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 15 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 9 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 10/27/2002 Volume 15, Number 9 Circulation: 644 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Heir to Castigale 2 P. Atchley and Firil 1, 1018 Dave Fallon Talisman Nine 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 13-Sy 7, 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 15-9, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 2002 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 Before the customary editorial speechmaking, let me get one bit of business out of the way. If you're a Hotmail or MSN mail user, you probably didn't receive our last issue: Volume 15 Number 8. That's because on September 30th, when the issue was distributed, Microsoft was experiencing a service problem that returned all DargonZine mail with the error message "service unavailable". This is actually the third time in the past year that we've experienced a widespread outage when distributing issues to Hotmail users, and I'm hoping that this month's mailing will go through properly. If you're a Hotmail or MSN user, be warned that you're likely to occasionally miss DargonZine mailings due to their system problems. If you did miss 15-8, I urge you to fetch it from our Web or FTP sites (listed in the masthead above), because the stories in this issue are continuations of stories that we printed last month. Of course, Dafydd's ongoing "Talisman" series continues with part three of "Talisman Nine". The earlier parts appeared in our previous two issues. I hope you're up to speed on the whole Talisman epic, because we're making the final turn and heading for the home stretch. And this issue contains the second half of P. Atchley and Dave Fallon's "Heir to Castigale". This story began in our last issue, and is something of a departure for us. Allow me to explain ... One typically expects a well-written story to tie up all its loose ends, leaving the reader with no unanswered questions. And, for the most part, that's what DargonZine's writers value and try to provide in their stories. But "Heir to Castigale" is very different. Castigale is our newest "communal event": something that will provide an interesting way for several writers to collaborate, and also give Dargon a more unified feel for our readers. As you read the story, you'll notice that instead of having all its loose ends neatly tied up, "Heir to Castigale" leaves a troublesome mess of unanswered questions. That's because the authors wanted to provide plenty of "hooks" or "points of entry" that other writers could pick up and run with. They've established a framework that other writers will be building on in future works, which we'll bring you just as soon as they're ready for publication. So if you haven't read the first part of "Heir to Castigale", go fetch yourself a copy of DargonZine 15-8 and get caught up! And as you read the chapter that appears in this issue, consider what's been left out, and what you'd like to see more of. I guarantee you'll see additional stories that will flesh out the unspoken details of this plot, and there'll be plenty of surprises along the way. I hope you enjoy it! ======================================================================== Heir to Castigale Part 2 by P. Atchley and Dave Fallon and Firil 1, 1018 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-8 "And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce Lord Sagrie Gribbane, my future son-in-law, husband-to-be of my beloved daughter, Evelain!" Lord Curran Castigale listened to the announcement made by his half-brother, Baron Kelleman Castigale with suspicion in his heart and pleasure on his face. Curran had accepted the invitation to the Firil Firstday feast at Castigale Keep based on information from his spies. The Castigale barony on the southwest border of the Asbridge duchy was one that he intended to inherit -- nay, depended upon inheriting. Now, this betrothal raised questions about the heirship, for there was something about the stubborn set of Kelleman's jaw, the victorious smile on Sagrie's face, and the displeased look in the eyes of his half-sister, Dagny, that made him feel he lacked complete knowledge about the situation. Holding his complaisant expression, he turned and smiled at the young bridegroom, Gribbane. Over the din of loud conversations around them, he shouted, "Welcome to the family, Sagrie," raising his glass in a toast. "Thank you, Lord Curran," Sagrie answered with a smile. Curran drank his toast and let his attention wander around the table at which the immediate family sat. He swished his drink around his goblet as he thought troubled thoughts. His father had named him heir presumptive to the barony should the present baron, his older brother Kelleman, not name an heir. As was Castigale tradition, Kelleman was expected to name a male child of his line. Since the baron had no sons, Curran had believed the barony would fall to his shoulders when his aged brother died, but the betrothal had changed the situation. Kelleman could break Castigale tradition which had lasted for years; he could name either of his two daughters as his heir, though the newly engaged Evelain was far too simple a maid while the older daughter Pythia was insane. He could also name Sagrie his heir as well as son-in-law. However, given the old feud between the two baronies of Castigale and Gribbane, Curran felt it unlikely that Kelleman would give his barony away to a scion of the Gribbane line. Still, Curran was more than a little uneasy at the accord that seemed to exist between his half-brother and Sagrie, despite the fact that heirship had not been mentioned in the announcement. The banquet continued, the cacophony of voices drowning the lively tune that the musicians began to play. The far end of the huge room had been cleared for dancing, and as people finished eating, several of them moved to the dance floor. It was a rousing celebration, but Curran was hard put to keep his face clear of his brooding animosity. His wife, Nimieta, who sat next to him was well aware of his discomfiture. "What bothers you, husband?" she whispered. In the surrounding noise of guests chatting, glasses chinking, and the minstrels plucking away, she could have shouted and he would have had trouble hearing her; but he had shared so many secret communications with his wife over the years that he had learned to read her lips. "Something odd is happening, Nimieta," he replied. "My spy told me that this marriage would probably occur, and that both Dagny and Kelleman were against letting either Evelain or Sagrie inherit the barony. Given that, why does Sagrie look so victorious? Why does Dagny look so angry and defeated at the same time?" He took a sip of the fine wine and watched his relatives with veiled suspicion. Her full lips curving up in a perfect half-moon arch, Nimieta smiled sweetly at someone seated across the table. "Why don't you ask him?" she asked simply. "I can't ask my spy here; it will look too suspicious and --" Nimieta laughed, cutting off his statement. "Not your spy, Curran." She gestured toward the head of the table with one slender arm, on which twin bracelets jangled. "I meant your brother." He glanced towards the baron and a slow smile spread across his features. His fat half-brother was busy ignoring Dagny, who was trying to break into his conversation with Sagrie. Curran knew that while Dagny was always close-mouthed, and Sagrie would probably be little inclined to share any information, Kelleman would readily spill the plot if only to gloat. Curran leaned over to kiss his wife, then rose and made his way over to where Kelleman stood. Edging his way past the ring of vassals trying to gain their lord's attention, Curran approached his brother. At once, both Dagny and Kelleman wrinkled their noses at his approach, as if some unbathed woodsman had sneaked into their midst, while Sagrie had a peculiar smile on his face. "Brother," Curran said jovially, "it's been so long since last I saw you. Living in distant Dargon, I hardly ever hear news from my family's seat." He turned to his sister, "And Dagny, how lovely you look. You've organized quite a party. It's amazing what you have done in so short a time!" Dagny managed a nod before she said, "I appreciate your accepting our invitation this time, Curran. But the baron and I were just having a discussion --" "No," Kelleman drawled. Curran could smell the fumes of strong liquor on his breath. "No, actually our discussion was just ending." He looked meaningfully at Dagny, who glared back. "Why don't you go check on our guests, Dagny?" She hesitated a moment before casting a baleful glance at all three men and striding away. "If you would excuse me," Sagrie said to Kelleman. "I must look to my betrothed." He bowed to both men and left them to their talk. Wondering anew at Sagrie's smile, Curran said to his brother as soon as the younger man was out of earshot, "Congratulations on your daughter's engagement." Kelleman grunted and cast his bleary eyes around the room, obviously uninterested in the conversation. Curran continued, "Might I inquire, since this barony is to one day be mine, what land you dowered to the young couple? I've heard you've already put the call out for craftsmen to start building their house ..." Kelleman glared at his younger brother menacingly. Then all at once he chuckled and slurred, "Not that it's any of your business, but I gave them the Pass of Amante and the Valley of the Thumb. And it's none of your business because I *will* have an heir. I've told Sagrie that any son he gets on Evelain will be the next to sit in Castigale." Smiling in self-satisfaction, Kelleman hooked his thumbs in his belt and thrust his belly out at Curran. In his inebriated state, the baron's voice had been louder than was discreet, and so the ring of vassals behind them began to talk excitedly amongst each other and scan the room for Sagrie so that they could be the first to catch his ear. Meanwhile, Curran was aghast. "You promised to name any boy she bears as your heir? You've pledged our family's lands to a child who hasn't even been born yet?" His control faltered and his voice rose in anger as he turned the two statements into questions. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, for it wouldn't do to be seen arguing in public with the baron over his decrees. Kelleman's satisfied look had turned to one of extreme displeasure. He frowned down at Curran and said vindictively, "I'm only telling you so that you know enough to get comfortable in your lands in Dargon. Those hundred acres are all the land you will ever rule, brother." With a dismissive gesture, the baron brushed past Curran to accept obsequious congratulations from his vassals. Too stunned to speak, Curran hurried back to his wife's side. She smiled at him expectantly, but as he related the situation to her, the expression in her eyes changed even as she maintained a sweet smile on her face for the benefit of the gossip-mongers. When at length it was seemly for them to withdraw, they took swift advantage of the opportunity and retired to the quarters allotted to them. The moment the doors closed behind them, Nimieta spoke. "That was unexpected." Curran pulled at his neckcloth as he replied, "Yes, but the wedding date is still some time away. Who knows? Many things can happen between now and the first of Yuli." "Well, I wouldn't be too sure of anything to do with the marriage," Nimieta said with a yawn. "We are not the only ones with designs on the barony." Curran threw his clothing on the floor and slid into bed. "Yes, I'm certain the barony is the only reason Sagrie agreed to wed that simpleton. Despite the trade implications, his aunt, Baroness Veronie Gribbane, is far too proud to forget the feud between the two baronies, and she wouldn't gratify Sagrie's ambitions to save his pompous life. "But the barony isn't the worst of it," he continued, his tone darkening. "Even should Evelain prove barren, she still keeps the land Kelleman dowered to her." Grunting, Curran tossed and turned in the bed, trying to get comfortable. "And we need it!" "I didn't mean Sagrie or his aunt being the only ones who want the barony," Nimieta said. She rose and began to remove the jewelry she was wearing. Curran punched the pillows into position and leaned back, watching her graceful movements. "Who else? You can't seriously consider Dagny. She's not a legal daughter of my father, and as far as the inheritance is concerned, she doesn't enter into the picture at all." Nimieta unhooked her dress and slowly slid it down her body to the ground, bending slightly as she did so. "Dagny is a very ambitious woman, and you should not underestimate her, my husband." She straightened and stood still for a moment. Curran sighed. Her sloping shoulders gave way to generous curves, and as his eyes went down her body, he could see her reaction both to his gaze and the chill air. He brought his eyes back up and pushed aside the covers invitingly. She smiled at him and moved forward, saying, "Dagny is a mother. What she would not do even for herself, she would do for Slevin. I know; I am a mother too." She slid into the bed, leaning against him, and Curran lost interest in the conversation. Wearing a dark cloak, Curran walked north on Commercial Street heading towards the outskirts of the city of Dargon. It had been two months since the banquet at Castigale when he had learned his inheritance was in jeopardy. He had plotted ways of turning the tides of politics in Castigale back to his favor, but even living in his faraway estate in the duchy of Dargon, he had to be cautious. His brother already suspected him of unsavory activities, and if too drastic an event were to occur in Castigale, Curran feared Kelleman would be quick to look his way for the culprit. However, with Melrin, the summer festival, approaching in less than a sennight, he had a convenient excuse to journey to Dargon. Feigning tiredness from the journey, he had waited in his room at the Rogue and Quiver Inn until the night's third bell and then slipped quietly out. His brisk walk led him to his destination: the last cottage in the row of decrepit buildings that lined the dirt street that led north of the city proper. This one appeared to be slightly larger than its companions and had a small shed beside it. Curran strode to the cottage and rapped authoritatively on the door. The sound carried through the night air, echoing within the dwelling. For more than a mene there was no response save for the distant yowling of dogs. He was about to leave when a cold hand patted his arm. Startled, he turned swiftly, arm outstretched. His instinctive attack sliced through the air and did not find the obstruction he'd expected. Two paces away stood a small woman, regarding him so intently that her eyes seemed to glow like a cat's. In the dim light of the moon, Nochturon, she seemed ethereal, and had she not spoken, Curran would have sworn that he had encountered an apparition. "This is an odd time to come a-calling," she said, breaking the stillness. She had a very pretty voice, but the rest of her, aside from her eyes, was unremarkable: short hair that appeared a middling brown, a triangular face with a slightly pointed chin, and an ordinary nose. The tunic and breeches she wore appeared to be of the same muddy color. "Straight," he began, "I'm looking for Iolanthe. Are you her?" "Is this about an animal?" "Not really," Curran said. His diplomatic instincts prevented him from saying anything that sounded negative. In this case, his errand was delicate, and he struggled to find the right words. He settled for the most innocuous ones he could find: "I need some help." She stared at him for a very long time, and Curran had to consciously stop himself from fidgeting. The distant town bell tolled the time, four long and solemn bells, and she moved at last, nodding her head toward the cottage. He followed her in and watched as she turned up the wick in the lamp that hung from a hook on the ceiling. The room appeared to be a sort of antechamber leading to the inside of the cottage; what lay beyond the open doorway at the far end was shrouded in darkness. There were no windows, but shelves on all walls were filled with folded fabric squares, covered containers, pots both large and small, and tiny bundles of what appeared to be roots. The room smelled strongly of dried herbs, animals, and something less pleasant, like sickness or death. Nochturon's pale light trickled in through a simple skylight. "You said you needed my help," Iolanthe prompted, sitting on one side of the small table in the center of the room. Curran looked around for another chair and found a stool in one corner. He took a moment to drag it to the table and sat down gingerly as he tried to think of the right words to say what he wanted. "Yes, I need your help. There's a young woman who is getting married on the first of Yuli," he said hesitantly. "It would be a good idea if she did not." Something changed in the young woman's face and bearing, and Curran felt a thrill of fear. Until that moment, he had simply taken her to be what she appeared to be: a healer. With that one statement of his, a menace had crept into the room. He tried to identify it so that he could demystify it. Was it that she had straightened in her seat? Was it that she became instantly ready to field a physical threat from him? Or was it simply that she had shed whatever it was that allowed her to masquerade as a healer? He did not know, and even though he wanted to discover what it was, he did not pursue the thought. "Changing the course of events is not something to be undertaken lightly," she said softly. "Are you sure you want this to be done?" "Yes, I'm sure," he said strongly, allowing his rage at Kelleman to spill into his voice. The emotion seemed to convince her, for she nodded once. "The change in the events will be permanent," she warned. "Second thoughts will be ... useless." Curran snorted. "I will not have them. I am determined on this course of action. It is the only one left open to me." She smiled. "There is also the matter of funds." "I understand." Curran wondered how much she would charge. He had originally thought it odd that this healer was reputed in darker societies to be a killer who could make murder look like an accident. He had been used to thinking of hired killers as uncouth and barbaric. He remembered the man he had hired to ambush a merchant's wagon inbound to Dargon. He had dressed in dirty clothes that were the same color as mud; he had smelled like a rotting corpse, his hair and teeth had been blackened with soot, and his language had been almost incomprehensible. Curran had been surprised when one of his unofficial hirelings had whispered to him, after a generous payment, that she was the best. It was rumored that this woman had even killed Liriss, the most notorious and feared criminal of Dargon, and made it look like a disappearance. Looking at her now, he was still taken aback. "This young woman who is getting married, tell me about her," Iolanthe invited. She leaned back and pulled something from the shelf and brought it to the table. Curran tensed and then relaxed as he realized that she was merely working with a bunch of herbs, separating the leaves and the roots. "The girl's name is Evelain Castigale, and she's going to marry Sagrie Gribbane. Lord Sagrie, I should say." Iolanthe's hands stilled momentarily. "They do not live in Dargon. She is the daughter of the baron of Castigale, is she not?" "Yes," Curran replied, surprised that she recognized the names. Few people in the isolated city of Dargon could even count the rest of the baronies in their own duchy, let alone know one small barony in the Asbridge duchy that was a fortnight away. "There will be travel involved," she murmured. "Therefore expenses. You mentioned that the wedding is on the first of Yuli. Is there a specific date which would be suitable?" "No, I leave that to your convenience. If we can decide the matter of recompense ..." he let his voice trail off, uncertain of how to negotiate a price for a task such as this. It was not like haggling to buy a horse or a piece of land, after all, nor was it as neat as paying a pack of brigands to ambush a caravan. This was directly paying one person to kill another, and his niece at that. While he had no moral contention with the act, it still seemed dirtier than he was used to, and he felt slightly out of his element. "I need more supplies for my animals," the woman said, apparently at random. Her voice held not even a nuance that there was more to her statement. Curran stared long and hard, waiting to discern her meaning. He supposed that in her line of work, plain speaking could be as dangerous as performing her paid tasks, but her conversation was so mercurial that he was floundering in equivocations. Finally, he said, "Yes, your animals." He pursed his lips and made his offer, "Do you think a donation of ten Crowns would help them?" "Oh yes, I could use such a donation," she smiled at him. "But there's also the journey. Perhaps a horse." "Done," he said. "I'll have a servant bring the 'donation' to you tomorrow." "That won't be necessary," Iolanthe said, "or prudent. Instead, have your servant bring your ailing horse here tomorrow evening, with payment for its treatment in silver, not gold." "I only carry gold," Curran said indignantly. "To get it exchanged will take time and may arise suspicion." "Then imagine the suspicion it would bring should I try to get it exchanged," came the response. "And having your servant bring the horse later would be better anyway. Maybe even after you've left for your journey home with a new mount. I'll keep the horse here under my care until such time that you return to claim it." Curran was aghast. "I'm not returning here!" he said louder than he had intended, but then the sharp smile on Iolanthe's plain features told him that she already knew that. Calming, Curran nodded hastily and slipped off the stool. "Thank you, mistress." "Utterly beautiful, don't you think?" a guest said. Curran gritted his teeth and tried to smile. He was engaged in polite conversation at the party to commemorate the opening of Evelain's new house in the Valley of the Thumb. It had been three full months since he had attended the Firil Firstday feast at Castigale Keep, but he already felt that it was far too soon to find himself at another Castigale party. Normally he would have refused the invitation, but his worries over Iolanthe's task and the rumors he had heard about the eccentricity of the house had been enough for him to make the eight-day journey from his estate in Duchy Dargon. "Oh, unique, my dear, 'unique' is the word you're looking for." Yet another guest paid yet another fulsome compliment to Evelain's talent and Curran grimaced as he looked around the courtyard. Although the party had started inside the house, it had rapidly spiralled into disaster as evening approached. The first and most oppressive issue was the heat. While only five days before the first of Yuli, the weather remained mortifyingly hot and humid. To make matters worse, the windows in the ballroom had jammed shut, rendering it so sweltering that four guests dressed in constrictive finery had fainted. Finally, Dagny had encouraged everyone to move the party to the courtyard. Fresh air, however, did little to ease the insipid event. As bad at polite conversation as Evelain was, she had either insulted or bored all those in attendance within a bell of their arrival, and no one had dared to object. Meanwhile his brother, Kelleman, was focused on the tables of food that Dagny had arranged to have brought outside; he busied himself gobbling dainty pastries and guzzling wine rather than paying attention to either his guests or his vassals. Desperate for any redeeming entertainment, most of the guests resorted to milling around the courtyard, gossiping amongst and about each other. Curran heard more snatches of conversation about the creativity of the building's design. "... very interesting definition." "Yes, indeed. The stained glass is truly superb. I must say that the artists here are very talented." Due to an agreement over the dowry, Kelleman had ordered that the architects consult Evelain on the plans of the building, and its peculiar features displayed her erratic tastes. The perimeter was surrounded by a low stone wall about five hands tall, and interspersed along the wall were small statues, many of them of creatures that surely had never walked Makdiar. The house itself was strangely oval-shaped, with three towers. It had been constructed of pale-gray stone, and stained-glass windows on the front glinted red and gray, the Castigale colors. The only flaw in the appearance of the building was the east wing, which was still under active construction. Scaffolding surrounded the east wall and tower, where wooden support beams showed through the walls. A few windows gaped open where glass had yet to be set, while the glass in others glinted the same red and gray. Curran allowed himself a moment to speculate on how much the whole building had cost, and mentally congratulated his half-sister, Dagny, for running such a prosperous barony, one that he would eventually inherit. Nimieta, his wife who was standing beside him, offered a lavish compliment to one vassal. Smiling sweetly as the guest walked on to prattle with someone else, she leaned closer to Curran to murmur, "Is this going to be over soon?" He stifled a laugh at his wife's bitter tone that was at complete odds with the pleasant smile she still wore. "I hope it's all over soon, dearest," he said quietly, emphasizing the word 'all' in such a way that she could not help but understand what he meant. "Can you believe that Kelleman actually held the party before the building was complete?" His wife laughed. "You mean you can't understand why Dagny arranged this party. If you think Kelleman or Evelain raised a finger for this, you don't know them at all." Curran joined in her laughter. Even though he bore no love for either of his half-siblings, one thing he could admit to was Dagny's efficiency. "Kelleman and Evelain probably wanted the party, but it wouldn't have happened without Dagny to make the arrangements. Why do you think she did it?" he asked idly, sliding his arm around Nimieta's waist and turning her away to avoid getting into a conversation with yet another boring landholder. "I'm not sure. Do you think it has something to do with Sagrie not being here?" she asked with a wicked smile. The biggest and most scandalous upset of party was that Sagrie, the guest of honor and the future occupant of this house after he wed Evelain in less than a sennight, had not yet arrived. Neither Kelleman nor Evelain seemed concerned, though all of the guests talked about it outrageously. Only Dagny seemed to take the situation seriously, stalking amongst the guests and assuring them that Sagrie was on his way but had been detained. "Miserable wretch that he is," Curran whispered. While he didn't share Dagny's anger at the pompous young lord's absence, he was annoyed by it. He saw no reason why the whelp shouldn't suffer at the abysmal party like the rest of them. "Do you think your 'hand' has already taken effect?" Though Nimieta was completely in her husband's confidence, he had refused to give her details about the assassin's name or plan, not that he knew it himself. So she had taken to referring to Iolanthe as Curran's 'hand', a rather tactful name for the assassin. "What if it took Sagrie along the road instead of your niece? Then Kelleman could just marry the mindless chit off to some other wealthy fop and we'd be in the same predicament." "My hand will strike true," he murmured. He had considered the same problem himself, but concluded that Iolanthe would know the correct target. The uncanny assassin had seemed to practically know what he was thinking when he had visited her nearly five sennights past. Nimieta seemed about to ask another question when a voice piped up from behind them. "Here I am, Uncle Curran!" Curran turned around and blinked. His niece, dressed in a gown with bright red stripes, was wearing so many sashes that she resembled a column of loose fabric rather than a well-dressed young woman. Suppressing a groan, he forced a smile and muttered, "Hello, niece." "Don't I look nice?" She grinned at him and twirled. Before his silence became too obvious, Nimieta said, "You look beautiful, Evelain. What a pretty dress!" "Oh, Aunt Nimieta, thank you! Aunt Dagny said that the dress didn't become me, but I like the color." Curran was about to make a curt reply when Nimieta elbowed him in the ribs and said sweetly, "Evelain, would you like to show us the rest of the house? The ballroom was quite beautiful, and I can't wait to see everything." "It isn't finished yet," Evelain protested. Behind Curran, Dagny's voice abruptly chimed in, "That's a good idea, Nimieta." She strode up to the trio casually, but her eyes shifted constantly around the courtyard. At her approach, Curran gave a meaningful nod to Nimieta, who took Evelain's arm and gently guided her towards the building for the tour. While the two of them moved away, Curran took the opportunity to speak privately with Dagny. "Do you really think Sagrie was detained on the way?" he asked by way of opening. "I don't know." Dagny brought her hazel eyes back to meet Curran's blue ones. "He should have been here by now." She was silent for an instant as she surveyed the party, casting a denigrating look at the guests' discomfort. "I can't understand why he's not here. I've had my runners looking for him since yesterday morning." "Do you think he's not coming?" Curran allowed a trace of surprise and outrage to pepper his voice, and Dagny reacted to it. "Not possible," she said firmly. "Kelleman would not stand for the insult." Curran chuckled a bit, causing Dagny's eyes to sharpen like honed flint. "Do you mean that our fat brother would recognize this as an insult?" he asked, quietly enough that none of the other guests could hear, but loud enough to make sure she knew he meant it. "He would realize it if the food didn't arrive, but would he notice if Sagrie didn't?" She met his eyes steadily, then glanced over to where Kelleman stood, a leg of lamb in one fist, a goblet of wine in another, and crumbs shooting from his mouth as he guffawed at something said by the landholder who stood next to him. With a grimace, she turned back to Curran. "If not," she said grimly, "I will ensure that he knows of it." Dagny moved as if to go, and he followed, a step behind. She went towards the main door of the building and away from the mass of guests before turning back. "Was there something else you needed, Curran?" she asked bluntly. He stepped closer and spoke, his voice as soft as velvet yet as strong as steel. "I know you, sister." She flinched at his words and color came to her cheeks, though he could not understand why; she had always been able to keep her face neutral, even if her eyes gave her away to someone who knew her as well as he did. "I remember the day Father brought you to our home after your mother died. I've known you as long as I've lived and I know what you look like when you scheme." "I do not scheme!" Even though her face still wore her normal, indifferent expression, her voice had a hint of a snarl in it. "Oh dear," he said with a wry smile, feigning alarm at her response. "Did I insult my dear sister by insinuating that she does more than just follow our noble brother around, obeying his regal whims?" Dagny drew a breath to retort, but he held up a hand and said quickly, "I truly didn't mean to insult you, Dagny. After all, we're family." Her hazel eyes remained narrowed on Curran's own. She didn't speak, and he continued, "It would seem that schemes run in our family. For instance, our older brother has schemed a way to give our family lands to the nephew of our father's enemy. Oh, I know that the specifics of the arrangement are that it should go to Evelain's son. When she does have a son, you and I both know who will really be ruling the barony." He paused, trying to infuse his silence with meaning. When Dagny made no response, he continued, "Evelain has the mind of a child half her age, and her son will likely be younger than that when old Kelleman dies, leaving Sagrie the steward of an underage baron." Dagny gazed at him with a calm face, but with glittering eyes. Then she licked her lips slightly and asked, "Why tell me what I already know, brother?" He opened his mouth to continue this interesting conversation, when a reverberating rumble came from the unfinished part of the building, closely followed by loud shouts. Dagny had run through the great double doors and down the hall before Curran knew she had moved. He moved to follow, as did many of the curious guests, servants, guards, and workers. Cursing, he fought his way amongst them. The halls in the unfinished wing were littered with debris, stacks of building materials, and occasional construction tools. As Curran passed them, he saw that a fine layer of dust obscured these impediments to their progress. The rolling sound had completely died away by now, but the shouts and moans continued. Curran turned a corner and saw a group of people milling around near a large doorway. Dagny had already reached them and was shouting inquiries. As Curran neared the party, he choked on the thick, dusty air. People stood like shocked statues in the hall, and past them Curran could see the ruin of a room beyond. It had been a high room, with three fluted columns holding a stone ceiling some twelve cubits above. One of the three columns, the one nearest to the doorway, had apparently collapsed, raining stone from the ceiling and the upper levels. Curran looked up through the newly made hole and could see dust swirling down from what he guessed were the upper floors of the unfinished eastern tower. Shafts of red-tinged light from the setting sun filtered through the tower's stained-glass windows at the top of the room, making the unreal scene even more dreamlike. Stones and cracks dotted the marble floor around a huge pile of destruction. "Nimieta!" Curran shouted in alarm. In one corner of the room, a few dazed people huddled, including his wife. "Are you hurt?" Curran stepped over the rocks, shoving aside the dumbfounded guests in his haste. He reached his wife and hugged her, his heart thumping as he eyed the stones. "I'm fine!" she snapped. "Dagny, get some servants! Do something! Evelain is in there." Nimieta gestured at the rubble but Dagny was already gone. Curran dragged his wits together and sighed in relief as he realized that Nimieta was fine. "What happened?" he asked. Another guest standing next to them spoke. "Evelain was showing us around, telling us what was supposed to be where. She just stepped under that awning, and the next thing I knew --" He gestured helplessly, eyes wide as he stared in disbelief at the scene around him. He kept absently brushing at the dust that covered his silk tunic, but only managed to smear it further into the fabric. Curran turned to Nimieta and asked again, "Are you all right? What happened?" She hugged him and slowly wiped away her tears that glittered in the twilight. "It happened just as he said," she murmured. "One instant she was saying something about her art room and the next the roof collapsed. Curran, I -- it was almost me." She drew in a deep breath and swallowed, and Curran knew that she was trying not to cry. Curran whispered soothingly as Dagny finally strode back into the room with a group of guards. "You there! Get some workmen over here at once. I want these stones moved. Right now! Don't just stand there! Where's the supervisor? Get Joelrid here at once!" Dagny's voice grew stronger as she began to shout instructions. Workers emerged from the group of guests and began to move the stones as the guards muscled Curran, Nimieta, and the rest of the room's occupants out of the way. Most of the guests left quietly, while a few remained, despite the guards trying to urge them out. Curran, however, was less shocked over the tragedy. He had quickly realized that this accident must have been the work of his 'hand'. As much as prudence said to be anywhere but near the actual assassination, a morbid fascination kept him standing in the hall outside the large room as he comforted his wife. "Shhh," he whispered into her ear. "It was probably my 'hand'. I don't think you were in any danger." She stiffened in his arms, her tears stopping immediately. "No, it was really an accident. It must have been." Curran was about to reply when the floor beneath them seemed to shudder. Alarmed, he glanced at the few other guests and guards in the hall and they all returned his frightened look. Meanwhile the grunts and shouts of the workers continued unabated. After a moment, most of the remaining guests departed down the hall and two guards took up position at the doorway. "Dagny!" The shout came from the corridor and Curran turned to watch Kelleman approach, his heavy face red and anxious. "What happened? They said Evelain -- that Evelain ..." He looked on the verge of panic, more so than the guests who had actually witnessed the event. The guards glanced at Dagny uncomfortably as Kelleman tried to push past. She nodded to them and they let their lord through. "She must be alive!" he shouted. "Where are the workers? They have to dig, pull away the stones. She must be in there. Have them search, Dagny." Kelleman's voice was pleading, and Curran stared. He had seen his older brother display every emotion from blind rage to inebriated frivolity, but he had never seen him so utterly broken; it was pathetic to see his desperation. One of the laborers shouted, "Look, I found a body! It's got to be the lady!" The other men gathered around him, and they all began to move the rocks away. A swarthy workman holding a lantern hurried in after a whispered colloquy with the guards at the door. Dagny glanced up and said sharply, "Where were you, Joelrid?" Curran turned his attention back as the last stone was moved off the body. "It's one of the builders!" One of three guests who remained exclaimed. "It's not Evelain," muttered Kelleman. Underneath the displaced rocks was the body of a laborer, face down, dressed in the same dirty brown breeches and tunic as the rest of them. "Who's that?" Curran asked in surprise. "Was someone working? Dagny, hadn't your men already stopped working for the day?" "We did, milord," Joelrid replied. "Turn him over." One of the workhands obliged, and then there was a moment of silence. "Hold this lantern." Joelrid handed it to one of his people and crouched. "It's not Evelain; it's not Evelain," Kelleman muttered. Curran glanced at him with pity; his older brother had lost what little poise he had at the sight of the body. "Can you identify this worker?" Dagny demanded. The swarthy man grunted and gently turned the body's face to the light. Curran noticed him murmuring something to Dagny; she stiffened, although her expression did not change. Suddenly, the builder holding the lantern gasped and Curran strained to see what had alarmed the man. Despite the gathering darkness, he could vaguely make out another body lying under the first, and though its torso was still covered by a huge stone, the gaudy red sashes that lay shredded around the body were unmistakable. All was still for a moment, then Dagny said, "Straight. Now, get her uncovered." "No, Dagny! It isn't Evelain. You have to search more! No!" Kelleman screamed. "It can't be her." Another shudder rumbled insistently through the floor, and everyone fell silent. In the stillness, all of the workers looked up. Joelrid turned urgently to Dagny. "It's the tower, mistress! With this column gone the whole thing could collapse!" She arched an enquiring eyebrow at him and he continued in a rush, "With that big block on the poor lady's body it could take us bells to have her out. We need to stabilize the tower with something first ..." Dagny spit an imprecation through her clenched teeth. The rumble subsided but the laborers still looked warily about them. "Straight," she snapped, and turned to her guards. "Take this worker's body outside and have some servants clean it off. Joelrid, go with four of your people and get something to brace the tower." The guards and builders, looking only too relieved to be away from the room, jumped to obey her commands, Joelrid leading the way. "She must yet be alive. They have to dig, pull away the stones. Get the workers, Dagny," Kelleman pleaded. Dagny said gently, "Kelleman, it's too dangerous right now. They can't dig until they've braced the ceiling." "No! Get lanterns! I will not suffer my daughter to be buried -- no, stuck under all of this rock." "You can all do whatever you want," Curran said loudly. His reason had finally won over his grisly interest in the disaster. "Nimieta has had a shock, and we are leaving. There's nothing more for us here." "No one is leaving," Dagny said sharply. When Curran turned back to glare at her, she met his gaze without flinching. "Whatever happened here was no accident," she continued. "Joelrid here says that this body was not one of our workmen. What's more, he swears that he saw him with Sagrie when he came to Castigale the first time." "What?" both Curran and Kelleman shouted at the same time. "Yes," Dagny answered and turned back to Kelleman. "Think about it, brother. That Gribbane cur must have wanted to get out of the marriage as soon as he realized he wasn't going to inherit the whole barony through Evelain. He must have hired someone to come here and stage this accident while he found some excuse to be late and washed his hands of the whole affair. That way, not only does he get out of a marriage he can't benefit from, but he also hurts the most hated enemy of his family. He is a Gribbane, and we should never have trusted him." "A Gribbane," Kelleman growled painfully as he digested Dagny's statement. Curran was amazed at the way Dagny painted the events, but he grasped the implications immediately and wasted no time siding with his half-sister. "That is true, Dagny," he said in his most earnest voice. "Sagrie is so power-hungry that he must have hated knowing he would never inherit anything more than this house. I bet his aunt, the Baroness Veronie offered him better land and status in Narragan for the deed." Kelleman looked up and Curran could see rage burning behind his tear-streaked, red-rimmed eyes. "When I'm finished with that Gribbane," he started in a low voice, "Saren himself will wince at his agony! I'll strip his skull of flesh and feed his eyes to my horses! I'll burn his house to the ground and spit in the ashes!" Kelleman was standing now, flailing his fists in the air and gnashing his teeth like a wild animal. "I'll turn this feud into a war, the like of which his bitch-baroness aunt will wake screaming from at night!" He wiped the last of the tears from his face, and his eyes suddenly took on a look of maddened calmness. "Their family will die and their land will burn!" ======================================================================== Talisman Nine Part 3 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 13 - Sy 7, 1013 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-7 Yawrab had never been so lost in her life. Oh, she knew where she was: walking along the Renev River. She knew where she was going as well: the Denva estate, where she was employed as chatelaine. In a different sense, however, she was foundering in a sea of disaster and change. She only had one thing to cling to, and that was revenge. News of her sister had set Yawrab adrift in the first place. Tillna had worked in an inn in Beeikar, and Yawrab had intended to visit her. Instead, she had learned of Tillna's death. No one at the inn had known anything more than the fact that Lord Aldan had arrived the previous night, announced that Tillna was dead, and left again. Yawrab had gone to Bindrmon Keep in search of more information. She knew that Tillna had planned on marrying Lord Aldan, the son of Baron Bindrmon. Yawrab hadn't believed it would ever happen, but the baron's heir had obviously known something about her sister. However, when Yawrab arrived, she had learned that Lord Aldan had ridden out before dawn after asking about Dargon, the duchy in the north of Baranur. As Yawrab returned along her morning's path, she tried to make sense of her vow to chase after the young lord all the way to Dargon itself. Nothing that she had been told linked Lord Aldan with the death of Tillna, and yet somehow she knew that she had to follow him across half the kingdom. Revenge spurred her on, allowing her to contemplate leaving everything she knew behind, but she still didn't know why she was so sure that Lord Aldan was her target. She walked into a patch of sunlight that made her blink, seeing strange shapes behind her eyelids as she did so. Interwoven lines were formed by the shadows of the leaves above her, and strange animal shapes as well. She thought she saw a raven, a cat, and a fox in those shadows. The leaves closed in above her and the odd patterns vanished, taking with them her reservations about why she needed to follow Tillna's murderer. Yawrab checked the position of the sun in the next clearing she entered, and estimated that it was about seventh bell. Her mind went automatically to what she would normally be doing at that time: checking the stores for tomorrow's meals while she began to prepare for today's dinner. So set was she in her daily rounds that she seldom had to check the timing of her tasks. Yawrab had heard her staff of servants at the estate joke that she was more reliable than the sun for marking out the path of the day. Her reminiscence only served to make her more nervous. How could she contemplate striking off into the complete unknown like this? Riding alone across untold leagues of unfamiliar territory, without the slightest inkling of how to protect herself, or survive in the wilderness, was sheerest folly. Nevertheless, Yawrab found herself unable to grasp any other course of action. Her need for revenge burned away all of her fear, for a little while at least. She turned her thoughts to safer matters. She needed transportation for her journey, and she had no choice but to take one of the estate's steeds. She tried to decide which horse was docile enough for her to control, but the stables were not part of her duties and she knew little about her employers' stock. Hoofbeats behind her startled Yawrab out of her thoughts. A rush of fear went through her as she abruptly recalled her near-rape that morning, and she backed up against a tree hurriedly before turning to face the noise. The tightness in her chest eased when she saw the trio of horses turning onto the river path; it loosened completely when the wagon they pulled came into view. Yawrab recognized Ganba and Hiranw sitting on the drivers' bench; these were two of the three gypsies who had rescued her that morning. She also recognized that they were intent on the trail in front of them. Something about their gazes told her that they were both mournful and angry about something. Once the wagon had completed its turn, the driver, Hiranw, flicked the reins and called to the team. The horses picked up their pace, drawing the wagon rapidly toward Yawrab. She lifted her hand in greeting, but neither gypsy seemed to notice her until the last moment. Ganba glanced her way as the wagon began to pass her, and as the wooden side with the stylized fox painted on it slid by, she heard Hiranw calling to the team of horses. The wagon rolled to a stop, and Yawrab started toward it. She saw Hiranw climb down from the bench and walk back, smiling broadly. Ganba appeared around the far side, also smiling, though not as brightly. There was still a hint of upset in her eyes. "Well met, Yawrab," said Hiranw, genuine warmth in his voice. "How went your visit? Would you like a ride back to your estate?" Yawrab saw Ganba glance at Hiranw and frown, but before she could answer Hiranw, a voice called out from in front of the wagon. Presently, the other gypsy, Shaiff, appeared behind Ganba. He seemed to be asking a question of his sister, but Yawrab couldn't understand their tongue. Ganba answered him in the language they all shared: Baranurian. "We've stopped to offer our morning's passenger another ride, Shaiff," she said, looking darkly at Hiranw as she did so. "But --" began Shaiff, but Ganba interrupted him. "Even though it was Hiranw that made the offer, I think we can spare the time to help our fellow traveler. This estate she hails from is no great divergence." Turning toward Yawrab, the gypsy said, "That is, if she wishes our help." Yawrab considered the advantages of taking the ride, and decided that an extra bell of riding after Lord Aldan would be a fine thing to have. She said, "I would be grateful for the aid. Thank you for the generous offer, again." Hiranw led her around to the front of the wagon, and Yawrab tried hard not to flinch at his touch when he helped her up into the seat. As before, Ganba climbed up next, sitting between Hiranw, who mounted last, and herself. Yawrab didn't know whether Ganba had noticed how nervous she was around both brothers, but was glad of the seating arrangements. The wagon was soon moving again, Shaiff scouting ahead on his horse. Silence stretched, broken only by the creak of the wheels and the jingling of the harness. Yawrab noticed that Hiranw was staring fixedly at the road ahead, and sadness showed along Ganba's profile again. She wondered what mission they rode on. After a while, Hiranw let out an exasperated sigh, which startled Yawrab from her continuous contemplation about the horse she would steal. The young gypsy twitched the reins idly, and finally said, "So, Yawrab, you never answered my first question. How went your visit with your sister?" For a moment, Yawrab had no idea of how to respond. Should she just tell these strangers her personal tragedy, or should she lie? No, lying wasn't in her, and if they were strangers, they were kind and caring and deserved an honest answer. "My sister ... T-tillna is dead." "What?" cried Hiranw. "How?" Yawrab gulped past the choking grief, and said, "I don't know. No one seems to." She paused, and Ganba squeezed her shoulder. Yawrab turned to her and saw the sympathy in her face. Hiranw reached across his sister to pat Yawrab's knee; she saw the sympathy there too, but that didn't stop her from shifting her knee away from his touch after the first pat. She saw Ganba nudge her brother, who settled back into his driving with a hurt look on his face. Yawrab continued, "I heard the news at the inn, and went to the keep to try to learn more. I only learned that Lord Aldan rode out in secret just before dawn today, headed for Dargon." Hiranw drew a breath, but Yawrab saw Ganba nudge him again. Instead, the gypsy woman said, "And who is Lord Aldan?" "Aldan is the son and heir of Baron Chak Bindrmon, the ruler of this area of Welspeare. Tillna was aiming to marry him." Yawrab paused again, and then pressed on. "I believe that Lord Aldan killed Tillna, and has fled to Dargon. I ... I intend to follow him there. Tillna must be avenged." Ganba's hand squeezed her shoulder again, and the wagon continued on its way. Yawrab stared straight ahead, neither leaning into Ganba's support, nor pulling away from it. Hiranw again broke the silence, but he spoke in the gypsy language. Ganba answered in kind. Their exchange continued, and Ganba removed her hand from the chatelaine's shoulder. Yawrab turned to watch the two speak. Hiranw seemed to be arguing, his voice forceful, his handsome face turned forward, intent on the road before them. Ganba's voice was softer, and Yawrab thought she heard the tones of someone trying to be reasonable about something. The woman gestured at her brother, though with all of Hiranw's attention focused outward, Yawrab wasn't sure that the driver saw any of that. The debate drew to a close, but Yawrab couldn't tell which participant had won. Hiranw continued to stare at the road; Ganba dropped her gaze to the floor of the wagon. When nothing further happened, Yawrab opened her mouth to ask what that had been all about. Ganba interrupted her before she could say a word. "How do you expect to get to Dargon?" asked Ganba, still staring at the floorboards. "I ... well," Yawrab began hesitantly. She debated with herself once more, and decided that it wasn't going to be a bunch of gypsies who turned her in for stealing. "My thought was to take a horse and provisions from the estate, and ride north." Ganba looked up and stared into Yawrab's eyes. "Do you know where Dargon is?" Yawrab looked back, and said, "North." Hiranw joined Ganba in laughing at the answer. The woman continued her questioning. "And how long will the journey take? Will you be able to make a camp and trap and cook your own game when it becomes necessary?" Yawrab shook her head Ganba's queries. She knew she was woefully unprepared to undertake her journey, but she had to go. She wanted to break down and cry, but that wasn't how a chatelaine acted. Instead, she held on to her resolve, to her need for revenge, and straightened in her seat. She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, and when the questions stopped, she said, "I will make do. I must. I am going to Dargon after Lord Aldan, and I will do whatever is required to get there." Her voice never wavered despite the churning fear in her gut. "Of course you will," said Ganba. "So, let me offer you aid once again. The three of us are also headed for Dargon, chasing our own obligations. Come with us, Yawrab. With our help you will complete your journey. Without it, you quite frankly don't stand a chance." Yawrab said, "I accept," so swiftly that she realized she had been expecting the question, and had somehow made up her mind about it long since, perhaps as long ago as when Ganba had first uttered the word 'help' behind her wagon. Yawrab turned and smiled at Ganba, and reiterated, "I accept." She looked past Ganba and saw that they were driving by Shaiff, who was sitting on his horse by the trail that led to the Denva estate. The young man wore a very puzzled expression as the wagon passed without turning, carrying Yawrab away from her home and everything she still had in the world now that her sister was gone. She was amazed that she wasn't more afraid, but she knew somehow that she needed to be exactly where she was. The fear didn't stay away, but Yawrab now had a new weapon to combat it: the gypsies and their wagon. As the Denva estate disappeared behind them, Yawrab asked where they were headed, since she had enough woodcraft to know that they were traveling east, and not north. She was told that they journeyed to rejoin the bantor, or wagon group, that Ganba belonged to, before heading to Dargon. Silence returned, and Yawrab was content to let it remain. She had questions still, but she also had caution. She didn't want to bother her new companions enough to make them reconsider their offer, not while they were close enough to the Denva estate to return her there without significant delay. Night fell, and Yawrab marveled at how swiftly and easily the three gypsies set up a camp beside the pathway they were on. Soon, a campfire drove back the darkness and the smell of roasting meat made her mouth water. Three tents were draped from the sides of the wagon, and Yawrab wondered which was to be hers. She assumed that she would share with Ganba, since she certainly was not prepared to share with one of the brothers. After the meal had been shared out, Yawrab decided to ask her questions. She started with, "How long before we reach your bantor?" Ganba replied, "Another day's travel. We will arrive by nightfall tomorrow." "So, we will head north the day after?" Ganba shook her head. "We will not be able to begin so swiftly. First I must present the news. We must inform the bantor of the danger, and solicit whatever help we can." Yawrab stiffened in alarm. "News? Danger?" Hiranw said, "Not immediate danger, Yawrab. There is no need to fear." Ganba continued, "My brother is right. The danger is only to my people, the Rhydd Pobl, and it does not directly threaten us yet. But it is real, and we need to warn everyone as soon as possible." Yawrab saw that all three gypsies were agitated, and she wondered whether she had the right to pry. She had told them of her tragedy; perhaps it would help them to share their news in turn. She asked again, in a calmer voice, "What news do you bring? What danger lies in wait for your people?" "Rhonwn is missing!" Hiranw blurted out. "Bobere's dead. The Bloody Hand --" Ganba stood up and barked some commands. "Hiranw, go gather more firewood. Shaiff, check on the horses, and then bring some more water. Let me answer Yawrab's questions without frightening her even more." Yawrab calmed herself after Hiranw's outburst. Another dead person in Beeikar. She wondered how much bad luck one town could have. The brothers set about their tasks. Ganba started to come closer to Yawrab, but seemed to reconsider and took a seat directly across the fire from her. "Let me try to explain," she said. "My uncle Bobere was killed this morning by a leader of a band of troublemakers called the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. This man, Lacsil, learned of the maps that Bobere had made of the secret paths of our people; we never make maps as a rule, but Bobere had a bad memory. His son, Rhonwn, a good friend of Hiranw, was missing from the camp when we arrived, along with the map." She fell silent, and Yawrab said, "I'm so sorry, Ganba." The silence continued, and finally Yawrab had to ask, "What is this Bloody Hand thing, and how can they use the maps against your people?" Ganba sighed and said, "We Rhydd Pobl, we gypsies, are not well favored by most." Yawrab nodded and said, "I know of your reputation." She looked at Ganba across the fire and continued, "Truth told, had you or another of your people come to the door of my estate before today, and I would have had you turned away." At Ganba's nod of acceptance, she continued, "I know better, now." Ganba said, "Few get the chance to know us better, by choice on both sides for the most part. Most, like your former self, simply shun us. Others feel that theirs would be a better world without us entirely. The Bloody Hand of Sageeza is a group of such people." "Are they many? How do you cope?" The brothers had finished their tasks by this time and returned to the fireside. Shaiff sat beside his sister, while Hiranw took the stump near Yawrab that Ganba had decided not to sit in. Yawrab saw Ganba frown at Hiranw, but the brother didn't catch any message that frown might have conveyed. Ganba said, "They are not many, and are not well organized. They bother us when they have the chance, and we do our best to avoid them. They have no sanction from your crown, and even if a local constable or magistrate turns a blind eye to their activities, there is still a limit to what they can do. "Under normal circumstances, even having Bobere's maps would not give the Bloody Hand any real advantage over us. We are as scattered as they, and knowing how we travel wouldn't make them any more dangerous." "Except for the marriage," said Hiranw. "And the annual gathering." "Yes, brother, except for those." Feeling stupid, and slightly annoyed at always having to ask the obvious questions, Yawrab said, "Marriage? Gathering?" This time it was Ganba who drew breath to reply, and Hiranw who interrupted. Leaning closer to her, he said, "We gather annually to celebrate the passage of time and conduct such business as requires a large number of us to complete. Usually, we do so at the turning of the year from spring to summer, but this year we had to rearrange the plans. And that is because it took so long to negotiate the marriage of Maks, one of us, to Syusahn, an outsider. She belongs to another nomadic people called the Gwynt Gyrun, the Wind Riders in your language. This is a rare interlocking of our cultures, and the event will be well attended by both our peoples." Ganba took up the tale. "Near the beginning of fall, in what you term Seber, this year's gathering will take place at Eariaddas Hwl in the northern woods of Dargon. Somehow Lacsil knows of this gathering, and because of the maps, he knows how to get there. He intends to gather together as many of the Bloody Hand as he can and attack the gathering. Should he succeed, he will deal a harsh blow to our people. That's why he needs to be stopped." The usually quiet Shaiff added, "That's why we're going to Dargon." Hiranw smiled, and leaned even closer. Yawrab jumped to her feet and away from the young gypsy. She said, "Thank you for explaining. So, what are the sleeping arrangements?" Rhonwn of the Rhydd Pobl was jolted awake when the wagon he was lying in rolled over a bump in the road. A momentary confusion was swiftly dispelled by the reality he was suffering; he was lying on the bed of the wagon with only a blanket between him and the wood, unlike his father's ban where he slept on a thick mattress in a box-bed. Also, the interior was too bright; this flatbed wagon was covered by a canvas tent, while Bobere's was enclosed by wood. Then there was the manner in which he was tied hand and foot, his bonds secured to heavy loops fastened to the side of the wagon. There was another jolt, and suddenly there was a rougher surface than the road under the wheels. Rhonwn knew by the light coming through the canvas that it wasn't yet time to camp for the night, which meant that this must be the midday meal break. He knew the routine well by now; he had been captive of the madman Lacsil for a dozen days, more or less. Rhonwn felt the wagon slow to a stop and heard the familiar sounds of horses gathering and men dismounting. The flap at the head of the wagon opened briefly; Rhonwn knew that Lacsil, who always drove the wagon, was checking on his prisoner. Rhonwn resisted looking, and soon he felt the wagon rocking as Lacsil dismounted. The next expected action was for the flap at the other end of the wagon to be opened as one of the four other men riding with Lacsil took up his position as guard. Then, just before everyone was ready for the trail again, Lacsil would come and sit next to Rhonwn and show him how much progress they had made that morning on the maps that had been stolen from his father. Rhonwn waited, but the flap never opened. The sounds of his captors faded slightly, and the canvas at the end of the wagon was uniformly lit, showing no guard's shadow. He counted slowly to one hundred, and then scrambled into action. Rhonwn had the long-practiced skill of slipping free of ropes knotted around his wrists. He had learned this skill at a young age, and had found it useful in many circumstances. Soon he was kneeling at the back of the wagon and listening very intently. He thought he could account for all five men by the sounds he heard, and none seemed near the wagon. Seizing the opportunity, he burst through the flap and out of the wagon and started running. He stumbled within his first few steps, but caught himself before he actually fell. Gathering his feet beneath him again, ignoring the weakness he felt in his legs from almost a fortnight of inactivity, he dashed toward the nearest trees. A shout went up behind him as his escape was spotted, which spurred Rhonwn to greater speed. He concentrated on the forest, planning on how to evade his pursuers as quickly as possible, not sparing a glance behind him. It came as a surprise when he felt a body slam into him from behind and he just had time to bring up his hands to cushion his fall. The trees were still a good ten paces away. A second weight pressed him harder into the ground, and then both men swiftly grabbed at his arms and wrenched them behind him painfully. They kept him pressed into the grass, muttering curses at him, until Rhonwn heard Lacsil's hanged-man voice behind him. "Still got spirit, doesn't he, men? Most times, that would be, well and well, a good thing. Something to be admired, straight? Not now, though, not now. Can't have our map reading gypsy scum running away and leaving us lost in the middle of nowhere, now can we? "Right men, here's what you do. Tie him harder, and wrap the rope around his arms, not just his wrists. Maybe a noose around his neck to keep him from moving around too much. That should keep our pet gypsy well and well in his place. "Oh, and men? One more thing. He needs to read and talk, not walk. Break his leg." Ganba steered her wagon last into the clearing. The decision to stop had not been made happily; the sun wasn't as near its rest as she would have liked, but the next closest clearing large enough for the wagons was too far along the trail to continue their journey today. There were times when her desire to catch up with Lacsil warred with her trail-sense, but her gypsy upbringing always won. She scarcely needed to draw back on the reins to stop her wagon; her horses didn't want to run into the wagon in front of them any more than she did. Ganba hopped down from the driver's bench and started unhitching her horses from the yokes while keeping an eye on how the camp was beginning to shape up. With a bantor of only four wagons, each was positioned at the edges of the clearing with their long sides rather than their ends toward the center. That way they could still form something of a protective half-circle despite their numbers. Buckles rattled and straps came free as Ganba worked. Meanwhile, the horses were led away from the yoke of the wagon in front of hers. Once the horses were clear of the wagon, Ganba watched its owner raise the yoke and, helped by his brother, begin to push their wagon into place. Turning her back on them, she got her three horses free in time to turn them over to Shaiff and another young gypsy to be led to the makeshift corral. She locked her own yokes up against the front of her wagon and turned around again to wait for the brothers from the other wagon, who had been helping her move her wagon over the past four hands of days that the journey had lasted. They seemed almost ready with their own wagon as Anmor, the heavier-set brother, was setting the chocks in place, but Ganba saw that there was a good four-pace gap between that wagon and the one in front of it. That wasn't the way a bantor was usually set for the night. "Leedlan!" Ganba called out. "Close that gap up!" Leedlan, the driver of the wagon, turned, and began, "But Ruthodd ..." Suddenly, Ruthodd was there beside Ganba, waving Leedlan back to his tasks. Ruthodd was the oldest person traveling with the bantor and Ganba had selected him for his experience, both on the trails and in tracking. He was a squat man, as dark and ruddy as most Rhydd Pobl, with a thick beard and bushy hair that left the skin around his piercing blue eyes the only visible part of his face. He put a companionable arm around Ganba's shoulders and rumbled, "I told the lad to leave some space there, dear. This clearing has a stream just back in the woods from there, and it will be easier to get to it directly than by going around the end wagon." He gave her a squeeze as he continued, "And you did leave camp-setting to me, lass." "You've got the right of it, Ruthodd," said Ganba. She patted his arm, and then slipped out from under it. "It is your duty, and I should leave you to it. I'll apologize to Leedlan for questioning his actions." "It's no rain inside either of our bans, I'm sure, but you do as you need to, dear." Ruthodd smiled at her fondly, and strode off to resume his duties. Ganba chuckled to herself as she usually did when Ruthodd acted the kindly amdan, or uncle, to her. She didn't take offense at his condescending references to her; he treated everyone just the same, including those who were his elders. He was a good man who worked hard and had a vast store of knowledge; his foibles could therefore be tolerated. When Leedlan and his brother came to help Ganba position and secure her wagon, she did apologize to him. Leedlan shrugged it off, but smiled just the same, and Ganba knew that it had been something she had needed to do. As soon as Ganba's wagon was positioned and secured in place, Yawrab descended from it and took up her accustomed place on the back step. Ganba asked, "Do you need anything?" of the only passenger in the group, and Yawrab shook her head, following the routine they had fallen into. After the first few nights of trying and, for the most part failing, to instruct Yawrab in how to take part in the camp-setting, it had been decided that the outsider would not be required to participate as an equal part of the bantor. Ganba had worried that this would upset the woman, but Yawrab had settled into the role of passenger without complaint. It wasn't long before the camp was well established. All of the wagons were in place and the horses were all on their picket. The fire pit was dug and lined, and a hearty blaze had been kindled to create coals for cooking over. When the coals were ready, they were raked into an offshoot of the pit where a cast iron grill was set up over them. Soon, the evening meal was roasting into readiness, and the main portion of the fire was built up again, but shallowly, for the comfort of its light rather than warmth. There was still work to be done, however. As the meal was cooked, Ganba and Ruthodd took the time to inspect each wagon for damage, a precaution that found flaws in good time to fix them at leisure, instead of in the middle of the path. The water barrels were filled at the stream, the horses were attended to, and deadfall wood was gathered to supplement that which had been gathered along the way. Of the ten people scattered among the four wagons she had been given, all nine gypsies were busy. Only Yawrab was completely idle, sitting in a folding chair not too close to the fire on this warm summer evening, staring into the flames as the sun finally went down. Ganba thought back to the meeting where she had presented the danger posed by Lacsil to her full bantor. She had communicated the need to chase him down, preferably before he reached any other groups of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. The leaders of the bantor had conferred, and had given her control of a group of four wagons and as many people as she felt were necessary to chase the man. They had also assigned other groups to spread the word about the danger, so that the gathering at Eariaddas Hwl would not be caught unawares. Ganba had no intention of failing, though. Lacsil would not lead the Hand against her people with her uncle's maps because Ganba was going to stop him. When the evening meal was ready, everyone gathered together, seated around unfolded tables between the fire and the wagons. As they ate, dish-washing water heated up in a large pot over the cooking coals. Soon even that task was accomplished and, with the tables folded up and stowed back in their wagons, there were finally no more tasks left to occupy Ganba's group of travelers aside from the prospect of a good night's sleep. No one was ready for that yet. Chairs were drawn up around the fire. Everyone found a place and settled in for some companionable conversation, except for the four who decided to play. Hiranw, Shaiff, Drost, and Lewro, the youngest of the group, gathered themselves in the now open space between fire and wagons. The three boys had stripped down to breeches, though Hiranw's were briefer than the others', and while he had braided his hair to keep it out of his eyes, Ganba knew that the elaborate pattern of the braid had no such utilitarian purpose. Lewro remained dressed much as she had during the day, in deference to the modesty of Yawrab. In other circumstances, she would have been as stripped down as the men. All four were armed with stiffened leather-bladed knives, and at a signal, they began to fight. Leaping and darting, slashing and dashing, they snarled in mock anger, laughed with glee, shouted in triumph when striking and in pretend pain when struck. The heat of their exertions in the warmth of the night soon had all four glistening with sweat, and they sparkled in the firelight. Ganba grinned as she watched them play, remembering her own joy at the game that was also a form of training. She would have liked to join in herself, but the worries of being the leader of the group were surprisingly tiring, for all that she mostly just sat and steered her wagon all day. She looked away from the game, her gaze going right for Yawrab across the fire. Ganba had spent the last three sennights trying to fathom the woman, who was as unlike any other of her own kind that Ganba had met as she was from the gypsies themselves. Evidence of that was how she leaned to the side in her chair. It looked as if she was simply trying to get a better view of the game, which she watched avidly, letting Ganba know that her brother's efforts at grooming were not going to waste. Ganba had learned, from watching and asking, that Yawrab found the older, patronizing Ruthodd, sitting on the side she leaned away from, frightening even after having come to terms with the other strangers she traveled with. Yawrab was still wary around the other men, excepting Hiranw, but she didn't flinch when they spoke to her, and she no longer reacted adversely when they stood or sat next to her. Yawrab had complained to Ganba early on about being addressed as 'lass' or 'dear' by Ruthodd. Ganba had explained that it was just how he presented himself to the world, and as it was as natural as sunlight or rain, she would just have to come to terms with it. Yawrab hadn't yet done so. Two more things troubled Ganba about her passenger. Hiranw seemed to have taken a fancy to Yawrab as far back as the rescue on the riverbank. Yawrab also seemed to fancy Hiranw, if her staring tonight was any sign. Ganba understood Yawrab's attraction; her brother was, after all, a handsome, strong young man. What she didn't understand was why all Yawrab did was look. The woman seldom spoke to Hiranw, and although she seemed more at ease in his presence than in anyone else's, her words were never more than pleasantries, at least as far as Ganba had overheard. Ganba couldn't understand what would keep those two apart. She wondered if it had something to do with the near-rape the woman had suffered at the riverbank. Maybe it was some deeper, older injury, something that led her to not only be nervous around all men, but to deeply distrust a man such as Ruthodd who treated her with condescending familiarity. The second troubling thing involved her own developing attraction to the woman. There was something about Yawrab that enticed Ganba, that made her want to get to know the woman with one brown eye and one green eye better, even intimately. Ganba had lain with women before, and had physically enjoyed the experience. She seldom sought it out herself, but she had never been attracted to a woman the way she found herself attracted to Yawrab. She knew that it had nothing to do with mere physical sensation. It was a deeper attraction: almost like they belonged together. The oddest part of the attraction, however, was the deep conviction Ganba had that Yawrab wasn't the way she was supposed to be. It just wasn't right, the way she seemed closed off from everyone and everything around her. There was something wrong, and Ganba longed to set it right. Even if Yawrab never came to be in her bed, it would satisfy her to see Yawrab finally happy. She thought about the way Yawrab acted around the men of the group, and wondered whether that was a key to her problem. Perhaps if Yawrab bedded Hiranw, if she could consummate her natural desire, she would be on the path to healing. That thought occupied her mind long after the players had wiped the sweat from their limbs and joined the others around the fire for conversation and tale-telling, and everyone had eventually gone to their beds. It was still on Ganba's mind well into the next day. The midday break had been called, and all four wagons were lined up. The horses had been given their feedbags, and Lewro was grilling some sausages over charcoal. Ganba sat on the driver's bench of her wagon in the shade of the trees by the side of the road, and decided to do some carving. She hadn't been moved to work on anything since the day she had watched Bobere die, but today she wanted to feel wood in her hands, to work with chisel and awl, to create something that had never existed before. She turned in her seat and pushed aside the curtain that led into her wagon. A familiar ticking sound came to her, and she looked inside to see Yawrab sitting in a sling chair knitting by the light of the opened windows. Ever practical, Yawrab had been looking for something to occupy her days during the journey even before they had set out. Ganba had suggested knitting, and had managed to get Entheesa to instruct the woman. Yawrab had put her new skills to good use; she had already begun her second blanket. "Yawrab," Ganba called out. "Could you push that chest over here? Thank you." Yawrab set aside her work and slipped out of the chair. The chest was small, and Yawrab had no trouble moving it to the doorway. Ganba had tied back the curtain-door in the meantime. Yawrab asked, "What's in here?" Ganba replied, "My carving tools, and some of my finished work. See?" She opened the lid and revealed a shallow tray filled with her tools and several interestingly shaped and colored pieces of wood. She started picking up the bits of wood one after the other, looking for one that inspired her. Yawrab, who was still standing behind the chest, said softly, "Did you carve those? What are they supposed to be?" Ganba laughed and said, "No, no, I didn't carve these! These are my raw materials; I carve things from these." Yawrab chuckled in return, and said, "Good, because they didn't look like much. So, what kind of things do you make?" Ganba chose a short length of blonde wood with a streak of red heartwood running through it at an angle. She replied, "I carve figurines mostly. Little statues of people and animals and sometimes animals that look like people. Once in a while, I carve more useful objects, like plates or bowls, mugs or spoons. Depends on what I get asked to do, and at times it depends on what the wood wants to be." "How can wood want to be something?" Yawrab asked. "Well," Ganba said, "mayhap it's just a fantasy in an artist's mind, and mayhap not. But I know how it feels to me. One time, I'll pick up a block of wood and carve something into it or out of it because that's what I want to carve. The next time, I'll mull and ponder, touch and feel until a block or stick calls out to become a bowl with a line of ducks walking around the rim, or a tiny statuette of a bird on a branch. "Take this one now," she said, holding up the wood she had chosen. "I can see just what this wants to be." Ganba saw Yawrab stare intently at the wood, and then shake her head. "Look, see this red streak? The way it flows through the wood makes me think of hair, deep auburn hair flowing down a back. And here, where the grain swirls just a bit, that's a woman's hip, rounded just right. And there, legs. Here, an arm extended. See?" Yawrab squinted at the piece of wood again, tilting her head to the side. Her features settled into a disbelieving frown, and she said, "It's just wood to me." Even if Yawrab couldn't see it, Ganba really could. She knew exactly how this piece would turn out even before she set her first chisel to it. She just smiled knowingly and said, "You'll see. She's in there, and I'm going to let her out. A couple of days and you'll be able to tell. You'll see." As Ganba reached for a chisel, Yawrab asked, "Is there something under this tray?" Ganba laughed at herself. She had been so intent on carving something that she hadn't even thought to show Yawrab her finished work. She said, "Yes, that's storage. Here, let me." She lifted the tool tray out of the chest and set it on the driver's bench. She picked up her tools and began to cut shallow curls of wood away while Yawrab examined the contents of the bottom of the chest. "These are amazing, Ganba!" Yawrab exclaimed. Ganba looked up to see her holding a tiny carving of a squirrel holding an acorn, and in her other hand was one of Ganba's more fanciful creations, a rabbit with deer antlers. Yawrab was examining each one very closely, and she looked up to say, "These look so real, I would swear they couldn't possibly be wooden! You ... you have so much talent ..." For the first time, Ganba saw real admiration in Yawrab's eyes. Admiration and perhaps something more. Ganba stared back just as frankly, trying to reveal some of her deeper feelings as she did so. Perhaps she succeeded, since Yawrab's cheeks reddened slightly and she looked back into the chest. "What's this?" Yawrab asked. She set the figurines down and reached into the chest with both hands to lift out the sculpted stone fragment that Ganba had taken possession of in Bobere's ruined campsite. "Did you carve this as well?" Ganba shook her head. "No, I didn't make that. It used to belong to Uncle Bobere; it was one of his favorites. I took it to remember him." She looked at the carving. It was a fragment of a larger sculpture, about a foot and a half across and consisting of about a third of what had once been a circular, plate-like carving. It had a series of glass, gold, and silver bands interwoven across the inner two thirds of it, while the outer third had a stylized fox facing a stylized cat carved as if they were sitting on the curved outer rim. She reached toward the fox, which had special meaning for her. It looked just like the one painted on the side of her wagon even though she hadn't seen the sculpture until years after she had chosen that symbol. Touching the fox this time was unlike any other time Ganba had touched the stone. It seemed to be vibrating, like a gong that had just been struck. That vibration swiftly shot out of the stone and up her arm into her body, but at the same time she could somehow feel that the vibration was also moving into Yawrab, and she was more aware of that than the buzzing in her own body. She looked up at Yawrab's startled expression and into her wide eyes, knowing her own eyes were just as wide and startled. Ganba felt the vibration move through Yawrab's body, down her legs and out her feet, and she was aware of the same thing happening in her own body. They stared at each other in silence, unmoving except to breathe. The stone was still touching both of them, but now it felt normal to Ganba. She wondered, as she stared into Yawrab's odd-colored eyes, where the fear was. She knew she should be frightened of such a strange happening, and she was sure that Yawrab should have been scared spineless given what she knew of the woman. Wonder was all Ganba saw in the green and brown eyes, and wonder was all she herself felt. She couldn't explain it, but she knew that it felt right. It felt better than good and it made her feel more whole than she had been before, even though she had never consciously felt a lack within herself. Yawrab and this sculpture were now a part of her. Even as she acknowledged her new completeness, she also understood that the process was not finished. There was more to do, more to gain, even though she had no idea of what or how. "What was that?" Yawrab asked. "Was that supposed to happen?" "I think it so, don't you? But I don't know what it was either. That's never happened to me before. I know I've touched that fragment before when Bobere or maybe even Rhonwn was touching it without anything strange going on. Do you feel ... more ...?" "Finished?" suggested Yawrab. "Perfect? Whole?" "Yes, but not totally, hey?" "Not totally, no. But ... what do we do now?" Ganba took the stone and set it beside her. Then she set her tool tray back in the chest and set her latest carving and tools back where they belonged. "We wait. What more is there to do? Waiting brings tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow. Without knowing more, all we can do is let waiting bring us the rest. "Come, I think that lunch is ready. And I would like to talk to you about Hiranw ..." ========================================================================