Book One: Into the Gloaming

Chapter Three: Broken Arrow

It was the fifteenth of Thrimidge by the time the companions had reached the outskirts of Caer Vallis.  They had been on the road for just over a week, forcing a march to make up for what seemed like lost time.  The days were much longer now then when they had started from Slien, and they were getting much warmer.  Too warm for Pfren and Mirzam.

“Gods, it’s like midsummer already.”  Complains the mage, wiping his brow with a sodden sleeve.

“Aye,” Jonas replied.  “It gets much warmer in Viskoth then you are likely used too.  Halimath is the worst.  Especially in the wetlands.”

“How far are we from that?”  Asked the druid.

“We have time yet, a few months.”

“Hopefully we shall be done and gone from here, well before that time arrives.”  Added the ranger, who had returned to travel with the group now that the roads were much busier.

“We had better be.”  Mirzam interjected, “I’ve an important appointment to keep.”

Pfren looked over to the mage.  “And what happens if you do miss your, uh, test?”

Mirzam shot the druid a harsh look.  “I make you pay for it.”

The roads had expanded quite a bit, and were increasingly traveled.  Pfren looked longingly at a well-dressed pair of men riding atop powerful steeds as they passed by.  Within minutes, they were lost to view down the road, back the way the companions had come.

“We need horses.”

“You’ve said that.  Often.”  Replies the mage.

“I meant it.  Just as often.”

Mirzam sighed as he looked over to the monk.  “Where do we get horses from, Jonas?”

“They are expensive.”  Is the only reply.

The mage cocked his head.  “Oh?  Is this a game?  I ask you one question, and you give me the answer to another?  OK.  Jonas, how much are they?  Now are you going to tell me where they are sold?  Or is that the question for what color they will be?”

When the monk does not reply, Mirzam looked to Pfren and shrugged.  “Your turn.”

Pfren walked up beside the monk.  “Jonas, we know they are expensive.  You’ve told us that before.  Horses are expensive everywhere, we know this.  But at this point, we are losing too much time.  So please, tell us where they are to be found in these lands.”

“Horse-breeders.”

“OK, that’s a start.”  Pfren tried his best to remain calm, but he was getting tired of the monk’s seeming inability to answer a straight question with a straight answer.  “Now, where do we find these horse-breeders?”

“The nobles keep them.”

“And where do we find the nobles?”

“In their keeps.  Or in larger towns.”  The monk’s evasiveness was wearing thin on the druid.

“So can we find any of these horse-breeding nobles in Caer Vallis, where we are heading too?”

“The nobles do not breed the horses themselves.  They employ the common folk for that.”

The druid took a deep breath.  “Are these horse-breeders, whoever or whatever they are, can they be found at the city we are walking to?”

“Maybe.”

Pfren was starting to lose his temper, biting hard on his lip to keep his cool.

“Most likely,”  Jonas added.  “A large fortified city like the Vallis would likely have a couple of breeders, at least.”

Pfren took another deep breath.  “Thank you, Jonas.  When we reach Caer Vallis, we will need for you to take us to these breeders.”

Pfren looked back to the mage, hoping the other will give him some sign of reassurance that he is not going crazy, that it was indeed the monk who was being intransient.  But the mage was staring hard at the monk, a look of something that was growing beyond just normal annoyance.

The druid does not like that look, and was reminded of something Aubrey had said just before they had crossed the Pale.  Our fellowship has not yet been tested, he remembered the ranger saying.  When things become more stressful, then we shall see how friendly those two are towards each other.  He pushed aside the thought, not liking where it led.

“How far are we from this…Care-Whatever, Jonas?”  Mirzam asked.

As if in answer, the road had just reached the top of a crest before dropping down into a large valley.  Their view had been greatly increased as they made the top of the rise, and they could see the road snaking down the side of the shallow ridge, down to the coast of the sea.  At the mouth of a river several miles off sat a settlement larger then either the druid or elf had ever seen before.

The thing seemed to stretch on for almost a league across the shoreline.  The city was encircled by a large stone wall, punctuated with many towers.  There were buildings crowed within, more then either of them could hope to count.  It seemed as if the city could not be held within the walls, and many structures spread out beyond them.  The outer part of the city seemed almost as large as the walled section itself.  The two realized that they could wander for days within that forest of buildings and never hope to see everything.  If ever the two tribesmen had any doubts about needing the monk’s guidance, it was dispelled at that moment.

“Oh.”

 

 

The day was wearing down to a close as the three companions reached the gates of Caer Vallis.  It had taken almost three hours to reach the outskirts of the city.  The roads were choked with horses, carts and foot traffic.  Traveling within the outer part of the city itself was a nightmare, as the area was congested with more people then either Pfren or Mirzam had ever seen in one place in their entire lives.

The area was filled with noises, men shouting out their wares or to each other, women talking, children screaming, dogs barking and all manner of horses and mules.  At one point, the mage and the druid became separated from the monk by a large herd of sheep that were being corralled through the streets.

Aubrey, for his part, chose to remain well outside of the suburban part of Caer Vallis, saying he preferred the air of the countryside to that of a city.  At first both the mage and the druid were confused.  They had been on the road now for over a week.  Surely the ranger must be as tired and sore as they were.  But soon enough, they realized exactly what he had meant.

Long before the buildings crowded in around them, they could begin to smell the stink of the city.  Now that they were deep within the cluster of buildings, the air seemed to be choked off, preventing the wind from carrying away the malodorousness and allowing in anything remotely fresh.  The stink of bodies, urine and dung was at times overpowering.  But sometimes, it was mixed with the smell of burning wood, stale beer and roasting meat.

By the time the three had reached the gate, they were sticking so close to the monk that they could have been holing his hands.  It was impossible not to, for often they were forced against each other from the constant press of the crowds.  The monk had warned them of pickpockets, and especially for the mage to keep his face and ears hidden beneath the cowl of his cloak.  Mirzam, for his part, had determined that he would roast any fingers that managed to find their way into his pockets, Jonas and his dire warnings about casting spells be damned.

Pfren could not help but be impressed by the way Jonas was able to navigate through these labyrinthine mazes of muddy streets.  It was as if the monk knew his way around, despite his claiming to have never set foot in this place.  He also noted the obvious signs of respect from many of the common folk, and even the town guards.  Some even stepped aside to let Jonas and his companions pass.

“You have no idea how glad I am at this point in bringing you along, Jonas.  We would be utterly lost here.”

“Please…Droyn.  Do not speak.  You must remain quiet while we are here”  He says to the druid, peering around nervously.

“Why?”  Pfren asks, a bit annoyed.

“In the smaller villages, people tend to be provincial, rarely ever leaving their own countryside.  But here in the larger cities, people have come from all across the kingdom.  It is much more likely someone might recognize your tongue.  We cannot allow that.  Just let me do all the talking when others are near.”

The druid looks to the mage with incredulousness.  Mirzam just shrugs.  He likes this reality no more then Pfren does, but he understands their danger.

The three turn onto a larger road, this one paved with cobbled stones underfoot.  It takes the druid a bit to get used to walking on such a surface, as he keeps reacting as if it were a pebbled beach, causing him to stumble for what seems to others no reason.  But drunkards are not unknown here.  So other then an occasional sneer or jeer, the druid is left alone for it.

This road is even more crowded then the others they have been traveling on in the outskirts of the city.  The sheer press of people unnerves both of the tribesmen.  The city walls reared up at the end of the street.  Soon they find themselves standing still, waiting, but for what they do not know.  After a few seconds, Pfren taps the monk’s sleeve, giving him a questioning look and gesture.  The monk leans over and whispers into Pfren’s ear.

“We are at the gates to the city.  We must wait our turn to be allowed in.”  The monk turns away, looking back at something that had attracted his interest before.  Pfren looks to the elf, who just shrugs, sighing with annoyance and futilely swiping at an overly zealous fly.

For the better part of an hour they stood on the street, slowly moving forward.  Pfren’s anger began to rise.  They were no more then a ten second walk from the city gates and he was getting tired and hungry.  Yet they had been waiting longer here then it took for them to walk through the entire first part of the city.

Sunset was no more then an hour away by the time they reach the gate itself.  While open, the way was blocked by several guards, who seemed to be interrogating anyone who entered or left.  At the front of the entrance line was a man, dressed as one of the guards, sitting at a table.  On the table sat a large, open box half filled with coins.

Two more guards flanked the table, and four others stood before the gate, two facing out and the other two facing inwards.  The four gate guards carried large, wicked looking bladed spear-axe like weapons.  The druid did not know what they were called, and did not have a burning desire to see how they were used.

Pfren looked at these guards as they went about their business of regulating the flow of traffic into and out of the city.  Most were larger then the average man, made to seem larger still with the bulk of their armor.  The druid almost pitied the men, as they could not be very comfortable wearing all of that metal and cloth in this warm weather.

They were all dressed almost identically, a habit the warriors of this land had that still made Pfren chuckle.  Their bodies were covered from head to toe in a heavy-looking material made from tiny metal chains fastened over boiled leather, chainmail he knew it was called.  It was said to offer good protection against bladed weapons, but did little against crushing ones.  Arrows, too, were said to be able to pierce them with relative ease.  Looking closer at the mail, he wondered if that was true.

The entirety of their chests, arms, legs, hands and feet were covered in the mail.  They even wore hoods made of the material, held firm at the scalp with caps made of wood, boiled leather and reinforced with metal strips.  All but the man at the table had their faces hidden behind a veil of chains, with only holes for their eyes to see through.  He absently wondered if it was hard to breath through those things.  Looking at their feet, he couldn’t help but wonder as well if the chains extended under their soles.  It would be madness if they did, he thought, for having to stand on such things must be murderous to the skin after a while.

Over their chainmail were worn orange tabards emblazoned with two stylized winged serpents facing each other drawn in white.  Black studded belts looped around their waists, holding a sword and dagger on each hip.  These were not the sorts of men Pfren relished the idea of fighting.  Though if it came to it, he thought the best course of action was to keep moving.  Surely with all that weight, they would tire out quickly enough.  He could only imagine how much they must be sweating, just standing there.

After what seems like an eternity, the three move up to the table with the man and his cashbox. The man looks up at the three companions, before looking to Jonas.

“Good eve, sir…”  The monk begins.

“Sir?  You are mistaken, brother.  I am no knight.”

“Aye, my apologies.”

“What is your business here, brother?”

Jonas steels himself up for his carefully prepared lie.  He has found himself lying almost to everyone he has met.  But then, in a perverse sort of way, he would be telling this guard the truth.

“We are here on…church business.”

“And these two are with you?”

“Aye.”

“Then why do they skulk around behind you like they have something to hide?”

“Uh,”

To Jonas’s chagrin, Mirzam yet again feels the need to speak Viskothic, aided by those foul magics he is so enamored with.

“Many apologies, my good man.  We are just unnerved by all the people here.  We are good country folk, not used to all the bustle you city folk are so accustomed to.”

The man at the table narrows his eyes at the mage, something about his accent seemed to pique interest.

“You.  What is your name?”

“Eluard.”

“And from where do you hail?”

“You’ve never heard of it.”

“Tell me anyways.”

Mirzam hesitates, he had never bothered to study the names of any villages on the maps that he had looked over before leaving the Blackmoors.

“Redleaf.”

“I have heard of Redleaf.  And you do not sound like the people from there.”

“That is because I am a scribe.  I spend more time speaking languages you have never heard of then the one we are speaking now.  I guess you could fault Theocratus and Menidictus for altering the nuances of my accent.”

Jonas is breaking out in a cold sweat, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, certain that others can hear it as well.  He had fervently prayed to his god that they would not be singled out for questioning.  All it took was one look at Mirzam, and the ruse would be exposed.  A cold wave of panic hits the monk when the sitting guard speaks again, seemingly reading his mind.

“Take off that hood.  I wish to see who I am speaking with.”

The mage complies, but deftly reaches in with a finger on either side of his temple to cover his ears with hair as he pulls his hood back.

“You are awfully young to be a scribe.”  He says to Mirzam.

“I started early.”

“Why?”

“You would not need to ask that if you ever saw me bailing hay.”  To which a few of the guards chuckled, noting Mirzam’s exceptionally slender build.

The sitting guard was growing tired of this group, he did not like academics, for he could never tell if they were laughing at him behind their elegant words.  He stares one of his laughing men down to silence the group before turning back to the companions.

“Whatever.  The toll is two pence, from each of you.”

Mirzam and Jonas each reach for their purses.  The elf takes out his two copper coins and shows them to Pfren, gesturing for him to do the same.  They each pay the toll and proceed to enter the gate.  The coins are thrown inside the box as they pass through.

“Hold!”

All three freeze, even Pfren, who understands nothing that is being said.  It was the man’s tone that stopped him.  Without turning, they hear him say:

“This copper…these are not Viskothic coins.”

Mirzam, his hood still down turns and looks at him.  “I was told Belgaer coins were accepted here.  Have things changed since we left?”

The man looks up at the evish mage.  “You said you were from Redleaf.”

“Aye, originally, just as brother Jonas was.  But we have since moved to Belgaer.”

The man narrows his eyes at the mage yet again.  “And why would you move there?”

“Likely brother Jonas was sent there by the church because he angered someone.”

“And you?  Why would you go to such a place?”

Mirzam rolls his eyes.  “I like blondes.”  To which there is some more quickly stifled chuckling.

The man holds up a coin given to him by one of the companions.  “Then why is it you have a coin from the heathenness?”

Jonas takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.  He had hoped it would not come to this, but now he could feel the heat and cold trickle up and down his spine.  He clenched his fists open and closed, a movement not missed by the man.

“Let me see that.”  Mirzam says abruptly, grabbing the coin from the guard in a manner that even causes the other peasants to take notice.

“Hmm.  It seems you are right.”  He tosses the coin back into the cashbox.  “What of it?”

“What of it?!  You give me the currency of our enemies and you would ask me that?”

Mirzam rolls his eyes and sighs with annoyance.  “Look, I understand you have authority here.  You have power over us.  You determine whether or not we can enter.  But why do you care?  A coin is a coin.”  He sweeps his hand across the crowd.  “We all know trade with the heathens is forbidden.  Just as we all know it happens.  And just as we all know it happens through the complicency of the border guards.”

He cocks an eye at the guard.  “Your fellows, they are the ones who trade with the enemy.  And then they spend their ‘illegal’ coins in the inns for ale and the warmth of the whores.  Then that coin is later spent by the innkeepers… wherever it is they choose to invest their profits.  Eventually, it gets into our hands.  Then we come down here and spend it on you.  Do you inspect the mintage of every copper piece that passes through your hands?  Why do then expect us to?  If you don’t like how it looks then melt it down.  Or would you prefer these?”

Mirzam reaches into his purse and pulls out a handful of the silver pieces that they had received from the orc bounty.  “Would you prefer to cash these?  Do you have enough in that little box of yours?  I will need a receipt, however.  Our monsignor is quite peculiar about such things.  Probably comes from his days as a Blackrobe.  We will of course need your name…and the name of your superior.”

The guard looks at the handful of silvers, an amount that is greater then he will earn in a year.  He then looks back up to the elf, who looks back to him with supreme arrogance and annoyance.

He waves his hand dismissively.  “Whatever.  Go about your business.”  The guard turns to the next peasant in line and nearly bites his head off.  “You!  What are you looking at?  Show your damn toll, fool!  I haven’t all day.”

Mirzam pockets the coins and turns to go.  The three pass through the gates and are soon lost in the throng of the city.

After a minute of wading through the press of people beyond the gate, Pfren pushes himself back towards the mage.  The druid, for his part, had no idea what was going on, apart from seeing the monk in a cold panic and Mirzam snapping at the guard.  He pulls him by the arm.  “What the hells was that all about?”  He asks.

“A bluff.  Now, if you will excuse me…”  Mirzam quickly walks towards the closest secluded space he can find, an alleyway, and proceeds to vomit upon a pile of refuse.  He crouches there for a moment, steadying himself upon a stack of crates, breathing heavily and wiping his sweat-soaked brow with a sweat-soaked sleeve.  He forces himself to stop trembling.  Seth, you ape-eared bastard, he thinks to himself, you owe me a debt you can never hope to repay.  He takes and exceptionally long and deep breath.  But I will exact it anyway.

“Mir…er, Eloo-aradoo… By Obad-hai, man, are you ok?”  Pfren’s voice.  Mirzam can hear the monk’s annoyingly whining protests at the druid’s use of their native tongue, but he cannot bring himself to care.  He is too busy trying to quell his stomach and force the world to stop spinning.  Taking a deep breath, he jerks his back straight, pulls the hair back from his face and walks out to the street.

“Yes.  I am as bright as the light of our Lord.”  Smiling, he turns to the monk.  “I want ale.”

Jonas starts to protest before the mage cuts him off with a voice loud enough to carry across the street.  “Éru damn you, monk!”  To which several denizens stop and turn towards the group.  “I need ale.  NOW!”  To which they turn back to their own business, fully understanding.

 

***

 

The three minstrels were sweating profusely as they strained into their music, a livelier and more frantic tune then Jonas was used to hearing in his native land.  But then, he rarely had occasion to stray outside the monastery before his exile.  The trio seemed to be completely absorbed in their craft.  The music was loud enough that it could actually be clearly heard above the boisterous murmurs of a fairly drunk evening crowd.  Two midgets, or perhaps they were halflings, danced on a table, arm-in-arm to the fast-paced tune.  Several patrons around the table were cheering and stomping their feet in harmony to the dancing pair.

Other then the fireplace that dominated the center of the room and a few oil-lamps scattered about on some of the tables, the place was fairly dark.  Peasants, off-duty guards, tavern wenches and women of the night flitted back and forth through the crowds.  A roasting boar, the fare of the night, was nearly skeletonized, it’s half-congealed suet dripping into the coals.

The common room was laden with an intolerable amount of smoke.  Jonas can barely breathe, let alone keep his eyes open for the stinging it produced.  Even Pfren complained, until the third ale softened his mood.  The monk notes with concern how easily and quickly the druid seemed to take to drink.  But perhaps it was just the stress.  More then once, they had almost faced exposure, capture and certain death.  The strain was taking it’s toll on all of them.

Even the mage, despite his seeming bravado, was drinking a bit too deeply of the sour brew.  Mirzam complained bitterly and frequently about the flat, weak beer.  And yet, for all of that, it did not seem to stop, or even slow down his quaffing of the foul stuff.  For his part, Jonas chose only a single chalice of wine that went untouched throughout the evening.

Pfren seemed to be enjoying himself for the present at least, laughing, smiling and trying to sing along with the music.  More then once the monk felt the need to say something to the druid, as his open staring at some of the women was starting to make him uncomfortable.  The monk longed for a soft bed and warm blankets, clear air and blessed, dark silence.

“I’m out of leaf.”  The elf states, as he lights up yet another bowl.

“Perhaps that is a good thing.”  Jonas replies, waving his hand to try and banish the plumes from the mage.  The top of his meerschaum bowl burns with a fierce orange glow, like that of a fireplace’s embers as he draws deeply.

Blowing out yet another stream of smoke, this time directly into the monks face, he says, “Speak for yourself, Jonas.  I need more leaf.  Or I will get cranky.”

“More or less then you are now?”  Asks the druid, slurring.

“Do you really want to find out?”

“The shops will all be closed by now.”  The monk says between coughs.  “We should get some sleep.  You will have to wait until tomorrow to buy anything.”

Pfren reaches out to grab something, pulling a buxom lass into his lap.  The overly tight chemise was partially untied and only barely covered her breasts.  Her dark, curly hair was provocatively unbound, spilling down naked shoulders.  The lips of the woman were a deep red, likely treated with lemon juice.  She lets out a gasp, but not one that implied that she was either upset, or even all that unaccustomed to such a handling.

“Not every shop is closed, it would seem.”  The druid says, smiling.  The girl was giggling, playfully throwing an arm around the druid, saying “Ooh, easy there, me lord!  My, aren’t you a cute one.”  Smiling she looks over to the other two companions at the table, but her smile died when she saw the monk.

“No, I don’t think so.”  The woman immediately gets up and walks away, melting back into the crowd within a few seconds.

“Wha…what just happened?  What did she say?”  Asks a stunned and increasingly irritated Pfren.

Mirzam just laughs.  “OK, Jonas.  Savor this moment.  I doubt you will ever hear it again from my lips.  But you are right.” He stands up and hooks an arm under the druid’s own.  “Let’s go, ‘me lord.’  Time for bed.”

 

***

 

Jonas tried.  Several times.  But the monk just didn’t seem to have the knack that Aubrey had in getting the other two up at a decent time.  It wasn’t just the after-bowl drunkenness of the two, although that obviously didn’t help.  It was almost midday before he could drag either one from under the blankets.  But eventually, both were up and crawling about for their gear to get dressed for the day.

Mirzam was holding up his under-tunic, examining the side of his torso.  “What are these bumps?  Are these bite marks?”

“Possibly.”  Replies the monk.  “Common inn beds are not the cleanest of places to sleep.”

Mirzam looks up to the monk with a growing horror.  “What…what are you talking about?!  What do you mean?”

The monk looks over to the elf, trying to figure out if this was another one of his games.

“Answer me Jonas.  What the hells are you talking about?”

“Bedbugs.”  He says after a moment.

“Bed bugs?  What the hells are bed bugs?”

“Bugs that live in beds?”  Suggests an extremely hung-over Pfren, who began looking over his own chest.

Mirzam, a look of supreme horror and disgust spreading across his face, being to strip off his clothes, yelling out “AAH!”  with each newly discovered bite.

The monk just sits down on the rickety chair that is in the corner of the room, resting an elbow on his knee and rubbing his temple with his fingertips.  It is going to be another long day with these two. He thinks to himself.

 

***

 

It was well past midday before the three companions were back out on the streets.  They had to stop at a smoke shop for the mage, as his insistence for leaf was not going to be denied, especially after his ordeal with the bedbugs.  When the monk protested, Mirzam held out seven fingers into his face, one for each bite-mark he had found.  Jonas, for the life of him, could not understand how he could be made to bear the fault of something as ubiquitous as bedbugs.  But it was not worth arguing over.

“Grrmm!  This leaf is dry as tinder.”  He says between puffs.  “And tasteless.”

“Vithkothica æfenspræc!”  Hisses the monk.

“What?”

The monk stops and grabs Mirzam by the arm, whispering between clenched teeth.

“Vithkothica æfenspræc, ægþer forsuwung!”

Mirzam was about to get angry, until a contingent of four Viskothic guards passed close by.

“Oh.”

Head bowed and body hidden beneath his wrapped cloak, Mirzam quietly mumbles and gesticulates, casting the spell that allowed him to speak and understand the language of this land.

The companions walk in silence down the streets of Caer Vallis, switchbacking along the various walls and other buildings that ringed the inside of the fortified city.  After stopping to speak to a few merchants, Jonas guides the tribesman ever deeper into the city.  After each succeeding inner city-wall, the streets get wider, more evenly paved and less travelled.  The buildings often seem in better repair and the stench seems to subside a bit, even though the buildings are still quite cramped for either of their liking.  Occasional fountains, statues and other tended vegetation seem like an obvious attempt to soften the otherwise grimy surroundings.

Soon enough, the companions can begin to smell the distinct odor of stables.  Reaching an area just outside the wharf districts, they finally arrive at an open area fenced off around the outside.  A few horses can be seen grazing lazily on bales of what look to be a sort of hay.  Finally, the druid thinks to himself.  The thought of riding down the road on a horse just reminds him of how sore his legs and feet are.

The two tribesmen walk up to the fence and start looking at the horses, leaving the monk to find someone to help them.  Leaning over to the mage, Pfren says:

“It will be good when we are underway again.  These cities are filthy and overcrowded.  I can’t imagine how anyone can live like this.”

Mirzam smiles mischievously.  “Now you know how elves feel about your villages.”

Pfren snorts.  “Perhaps, but I can’t imagine they can be seen as dank, smelly or as loud as all this.”  He says, sweeping his arm to gesture to the whole of the city.  Mirzam chooses not to reply to that.

“So.  Do you know how to ride one of those…things?”  He asks after a time.

“What?”  The druid replies.  “A horse?  How hard can it be?  I assume they are well trained in being ridden.”

“Aye, but how well trained are you in riding them?”

Pfren thinks for a moment.  The thought of actually needing to know exactly how to ride the things never really occurred to him.  As a druid, he had always stayed near the groves.  Using horses was not part of his life.  Anywhere he needed to go, he either walked, or at most, ran.  But horses were animals, and Pfren had never had problems getting animals to be cooperative when he needed them to be.  Could horses be any different?

Eventually Jonas returns with an older-looking and portly looking fellow who affected the manner of dress of one that implied a self-made man.  Well made, stylish clothes and old boots that likely deeply offended his wife’s social climbing sensibilities.  What the poor woman likely failed to realize was that was half the reason he continued to wear them.

“This is goodman XXX.”  Jonas says by way of introduction.  “He is a horse-breeder here in Caer Vallis.  One of fair repute, so I am told.”

The man looks at the monk, trying to decipher his words.  “Not a man well versed in the art of flattery, I take it.”  He laughs.  “Must mean you are trustworthy.  A rare enough commodity, on either side of the monastery walls.”

“I…I am not sure what that means…”  The monk flusters.

“Aye, brother Jonas,” interjects the mage.  “Nor will you ever.  That’s precisely why you are trustworthy.  Good day, XXX.  Or is it good afternoon?  Hard to see the sun when you are buried in the shade of buildings half the day.”

XXX grunts.  “So what be you after, now?  The brother tells me you are in need of horses.”

“Aye, that we are.”  Merzam answers.

“The brother says you are all the way from northern Belgaer, near the borderlands.”

“Aye, that we are, a long trip already, and longer yet ahead.”  Mirzam replies.

“Why come all this way just for horses?  There are many a breeder ‘atween there and here.”

The monk looks down and lets the mage deal with this.  He has given up in trying to play the dancing steps of lies.  When he doesn’t answer, Mirzam continues. “Uh, well, we were told yours were the best bred horses in all the Free Kingdo…”

The man turns his head to the side to spit.  “I already told you I have no use for flatterers.”  He looks hard at Mirzam.  “You are obviously no nobles.  And you come to my stables with a monk in tow.  You want my horses…”

“We will pay, to be sure.  Coin, upfront.”  Mirzam goes for his coin purse.  But the man just stares hard at the mage.

“Of course you will.  That is not even in question.  Your right to however, is.”

Mirzam just stares back slack-jawed at the man, utterly confused.  He looks to the monk, whose eyes remain at his feet.  He even looks over to the druid, as if Pfren could possibly know what was happening.

“If…if it is more coin you need,” he pulls out all of their silver and shows it to the horse-breeder, who takes one look at the handful of silver before busting out in a hearty belly-laugh.

“If that doesn’t show that you don’t know what you are doing,” he says between guffaws, wiping a tear from his eye, “then I don’t know what would!  Here’s a word of advice, boy.  I tell you this since you are obviously little more then a pup who thinks he be wiser then his years show.  If you are going to try and bribe a man, then you need to show him more then he’s going to make in short order anyways.  You have to make it worth his while.”

“Bribe?  XXX, I…I don’t…what are you talking about?  We just want horses!”

“Well then, mayhap the magistrate can explain it to you.”

“That will not be necessary, goodman XXX.”  Jonas looks up from his feet.  “They meant nothing by this affront.”

“What do you mean ‘affront?!'”  Mirzam is utterly aghast, he has no idea what is…Wait a minute…

“I tried telling them, but they would not listen.  They are headstrong and independent.  It comes from living so far north, in the shadows of the wall itself.  There are few nobles out there and many of the rules and norms of more civilized folk are lost upon them.”

XXX looks over to the monk, letting him continue.

“We truly are on church business.  Each man here has his place, his role to fill.  But they were not aware exactly how much walking was required of them when they volunteered for this…mission of our Most Holy Father.  They soon grew tired and sore.  They began to miss the sound of their own folk, the taste of their own food.  So they grew impatient.  They would not listen to me when I tried to tell them that horses could only be ridden by the nobility, especially after we came into some silver when we dispatched a few orcs and they turned in their…scalps for a reward.

“It was more wealth then either of them had ever seen in their lives, and they became a bit…haughty from it.  So I brought them to you, a man said to be fair and good-natured.  That is why I came to you, rather then goodman YYY, whom I was told was more likely to accept good coin for a bad transaction.”

XXX just looks at Jonas for a good few seconds before laughing again.  When he finally spoke, his voice had a dangerous edge of sarcasm.  “A good sermon from a good priest.  Always on the lookout for the welfare of your flock, it seems.  Though I was usually inclined to believe that was more the purview of the Franciscans then the Benejesuits.  But it is no matter for me.”

He looks back to the tribesmen.  “Be good boys and listen to your monk here, or you’ll learn to get used to the taste of Viskothic gaol food.  I don’t care what you do in your own country, but you are no longer in your country.”  He leans in toward the mage.  “That’s my sermon.  Now get off my land.”

He turns and leaves, walking back towards his house.

“Is he going to get us some saddles?”  Pfren asks hopefully.  “Or is there yet another merchant we must go to for that?”

 

***

 

“I still do not understand, Jonas…”

“What’s to understand, Pfren?  Your people are all cracked.  Horses can only be ridden by nobles?  Even if you can afford them, even if you own them, even if you know how to actually ride them, even then, you still are not allowed to ride them?  Who the hells came up with that idea?” Mirzam was angry.  It wasn’t just the fact that they now faced the entirety of their journey on foot.  He was still chaffing over being called a ‘boy’ by someone who was half his age.

“My people?  What do you mean my people?”  Asks a perplexed druid.

“You cow-eyed round-ears.  All of you,” the mage makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.  “You are all always coming up with strange ideas about…class, position, rank.  What possible reason could be made to justify such a law?!”

“Just for the that very reason.”  The monk says, in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Class.  Position.  Rank.”

“That makes no sense, Jonas.”  Replies the druid.

“Of course it does.  It makes perfect sense.  Horses are an incredible convenience.  They make travel relatively easy and safe.”

“And you are strengthening your argument, how?”  Quips the mage.

“Look at how difficult it is for us to move about.  How slowly, how much effort.  Had the ranger Aubrey not provided us with so much food, which by the way, is also illegal…”

Mirzam shakes his head.  “What?  What is illegal?  Eating?  Only nobles can do that now?”

“Hunting.  Without the permission of the lord whose land you are on.”

“Wait, we are supposed to find…every lord…ask every one of them whose lands we pass through…if we can even eat?!”

“Not eat, but hunt, yes.”  Mirzam is too aghast even to respond.  “As I was saying, many of the laws that exist in these lands exist to enforce the positions of the privileged classes.  Without Aubrey breaking laws every time he brought us a hare or a clutch of squirrels, we would have to eat at inns all along the way.”

“There’s no way we could do that.  We would have long ago run out of money, even with the silver from the orcs.  And then there’s the fact that many nights there were no inns that we passed.”

“Exactly.  No horses to travel.  No way to eat along the way.  No way to travel altogether without running afoul of the law.”

“And this is a good thing, how?”  Returns the mage.

“You live, you work, you grow old and you die, all in the same fields and village you were born in.  In that way, peasants have to stay put.  They have to till the fields, tend the crops.  They have no other choice then to remain utterly dependent upon the lord who owns the same fields that farmers have been living on for more generations then the nobles have actually lived here.  It is an exercise of power, power over the masses.”

“And you agree with this, Jonas?”  The druid asks.

“No.  But what other way is there?  You remember that grandfather Daffid?  The one we saved the orcs from?”

“Aye.”

“Do you remember how he came about having a granddaughter?”

“His own daughter was raped, or so he said.”

“Aye.  But it is not rape, if it is done by a lord.  Technically it is, but it will never be acted upon.  The victim herself will simply be called a harlot and it will be left at that.  Once again, the assertion of power.  The only way a small group of people can control a much larger group.”

“So why don’t they rebel?  Rise up, take out these parasites?”  Asks the mage.

“Easy to say, easier to think, if you were born free.  Such an idea is treason, treason that will be silenced by your own friends and family out of fear, if that is what you were born to.”

Pfren looks hard at the monk.  “And you are alright with this, this…tyranny?”

“As I said, no.  It was these very realities that drove me north.  But again, what other way is there?”

“Hmm,” replies the mage.  “I don’t know, maybe…freedom?”

“Your folk might be free, but only so much.  And even that comes with a cost.”

“And what cost is that?”  Asks the druid.

“Constant war.  You and Bron, you are brothers, yet given the hostility between you, hostility that flows from your foster-tribes…” The monk puts up a hand to prevent the druid from interrupting, “hostility that your own father sought to quell by fostering the two of you into those very tribes who almost broke out into open battle more then once.  War has many costs.  So does peace.  Who but one who has paid both prices and enjoyed both benefits can really be said to understand which is better?”

Pfren says nothing.  He cannot accept what the monk is saying as true, yet he finds that he cannot formulate any sort of argument to counter it.  There is a flaw in his reasoning, he just does not have the language to articulate it.  Nor, he realizes with unease, does he himself have the wisdom to see it clearly enough.

“That’s all well and good, Jonas,” Mirzam says between furiously annoyed puffs of his pipe.  “I’m sure you and Cisario would have quite bit to chew on over dinner.  But that hardly helps us any.  So now we have to walk all the way to wherever the hells your church fellows have dragged Seth, then walk all the way back to Slien?”

“It would seem so, Mir.”  Pfren answers with a deep, depressed sighing.

“Is there any other ‘rules’ we need to be aware of, Jonas?  Hmm?”  Asks an increasingly irritated Mirzam.  “Any other things we can’t do, or even need some lord in his mighty castle to approve?  Like breathing?  Moving our bowls?  Anything we need to know about before getting thrown into a dungeon?  Gods, I thought maybe Seth had run afoul of the church because they found out who he was, what he was doing.  Won’t it be funny when we find that, no, he just took a piss without the king’s leave.”

“Easy, Mirzam.”  Pfren looks to the monk.  “But his question is valid.  What else can we not do here that we might otherwise take for granted at home?”

“Carry weapons of any kind, for one.”

“Oh hells, so why haven’t I gotten pinched for my bow?”  Asks the mage.

“It is a short-bow, a hunting bow, and you carry a quiver of hunting arrows.  Odd for a scribe, but then that lie was a useful one, as likely you hunt for us.  But mostly it was left alone because of me.”

“You?  What do you have to do with it?”

“Pfren was wise to bring me along.  My presence keeps many a question at bay.  Peasants, even most nobles, fear the church even more then they fear the king’s men.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“For us, yes.”  Answers the druid.

“It is assumed that you have leave to hunt, even when others do not, since you are with me.”

“Aye, good to know.  Is that it then, Jonas?”

“Likely.”  The monk thinks for a second.  “Unless on the off chance we encounter any gold.”

“Why?  Is gold forbidden to anyone but nobles too?”  Quips the mage.

“Yes.”

“My apologies, Pfren,”  Mirzam sneers.  “Obviously some round-ears are more cracked then others.  This place is gripped in utter madness.”

 

After the failed attempt to purchase horses, Mirzam demanded one more night sleeping in a bed, but only one that the dreaded bedbugs themselves couldn’t afford.  Since they no longer needed to save the silver for the horses, the companions decided to splurge a bit and stay the night at a better quality establishment.

They found a rather old, but quaint place not too far from the stables called ‘The Naiad’s Rest.’  There were far fewer people here and the enclosed booths offered much more privacy.  They had even managed to secure a private dining room where they held their conversation.  Pfren felt more at ease, being able to speak without having to look over his shoulder, lest anyone hear his ‘forbidden tongue.’  He was starting to envy the mage his spells.

The dinner, too, was much richer then they were accustomed to.  All three enjoyed the golden mead, filtered to near clarity.  It was soft on the palate and it’s spreading warmth quickly banished the aches of their travels.  Twice-baked quail, roasted with garlic butter and capons was a nice change from hard-tack bread and rain water.  Even the rats seemed to be well mannered here, keeping themselves discretely out of sight.  They had enjoyed the fare so well, it was decided to buy another full course of cold meat and mead to be stored for their journey.

“By all the gods above and below, that was a mighty acceptable meal.”  Mirzam states, picking at his teeth.

“Savor it, that will be the last hearth-cooked fare we enjoy for…who knows how long now.”  Replies the druid, pushing his chair back and settling down.

“Mmm, I’ll miss the food, but not the stink of this place.  Nor it’s crazy people.”

“They will be just as crazy all the way to wherever Seth has found himself, then all the way back home.”  The druid returned.

“They seemed less crazy in the villages.”

“Only because you have given them no cause to be otherwise.”  Jonas states.

“Oh, yes.  I forgot.  I was never rude or presumptuous enough to try and spend a gold piece.”  The mage returns, packing a bowl.

Pfren chuckles, belches, then passes gas, wiping his mouth and hands upon the tablecloth.  “Yes, these lands are indeed uncouth.”

“So what’s on the agenda now?”  Mirzam asks, as he lights his pipe with a taper lit from an oil lamp set upon the table.  “We’ve been here two days, and haven’t even begun to ask around about Seth.”  His pipe lit, the mage tosses the taper onto his plate.

“Yes, we will have to start that on the ‘marrow.”  Pfren mused.  “We have a lot of area to cover, and we cannot even split up to cover it more quickly.”

“Think Aubrey the Cheerful stick around?  Once we get the bard, his duty to us is released.”

“His duty to us remains in force until we return to Slien.”  Replies the druid.

“Mmm.  Still, I don’t relish the idea of keeping him out there all alone to stew about for too long.  He is a pagan, after all.  He might do something nefarious that lights up the countryside with rage against his heretical ways.  Who knows, he might even murder some poor squirrel for dinner without getting permission from the king, the pope and Éru first.  Hopefully he has enough sense to be good and just go rape some peasant girl…I mean harlot, instead.”

Without a word, Jonas gets up and walks out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.  Pfren looks over the elf.

“That was unnecessary.  And uncalled for.”

“Oh, what?  You’re taking his side now?  Are you starting to think that the upended morality of this place is worth nice little inns, especially the ones that don’t have beds that are infested with maggots that suck the blood from you?”

“Mirzam.  Go easy on the man.  He obviously has issues himself with some of the stranger ways here.  And remember, this is his homeland.  How would you take it if he started in on the whole ‘wood-demon’ and devil-worship thing?”

“I am obviously no demon from the woods, and simply calling me one doesn’t make it so.  Any more then referring to your gods as devils makes them so, either.  Hells, why don’t I just start calling Éru a devil?  Any god that would support a place such as this must surely be evil.  And I might remind you, this is the land that is trying to kill Seth, if it hasn’t already.”

“I won’t disagree with you on any of that.  But I am not talking about the Viskothic people, their culture or their views.  I am talking about you getting increasingly hostile to the one man in this entire country who isn’t ready to kill us on sight.  The one man who will help us, whom we need in order to survive here, let alone ever hope to find the bard.”

Mirzam says nothing, only puffs on his pipe.

“Look, we are not done yet, not by far.  We don’t even know where Seth is yet, let alone to have actually set eyes on him.  If he is already in trouble, who knows what we have to do yet to free him.  Then there is the journey home, all without even the benefit of steeds.”

“Don’t remind me.  It doesn’t help your cause to bring that up.”

 

It was well past the witches hour before Pfren and Mirzam made there way upstairs, past the bustle of the newly arrived night crowd at the Naiad’s Rest.  Pfren could not help but note how smooth and cunning the architecture was.  The stairway was made from some blue-veined white stone material, likely marble.  The surface of every step was perfectly straight, aligned with every other step, yet carved in a manner that made it seem to curve slightly outward along it’s length.  The wooden hand-rail was one long, carved pole that curved outward at the base of the stairs, ending in a sort of swirling drop, reminiscent of a waterfall.  The wood was highly polished, coated with some clear sealant.

The paneling of the wooden floors, walls, and even ceiling were a mixture of various species of cut and polished woods, their grain enhanced to accentuate the organic flow of the place.  The thick, yielding material of the floor coverings were various shades of greens, like a sort of undergrowth.  The rafters along the ceiling made cunning use of natural shapes to look like the boughs of trees, with green-lacquered latticework representing foliage.  He suddenly realized that the entire parlor was planned to be vaguely reminiscent of a grotto or a glen, with potted plants and flowers strategically placed for effect.  Even the staircase leading upstairs looked like a tumbling waterfall, frozen in marble relief.

As he looked around, he began to understand how much artistry, let alone skill went into fashioning every bit of this place.  He was moderately impressed by the common-house inn that they stayed in the night before, but this place was far more impressive still.  He found it oddly disturbing how such obvious material beauty and skill could be so intertwined with the apparent social hideousness of this land.

They found the monk at prayer, kneeling on the floor towards the window.  He did not react when they entered, or even as they prepared for bed.  Jonas was about to extinguish the single candle when he asked:

“Are you much longer for that, Jonas?  Shall I leave the flame lit?”

After a moment, without turning, he replies, “No. I am finished.”

Sleep came quickly for the three, as though their bodies sensed that hard rock and roots would be slept on soon enough.  The waxing moon frosted through the diamond-cut windowpanes, giving it a silvery half-light.  Despite his obvious exhaustion, Pfren found his sleep troubled, drifting in and out of wakefulness.  He found himself thinking about Jonas and Mirzam, more then Seth.  He sensed their relationship was turning sour, but was not sure what, if anything he could do about it.

It was only because of his troubled sleep that he was able to hear the noise.  Barely noticeable at first, he initially thought it was likely the mice coming out for their nightly play.  But the more he focused on it, to distract him from his less pleasant thoughts, the more peculiar he found it.  The scratching was soft, like the gnawing of mice would be.  But it was insistent, almost…metallic.  What sort of mice chew on metal? He thought to himself.  A cold feeling hit him as his thoughts turned darker.

Lying on his back, he slowly turned his head towards the door.  He was the closest to the door-side edge of the bed, and he focused his eyes on the door in the darkness.  The moonlight softly illuminated much of the door, but the handle was partially beyond the edge in darkness.  And yet, after a moment, he thought he could see it jiggle slightly.  His eyes went wide with realization as his hand shot out to the elf’s shoulder to rouse him.

“Wh…wha?!”  Mirzam was never subtle when waking.

“Shh!”  The druid hissed, as he pulled close to the mage’s ear.  “I hear something.  Someone is at the door.”  He whispered.

“Tell them to go away.”  The mage said, a bit too loudly.  At that, the scratching seemed to stop.  But Pfren grabbed his cudgel at the head of the bedside and slid out from underneath the blankets.  Slowly creeping towards the door, he reaches out for the handle.  Steeling himself with a deep, soft breath, he turns the handle and yanks open the door.

There is nothing.  No sound, no light, no movement.  The druid stands there for a good minute, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the hallway.  After a bit, he thinks he can begin to make out it’s general shape.  But it is empty.  Quietly, he closes the door and relocks it.  As he walks back to the bed, it suddenly strikes him, he had locked the door after he entered earlier tonight himself.  Yet now it was unlocked, until he relocked it again.

Getting back into bed, he rouses Jonas and the elf, whispering to them about the scratching and the unlocked door.

“We should carry a watch, then.”  Whispers the monk.

“Mmm, that’s the whole point of an inn, to be allowed sleep without watches.”  Replies Mirzam, eyes still closed as he pulls the blankets back over his face.

“What don’t you understand, Mir?” Pfren shoots back quietly, “There was someone at the door trying to get in here.  We are in enemy territory, remember?  No offence, Jonas.  We can’t just ignore that.”

“Then set your watch.”  Says the mage as he turns over and falls back to sleep.

Pfren sighs as he looks at the elf nestled underneath the covers.  “Fine, I’ll take the first two hours.  Jonas, you take the next two.  Mirzam can have the third watch.  Best if he gets the rest of the mead out of his wits, at any rate.”

Jonas says nothing, only nods in acceptance before turning back to his own sleep.  The druid gets partially dressed and walks over to a padded chair next to a small writing desk under the window.  The chair is just outside the light of the moonbeams, keeping him in darkness, while giving him a lighted view of the door.

After a couple of hours, judging by the movement of the moonbeams, the druid sleepily turns over the watch to the monk.  True to his word, Jonas sits in the chair, staring at the door and trying not to think about anything, lest of all what his future held.  He sat there for almost three hours, before quietly walking over to rouse the elf.  Exhausted himself from the stress of the past few weeks, Jonas is asleep almost as soon as his head hit’s the pillow.

Mirzam’s only thought before he blew off his watch was, I pray someone does try and get in here.  I want to watch someone burn.  It was almost midday before anyone awoke.

 

***

Jonas was the first to awake, he always was.  Even before he opened his eyes, he could hear the elf snoring in his ear.   Éru, give me patience, he thought to himself, but for a people that aren’t supposed to need sleep, he snores louder then brother Floyd ever did.  Then it hits him, Mirzam was supposed to be on watch.  He opens his eyes slowly, straining to hear above Mirzam’s sleep apnea for anything that should be there.  Moving his head, he sees nothing in the room out of place.

He sighed, got up and pulled on his robes, getting ready for morning prayers.  Looking down at the other two, he just shakes his head.  It must be easy to be so…impious.  Even their so-called druid-priests seem little more then adolescents running around, never looking past the tip of their own loins.  He turns back towards the window for his morning prayers, when he notes something at the foot of the bed.

Bending over to examine the thing, he see’s that it is one of the mage’s arrows, more specifically, one given to him by the ranger.  He picks it up, wondering how it fell from Mirzam’s quiver, which was slung over the back of the chair beside the window.  As he picks the arrow up, the shaft bends.  It was snapped almost in two near the middle of it’s length.

“Mirzam.”  Jonas said.

“Zzz…”

The monk kicks the bedpost.  “Mirzam!”

“Nugh…Wha?!  Are we under attack?!”

“No, Mirzam…”

“Then bugger off!”  The mage throws a pillow at Jonas, missing by a couple of feet.

“Why did you break this, Mirzam?  One of the arrows the ranger gave to you?”

At that the druid stirred, speaking from under his pillow.  “What are you talking about, Jonas…”

“There is a broken arrow here at the foot of the bed, one of the arrows we would use to call for help.”

At that, Pfren looks over to the elf, already back asleep.  He grabs his own pillow and slams it onto Mirzam’s face.

“Aah!  What?!”  Mirzam bolts up and looks around wildly.

“You were supposed to take third watch, wood-demon!”  The druid says through clenched teeth, and then smacks the elf once more for good measure.

Now fully awake, the two tribesmen scurry for their clothing and gear.  Pfren shuffles over to the door.  “It’s unlocked.  Again.”

“Hells!”  Shouts an angry Mirzam, “It’s either blood-sucking beds or cat burglars!  I HATE this city!”

Jonas is still examining the broken arrow.  “Why come in here and do nothing other then snap this bolt?  It makes no sense.”

“I’ll tell you what that is,” Mirzam said, pulling on his last boot.  “It’s a message!”  He looked around conspiratorially, as if the faint shadows in the corners of the room could contain town guards, ready to pounce.  “Someone is trying to scare us!”

“Who?”  Pfren asked.

“I don’t know…that horse-breeder?  He had a real problem with me.  Maybe he knew I was an elf!”

“That’s ridiculous.  If he knew anything, he’d just stroll over to a guard and then they’d come smashing through the door, not scratching around at night, leaving cryptic messages.”  Pfren threw on his cloak and latched the linchpin.  “It probably just fell out of your quiver and got snapped in the night from one of us.”

“That makes no sense either!  What?  Did a single arrow just hop out and roll over here, up the leg and into the bed of it’s own accord?”

“I think,” Jonas answered, “he meant that it fell out when you set the quiver down earlier when he first en…”

“Shut up, you!”  Mirzam snapped.  “Why the hells didn’t you just tell us when we were on the road that only nobles could ride horses in the first place?  We asked you like fifty times where they could be found, and not once did you bother to mention that little important fact!”

“I…I tried!  I said…  You wouldn’t listen…”

“We don’t listen to you because you don’t ever say anything of importance!”

At the sound of shouting voices, the druid became worried that their argument might draw unwanted attention.  “Mirzam, stop!  Settle down.  There’s no point in any of this.  It doesn’t matter now.  We’re walking, and that’s just that.”

“We wasted two days here, and for what?”

“We still needed supplies and information on Seth’s whereabouts.  We were told he was supposed to be passing through here.  And besides, you were whining about sleeping in a bed every chance you could.”  The druid puts his hand up to silence the elf, “We all wanted a soft bed to sleep in.  We got it, now we need to start asking around for sightings of the bards.”

“Screw that,”  Mirzam drops his bow and quiver to the ground.  “I’m not staying in this town, someone is looking to frame me.  Why else come in here and do nothing other then break an arrow?  That was a message, I’m certain of it.”

At that, the mage kicks his bow and quiver full of arrows underneath the bed.  “I’m leaving this stinking round-eared pit of filth.  Even Aubrey’s smiling face and happy chittering is better then dealing with all of this!”

At that, Mirzam stomps out of the room.  As Pfren watches him leave, Jonas said “Should we go after him?”

“No.  In his anger, he’s more of a liability to us then anything else.  Elves were not meant to live in cities.  Let him cool off under the trees of the countryside.  He’ll be alright.”

“And what of these?”  Jonas taps the discarded quiver of arrows under the bed with the tip of his sandaled foot.  Pfren looks at them for a moment before saying,

“Aye, we can’t just leave them there.  Help me hide these.

 

Back out on the street, Pfren seems to have a change of heart.  “Jonas, maybe I should go after Mirzam.  There’s no telling what kind of trouble an angry elvish mage can do around here.”  The monk just nods.  “But you stay here, just for one more night.  I am no use in helping find information on Seth or the others, I can’t even talk to these people!”

“This is true.”

“So go around and try to find out what you can.  And, also…Try one more time to get us some horses.  Here.”  The druid tosses Jonas the bag of silver coins.

“To what end?”  The monk asks, looking at the bulging leather pouch.  “We have tried and failed already.”

“Aye, that’s just it.  But I think that was Mirzam and my fault.  That horse-breeder seemed willing enough to deal with you, until Mirzam had to start talking.”  To which Jonas only nods.  “Mirzam might be able to tease out secrets from those musty books, but he has no such skill in dealing with people, especially men.  And besides,”  Pfren takes ahold of the monk’s medallion.  “With only a monk, it will be much easier trying to convince merchants that you are buying for the church.”

To this Jonas says nothing other then, “I shall do what I can.”

“Aye.”  Pfren turns to go before stopping to look at the monk.  “And Jonas, I am sorry for what Mirzam said.  Especially last night at dinner.  It’s this place,”  he looks around, “with danger crowding all around us even more then the people and buildings seem to be.  He’s just lashing out, he doesn’t mean those things.”

Jonas says nothing and does not meet Pfren’s gaze.

“Aye, then.  I will see you at the meeting place tomorrow.  Good luck, Jonas…  And thank you.”

At that, the monk looked at Pfren.  “For what?”

“For doing this.  All of this.  I know we are asking much of you.  I know this must not be at all easy for you.  But Seth is your friend, as well.  And it is for him and the others that we do this.”  With that, Pfren turns and walks down the street, pulling up his cowl.

 

To be Continued…

S.E.F.A.