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 14 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 9/3/2001 Volume 14, Number 7 Circulation: 752 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Devotion Jim Owens Mertz 1, 1015 Triskele: Coda P. Atchley and Mertz 30, 1018 Rhonda Gomez Talisman Eight 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 7-13, 1013 ======================================================================== 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 correspondence to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 14-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2001 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. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb It's been a long, long time since I had to apologize for the lateness of an issue. Typically, our goal is to distribute issues on a very predictable schedule every four to six weeks. For the past five years we've done a wonderful job, but it hasn't always been that way. We had some pretty mean years in the first half of the 1990s. Issues were put out unpredictably, whenever we had enough material and time. Sometimes there'd be a four-month gap between issues, followed by three issues in a six-week period. One of our readers' biggest complaints was the lack of a reliable publication schedule. In 1996, we made a commitment to our readers to distribute issues in a more controlled fashion, and of the 50 issues sent out in the past five years, only four have been delayed beyond our ideal target. Some numbers will help illustrate how dramatic the change has been. From 1989 through 1995 we distributed one issue on average every 9.2 weeks, plus or minus a whopping 8.7 weeks. It was just as likely that our next issue would come out in one week or four months! Our schedule was very clearly out of control. Compare that with our performance since then: from the end of 1996 to the present, we've averaged one issue every 4.9 weeks, plus or minus just 1.7 weeks! As you can see, we heard our readers' concerns, and have done our best to put issues out on a more regular schedule. But I find myself in the position of letting you know that we may not be able to print issues as predictably as we have been. No, the dot-com meltdown hasn't impacted us, nor have we had to lay off any of our volunteer writers! But there is a clear reason. Back in 1996, when we decided to begin sending issues out more regularly, we were fortunate to have many stories that were either waiting for publication or nearing completion. We enjoyed a steady supply of material to print, and we had a number of prolific writers who ensured that the queue of ready-to-print stories was replenished just as quickly as we could publish them! Although we'd often have one or two contributors whose writing flagged for whatever reason, there always seemed to be other active writers with more stories to enable us to meet our publishing schedule. In short, with DargonZine coming out once every four to six weeks, our writers were creating enough new fiction to support the magazine indefinitely. That worked out tremendously, as we've been very proud to be able to bring you 135 great new stories over the past five years. But in 2001, we've hit a bump in the road. We've lost a few productive writers, our new writers haven't produced many new stories, and even our longstanding writers have had reasons for not writing that range from mandatory military service, moving, visa problems, overseas work assignments, family illness, and other life-impacting events. In short, instead of one or two writers flagging and the other writers picking up the slack, it seems that this year almost everyone has had to put their writing aside for one reason or another. Our usual steady stream of submissions has slowed to a trickle, and that means that we can't put out issues as often or as predictably as we would like. Of course, that doesn't mean DargonZine is an endangered beast. We've survived slow periods before, and like all others, this particular slowdown will resolve itself in a few months as new writers come on board and our current contributors return to their writing. However, it's likely that we won't be able to print issues as frequently as our readers have become accustomed to. I apologize for that, and ask for your patience. We have a number of stories that are in early draft stages, but it can take a long time for a work to go through our exhaustive peer critique process. Rest assured that I am shepherding stories along, and will compile them into issues and distribute them as often as is practical. And if you didn't notice this issue's two-week slippage, perhaps you won't even notice the change at all; it seems more important to us because, having heard our readers ask for a more predictable schedule, we take our publication timeline very seriously. In the meantime, enjoy this new issue. In it, we have a new standalone story from Jim Owens, one of DargonZine's remaining founders. We also conclude the three-part "Triskele" series, an exemplary co-authored effort from our Texan contingent: P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez. And finally, Dargon veteran Dafydd begins his two part "Talisman Eight", resuming work on his immense "Talisman" epic after a well-deserved six-month hiatus. And if you value the free stories that DargonZine brings you and want to help me encourage our writers to keep cranking out stories, please feel free to drop them an email. Their addresses are shown on nearly all Dargon stories, as well as on their bio pages on our Web site. I'm sure they'd welcome your encouragement! ======================================================================== Devotion by Jim Owens Mertz 1, 1015 Finn rounded the corner of the keep wall at the normal speed for a young boy: a dead run. The path he followed was narrow and not used much, but the boy neither noticed nor cared about the sharp rocks and steep falls around him. Like all young boys, he was immortal and invulnerable, and on a very important mission: getting around the corner of the wall. Captain Koren, on the other hand, was in no hurry at all. His normal watch would keep him at the main gate of the keep for another dozen menes or so, regardless of what did or did not happen. Years given in service had tempered him like a well-used maul. He seemed somewhat ageless: not old, not young, but very competent and very aware. At that moment, in fact, Koren was aware of a small group of brown-robed figures pulling three hand-drawn carts toward him, or at least toward the keep gate behind him. In the lead was a single, brown-robed figure, one with no apparent cart-pulling duties. This figure stepped up to Koren while the carts and their pullers stopped. Simon Salamagundi was also watching the brown-robed men approach. He had come to the keep on a few long-neglected errands, and was now headed back toward the causeway and his more customary and profitable market: the docks. Most of his years were now spent, and his time was used in cooking fish and spinning tales. Simon paused to shake a tiny pebble from his shoe. From his shoulder Simon's pet monkey Skeebo screeched at the change of posture. Simon straightened and stood a moment, stroking Skeebo and eavesdropping on the incipient conversation. "Are you the captain of the town watch?" Koren studied the face that was asking the question, and detected no guile in it. It seemed to belong to a man of about thirty-five or forty, not terribly different from many faces Koren saw in the course of an average day's work. "I am," Koren replied. "My fellows and I seek permission to make a musical offering this evening at the gate of your castle." Koren ignored the minor flattery and considered. He had the authority to grant permission for minor events, and had learned over the years that while many things were not what they first appeared to be, many more things, in fact, were. Still, it never hurt to ask a few questions. "What sort of music will you be playing?" Koren asked, staring pointedly at the carts. "A musical tribute to the One who holds us all in loving hands," came the reverent reply. Koren stepped over to the lead cart. "And which one would that happen to be?" he asked, tapping the tarp on the cart with a finger. "And what's in these carts?" "The only God, whom Stevene spoke of," came the sonorous reply. The monk made a complex series of gestures to his fellows, and two silent monks untied the tarp and twitched it aside. Koren glanced into the tightly trussed bundle and saw the burnished wood and taut leather of drums. "And you want to do this at the gate, tonight?" Finn ran up, glancing in the cart with honest curiosity. The silent monks smiled kindly at him, allowing his uninvited inspection for a moment before re-tying the canvas. Simon also ambled over, and he and Skeebo could see some larger instruments in the dim depths of the cart before the tarp covered them over again. "Yes, we wish to play for the glory of God, and the greater edification of those who hear us," intoned the spokesman. Koren looked over the other monks, who stood impassively and watched while he considered. "Seems harmless enough. I'll pass the word that you're to be allowed to play here tonight." He turned and walked through the keep doors. "Thank you, captain," the spokesman called after him, and turned to his fellows. He again made a series of complex gestures, and they began turning their carts around. "Why did you do that?" asked Finn. The man didn't seem to hear the boy, and continued to gesture. "They're deaf, aren't they?" Simon said loudly when the man turned back around and looked at his audience of two, man and boy. The spokesman nodded. "They have devoted their lives and their hearing to the glory of God. Ours is a life of service, beasts of burden in the herd of God. We have no need of ears now, for God can speak directly to our hearts." "So are you gonna play here tonight?" Finn asked immediately, displaying youth's intuitive grasp of the obvious. Only when he gestured at the other monks did the spokesman look down at him. After a moment the brown-clad figure nodded. "Yes, young man. Tell all your friends to come tonight, and hear us play for God's glory, and for the town's entertainment." "That's gonna be fun," Finn said, "just like those pipers that came from Shireton. Those guys were lots of fun!" He glanced over at Simon, adding as an aside, "I liked it when the fat one dropped his music." "If I may ask," Simon asked, focusing on the spokesman, "where are you men from?" "We have come from near Magnus, from the Sanctuary of Praise." He rolled his eyes heavenward, and Simon knew the man was now addressing a larger, higher audience than merely Simon and Finn. "We have devoted our lives to sounding forth the praise of the Highest, and the continuation of Stevene's ministry on Cherisk, so that all men may hear and know the greatness of our God and Maker." "I've heard of the Sanctuary of Praise," commented Simon. "You're Tympanium, aren't you?" Simon glanced past the monk, studying the men and the carts. "Our service is known by that name, yes," smiled the monk, apparently somewhat pleased that Simon had heard of them. Simon in turn nodded. "I heard some of your sect play once, in a field outside of Magnus. Well outside of Magnus," he added, glancing back into the keep's open gate, one eyebrow cocked slightly. "Yes, that was a very interesting concert." He shook his head slowly, his eyes not focused on anything nearby, or recent. "Yes, that was a very interesting year." In his memory's eye Simon could see himself, so much younger, and a friend from those long past days as they ran laughing toward a field on a summer's night, long ago. He smiled sadly, his shoulders drooping and the creases in his forehead deepening. Then he was standing tall again -- or as tall as he ever stood these days -- and the mischievous twinkle was back in his eye. "Well, I shall look forward to hearing you play tonight. Go well!" The monks headed down to make camp at the base of the outcropping, and Simon and Skeebo headed down the path too. Finn followed. "Where are you going, Simon?" Finn asked. "Back down to the docks. Want to come?" "But I thought you said you wanted to stay and listen to them play," Finn protested. "You won't make it back in time ... it'll be dark in a bell!" Simon smiled to himself. "Oh, don't worry. I'll be able to hear the music just fine from the docks. Maybe you should come with me." "No, I want to stay here and listen," Finn replied. Simon smiled, his eyebrows arching just a hair. He nodded and began to walk back down the road. As he headed back toward the causeway and the other side of the river, he again cast his thoughts back through the years. How long had it been? Had it been his first or second visit to Magnus? And how had he met her? Roanna had been her name, but Simon had called her Raven, to tease her about her flaming red hair. He thought of that hair, and of red, and his smile faded. Finn was back as dusk was falling. He joined the small crowd of townsfolk who came to the keep gate on the spoken advertisement of the coming concert. From the wall Koren glanced down as he passed by on business. Several of the guards were watching the gathering with professional interest. "Let me know if anything strange happens," Koren advised them, "but don't bother them otherwise." The gate was closed and barred for the night, so a few musicians didn't worry Koren. Finn settled onto an old, discarded building stone and watched while the musicians prepared. His breath puffed out in the chill spring night air, but he had managed to make it back to his home for a heavy coat and permission before nightfall. He chewed some stale fruitcake while the monks set up their instruments. Though the night was cold, the monks stripped down to bare loincloths as they worked in pairs to carry large, shrouded objects from the carts and arrange them before the closed gate doors. Down at the docks the daylight was leaving, and taking paying customers with it. Many folk feared the dark areas by the piers after nightfall, but Simon had a working relationship with the docks. The area could be traversed safely, if one knew where not to go, and what not to do, and if one had a fire in the eyes like old, sharp iron. Simon found himself a sheltered spot against a storehouse shed with a view to the south, and unfolded his three-legged stool. He lowered himself into it, and bent down for a mug of wine he had brought from home. With his cart safely stowed by his small house and Skeebo tucked in for the night Simon was ready for a pleasant diversion. He settled back and pulled his cloak tight to his shoulders. He drank, and waited for the familiar heat to filter out from the liquor. He thought back to a warm summer afternoon, to a similar concert, and of a hurried conversation afterward. "Let them be, Raven," he muttered under his breath. "Let them be. Not ours to interfere." His lips tightened into thin lines, and he blinked once, and again, as if someone had flicked something in his face. His hands clenched on the handle of the old stein, as if gripping something much heavier, as if preparing to fight. "Is there room for two?" Finn looked up from his stony seat at a wizened face. "Yes, ma'am," he remarked, moving aside to share his seat with the woman. He recognized her from the market, but didn't know her name. She sat down beside him and wrapped herself a bit tighter in her long, tasseled shawl. She pulled out some bread and broke off a small piece. Rather than biting into it, she instead offered it to Finn. "Here. Growing boys are always hungry." Knowing the truth when he heard it, Finn took the offered food and bit it. It was cold but sweet -- milkbread from the taste and texture. As he chewed he pointed at the monks, who were nearly ready to play. "I'm surprised they aren't cold," Finn remarked between bites. "Why aren't they wearing their robes?" "Maybe those things are very heavy," the woman answered. They watched as the monks settled the last of the objects in place and whisked the tarps off. There was a moment of reverent silence, broken by Finn. "My, that's a big drum," he said, staring as one of the monks took the cover off a set of chimes, or at least he assumed they were chimes. He had never seen chimes that were as thick as his hand and taller than his head. Other tarps were coming off now, and Finn was duly impressed, as the size of the instruments seemed to get bigger with each revelation. When the canvas came off the last set, he let out a long, low, appreciative whistle. The monks now positioned themselves by various instruments. Each one seemed to be hefting a stout club, each staff bound with bands of iron. The spokesman approached the crowd with a small chime in his hand and tapped it once, twice, and again for attention. Around Finn the small patter died away, and the monk spoke. "Tonight we offer up to the heavens a sound of praise, so that each of you may know, if not the actual power of God, at least a hint of it." He turned back to the musicians. They were now laying their clubs on the ground as one of their number passed among them, handing out wide goblets of dull metal. As he passed he poured a small amount of liquid into each goblet from a jug. Soon he was finished, and as one each musician withdrew a tiny dagger from an unseen sheath concealed by his loincloth. "But first," the spokesman said, holding up his own goblet and knife, "we celebrate the coming of the Stevene, and we again pledge our lives to his God, and our God." So saying he pricked his bare arm with the dagger. Finn gasped. "Why did he do that? He's bleeding!" Each monk held up the goblet and the knife, and chanted in unison, with one voice. "Life given is gained, blood spilled is life. Glory to God." Finn and the woman watched as each man resheathed his knife and drank from the cup. Beside Finn the woman stirred. "Heretics," she muttered angrily, standing up. "Wash it off first!" she hollered, and some in the crowd spoke their agreement. The musicians didn't seem to hear. Finn turned to look at her, but she gathered up her skirt and bustled away. He was about to get up and follow her, to ask what this was all about, but he saw the players taking up their clubs again, and decided to watch instead. "And now," the spokesman said, then turned to the band and raised his hands. On the wall, Koren was again passing on an errand. He glanced down in time to see each player raise their clubs over their heads in a double-handed grip. His practiced eye swept across the assembly, and saw the massive drums, the titanic chimes and gongs, and the musician's rippling muscles. Only then did he remember the hand signals required by the players. "Oh my, what have I done ... " he said, half to himself, and the players struck. From the first blast of sound Finn sat paralyzed with ecstasy, his prepubescent male mind transported into a world where the loudest noise one could imagine was music, and each child a player. So smooth and seamless was the beat that even though the people around him continued to talk, and even shout, Finn couldn't hear a single word. He wasn't listening, in any case. He knew what Stevenism was, and he had heard the glory of Stevene's God preached many times before, but suddenly he could feel in his chest and bowels the need, the urgent need, to give his life for a cause, for any cause. He wanted to serve, he wanted to belong. For as long as they played, Finn was transported. Across the water, Simon sat on his stool with a drink in his hand and stars in his eyes as the music played, loud as a roll of thunder. With part of his mind he could imagine Captain Koren frantically trying to get the gate raised so he could rescind the order to allow the band to play. That part of his mind wondered idly how long the concert would last. But mostly his thoughts were of a day years before when he had first heard the Tympanium play. Raven had been Stevenic. Simon had not been, but she had been persuasive as well as beautiful, and Simon's ship didn't sail for two days. He had enjoyed her company. They had spent many a bell in the city discussing the life of Stevene with the philosophers and bards. She had taught him the sacrament of the knife and wine. He had taught her a few things of a more intimate nature. He had spoken of the sea, and she had talked of the life in the king's court. They had run through the streets of Magnus -- two new friends, free and alive. Simon smiled as he remembered how they had sat through the concert, far enough away to still talk to each other, close enough that they couldn't tell their heavy heartbeats from the sound of the drumming, hidden in the shadows of the night. Simon had wanted to stay in those shadows after the drumming stopped, but her heart had quickened in ways different from his. She dragged him up from their nest to greet the players. Raven had felt the same call to devotion that young Finn would later hear, and she was a passionate woman. In fact, the music had roused the passions of many that night, but not all the listeners had the same appreciation for the power of the drums. The two lovers had reached the musicians at the same moment that the drunks from the closest tavern had arrived. The drunken mob had spoken first, and had struck first. As popular as the doomed man's cult was in the capitol, not all loved the religion of Stevene. Simon had gone down fast, as yet unaccustomed to a brawl. Some of the musicians had fought too, but most believed in the softer response. Raven had stepped in to shield one of them from the wine-maddened thugs. She probably never saw who wielded the iron-banded staff. The last Simon saw of her was of her hair, her beautiful hair, now red with blood, as she lay face down in the field. Across the river the music stopped. Whether it began again was irrelevant -- the message had been preached. The call had gone out to surrender, to yield to the higher cause. Slowly, Simon set aside his cup of wine and reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a very thin and very sharp blade. He cradled it gently in his right hand, rubbing his left wrist with his rough knuckles. He too had felt the pull, now as an old man, then as a young man. He pushed up the fabric of his left sleeve, exposing wrinkled skin. With a precise and easy motion he pricked the exposed forearm and watched a few drops of blood ooze up. He wiped them onto the blade and regarded them critically. Life in the blood: a life to give, or keep. He took his glass and stirred the wine with the crimson edge. He pulled the now-clean knife from the liquid and raised the mug almost to his lips, then paused as if to reconsider. All served in the end, as cooks or as cattle. And he was a cook. His lips moving almost silently, he carefully and deliberately poured the red fluid out onto the ground. " ... bloody god ... " ======================================================================== Triskele: Coda by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez and Mertz 30, 1018 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-5 "So you've told her then?" Nessa asked me. I stood behind the huge worktable in the center of the room, glaring at Nessa and breathing hard, trying to control my anger and my body. After sennights of trying, I had managed to convince Viveka to roll with me and barely had we begun than we were interrupted by Nessa. Silently, I swore every single oath I could think of and then some. Several sennights past, I had fallen down the rapids of Thyerin's Run, a river nearby, and Viveka, a doll-maker, had found me and brought me to her home, which she shared with Nessa, the village herbalist. They had nursed me back to health but believed I had forgotten who I was because of my head wound. "Told me what?" Viveka asked, turning to face me across the table. She was a beautiful woman and I wanted her with a passion that rocked me to my toes. Unfortunately for me, while Viveka was innocent, her friend Nessa was not, and Nessa had managed to confound every effort of mine to get Viveka alone. Nessa bent, picked up the soldier doll that lay carelessly on the ground and put it away on the shelf. Momentarily I wondered how it had gotten to the ground, then turned my attention to Viveka when she said insistently, "Told me what, Yellow? Have you remembered?" "He never forgot," Nessa said, a dry note in her voice. She started to gather things to make the inevitable pot of porridge. "What do you think you were doing?" She took a deep breath to calm herself and I remembered anew how protective she was of Viveka. "I love you," I said to Viveka, a little perplexed to hear the sincerity in my voice. I was not a good actor, and I wondered whether I meant it, never having said it to anyone before. It was surprisingly easy to say, so I said it again, "I love her, Nessa." "Oh! Is that right? Tell her then. Tell her the truth," Nessa said, as she tore up pieces of bread and dropped them into a pot. I knew that Nessa wanted me to tell Viveka that I was a bandit, but really I was more than just a thief. Long before my time with the bandits, I had learned to steal something better than other people's gold; and that particular talent seemed inextricably bound up with my former master, Mon-Haddar, a mage who had taken me along on one of his trips and abandoned me. It seemed as good a place as any to start. "My former master, Mon-Haddar taught me many things: how to use a knife, how to kill slowly, quickly, in many different ways." "He hurt you." Viveka's response was a breath of gentleness in the suddenly taut atmosphere of the room. "Mmm." I sighed and went to help Nessa who was dropping the last few pieces of dried bread crust into the pot. I lifted it, hung it on the hearth and bent to light the fire. "He hurt me in order to teach me how to hurt and how not to hurt. He wanted me to know how it felt." I remembered the lessons with a clarity that burned me every time I thought about them. "What about your robber friends?" Nessa said, and I inhaled sharply. "Not friends," I denied. The other members of my little band were no more my friends than anyone else belonging to the so-called robber brotherhood. We had robbed and pillaged together, but friends we most definitely were not. "Continue." Viveka's command was uttered in a tone I had never before heard from her. "Tell us," Nessa urged and I was conscious of the difference in the tones of the two women. I could feel Viveka slipping away from me, and paradoxically, Nessa drawing towards me at the same time. "What happened?" she asked. Nessa had become my friend and confidant. I trusted her. That startled me, for trust is not something a thief gives easily. I looked into her eyes and knew it was time for the truth. "I fell down into the river," I said abruptly. Silence settled on the room, broken only by the twittering of birds, and the sound of a rat as it scrambled past the open doorway. Nessa said nothing, but simply waited for me to continue. It was more than past time I shared with both women the secrets of my past. I knew that, yet I hesitated. The time I had spent at this cottage was precious, and I didn't want anything to change. The last time Nessa and I had talked about my situation she had asked me something. "Are you an honorable man, or are you a knave?" Her question had haunted me for the past sennight. I had no claim to honor, but to face the depths to which I'd sunk terrified me almost as much as the thought of Viveka's reaction to the real me. Yet the questions in their eyes forced me to continue. "A small group of robbers took me in after Mon-Haddar left me. We would lie in wait for wagon trains travelling down the main highway leading away from Dargon. Some of the merchant caravans had a lot of booty in 'em." With a distinct lack of pleasure I began to recount the events that had transpired the previous month. "We'd had a bad winter because one of our group, Piet, stole from us. We never found him or the gold, only lost a whole lot of our winter supplies on account of chasing after him. "Anyway, the four of us -- Nuru, Draage, Kamin and myself -- robbed a wagon on the Kenna highway back in Vibril. I think the wagoner and Nuru died. There was a merchant and his daughter in the wagon. Draage was angry with me because I killed the girl and denied him his pleasure." I rose from the table and walked to the window, unable to sit still, the force of my memories coming out in staccato sentences. "We fought; I killed Draage and then I fell into the river. I thought I was going to drown in Thyerin's Run, but I didn't." "You are a part of the robber brotherhood?" Viveka accused, her face pale. I stared at her, seeing the death of something I had not realized was precious to me. Slowly, unable to meet Viveka's eyes, I turned away and found myself looking at the two dolls that Nessa had placed on the shelf earlier: a woman and a soldier. "He *was* a part of it," Nessa replied, her hand stilling. I stared at the two dolls, marvelling at the care with which Viveka had carved every distinct feature. Was it my imagination or did the soldier's face resemble mine? His hair was a brilliant yellow, brighter than my own, but the female doll's hair was dark, a sort of blue-black. I wondered if that was an omen, for although Viveka's hair was dark, it was brown, while Nessa's hair was black. "Words -- don't play with words, Nessa," Viveka snapped. I remembered myself saying much the same thing to Nessa. I had been bitter then and Viveka was bitter now, and maybe rightly so. In her book I had behaved more than dishonorably; I had lied and I had killed. Was that wrong? Perhaps. I regretted my past only because it was proving to be an obstacle to getting Viveka. If there was more, I didn't know it. Viveka turned to me and said, "In spite of what you were, we helped you. And what did you do? You betrayed me in every way possible. How I could have ... Oh, Thyerin!" Her voice broke. I turned away from the dolls and moved toward her. "Viveka, all of that is in the past," I said, trying to think of what would convince her. "I was young, and heedless. I didn't --" She turned on me like a cheetar. "*You* were young; *you* were heedless. Do, for once in your wretched life, think of someone else, Yellow. How do you think that girl felt when her father was killed? And when you killed her?" "I saved her," I said, remembering the anger I had felt when Draage tried to rape her. "I did a good thing, Viveka. I stopped Draage from raping her. She would have lived with the nightmares forever. I saved her sanity." Viveka laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. I stared at her as if I were seeing her for the first time. I knew Nessa was looking at me with compassion, and it galled me to admit that Viveka was not the perfect person I had thought she was. "You saved her sanity?" Her voice was incredulous. "You killed her! You killed her father in front of her! You killed --" I interrupted her. "I didn't kill her father; Draage did. Viveka, try to understand. We were robbers. That's what we did." "And does that make it right? Does it? Does knowing that you murdered alongside the rest of your friends make you sleep better at night?" Nessa spoke. "Viveka, listen to me. Yellow is not the same person now as he was then." "I can't believe you don't understand," Viveka snapped at her. I knew Nessa understood what Viveka did not, but I had also thought Nessa disapproved of my relationship with Viveka. I was puzzled about the reason she was now willing to speak in my defense. Viveka said in my direction, "I think you should leave now, Yellow." "Viveka!" I couldn't believe she was just sending me away. "You can't do that. What about the time we spent together? Did that mean nothing to you?" "You killed -- you are a murderer. You were a highway robber. And you lied and betrayed me. What I felt for you is irrelevant now," she said coldly. She had said 'felt'. Anger filled me, and perhaps because of that I said things I shouldn't have said. Viveka was old-fashioned and a lady. I forgot that. "What you felt for me? Does that mean you no longer feel anything for me?" I remembered intimate moments, and my rage spun out of control. "You're in love with me, Viveka, and you wanted to roll with me. That counts for nothing?" She covered her ears, shaking her head. "Enough! You have no right to -- to even mention it. How dare you?" Her voice quivered with indignation. Yet I found no compassion within me. "So, I'm not good enough for you now, is that it?" "Yes, yes, yes, that's it exactly. You're not good enough for me," Viveka's voice rose. She sniffed and dashed her knuckles against her eyes, rubbing away tears. Then she turned toward me, her face expressionless, her voice soft. If it trembled at all, it was only in my imagination. "You will leave. Now." "Please go, Yellow," Nessa added. That was it for me. I had been carried into this cottage with nothing but the torn clothes I had worn. Now I walked out wearing my mended clothes and the memories of two women who had become important to me in ways I did not understand. I walked toward the river, Thyerin's Run, and to the temple that graced the river bank, with only one question resounding in my head. Was I an honorable man or a knave? When I reached the temple, I knelt and spoke to the god. "Why? What happened to me? Why did you take me from my old life and show me ... this? Now I have to go back to Kamin; Viveka doesn't want me. What am I to do?" A stray tear ran out of one eye and I dashed at it angrily. "It's all your fault, mighty Thyerin. And how am I ever going to answer Nessa's question?" There was a sudden rattle behind me and instantly, I rolled and came up in a defensive posture. My life as a member of a thieving band had left its mark and I had responded as if to a threat. There was nothing in any direction. I sighed and turned, but something caught my eye, something that gleamed brightly in the mid-morning sunlight. I gasped. It was the soldier doll that I had left in the cottage. Now it lay there on the floor, separated from its other half, no longer a part of the whole. I didn't know how it had gotten there, but I wasn't about to touch it. I backed away from it and retreated, away from the temple and away from the lives of the two women who had taught me things I had yet to comprehend. From my vantage point on a nearby tree branch I watched the highway from Dargon to Kenna, waiting for the next merchant wagon to arrive. Sitting there in the tree I was forcibly reminded of the last time I had sat thus, a few months past, waiting to ambush a wagon with my then compatriots, Nuru, Draage and Kamin. At that time, it had been cold and windy, with slush from the melted snow covering the road. Now, it was a balmy afternoon, the sun shining brightly in a cloudless blue sky, birds chirping, lizards chittering and tree-rats scurrying. It was a beautiful spring day. It had been six sennights since I had left Viveka and Nessa. When I had shown up at my band's hold, Kamin had been surprised. He thought that all of us had died that night: Nuru, Draage and myself. During my absence, Piet had returned with more outlaws, a man and a woman had joined Kamin: Zivenig and Stai. Of the two, the woman frightened me, for I had discovered that she was like Kamin in one disturbing quality: she enjoyed watching pain and prolonging death. Idly, I wondered why Kamin had not killed Piet upon his return, and it occurred to me that perhaps Kamin had a fondness for him after all, strange as the thought was. I remembered the way in which we had chased after Piet when he had stolen our supplies and disappeared, and wondered if it hadn't been Piet's betrayal that had caused our pursuit rather than the missing supplies. Kamin and Piet, friends. I was conscious of surprise, and knew for certain that this thought would not have occurred to me before my time with Viveka and Nessa, because at that time, I had lacked the capacity to understand the concepts of friendship and betrayal. A tree-rat scurried on a branch near me, and brought my attention back to the present. In the distance I saw a wagon, and I whistled to let my cohorts know of its approach. This was going to be our first ambush since I had returned, and I found that I had fallen into our old patterns with ease; I had sharpened my knives, oiled my leatherskin sheath, fastened it with something approaching anticipation and, when we reached the ambush site, I had assumed the position of lookout. Yet I felt a strange sense of alienation even though everything was familiar. Meanwhile, the wagon had come much closer, and I heard hoofbeats as my cohorts arrived. The wagoner looked up at the sound and watched with mouth agape as Piet slid off his horse and vaulted onto the carriage, landing expertly next to the wagon-driver, knife in hand. Zivenig rode to the back of the cart while I slithered down the side of the tree and approached cautiously. "Hold your horses, or I will kill you," I heard Piet say to the wagoner. Ahead of me, Zivenig held open the curtain at the back of the wagon with his sword and snapped, "Out!" Kamin and Stai, still mounted, nodded me to the back of the carriage, and I went to give Zivenig a hand he didn't need. The passengers were stepping out of the wagon, two women and a man, who blustered, "This is absurd. How can this happen on the king's highway? I shall complain, indeed I shall, the next time I go up there. Where are the --" One of the women, whom I guessed to be his wife, interrupted sharply, "Be quiet, Robius." She was beautiful and slender, dressed in a rich dress of dark red, black hair hanging in ringlets around a heart-shaped face. I had an instant vision of the woman doll that Viveka had made. The other woman traveller seemed younger and was dressed in a dull, gray tunic and breeches. The man continued to talk despite the woman's admonition, his voice high-pitched with anxiety. "How is a man supposed to travel with his family if there are bandits? Is there no value to hiring mer--" He abruptly crumpled to the ground, a red flower blossoming in his stomach, a glint of metal in the center. I glanced at Kamin and saw him bring his arm down from a throw. "Robius? No!" The woman's voice cracked, and I thought I saw the glimmer of tears in her dark, gentle eyes, but I wasn't sure. She knelt next to him, uncaring of the dirt on the ground, and raised his head onto her knees, one hand holding him around the waist. He gasped, blood seeping out of his mouth, eyes widening as he recognized what was happening to him. "Gi-Git--" He exhaled. The woman raised her bloody hand to his eyes and closed them. I was so close to her that I could see her hand tremble. A strange feeling enveloped me; it was as if something were clamping my heart so that it was hard to breathe. I watched the woman almost without blinking. Slow tears wandered down her face, but she did not so much as breathe loudly. Her silent grief filled me with resentment against Kamin; such a beautiful face was made for smiling, not weeping. "Yellow, search for the money," Kamin said from behind me. I started. I had been so engrossed in the emotions playing on the face of the woman in the red dress that I had paid scant attention to the events around me. Before I entered the wagon, I spared a look around. Piet stood untying the horses from the wagon; I surmised that he had probably killed the wagoner. Stai had dismounted and was staring at the woman in the red dress with an expression close to joy on her face. The quiet sorrow on the widow's face seemed to delight her. My stomach heaved and I hurriedly made my way inside the wagon. The interior was luxurious, soft cushions on soft sheets; the three had certainly travelled in style. A jewelry case lay in the far corner next to a small box full of dried fruits and three or four leatherskins which I guessed to be wine and water. The jewelry case was made of a dark wood and it had been polished so that it gleamed even in the limited sunlight that filtered through the half-open curtain at the back of the wagon. I flipped open the lid and gasped. On top of the chains and other assorted jewelry in the box lay a doll: the same soldier doll that I'd left behind at the temple of Thyerin six sennights past. Gingerly I tilted the box so that the doll fell out. Fear gripped me, and I didn't want to touch it. Viveka's blunder in making the doll look like me had invited evil magic, I knew. I stepped backwards, hitting something, and fell awkwardly, cursing aloud. "Yellow? You okay in there?" Zivenig thrust his head inside the carriage. "Look at those goodies," he exclaimed. My leg had kicked the jewel case and its contents had spilled out, a small pile of glittering invitation. "I'm fine; I'm coming," I said, crawling toward the pile. I shoved everything haphazardly back into the case, when I heard loud yells from without. Dropping the jewelbox without another thought, I hurried outside to find my band under attack from three mercenaries. I guessed they were the guards the travellers had hired; I had been surprised at the lack of warriors, given how prosperous they were. I wondered why the warriors had not been with the wagon itself. My question was answered as my quick glance took in the sight of the mercenaries' horses: there were only two. Two of them had probably doubled on one horse, and that had delayed them and would most likely cost their employers their lives; whether through ignorance or fate, they were not likely to be rewarded for this day's work. Kamin and Zivenig, both experienced swordsmen, were fighting two of the three men and both pairs of fighters seemed well-matched. Piet was occupied with the horses while the remaining mercenary and the two women travellers converged on Stai. The woman in the gray tunic was on the far side from me, and the merc and the woman in the red dress had their backs to me, fighting Stai side-by-side. I rushed out to help her, pulling out one of my knives and aiming for the merc as I approached. But both the mercenary and the woman in the red dress moved as I reached them, and to my dismay, the knife plunged into her back. It slid in sideways, easily, in a place where death would come, but slowly. She gasped and fell into my arms. Unprepared for her weight, my knees buckled and I sank to the ground, turning her body so that I could look at her face. "Breathe slowly, evenly," I said to her softly. She was trying to raise her shoulders, and I put a restraining hand against her neck. "Don't move; it will hurt more." She began to gasp for breath and I said again, "Breathe slowly." There was a shout and both of us looked up, the wounded woman groaning as she did. The other woman traveller had closed with Stai and was barely holding her own. Our band still had bouts of practice; Kamin was a stickler for those, and in consequence, I had come to know Stai's strengths. In close fighting, Stai was very good. She had stamina and she was fast; moreover she had some moves that I had found alien enough to wonder if she had trained with a foreigner. Her only weakness was that she lacked power, but that was a disadvantage only when her antagonist was bigger than her, which was not the case now. Even though the woman in gray appeared trained, Stai was bigger and better. The traveller was getting the worst of it and her nose, mouth and chin were red. The problem with nose-bleeds is that they always look worse than they really are. The woman in my arms moaned at the sight. "Help her," she said, gasping for breath. She met my eyes. "In the name of Thyerin, help her." I was already shaking my head in a negative motion, when she tried to lift herself up and exhaled sharply. I pressed her down, saying angrily, "Don't move; I told you, it will only hurt more." "Help my sister. Don't let her die, I beg of you. Help Niveda." She gasped again and this time a thin line of blood trailed down the side of her lips. Her gaze acquired a glassy sheen, signalling death's approach. "You're a chosen of Thyerin, I know; I can see it. Please save my sister." Another exhale and then what I held in my arms was a thing, a corpse, a dead body, devoid of breath, of beauty, of life. The beauty had become a shell, a husk that mocked me. Her open eyes stared upwards, sight denied them because of my knife, because of me. I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I wanted to shout, to scream aloud. I felt the power inside me, the power that could kill, the power that had caused ... this. I stared down at her, the blood on the side of her mouth slowing to a stop almost as I watched, and I shuddered. Tremors rocked me and I shook with the force of my feelings. I could feel the emotions spiralling away, could hear Nessa's voice in that question echoing across the clearing, and I melted into nothingness. My being was filled with the woman's passing and I gagged with the scent of death in my nose, in my mouth. A cold wind blew through me, changing me to ice, melting me to water. The void inside me began to fill with life, with emotion. Slowly at first, and then quickly, more quickly, too fast for me to keep up. My breath came raggedly in short bursts so that I shook as if with palsy. Someone shoved the body away from me, I didn't know who. It fell awkwardly, coming to a stop just a short distance away. She was worthy of respect and her body deserved more than that. I screamed, in short bursts, as if I could hurl everything inside me at those who desecrated such beauty. She had wanted me to save her sister. Dimly I heard Kamin and Zivenig talking, but my mind and my heart and my body were all in motion. I felt them try to stop me, but I brushed them away as if they were flies. I attacked Stai with a desperation that was not my own, with a ferocity that I never knew I had, with a viciousness I'd learned from the past, and with a vengeance that belonged to the beautiful woman who had died in my arms. When I opened my eyes, it was night and the stars twinkled brightly above me. I felt odd, as if bereft of my body. Examining that thought brought me comfort, for I could feel each of my limbs; I was alive, breathing. "You're awake," a soft voice exclaimed. A face came into view above me: Niveda. "What?" I struggled to sit up. She moved away and waited while I gathered my recalcitrant limbs; it took me a while but I managed it. "Where is everybody?" I looked around. We were still at the clearing where my band had ambushed the wagon, but there was no one present save Niveda and myself. She looked at me, and I could see the resemblance between the sisters. "You saved me," she said quietly, in a matter-of-fact manner. "I've been trained in combat, but that woman was much better than I am." "Was?" I asked, trying vainly to remember what had happened. "You killed her." "What?" The thought of killing someone, even Stai, filled me with abhorrence. I allowed myself to experience that feeling, knowing that it was new to me, knowing that it would never leave me now. "What happened to the others?" "Well, you screamed and then you attacked that woman as if you were possessed. The robbers thought you had gone mad and they ran away with the horses." I stared at her curiously. "Do you think I'm mad? Aren't you scared of me?" She laughed at that. "No, why should I be scared of you when you helped me?" I continued to look at her, trying to sort out the confusion inside my head. "You didn't answer my question. Do you think I'm mad?" "What do you think?" I stared at her silently as images of dolls, and women in coronets of long black hair filled my head and the pieces of a puzzle slowly clicked into place. ======================================================================== Talisman Eight Part 1 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 7-13, 1013 The girl's screams sounded in Rhonwn's ears as he stabbed at her. He grinned as he worked: those screams were exactly what he was striving for. The louder she cried, the harder he worked. His hands moved, his weapon thrust, and her voice was silent for a brief moment, her face crumpled in surprise, before the screams rang out once again. Rhonwn felt it would soon be over, that his efforts would soon bring their inevitable climax. He put more effort into his ministrations. This time had to be perfect; he was always perfect. The girl, Merilee, was shaking her head from side to side, hoarsely panting, "Stop ..." and "No ..." and "Don't ...". In between, her screams had faded through exhaustion until they no longer covered up the noise from the taproom downstairs. The final moment was approaching, and Rhonwn stabbed one last time, stiffening above as she did below, and with one final "Yes!" from his own throat, it was over. Rhonwn leaned down and kissed Merilee, whose eyes were closed and whose lips were dreamily smiling. Sweat covered both their naked bodies, and the candles dotted around the room -- his own extravagance -- made her plain face glisten like a gilded statue. A statue depicting satiated lust, by a master sculptor. He eased himself off his lover, ending up on his side between Merilee and the wall so that she wouldn't feel trapped. She lay there, unmoving, still reveling in bliss as Rhonwn gazed fondly at her. He reflected on how he had met her that morning, completely by accident. He had only just arrived in Beeikar with his murntedd, Bobere. They were Rhydd Pobl, what the folk of Baranur called gypsies, and they had just traveled from Fremlow City, the capital of Welspeare, the duchy that also encompassed Beeikar. Rhonwn had finished helping Bobere set up their sales stand in the market square, and had then gone exploring the new town. Before he had even left the market square, he had come across a pair of women walking towards him. One was tall and fair, with a pretty face, bright eyes, and a belted robe that showed off her fine figure. Her companion was short and somewhat ruddy, as if being outdoors didn't suit her. Her hair was mouse-brown, her face was plain, and her robe was unbelted, offering no hints of what lay beneath. They were both young, and the guild braids at their shoulders, combined with their plain dress and youth told him that they were probably apprentices. Rhonwn had smiled broadly, his eyes twinkling at the prospect the taller, prettier woman presented. He knew he cut a dashing figure in his typically gypsy-styled multi-colored clothes, with his long, wild brown hair, and his olive-toned, handsome face. Stepping in front of the pair, he had bowed low and said, "Praise to the gods of the roads, that I have been brought into the presence of such loveliness! May I know your names, so that my evening prayers may be properly attributed?" The shorter woman had giggled, but the taller had just looked at him with a stone-face that would have made a temple idol proud. The giggling one had said, in a voice that was thin, yet shrill, "I'm Merilee and this is Shandly. We're apprentice weavers --" The stone-faced Shandly had interrupted with, "And we're late. We'll just be on our way." Rhonwn had quickly stepped in front of them again, saying, "I won't take up much of your time, oh fairest of all apprentices. But, if either of you have some free time this afternoon, I could use a guide to show me around this marvelous town of Beeikar. And who better to show me around this most wondrous city in Welspeare, if not all of Baranur, than one of the most lovely women I have ever met?" Merilee had giggled again, but to Rhonwn's delight it had been Shandly who had asked, "If we should decide to spend our afternoon break like this, where might we find you?" Her lack of facial expression hadn't put him off; likely she simply hadn't wanted her friend to know of her own interest. Rhonwn had pointed back to the sale table and said, "My murntedd ... ah, my foster-father has set up our selling table right over there. I shall spend my afternoon there, eagerly awaiting your arrival." And, with mutual bows, and more giggling from Merilee, they had parted. Rhonwn had spent the morning walking around the town, getting a feel for the people and the place. He had returned to their selling table after his midday meal, allowing Bobere some freedom. And, when Merilee had arrived at about sixth bell, he had sighed to himself, debated whether or not to go through with it, and then set about seducing the mousy woman. It had been a challenge at first, but once Merilee had understood what Rhonwn was offering, the arrangements had been swiftly made. That evening, Rhonwn had slipped up the back stairs at an inn only a few blocks from the market square, and into the room that Merilee had given him the key to. The candles had been placed around the room and lit, the bottles of wine had been set on the table, and one opened, and Rhonwn had waited for Merilee's arrival. And the rest had followed much as it usually did. Rhonwn looked down on the slowly stirring Merilee, and thought that the old adage was certainly true: in the darkness, all cats become grey. Merilee was no beauty like Shandly, but in bed those differences had disappeared. He reached over and stroked a bead of sweat off of her breast, and then slipped his finger down her torso and over her hip. She giggled dreamily, and shifted her legs slightly apart -- which was when Rhonwn saw the blood. He leapt out of bed and looked down at himself, seeing it there, too. There wasn't much, so it could only mean one thing: Merilee had been a virgin! In a panic, Rhonwn dashed over to the washstand and cleaned himself up with a cloth. Then, he made a beeline for the table and the wine, gulping down a healthy swig of the potent, not to say raw, vintage. A virgin! He should have known! Her naivete, her response to his flattery, it all added up. He looked back at the bed just as Merilee turned languidly on her side, her eyes shining with the last emotion he wanted to see: love. He swiveled back to the table, and swallowed another large gulp of the cheap wine. He knew he should have listened to his instincts, and just spent some nice time with Merilee. Beeikar wasn't a small town, and he knew that he wouldn't have had to spend the night alone if he hadn't seduced the apprentice. Instead, he had taken the easy route, and had ended up with all of the worst complications his nightly assignations could possibly conjure up. He knew he couldn't just run, even though his instincts were urging just that. He had to let her down easily, make sure that she knew his intentions before they went their separate ways. Steeling himself for what was sure to be a long night, he took another healthy swig of wine, opened the other bottle and filled a mug. Carrying both his bottle and the mug, he turned back to the bed, and staggered a bit as the room went fuzzy for a moment as the alcohol in the wine went right to his head, unhindered by the evening meal he had skipped. He mentally chalked up another mistake as he walked back to his lover. Several bells later, Rhonwn had finished his bottle of wine and was working on the second one. They had passed the time between drinks by talking -- he now knew more about apprenticing to a weaver than he had any desire to -- and making love again. That second engagement had just concluded, and Merilee was once again lying there, glisteningly golden with sweat, now running her hand possessively across his chest. She was still working on her first mug of wine, reaching across him to the windowsill from time to time to take a sip, and press her breasts into his chest. Rhonwn just wondered when that tenth bell was going to ring, so he could stumble back to his murntedd's wagon and be free of mousy, golden Merilee. "So, what's it like, being a gypsy?" she asked, tracing the ridges on his stomach and being just short of tickling on the way. Rhonwn said, "It's ... I don't know, it just is. We travel, we sell things, we travel some more. That's about all ..." "Traveling," said Merilee in a wistful tone. "You're so lucky, traveling. It must be so wonderful to see new places day after day, year after year. I've never been out of Beeikar, you know. Not even to the next town. And you've seen the whole kingdom! How exciting!" Merilee's voice made his ears hurt, and Rhonwn took another swig. He popped the bottle out of his mouth and gulped loudly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Oh, it's nothije ... um, nothing. Most places are alike -- people livin' in houses, people plowin' the ground, people lordin' it over other people. We're not like that, ya know. Nope, we're not. No kings, no houses 'cept our wagonsss, hunting and fishing and trading for shtuff. That'sh the life." Merilee said, "Ooh, it sounds so wonderful!" She hugged him and kissed his neck, then bit it playfully. "Just wonderful," she murmured, her hands moving down his sides, again just short of tickling. Rhonwn continued his own ramblings, keeping the wine bottle steady throughout. "Yep, wondiful, wondiful. Been to Pyridain, been to Narragan, been to Dargon and back. Just follow the map from place to place, never go wrong." Merilee propped herself up on her elbows and said, "Map? I thought gypsies didn't need maps." Rhonwn blinked in confusion, and then took another swallow of wine. Looking her in all seven eyes, he said, "Of course gypsies don' need mappppssss! Never be caught dead with a map! Unless you're forgetful, like my tedd Bobere. Yep, big secret, big big secret, our map. Shameful. Don't tell, straight?" In answer, Merilee kissed him, guiding the wine bottle to the window sill next to her mug. Then, she climbed on top of him and proceeded to engage him in their other pastime. Tenth bell finally rang, but Rhonwn was too exhausted and hung over to even hear it. It wasn't until two bells later that he opened his eyes, stirred out of his slumber by Merilee getting out of bed in a rush. "It's the 8th, right?" she asked, but Rhonwn didn't think she was asking him, and he didn't know the answer anyway. "The 8th of Yuli, yes, of course it is." Rhonwn watched as she darted about the room getting dressed again. "Shandly and I will be going out with Mistress Jeesp to gather dye-stuffs, and I have to hurry." Fully dressed, she dashed back to the bed and kissed him. "Have to go. When will I see you again?" Rhonwn realized that, between the wine and her energy, he hadn't made it clear to her that he wouldn't be "seeing" her again. "Ah, about that ..." "Tonight? Here again?" There was too much emotion in her face, and he was too hung over to deal with it. "No. Merilee ... I ... well, I ... we can't ... ah, see ..." "What do you mean, Rhonwn?" Bewilderment had chased the happier emotions from her face, and that hurt him worse. "I meant to let you know last night, but ... " "You have someone else?" "No! No ... well, not exactly, no. I don't have anyone else right now, but ... you see, by tonight I will. I'm not ready to ... settle down ..." Tears filled her narrowed eyes as she said, "Shandly was right! She told me she only asked you where to meet you so that we could be sure to avoid wherever you would be. I didn't listen to her warnings, but she knew exactly what you were about. "Well, thank you for last evening, Mister Gypsy," she said with a scorn-heavy voice. "I hope I entertained you. Fare ill in our fair town!" The door slammed behind her, causing Rhonwn to wince for two equally good reasons. Merilee hadn't been the first complicated assignation Rhonwn had ever had, and as much as he hated hurting the girl, he knew that he couldn't do anything about it now. So he put her out of his mind and continued on his way through life. Recalling the adage about horses and falling off of them, he wasted no time arranging companionship for that evening. His experience with Merilee only gave him a momentary twinge as he agreed to meet a pretty young shopkeeper in the same inn, and when they parted the next morning with amicable words and thank-you kisses, his confidence rose another notch. He didn't see Merilee until the next day, when he was spending the morning at the selling table in the market. His attention was centered on the current customer, a tall, handsome man with blond hair cut short and high over the ears. The man wore a well-cut tunic and leggings, and the guild braid on his shoulder indicated that he was some sort of crafter. His hands went with that assessment; they were finely shaped, with long, slender fingers. The ring on his right hand, a thin oval of some red stone set in gold, was very distinctive. Unfortunately for Rhonwn, the wares on the table in front of him were absorbing all of the attention of the handsome crafter. No matter what suggestive comment Rhonwn made, the man just nodded noncommittally and kept his eyes on the carvings on the table. As was often the case, the large stone semi-circular carving caught his attention for a moment, and was thereafter ignored. When the crafter walked away, Rhonwn's gaze followed regretfully. Halfway across the market square, the crafter was stopped by a distinctively dressed stranger. Rhonwn had certainly never seen the gentleman before, and he would have remembered someone dressed all in green from his hat to his boots. The two blond men talked briefly before walking away together, which is when Merilee walked through his field of vision, attracting all of his attention. She looked his way and frowned, only it wasn't a frown of anger but of hurt. She immediately turned away, changing direction and walking out of the market, leaving Rhonwn with the impression that whatever errand had brought her there would have to wait until later. The next time Merilee's path crossed Rhonwn's was also linked with the man in green. Rhonwn was walking along Chandler Street the next morning when the green man and another man walked out of an inn right in front of him. As distinctive as the man in green was, his companion was equally so: he was stocky and rugged, and his hair, eyebrows and full beard were red. He had a scar on his left cheek, and he wore the hood of his cloak covering the back half of his head, such that his ears were fully hidden by it. The pair were talking earnestly, but all Rhonwn caught of their conversation was "... has decided to join our ..." from the scarred one before they moved out of his line of sight. Behind them was Merilee, just about to enter the inn they had left. This time, she turned away with no expression on her face, and continued on her way. Strangely enough, Rhonwn didn't feel all that much better about it. Later that afternoon, Rhonwn was walking Chandler Street from the other end, and he thought that he saw the red-headed, scarred man leading Merilee into that same inn, but he wasn't sure. He entertained the notion of finding out for sure, before remembering that he was supposed to be forgetting about the apprentice. Rhonwn encountered the man in green again on the morning of the 11th of Yuli. He was strolling down Rainmaker Lane, heading for the market square, when a hoarse voice called out from behind him, "Ho, Master Gypsy!" Rhonwn turned around, and saw the green-clad man striding briskly toward him. As the man drew nearer, Rhonwn noticed that he was indeed dressed completely in green, with every article of clothing -- gloves, belt, boots and all -- exactly the same shade. The gypsy chuckled silently as he realized that the approaching stranger looked, with his very yellow hair, like a ripe ear of corn. "Well met this morn, Master Gypsy!" rasped the stranger, coming to a stop in front of Rhonwn. "And how do you fare this fine day?" The automatic responses of courtesy helped Rhonwn through the startlement of noticing that even the strangers' eyes matched his outfit, and he said, "I'm well, good sir. And you?" "To be honest, Master Gypsy, well and not well. Before I expand on that, however, let me introduce myself. I am Lacsil, once a sailor, then a merchant, and now a supplicant, at your service." "Greetings, Lacsil," replied Rhonwn, extending his hand before continuing, "and I'm Rhonwn of the Rhydd Pobl." Lacsil, after looking at and then ignoring Rhonwn's hand, said, "I have a proposition to make to you, Master Rhonwn. Upon occasion, my dealings as a merchant have been less than, well and well, above-board. Minor transgressions only, of course -- I am not an immoral man, I'll have you know. But every now and then, the authorities become aware of my activities, and I have to evade their so-called justice." Rhonwn could tell that Lacsil was an accomplished orator, and only his voice detracted from his presentation. His raspy, grating voice sounded like an ill-tuned viol, or a shawm with a cracked reed. It made the hair stand up on Rhonwn's neck, and set his teeth on edge, but out of courtesy, he continued to pay attention. "I am currently in the middle of such a situation, which is where I hope that I can solicit your help. I need to get to my friends in the north, to settle this business. Unfortunately, the authorities know this as well, and are sure to be watching the roads. However, I have heard that you, well and well, are traveling that way as well, and everyone knows that gypsies can go from place to place, town to town, without being seen. So I thought that we might be able to do each other a favor under the circumstances. I can pay, and pay well, and even gypsies need gold now and then. Believe me, I can make it worth your while, my friend. And in return, you can get me out of Welspeare without attracting the notice of the agents of the duchy." Rhonwn's instinctive response was negative, and he gave it to Lacsil without hesitation. "I'm sorry for your troubles, Master Lacsil, but gypsies don't take passengers. Our trails are our secrets, and we don't give up our secrets lightly." "But surely you see the injustice here. What I've done has hurt no one -- just a few people with lighter purses than they might have had. Yet I am being hunted like an assassin, and denied the freedom of the roads that my taxes have helped to build. Does that not, well and well, strike a chord with you? Can you not feel for my plight?" Rhonwn frowned, and wanted to back away. He was insulted that this stranger was insinuating that the free ways of the gypsies were in any way similar to his own mercenary transgressions. But again, courtesy forbade him from being rude -- another aspect of his Rhydd Pobl heritage, that wrong not be done unless done wrong first. He replied, "I do not equate the misunderstandings your kind has of my way of life with your own larceny. I have, indeed, run from those authorities you speak of, but that doesn't make us tillanda, or family. I must still say no, Master Lacsil." The man in green's eyes narrowed, and his lips parted to show his teeth in an avaricious grin. "Well, then, would two Crowns change your mind?" Rhonwn's own thoughts changed from affronted dignity to visions of profit. Gold wasn't something that most gypsies sought to hoard, but as Lacsil had said, even one of the Free People needed it sometimes. Calculating what he thought the shady merchant might be worth, and the dire straits he was in, Rhonwn said, "I don't think so," in a voice that indicated it wasn't his final answer. "Would three be a more reasonable offer?" "Perhaps," allowed Rhonwn, thinking about what three Crowns could buy, "but I have to be honest when I say that it isn't my decision. My murntedd, Bobere, is pinwban, or wagon leader, and it is for him to decide the merits of your situation and your ... offer." "Fair enough," said Lacsil, his grin softening into something more casual even though his eyes remained narrowed. "Do you think you could persuade him?" "I think you could make your plea better than I could, Master Lacsil." "Perhaps you are right, Master Rhonwn, perhaps you are right. Might it be convenient to meet all together this evening? Matters are somewhat, well and well, pressing ..." Rhonwn knew just the thing. He had heard the ale at the Boar-Ring Inn recommended several times, and he had been assured that even a gypsy would be a welcome customer. He said, "Come to the Boar-Ring tonight, halfway between second and third bell. You know where it is, out by the river? Good. I'll bring Bobere, and you can put your proposition to him then." "I thank you for your help, Master Rhonwn. Until tonight?" Rhonwn extended his hand and said, "Until tonight." Instead of shaking it, Lacsil gave a strange salute, turned, and walked away. Rhonwn watched him leave, wondering whether Bobere would accept the dishonest merchant's offer, and if so, for how much. The two gypsies, blood father and son as well as murntedd and murnmib, foster-father and foster-son by Rhydd Pobl custom, walked down the road by the Renev River, the light and noise of the Boar-Ring Inn leading them toward it. It was somewhat after the evening's second bell, but the walk from the clearing where their wagon was parked had been long. Rhonwn had told Bobere about Lacsil and the merchant's proposition. He had also been asking questions about the man all day, but had gotten little information for his trouble. No one knew much about the man in green, and, strangely, no one seemed to be looking for him either. At least, not yet. Bobere looked every inch the typical gypsy, with his neatly-tailored, multicolored patchwork clothes, black hair and hooked nose. Rhonwn knew that the family resemblance was strong, though his hair was longer and brown, his nose was not so pronounced, and his clothes were not patchwork, though they were multicolored. All in all, there was no mistaking the pair for anything other than proud members of the Rhydd Pobl, the Free People of the world, or, more commonly, gypsies. So, Rhonwn understood when Bobere asked, "Are you sure we'll be welcome in there, Rhonwn?" Gypsies tended to be driven from many establishments with varying force, from shouts to sticks, simply due to their mostly-undeserved reputations. But Rhonwn knew that such would not be the case here. "I'm sure, Bobere," Rhonwn said. "I have it on good authority. I wouldn't have asked Lacsil to meet us here if I thought we'd get tossed out. So stop worrying!" The door under the sign bearing a circle of swine opened, and three figures staggered out of it. Rhonwn noted their distinctive dress -- leather vests wide open across bare chests, leggings tightly wrapped from the knee down in braided, beaded straps, and the half-circle hats worn sideways -- and took the opportunity to further reassure Bobere. "See, murntedd, the Boar-Ring serves bargemen! Any place puts up with bargemen will be overjoyed to see the likes of us, yeah?" Throwing a companionable arm around his father, Rhonwn made a path toward the door, detouring wide around the raucous bargemen on the way. He ushered Bobere through the door and then followed him to the only empty table in the place. A lively crowd filled the taproom that evening. Rhonwn gave his most charming smile to the barmaid who came to take their order. She was attractive but with a worn-down air, and Rhonwn could tell that it wasn't just because of the hectic atmosphere in the taproom. She had raven-dark hair piled up on the top of her head, and her green gown was tight at the waist and laced to press her lush breasts together and present them invitingly in the white undershift she wore. She acknowledged the young gypsy's flashing-toothed grin with barely a twinkle of her brown eyes and the slightest hint of a smile on her full lips. She introduced herself as Aivney and took their orders. On the way to the bar she took three more orders prior to vanishing behind it to fulfill them all. Rhonwn noticed that the only other server on the floor was a sour-faced and bald old man, and he knew that what he had heard about the excellent ale had to be true to attract so many customers in the face of such a disagreeable server. The door opened to admit a handful of people into the already crowded room, drawing Rhonwn's attention from the swaying hips of the serving wench. He recognized one of the new arrivals, and stood to gesture Lacsil over. The green-clad man strode across the room, a broad smile on his face. "Welcome, Lacsil, and well met," said the young gypsy, extending his hand, and then gesturing toward his father when he remembered that the man in green didn't like to shake hands. "May I introduce my murntedd, or foster-father, Bobere of the Blue Valley band of the Rhydd Pobl. Bobere, this is Lacsil, the gentleman I told you about. He has a business proposition for you." Bobere nodded to Lacsil and gestured to the bench on the far side of the table. Lacsil swept off his felt hat with a curious right-handed motion that Rhonwn didn't quite catch, and stuffed it into his belt as he sat down. Rhonwn followed suit. As everyone got settled, the curvy barmaid returned with the drinks the gypsies had ordered and took Lacsil's order before departing. Rhonwn tried not to fidget as he waited nervously with the others for the last ale to arrive before beginning their discussions so that they wouldn't be disturbed later. Finally, the leather jack of alcohol was set in front of the man in green. Lacsil immediately took it in his left hand and lifted it high. "To profitable business!" he proposed in his raspy voice, and Rhonwn echoed the gesture and the toast along with his father before taking a healthy swallow of the cool, brown ale. Rhonwn grinned as he contemplated the refreshing beverage. One of the Boar-Ring's secrets must be its location -- it was easy to keep ale cool in running river-water. Lacsil said in his raspy voice, "And now, to business. I'm sure your ... son? ... has told you of my situation, but let me put it in my own words, shall I?" Rhonwn found that the gravely voice of the green-clad man still grated on his nerves. It was the kind of voice that made one look for noose-scars, though what showed of Lacsil's throat was smooth skin. As Lacsil put forth his tale, Rhonwn turned his attention elsewhere. He had heard it just that morning, and with the way that voice was making his eyeballs and fingernails vibrate, he was sure he didn't need to hear it again. He let his gaze wander over the wealth of people in the taproom. The Boar-Ring seemed to attract all different types of people. Rhonwn saw laborers relaxing alongside merchants, crafters drinking with farmers, scum like the two bargemen in the corner sharing the room with the aristocrat that had just walked in the door. Rhonwn stared at the young man with the long brown hair who had stopped a few paces inside the room. He wore his rank like he wore his very fine clothing: easily and naturally. He was handsome, with clear grey eyes, a fair complexion, and a full beard and mustache cropped close to his face. Rhonwn didn't usually mix with the gentry -- they tended to have even stranger ideas about land-ownership and peoples' places than the ordinary folk. And this man looked like more than a mere lord. But Rhonwn was prepared to make an exception for that fine-looking individual. The young man's gaze swept across the room, resting on the very table that Rhonwn sat at for a moment before moving on without acknowledging anyone who sat there. Rhonwn watched as the curvy barmaid worked her way across the room until she stood next to the noble with the ease of one long known. Rhonwn couldn't hear their brief conversation, but the handsome man didn't seem to be looking for a drink, but the answers to some questions. All too quickly for Rhonwn's liking, the man kissed the barmaid on the cheek, turned and left. The barmaid just stood there for a few moments, until the catcalls from the crowd and a few growls from the male server got her moving again. Rhonwn returned his attention to his table companions, hoping that the negotiations were almost finished. He was disappointed to find that little had yet been decided. "What interest might my, well and well, crimes be to you then?" asked Lacsil. "Only so that I know what level of risk I would be undertaking were I to accept your offer, my good man," answered Bobere. "Will I be risking the wrath of every baronial reeve between here and the north shore of Baranur? Or will the pursuit end at the border of Welspeare, if not Bindrmon?" "I assure you, that the matters were not worth an entire kingdom's wrath. You will be safe and safe once the border of the duchy has been trampled upon in passing. Is that little enough risk for you?" Rhonwn shook his head and went back to ignoring them. He let his gaze wander around the room again as he sipped his ale. He was delighted to recognize one of the customers: the crafter he had seen talking with Lacsil on his third day in town. He was sitting companionably with a woman of about Bobere's age, making her a good handful of years older than the crafter. She was good looking in a solid way, the few strands of grey in her brown hair not very noticeable. The cut of the tunic she wore told Rhonwn that she was probably a merchant. Perhaps she sold the wares the gentleman produced. Rhonwn flashed his smile at the couple, trying to make eye contact with either one of them. To his delight, he received a meaningful look from both along with a sly smile from the woman and a broad wink from the man. He nodded once in return, since he noticed that neither of them was aware that the other had also responded to him, and continued to scan the room. Another empty jack of ale later, Rhonwn returned his attention to his father in time to hear the deal being closed. "Seven full Crowns," said Bobere. "Six and eight Rounds," offered Lacsil. Rhonwn watched his father's eyes narrow as he studied the man in green. Rhonwn knew that the deal was almost closed; his father was calculating just how many more Rounds he could squeeze out of Lacsil. "Six and fifteen," was Bobere's counteroffer. Lacsil hesitated, and Rhonwn caught a glimpse of something he wasn't sure he liked in the man's green eyes. Finally, the rasping voice said, "Six and eleven, and not a Bit more." Bobere paused for a moment, and then said, "And if I accept that amount, what guarantee do I have that you are good for it, then?" Lacsil's eyes narrowed further, but he dipped his left hand into his belt pouch and set a Crown on the table before Bobere. Rhonwn watched with admiration as his father tapped the golden disk with a practiced fingernail, and nodded briefly in confirmation that it was real. Then, he turned his practiced 'expectant gaze' on the man in green and waited. The wide smile thinned under the green eyes, and Lacsil produced another Cue to go with the first. Bobere said, "Thank you. I'll expect the rest when we leave, which will be soon. We'll let you know the location of our campsite the night before we depart. Will that be all?" "I thank you for graciously agreeing to help me out of my, well and well, situation. I will await eagerly your summons. Fare well!" Lacsil rose, bowed to each of them, and left, pulling his hat out of his belt with his left hand and placing it on his head. Rhonwn noticed that the man in green hadn't left any payment for the ale he had consumed. Once Lacsil had left the room, Bobere said, "I wonder whether that was wise, Rhonwn. I've done well in the markets of Welspeare these past months, though six Crowns is nothing to toss to the frogs." "It'll be fine, murntedd. Lacsil's a donkey's behind of a man, but as long as his gold is hard, I think we can put up with his ways for a few fortnights. And if he really becomes bothersome, we can put a dagger in his ribs and leave him by one of our hidden gypsy trails, straight?" Rhonwn laughed as his father rolled his eyes at the joke, followed by a nod of agreement. Bobere stood and fished for some Bits to pay for the drinks. When Rhonwn remained sitting, he said, "Coming?" "Not just yet, murntedd." "Well, anything more is out of your purse. Be safe, murnmib." "Of course, of course. Don't wait up." Rhonwn waited until his father had left the inn, and a little more until the crafter with the long fingers had left the merchant woman alone for a few moments. Then he rose and slipped over to her table, plans for the night already forming in his head. Two mornings later, as the Baranurian calendar turned from the 12th to the 13th of Yuli with the rising of the sun and the tolling of the first bell of the day, Rhonwn stepped quietly out of a doorway into a shadowed back yard. He was cinching his belt and straightening his clothes while he looked around to be sure that he was not being observed. A finely shaped hand with long, slender fingers reached from the shadowed back door, handing him his cloak. The long, thin, oval red stone set in the gold ring came into view as Rhonwn took the cloak from the crafter and swirled it around his shoulders. He smiled fondly at the dim shape within the house, but neither of them said a word; their heartfelt goodbyes had been given over the past bell. Rhonwn turned away from his last conquest in Beeikar and made his way toward the alley that cut through the block at the side of the next house over. It turned out that the crafter owned both homes, and had recently rented the house that Rhonwn was sneaking behind to a newcomer for a sennight or so. Rhonwn was long familiar with slipping stealthily away from his nightly assignations in the dim light of the first bell of the day. He had repeated the actions in town after town, city, and hamlet across the land the rooted folk called Baranur and beyond, and he hadn't been caught yet. He didn't have the time to be leisurely about his departure, either. His father was planning to leave for the north today, no later than third bell. He enjoyed traveling, even if it didn't provide quite the same kind of diversions as the time he was able to spend in a town and among its inhabitants. But traveling was life to a gypsy, and he heard the road calling to him just as strongly as the diversions of civilization. Rhonwn was creeping under an open window glowing with light when he heard a sound he recognized. It was a voice, and a very distinctive one at that. He had last heard it the night before, when he had delivered the message of their departure time and the location of their campsite to Lacsil. But this was not the address that he had met Lacsil at. Curious, Rhonwn stopped beneath the window and waited. His stealth was almost for naught when he caught sight of a curious rat sniffing at his boot, but he stifled his instinctive shout and just kicked the rat across the yard. His attention was drawn back to the window by a deep voice saying, "I think we're ready, boss." Rhonwn was rising slowly, with the intent to peek in the window, when Lacsil's rough and raspy voice said, "Are you sure? Well, there are supposed to be eight here and I only count six sitting. Where are the others?" The deep voice, sounding gently admonishing, said, "Boss, you're not counting us. Six there, two here, that's eight. Straight?" Lacsil's voice sputtered, and Rhonwn dropped back into a full crouch. Eight people gathering? Lacsil being addressed as boss? What was going on? Rhonwn's curiosity was more than idle now: he needed to know what their fellow passenger was up to. Suddenly, the deep voice boomed out, "Quiet!", even though Rhonwn hadn't heard any other talking going on. After a moment, Lacsil's voice filled the still dawn air, just as raspy and annoying as before. Rhonwn just clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from vibrating, and listened closely. "Welcome, my friends, welcome. My associate, Hissek here, has gathered you all together for a, well and well, noble purpose. You all have reason to hold a grudge against the gypsies that call themselves the "Reethe Pobul", the 'Free People'. Well, I do also. "A year ago and more, I was in the wrong location at the worst possible time. In a small barony in the south of Pyridain, I was apprehended following a series of minor but destructive and, well and well, disruptive incidents. The reeves had laid the crimes on the 'Free People' and I was taken to be one of them. "None of the gypsies could actually be found, and the reeves wanted someone to practice their justice on. Their justice was this!" There was silence for a moment, and then gasps. Lacsil continued, "Yes, my friends, the reeves took my right thumb to satisfy their justice. And it was all the fault of the gypsies!" A babble of comments rose in the room, and Rhonwn thought back to his few meetings with Lacsil. He remembered that the man in green had never removed his gloves, and had only seldom even used his right hand, despite hanging his sword and belt pouch on his left hip as if his right hand was his main hand. Rhonwn recalled that strange hat-removing gesture that, he now realized, had used only fingers, no thumb. The young gypsy wondered how much of Lacsil's story was true. He doubted that any of the Rhydd Pobl had actually been involved in any kind of concerted series of disruptions. A wagon-group of 'Free People' might undertake one or two acts of revenge, but only when they had been done wrong first. But they well understood both the danger of rousing the public uniformly against them, and the results of too much mischief on the by-standing innocent. He also found it incredible that anyone would take Lacsil for a gypsy, though he did dress oddly. And, he supposed, there were many who lumped all who were strange together in the same wagon. "My friends, please!" rasped out Lacsil's voice again. When quiet had returned, he continued, "We all have been hurt by the gypsies. But soon will come an opportunity to avenge our hurts. An opportunity heralded by the heavens themselves! "In two months' time the Reethe Pobul are having a gathering in the northern forests of the Duchy of Dargon. At the same time, in the night sky above us, the Sword of Sageeza will move into the Caravan. The signs are clear, and all the Bloody Hand of Sageeza, a group I am a proud member of, needed was a way to find that hidden meeting place." Rhonwn's imagination leapt ahead of Lacsil's speech, and he knew he had to warn his father: they couldn't take Lacsil north with them! He was just about to creep away when Lacsil's next words froze him in place again. "Our cause must be just, my friends, for that way has come to us in our, well and well, time of need. The great Sageeza guided my steps to Beeikar at just the right time. My aid, Hissek, who also does the bidding of Sageeza, found our key. And that key is right here. Straight, Merilee?" Rhonwn's eyes grew wide. He could understand Merilee holding a grudge with him and, by extension, all of his kind. But what could Merilee possibly offer to the Bloody Hand that was so valuable? Merilee's voice, almost as annoying as Lacsil's, drifted through the window over Rhonwn's head. "I met a gypsy not very long ago. He was nice to me. We talked, and ... and other things. But after that, after all we did together, he said he didn't want to see me anymore. "We talked about all sorts of things," Merilee continued. "I asked about what it was like being a gypsy, traveling all over. He told me tales that made me wish he would take me away with him. I asked in all innocence how his people found their way across pass-less mountains and through trackless forests, and he told me that most gypsy wagon-masters memorized the routes, but that his 'murntethe' had a secret ..." Rhonwn gasped, and slapped his hand over his mouth to silence himself. He didn't remember much about their conversations, especially later in the night when he had been drunker than a lord, but if he had mentioned Bobere's secret, they were both in great trouble indeed. Merilee's next few words caused Rhonwn to panic. "He said they had a map." Rhonwn needed to get home even more, now. Lacsil had very dangerous knowledge, and he mustn't be allowed to profit from it. The young gypsy had heard rumors of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza, a group of purists dedicated to wiping out all wanderers, all those considered outsiders. They were cranks, malcontents, and small-minded fools, but dangerous for all of that. If they were able to find the annual gathering, it would be disaster. Rhonwn slipped back to the alley, leaving the Beeikar chapter of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza to their further planning. He had to warn Bobere. They had to leave immediately, or at least before Lacsil arrived. They just had to! ========================================================================