The same goes for the late Terkan. And he went to the trouble of consulting the estimable Aardvard Factotum -- " "How'd you know that?" Alec asked. "There's nothing about the late Terkan, I *don't* know," Cefn said, fishing out from his tunic an odd amulet that hung from a necklace. "And believe me, it's given me a terrible headache. Terkan consulted Factotum and the two both failed to discover even a single reference to this Haargon. His conclusion was that Haargon was a fraud. On this I agree with him." "But if Haargon doesn't exist," Ariel asked, "who are these people that are harassing me? What do they want? And who is Iliara warring with?" "But who is Iliara?" Cefn responded, even more softly. "What do you mean, who is Iliara?" Ariel demanded, a hint of panic in her voice. "Iliara is the goddess of light and air and truth and air magery. It's by the power of Iliara that I can fend off the evil Haargon and his minions -- " "There's no Haargon to fend off," Cefn insisted quietly. "But there is the evil of those minions," Mouse replied. "Somebody grabbed me out of that barrel last night and I'm sure that somebody was part of this Haargon plot." "I'll agree with you about that," Cefn nodded. "But I cast the spells!" Ariel exclaimed. "The air magic is real, I know it." "Yes," Cefn said. "The magic was real and truly cast. I'm sure of that, else why would you be a target at all? But were you channeling power from this Iliara you speak of, or was the energy drawn from within yourself? What do you think, Ariel?" "I think -- " Ariel faltered. "I don't know what to think." "All right," Cefn said cheerfully. "Keep yourself open to the possibilities, then. Relax and see what further proofs can be turned up." "Relax?" Ariel asked in despair. "How can I relax when it seems as though everyone in Dargon is after me?" Cefn shrugged. "I suggest," he said, "that it may be time to draw out your pursuing minions into the open." "And how are we supposed to do that?" Mouse asked. Cefn looked at Alec. "You have a messenger now," he said. "Send a message." XX. The Danger of the Serpent "No, I don't know where she is now, but I do know where she'll be just a few bells from now." Alec stood once again in Cleo's chamber. He looked briefly around the room at the several symbols of the power of Haargon and of earth. His gaze passed the sharp spade and also the large rock that always obstructed the doorway. He looked at the pile of loose, wet humus on the side table with the drugged slug on top. It was all the way he'd always heard it should be. He was sure of it, even though they'd said that Haargon was just an invention. He frowned, poking in his mind at memories that seemed to him to be perfectly genuine. After a few quick prods, though, he dismissed the whole effort. It was irrelevent to his present task. The present task was to tell Cleo a story and then lead Cleo into what he hoped would be a trap. Then, he hoped, they might get a few straight answers out of Cleo and Ariel could clear herself with the Watch and perhaps he and she could turn to more pleasant matters. In his heart, he felt the warm glow that is the lot of all knights who ride to the aid of fair and distressed damsels they've found themselves caring an awful lot about. He felt it, he recognized it, and the folly didn't bother him in the least. He'd even made a fool of himself leaving Terkan's house by pulling Ariel aside and muttering some witlessly noble speech to her. Something about hoping that Iliara would keep her safe, and if the goddess couldn't then he'd try to fill in as best he could. Something like that. Fortunately, he couldn't remember the details. But she'd given him a small smile and her thanks and he was content, more or less. "Is that all?" the priest's harsh voice brought Alec back to the present. Cleo leaned back in his chair and glared across the desk at his miserable excuse for a hired hunter. "Why don't you know where she is *now*?" he demanded. "Because I lost her again," Alec admitted. "After all, she *is* a sorceress. I managed to find her along the docks area. She was skulking and I approached her, telling her I had a message from the followers of Iliara. The gleam of hope that flared up in her eyes when I said that was -- It was pathetic." Cleo's grin was loathsome. "Of course it was," he gloated. "We have stripped her of all allies and companions. She's becoming desperate, I fancy." "I'd say so," Alec nodded. "She's going to try to get back into Camron's tonight. "Oh?" "She wants to try to search for clues -- something to explain who'd really killed that Jarvis." "After the Watch has looked all around the place? What could she expect to find?" "Well, she said that they'd already decided that she did it when they went through it, so they might've missed something that would exculpate her because they wouldn't be looking for it." "Uh huh." The eyes in the priest's naturally pinched face narrowed even more. "And did you suggest this notion to her, or did she come up with it all by herself?" "I -- why do you care?" Alec asked. "Because, you idiot, the last thing we want at this point is for the Watch actually to take her. Now, this desperate scheme of hers is just the sort of stupidity that may hand the girl over to them practically tied up for the slaughter. The Watch lacks brains, you see. They probably base their methods on pathetic old sayings like the one about criminals always returning to the scene of their crimes." "Actually, it was her idea," Alec muttered. A sickly grin flickered across the priest's face. "I'm sure it was," he said without enthusiasm. "But we shall still have to intercept her before the Watch does." He stood up and came around the desk. "Yes, of course," Alec agreed. "I could meet you here after the next bell and we could go -- " "We?" Cleo echoed mockingly. The priest's hand flicked and Alec felt a tearing rip in his belly. A long sharp blade plunged into Alec's gut -- but it wasn't just a stealthy dagger. A coldness accompanied the painful injury, but flashed outward into his arms and legs. Numbness overtook him and he collapsed onto the floor even as the priest lifted a small bell from his desk and rang it. "Oh," Cleo said, looking down past a bloody blade at the paralysed Alec. "You think I still believe your reports' veracity -- or their completeness. Well, such is not the case, and now, I think, it's necessary to remedy those faults." He affected a sigh of regret. "But I do believe we don't have a whole lot of time. So this is likely to be extremely painful for you." As he heard approaching footsteps, Alec's gaze fixed itself on Cleo's pet slug. XXI. Alone At Last "I wish Cefn and Je'en had been able to stay with us tonight," Ariel said again. She shuddered and glanced around the library at the shadows that leapt and shifted in the firelight. "All we've got now is a useless apprentice who's tied up in the coat closet." "Alec should be back soon," Mouse said. She turned a page of the book she was reading. "Alec should've been back already. I don't think Cefn and Je'en ought to've gone until he returned." Ariel sipped at the tea she and Mouse had brewed in Terkan's kitchen. She winced, as it was yet too hot and also tasted more than a little strange. Honey would probably have improved it -- honey improved almost everything -- but honey they'd been unable to find. "At least, we should have waited until tomorrow to do this." "We went over that," Mouse replied, glancing at her own small, steaming cup. It still looked way too hot. "We had to catch this Cleo person tonight because Terkan's house was unlikely to remain safe much longer, what with his being dead now. And Alec said trying to take Cleo in his quarters was a bad idea because he has a whole cadre of assistant priests there. He didn't know what they really were, if not priests of Haargon, but they're probably some sort of allies or minions. So the best we can try to do is trapping Cleo at the warehouse tonight." "And what good will that do?" Ariel asked. "Aren't I still the favorite suspect for the murder, robbery and embezzlement -- Je'en's whole list? What good's it going to do us catching this Cleo? Assuming we do manage to capture him, of course. He's a powerful earth wizard, don't forget. We're likely to get ourselves killed or worse trying to take him on. We should've figured out a way to be sure Cefn could help." "Assuming Cefn wanted to help," Mouse shrugged. "I think Je'en would've made sure of that. He just had that really easy excuse for tonight." "If you've been working your way for decades toward a culminating, destructive moment against some major but ill-described peril, I can understand it if you don't want to be diverted from that moment by an appeal to help out a couple of strangers who have a legal problem." Mouse blew on her tea. Steam billowed up. "How does this stuff hold the heat so well?" she said. "Do you suppose Terkan magicked his mugs? Anyway, Cefn did say that he and Je'en probably wouldn't be able to help us this evening. He'd already sent out messages convening a meeting of that Septent of his for tonight. Besides, if it all goes according to the plan Alec and Cefn sketched, it should be three of us against just this one Cleo." "Two and a quarter," Ariel muttered into her tea. "I heard that. We quarters have pretty sharp ears." "A lot of good that'll do us." "I expect so. It'll be dark -- the middle of the night. Good hearing will be important. And we'll have Alec for muscle and you to take care of any troubles arcane." "Arcane?" Ariel exclaimed. "Me? What makes you think I still have any power at magic?" "And what makes you think you don't?" Mouse pushed aside her book. "Didn't you tell me that you'd been proving adept at air magery -- whatever that is?" "And aren't you one of the ones who've been telling me that Iliara is a complete fraud -- after making me think you were an initiate into the Fifth Circle?" "I was trying to sort out Alec's allegiance," Mouse said. "Well, you make me wonder about yours," Ariel retorted. "First you said that and then, when Cefn said there was no such thing as Iliara you hopped up on my shoulder and whispered 'He's right, you know.' Do you know that saying that, you're saying that Stefan was a liar and a deceiver who was just leading me on with that whole air magery story?" "Iliara a lie, yes," Mouse said. "I said that -- and *I* believe it. And I suppose that, since Stefan was your teacher about Iliara, that puts him in a very bad light. Well, there it is." Mouse shrugged. "Stefan's dead now, and I'd never met him, so I really can't muster much concern for him or his reputation. "But you, Ariel, are different. I'm much concerned about you. And your magery. Look: This air magery of yours must be real. After all, you've done it. You've warped the weave. You drew the wind's aid to speed you away from danger. You also called up shrouds to shield you from Stefan's killers after they got him. You have the power, Ariel. I just don't think you have it right what the source of that power is." "But what is the source if it isn't Iliara?" Ariel asked. "I don't know anywhere else to go to besides her." "No: You don't know how to think of the Source as anything besides Iliara." "Um." Ariel rested her chin on her hands. After a pause, she asked, "Is there a difference there?" "Yes!" Mouse exclaimed. "But it's a tough one." "Why?" "Because Stefan brought you to the Source through that Iliara story. He and Iliara were both your crutch. Now they're both taken away and you have no one to help you tap the power. It's still there, but no one can tell you any alternative crutch to appeal to if not to Iliara." Mouse leaned back on the table and waved a dismissive hand. "Of course, if you want to keep this Iliara, no one can tell you anything true about her that you don't already know. Everything Stefan taught you about Iliara is wrong -- probably. At least, there's no guarantee that it's right -- " "You don't like Stefan, do you?" Ariel grinned, but it was a wistful grin. "You left home and hearth for him," Mouse responded. "At least, I think that's what you said." Ariel nodded, so Mouse proceeded cautiously. "It'd be easy to say I don't like him, but that's not really it. I have nothing to like or dislike. I just see no use for him -- or the things he taught you." "But he taught me about air magery -- and Iliara." Mouse shook her head. "He made you aware of this air magery and gave you Iliara as a way of tapping the power." "But -- " "But everything you know about Iliara that's worth knowing, you know because you just know it. Because that's the truth about Iliara: What's true about her is what's true for you." "So you say Iliara isn't anything besides what I think she is?" Mouse nodded and Ariel frowned. "You think the power is just inside me? That hardly makes Iliara worth anything at all." "No. The power isn't just inside you. I say the power is the force of the world -- the way everything just persists from one moment to the next. That obstinate continuity of existence -- that's magic. And that power dances all around us." "How do you know?" "Know what?" "That that's what magic is?" "How do I *know* what magic is?" Mouse asked, as though the question was as senseless as asking how many greens there were in a pine tree. "I just know. Or I don't know. Knowing is irrelevent. But it's a story that feels right. And that's how magic is. Your story was that there was an airy goddess named Iliara who granted you the power to nudge the Weave. You see? I have my story, and you have yours. And the way my story goes, the power is all around us -- all so terribly obvious. But the skill to nudge that power, and persuade it to accept a suggestion -- where is that to come from but within oneself?" "But I don't feel any -- anything toward the force of the world," Ariel complained. "How'm I supposed to suggest anything to that?" "Whatever works," Mouse shrugged. "It's just my story. If you're contented with appealing to Iliara to grant you aid, then you might as well continue to pray to her -- " "Even if you don't believe in her." Ariel smiled. "Well, I don't." Mouse smiled back. "But I'm not the one trying to work a little magic here. You are." "But you're a witch yourself, aren't you?" "Am I?" "How did you know that Cefn and Je'en were disguised when they first came to the house unless you're a witch?" Mouse shrugged. "I saw that Cefn and Je'en were disguised because I saw their appearance as well as their reality." "But isn't it magical to see through appearances to the reality of something?" "Magical? I'd hope that that would be wisdom." "Perhaps so, but Breezes, Mouse! How can you be as small as you are except by magic?" "Magic?" Mouse snorted. "That's not magic. I'm as small as I am because that's how small I am. I was born -- and I have persisted. Now I'm like this. And now, *my* reality is that I'm this tall and no other." She sprang to her feet. "Look at me, Ariel. Here I am, standing on this reading table. That's my reality. Want to see my magic?" She took a few steps around the surface. "How do I look, walking around here? About right, no? I mean, this much space to wander around on and a figure of my height doing the walking? The picture looks proportioned, doesn't it? But if you climbed up on this table and took a step or two around on it -- if any normal person did that, they'd look inappropriate and out of place. Too large for the landing and too tall for the room. So that's my magic: I can dance on a table, perform a quadrille on a chessboard -- " "I think you have more magic than that," Ariel replied, smiling. "Oh yes," Mouse agreed. "For me, every moment is magical. Dawn to darkness. Because all the proportions are strange. Because I live in a land of giants. All the chambers I come into are enormous -- and drafty -- and all the distances are vast. Furniture is grand and chairs are thrones. Halls are like streets and doors are massive. And through all these enormous spaces and places and structures and compositions, here I am, dancing through it all. Unpartnered." She paused for a moment, but Ariel stayed silent. "But I don't even dance like you," Mouse continued. "You dance forward and back and side to side. You dance through two dimensions -- " "Dimensions?" Ariel asked. "It's mathematical. Ask Brother Terkan -- ask Brother Terkan's spirit. That's the sort of thing an air mage might do. Anyway, your dance is on the surface of the world. You may have stairs and hills to vary the movement a little, of course. But mostly, you dance on top. "But I'm too short for that. I do much more climbing up and jumping down than you do. That's in addition to the forwards and the backwards and the side to side. I climb and I drop. I have less height than you do, so the world has much more -- " "But so what?" "So what is that I don't live in the same world you do. That's my magic. Everything of yours serves me differently. Your table is my ballroom. Your cherry is my melon. Your bed is my hayfield. I can make a travelling apartment in a barrel. I paint with an oversized brush what you see as fine calligraphy. I sew a gown for myself out of velvet scraps -- " "Many folks make new clothes for themselves from scraps," Ariel interrupted. "Yes," Mouse agreed. "But from a pile of scraps, not just one or two. Do you see my point?" "Yes, but that's not magic." Mouse sipped her tea. At last, it was drinkable. "If you like," she said. "But it is my life." "But what about magic?" "What about it?" Mouse sighed. "Well, I want to summon the wind to speed me on my way, and call up clouds that can divert harmful missiles from striking me, and make walls admit me as though I were a draft -- " "Then do it," Mouse encouraged. "Can you?" "Well, I prefer a horse -- or even a fast-walking person -- to speed me on my way. And I'd rather try to persuade whomever has the harmful missiles to refrain from flinging them at me. And as for the walls, one can often go around them, or under them, or over them, or through the door -- " "You know what I mean." "Yes," Mouse sighed. "I have danced with the world on occasion. But it's my world, not yours. And my world has no Iliara in it." "Should mine?" "That's up to you." "But I need to fight Haargon." Mouse put down her teacup. "You only need to fight a man who claims to worship this Haargon. That's hardly the same thing." "But this man is able to come and go wherever he wishes. He was able to track me to where I was staying -- " "We know how he managed that," Mouse interrupted. "He had Alec to shadow you." "Alec didn't help him slip out of my house without being seen." "And I'm not saying he lacked the Power entirely. But I think the danger he presents is more in the effects and assistants it seems he may command than in anything he can do personally. If, as we think, he was responsible for your being framed for that auditor's murder, then he seems to be capable of some rather sophisticated results -- " "But Mouse, why?" Ariel burst out. "I don't understand any of this. I don't know why this Cleo -- whether or not he's a priest of Haargon -- is going to all this trouble over me. Why, Mouse? Why are these priests pursuing me? Stefan was the powerful one -- don't give me that look. He had power. All right, he had access -- free access - - to the Power. And he taught me. Taught me a great deal. And he was good and loved me. And Camron's good and Marcus is good and I liked working for Camron. And I liked his office and I even liked Jarvis -- I mean, as much as he was likable. He was awfully business-like, you know, but he was always looking up at me from his work and then he'd give me a pursed little smile and then I'd smile back and he'd get back to work and I don't know why anyone would want to kill him or make it look like I'd killed him or that I'd steal you from the warehouse -- Mouse, I don't understand any of it!" "But you can stop trying to understand all by yourself now," a voice replied from the door of the library. ========================================================================