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 21 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 12/06/08 Volume 21 Number 4 Circulation: 644 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Victor Cardoso Knight of Castigale 3 Dave Fallon Yule 30, 1018 The Game 4 Mark Murray Firil 15 - Naia 20,1018 and Pam Atchley The Farewell Tour Ornoth Liscomb Seber 1, 1018 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc., 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://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 21-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright 06 December, 2008 by The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Jon Evans , Assistant Editor: John White . DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs- NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA. ======================================================================== Editorial by Victor Cardoso The Changeling Known Hello folks, allow me to introduce myself: my name is Victor Cardoso, and I'm DargonZine's marketing lead. While I've been known to write a story here and there, today I'm writing the editorial piece for DargonZine 21-4, the final issue of the year. The closing days of 2008 bring with them several important milestones, both for the ezine and for the country where most of its current writers live: 1) we are, thankfully, one step closer to the end of the first decade of the new millenium, getting us past the awkward "aught" years and well on the road to defining a solid identity to the 21st century; 2) the United States is receiving a change in leadership which will hopefully allow further healing of this nation following 9/11 and the series of political decisions and actions which, while attempting to help protect the American people, mainly resulted in isolating us from the world community; and 3) the DargonZine publication looks to celebrate 25 years of existence. Now, out of those three, the zine's achievement seems somewhat trivial. And yet, for its members, it's something of a minor miracle. Twenty-five years is a long time for an organization that started out as a college student's dream to connect with other science fiction and fantasy afficianados, reaching out across a computer network that's as far removed from today's Internet as Ford's Model-T is from the latest Toyota Prius. With boom and bust cycles of readership and membership, this little zine has managed to continue, more or less, with its original purpose intact: to help authors improve their writing skills through collaboration and contact. And while DargonZine's continued existence is due as much to one college kid's stubborn insistence over the years, an important part of its survival is that it focused on its member authors. That's not an easy thing to do. Writers tend to be stubborn individuals with a burning desire to express themselves. And once they become comfortable, it can be hard to get them to change their ways. If you've never gotten the chance, peruse the requirements of some publishing houses or small presses: most still want printed copies of material sent to them. Double-spaced. In envelopes. In this age of plasma displays and fuel-cell cars, the idea seems as anachronistic as a rock band relying solely on acoustics to deliver their music to the far reaches of a football stadium. DargonZine began as an experiment that used cutting edge technology to reach out and unite a disparate and underserved group of people. And yet, as time went by, its own members grew comfortable with certain technological aides and refused to move beyond them. Because of that, the zine lost some of its edge -- some of the excitement that comes with doing something in a new way that few others do. In 2009, we plan to change that. If you've followed us over the last 6 months, you've seen changes in our design, changes in our distribution, and behind the scenes, there have been changes to our communication and recruitment of new writers. Change is coming to DargonZine. We invite you to become a part of that change. Become a fan of DargonZine's Facebook page or subscribe to our RSS feed. Perhaps you'd like to help us out (immensely) by donating to our web-hosting fund, knowing that you're helping to support an institution that carries the title of the longest running fantasy ezine on the internet. And, by the time you read this, our first Kindle issues will be for that revolutionary device. 2009 will be an amazing year for DargonZine. As we look to reinvent and reinvigorate ourselves, we invite our readers to help us with the process. E-mail us at dargon@dargonzine.org if you wish to offer feedback, suggestions, or even birthday wishes. We look forward to hearing from you. ======================================================================== Knight of Castigale Part 3, Sandia's Story by Dave Fallon Yule 30, 1018 Part 1 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 16-5 Part 2 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 17-1 The streets of the township that surrounded Castigale Keep were quiet at night. Though a few taverns kept a light in their windows to welcome revelers in for ale and companionship, the people were properly somber in respect to the recent death of Baron Kelleman Castigale's daughter, Evelain. Sandia gazed at the silent houses without much emotion as she walked along next to Sir Maligard DuVania. She had heard rumors of Evelain's death back in her village a few days ago, but it had always been a far-and-away affair to her. What lay closer to her heart was both the death of her mother at the hands of mysterious marauders and then her forced exile by the other villagers. Her mother had never been overly popular in Aerberry, and by extension, few of the villagers cared for Sandia. After the senseless attack that had razed many of the village's humble buildings, the village elder had been only too happy to give up care of the girl so that they wouldn't have another mouth to feed. She resented the elder and the villagers for their decision, but she hated the knight for giving them the option by offering to take her. DuVania gave her another sidelong glace as they walked along. Annoyed, Sandia met his eyes and glared at him. He looked away, as if embarrassed. She could not fathom why the knight had taken her, and what angered her more was that she guessed he couldn't fathom it either. After leaving the village, the knight had ordered her tied to his saddle so she could not jump off the horse and escape. He and the villagers had all ignored her protests and crying. They had ridden for the rest of the day and stayed in a local noble's house where Sandia had slept in the barracks surrounded by soldiers. The next day, she hadn't bothered to complain, knowing that it would do her no good, and so the knight had allowed her to ride her own horse -- albeit with its bridle tied to his saddle, so she couldn't ride off. They had ridden all day and into the night, finally stopping at Castigale Keep, where DuVania had gone to make a report to the captain of Castigale's guards that he suspected the marauders were from Gribbane Barony. Sandia had only heard of Gribbane from stories. She had been told that Gribbane was a mountainous land to the west, beyond the Darst Range and in the neighboring duchy of Narragan. She had heard some say that the people there were demons and the baroness was a wicked temptress who was jealous of Castigale. Of course, her mother had told her not to listen to the people -- or rather, to listen to what they're not saying -- and so she had heard that none of the people who spoke ill of Gribbane had ever actually been there. A few who had been there years ago simply said that the land was as just as Castigale was, but harder to live in: with thin soil, poor for growing crops or feeding livestock. While Sir Maligard was giving his report, Sandia and one of the soldiers were sent to the keep kitchen to wait. Two scullions were working there -- children just a shade younger than her, perhaps ten or eleven years old. They had told her the prevailing rumor: that Evelain's death had been the result of an assassination plot by the baroness of Gribbane. So now it seemed that the far-and-away affair of Evelain's death was somehow tied to the death of Sandia's mother and this journey against her wishes. Her mother had taught her many things, but most prominently she had said to control one's destiny. "You only need to lose control of your life once, child," her mother had said. "You let someone else make a decision for you, and you regret it. Then you'll never want it to happen again. Learn from me: make your own decisions in life or you'll live like a string puppet at a festival." Sandia hadn't understood her mother's words then, but she did now. As they walked through the streets, Sandia thought of her mother. She had loved her, and she missed her now, but she knew their relationship had been different than the relationship between most mothers and their children. Her mother had been aloof to her, almost cold at times, and always teaching and training and drilling her. She had tirelessly manipulated the other people of the village, finding ways to wheedle coins and food from them, playing one against the other, making enemies here but allies there. If her mother were here now, she would not hug and comfort her daughter, but would say, "What have you learned from this? How can you control this?" Still, Sandia would have given anything for that harsh love against this unknown fate she had acquired. She was thinking of this when the knight stopped and turned towards one of the houses. They had walked from the main gate of the keep and around its outer wall to a street filled with houses much larger than most of those in the town. And of those houses, the one at which they stood was the largest, standing three stories tall with high, vaulting rooftops that looked like mountains to Sandia. There was a high wall around the house and yard, mostly covered with ivy, and an imposing looking gate made of black iron and wood. The knight stood at the gate for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts and courage, then pushed it open. They walked through the darkened yard to the main door of the house which DuVaina pounded on. For several moments, nothing happened and Sandia looked up at the knight quizzically. He had a particular expression on his round face that she had seen before when he had tied her in his saddle: one of stubbornness. Without looking at her, he knocked again. They waited after the sound had echoed through the home for several moments until the door was opened by an old man in a mauve vest. "Yes, what --?" he said, then stopped, his eyes widening. "My lord," he said, more respectfully. "We had not expected you to return so soon." He opened the door fully and stepped aside, then closed it with a boom when they had entered. "I'll have the cook fetch food for you, if you are hungry," the man was saying as he hurriedly lit several candles. "Let me have your bedclothes set out. And a suit for tomorrow morning, I presume?" He spoke in a panicked rush as he took DuVania's bags and dashed off. The room Sandia stepped into was larger than her whole home had been. It was filled with curious antiques on shelves, including an ornately carved sword, a cloth with the crest of a swan beneath a crescent moon, and a jeweled helm. All of the walls around the room were filled with doors, and in the center a grand staircase led up to a balcony on the second floor. After the butler had disappeared into one of the doorways, DuVania and Sandia were alone for nearly half a mene. Then, servants began to fill the room, many of them with hair a mess as if they had just woken up. They curtsied or bowed to the knight and welcomed him back. A moment later the butler appeared again. "All is arranged, sir. Welcome back to DuVania manor!" "Have a guest room set up for Sandia," DuVania said with a nod to her. She realized she had been gaping at the display and quickly closed her mouth with a scowl. "And bring her food and drink if she desires it. We've had a long ride." The man looked Sandia up and down with a slight frown. She returned his look darkly. He reached for her hand as if to lead her away and she pulled back. He looked defensively at DuVaina, but the knight was busy asking another servant, "Is my wife awake?" The voice that answered him came from above and boomed through the room like the voice of god. "She is." DuVania and Sandia looked up in unison, but the servant quickly lowered her eyes. On the balcony, wrapped in a pink shawl, stood an older woman, a scowl of deep displeasure on her slightly plump face. "So the errant knight returns in much the same manner as he left." DuVania sighed and began climbing the stairs. "Friana," he said. "I had hoped not to disturb your rest." The servants scattered under the woman's gaze like frightened forest animals. The butler grabbed Sandia's hand quickly. He led her stumbling down a dark hall and then up a staircase where she stubbed her bare toes several times. She could hear the knight and his wife talking loudly even across the house. The butler did his best to talk to her over them as he lit the room's few candles, "Well, young madam, would you care for anything to eat?" "No," she said defiantly. If the butler was offended, he didn't show it. "I will send a maid up in a few menes to see to you. I've much to do. If you'll excuse me?" And without waiting for her answer or giving any clue that he cared what it would be, he turned and disappeared out the door. Sandia looked around a room finer than any she had ever imagined. A bed with a straw mattress filled one corner, and a table with a large bowl filled another. There was a tall window against one wall opposite the door she had entered. Fancy sconces with candles in iron holders lit the room against the dark of night. She could still hear DuVania and his wife talking, their voices raised in argument. Curious, she stepped out of the room and into the dark hall to hear better. The voices came from around a corner. DuVania's wife was saying, "All of my sisters have homes larger than this, Maligard. All of them. I'm the laugh of the family. They said to marry a noble; they said to marry a man from a rich family." Sandia walked down the hall in the direction of the voices. She saw an open doorway roughly at the top of the stairs. The voice of DuVania's wife bellowed from within the room. "But I married the dashing knight with no family, not even a *name* that anyone knew!" Sandia reached the edge of the doorway and peeked in. DuVania faced his enraged wife with his back to the door as she poked him in the chest and shouted in his face. "I gave you a name! I gave you a family and a home and some *dignity*! And you just keep running off to sleep in tents with soldiers and commoners and horses. I'd think you'd rather live in the stable." DuVania grabbed his wife's wrists roughly. Sandia could hear him snarl in anger and for a moment she thought he would hit the woman. Her chin was tilted upwards at an angle as if she dared that abuse, her blue eyes flashed angrily and she did not turn away from him. Sandia suddenly wondered what her mother would do in that situation. She had never known her father, and her mother had never spoken of him, but Sandia was fascinated by this argument as if she were watching a piece of her own history. The woman twisted out of DuVania's grip with a grace that belied her girth. She paced across the room, her steps short and heavy, as if trying to trample her frustration underfoot. Finally, when she reached the opposite wall of the room and stood framed by the huge window between flowing white silk curtains, she spun around again. "So tell me, dashing knight, why you've returned at this bell if not to wake me and throw my servants into an uproar." "There's no uproar necessary, Friana," DuVania said. "Every bloody servant in the place doesn't have to come out just because I've come home." Friana threw up her hands. "Just what do you expect them to do?" she asked. "Ignore you? You are the lord of this house, Maligard. My father granted you holdings when you married me; the baron of Castigale granted you this house to settle in this forsaken wasteland of a barony. All this you've received, and you have no respect for your duties towards it! Servants have a place, and that place is to greet their lord every time he returns. They are here for you! Do you want them to treat you like a guest in your own house?" "I have other duties, wife!" DuVania's voice was finally raised in open shout. "I am a knight! I was a knight when you met me, and I am a knight still. This is what I've always been and all I've ever wanted to be. All this noble rot is yours, not mine. Your father and Baron Castigale may have granted this house to me, but when I'm here I *feel* like a guest." "Fine," Friana DuVania said. "Then if we are agreed that you are a guest in this house, I will have a guest room set up for you, for I won't have you sleeping in here." "Fine." DuVania's posture looked stern and final, but the word had come out sounding more weary and relieved than anything else. "I'm leaving on the morrow anyway --" "And while we are on the subject of guest rooms," his wife said, "may I ask why you've decided to install a peasant in one of them? Is it not rustic enough here without you bringing farmer's children to live with us?" "She is my ward," DuVania said. With a start, Sandia realized they were talking about her. The illusion that this was her mother and unknown father arguing shattered, leaving her feeling lonely rather than angry. "Then I expect she'll be leaving with you tomorrow?" the woman Friana asked. "No. I have to go alone. She will stay here until I return." "What?" she screeched. "You pick up some orphaned peasant girl and bring her back, then you dump her on me while you gallivant off to herd sheep or whatever it is knights do in this backwater squandry. I won't have it, Maligard! I won't! You take that trash from my home or I'll toss her on her ear the moment you leave." Her fury seemed to surprise the knight, but he stood his ground. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Friana!" he shouted. "The choice to take her as my ward is my own. I'll be back in four fortnights to retrieve her and then you'll never see her again." For her own part, Sandia felt a strange detachment from this argument over her fate. She didn't like being called trash, but she could no longer summon any anger at the situation. Decisions on her life were being made by others, and she knew her mother had been right. She would rue whatever they decided, whether she stayed here or was left in the streets or journeyed with the knight, it was all the same. "This is outrageous; shameful!" The woman was screaming in near hysteria. "Of all the madness I've endured as your wife, this is by far the worst. Take that creature from my home or so help me --" Sandia had had enough. Stepping forward into the light, she said, "I'm not a creature," in a small but firm voice. She could not control what they decided, so she would not shout, but she would make herself heard. The two adults fell silent as Maligard turned away from his wife to look at Sandia standing in the doorway. The surprised woman stared at her for a moment. Sandia met her eyes without flinching. Finally, DuVania's wife spoke to her husband in a much quieter voice, "And what of your own child, Maligard? What of the daughter you haven't seen in months? Have you forgotten her and just procured a peasant as substitute?" DuVania sighed. "Go to bed now, Sandia," he said with his back still to his wife. She looked defiant for a moment but he said, "Go," again more firmly and she walked reluctantly down the hall. A young woman in a plain dress, whom Sandia took to be the maid that the butler had promised to send, was waiting at the corner of the hall with a candle. She reached for Sandia's hand but the girl shied away. "Be at your own, then, girl," the maid said with a shrug. Her voice was rough despite her youth. She led the way back down the hall to Sandia's guest room. "That was right foolish, interrupting the lady of the house like that. You'll learn better in days to come." Sandia ignored the woman, straining to hear the rest of the conversation now that they were speaking rather than shouting. She could hear DuVania say, "Where is Emegrie?" There was a moment's pause before his wife answered. "She is staying over in the keep with other noble children from the area. Tutors there instruct them in court manners." Her voice rose slightly. "It was Dagny's idea since there aren't enough knowledgeable people in this region to supply each child with her own tutor." "Give her my love, then," DuVania said. "I won't be able to seek her out in the morning, there won't be time; hopefully I'll see her more during the winter months." "So that is it, then? So you go and find yourself a peasant to carry your sword, then you leave her here under my foot while you abandon your true daughter completely." Her voice rose again with anger. "I'll return in two months," DuVania said forcefully. "No one is being abandoned, Friana. During that time, I'm sure my daughter will fare just as well as she has during the past two months. As for Sandia ..." There was a long pause and Sandia wondered if they were now speaking too quietly for her to hear. The maid hummed slightly as she set out clothes on the bed. Straining, Sandia heard DuVania's voice like a growl through the thin walls. "If I return to find you've turned her out or harmed her," he said, "I'll spread word of your cruelty across the city. It won't take long, I assure you, for everyone in the barony to hate your name." "Scandal," Friana said, her voice also hard to hear. "You wouldn't dare." If there was any more to the conversation, Sandia could not hear it. The maid, with a sardonic glance at the girl, blew out the candles in the sconce and walked out of the room, closing the heavy door and bringing utter darkness. ======================================================================== The Game Part 4 by P. Atchley and Mark A. Murray and Firil 15 - Naia 20, 1018 Part 1 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 21-1 Part 3 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 21-3 "I just don't see how anyone could find you innocent, Delex," Nusa told the prisoner. "You had the dead man in your arms, you had his blood on you, and the knife in your hands. Jande looked as if someone tried to rip her clothes off." "I work as a prostitute at the Lucky Lady," Delex said. "I have women paying me willingly for sex. I've never hurt anyone before. Jande killed that man, not me." "Let's go over things one more time," Nusa said. "Tell me again what happened." "I was returning from the bath house about the seventh bell of the day, when I met Vennie -- Vennie is the runner of my long-time client, Grana Baugar." He glanced at her as he said the word "client" but Nusa concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression on her face and motioned him to continue. "Grana is a merchant. I've never been to her house because, for the longest time, Eliza Tillipanary, the owner of the Lucky Lady, would not allow her workers to visit clients' homes. "Vennie told me that Grana wanted to see me. In the past, she had always visited me at least once a sennight, but of late, she hadn't come for about a month. In fact, she had stopped visiting me right about the time she brought and introduced her friend, a woman named Jande Tes. Her husband is a gem merchant -- was a gem merchant, I should say. Grana brought Jande to see me because she had recently been widowed. Anyway, when Vennie told me Grana wanted to see me, I went with him. He took me to a house, and a young man opened the door, invited me inside, and left me to wait in a room. Jande came to see me. I --" Nusa interrupted, "Jande? I thought you said Grana's runner took you to her house." Delex nodded. "That's what I thought too. I still don't know whose house it is. Jande came into the room and asked me if I would quit the game of pleasure. When I refused, she asked me to wait a moment and stepped out of the room. When she came back, she was pushing the young man who had opened the door to me in front of her; he was desperately wounded and there was blood everywhere. She shoved him at me, and the next thing I knew, she had torn her clothes and was screaming. "Grana came in, and sent off her runner to call the guard. When they came, they arrested me and brought me here." There was silence while Nusa thought through his story. It certainly sounded implausible, but he told the story twice and both times were the same. Her instinct that had been honed through years of being a guard came alive, making her wonder why anyone would make up a story with so many holes. Reluctantly she came to the conclusion she would have to speak with the others in this little drama, the two women and the runner, before she could make up her mind to believe or disbelieve. She turned to leave. "Nusa." She faced him again, and she was close enough to see the minute tremble in the knuckles that clutched the bars of the small window in the door to his cell. "Nusa, do you believe me?" To his credit, his voice was the same neutral tone as before. She sighed. She could not lie; she would not lie, even if she thought he was a despicable creature. "I came prepared to believe your guilt," she said thoughtfully. "Now I am willing to consider other options. I have work to do." She turned and went upstairs. Later that day, Nusa went to the house of Jande Tes, accompanied by Lieutenant Caisy. He had been waiting for her after she had interviewed Delexand, and Nusa had recounted all relevant details of the murder. When she had announced her intention of speaking with both women, he had agreed to go with her. They approached the house, which was not very big. It did have two glass windows on the top floor. The front door was an affair in dark oak, with a knocker that shone with polish. A rather pale young woman with dark bags under her eyes answered their knock. She was neatly dressed, but was obviously poor, for her dress was faded and patched, and her hair was pulled back and tied with a piece of dirty string. "Yes, what do you want?" she asked in a pleasant voice. "We're from the town guard and we want to see Jande Tes," Caisy answered. The girl's face paled even more when she heard the word "guard" but she said with some hard-won composure, "Please to come in and wait." She led them into a room that had doors that were open to the back yard. The afternoon sun lit up the room with a brilliant orange glow. The inside door clacked, and both Nusa and Caisy turned to face the newcomer. She was relatively tall, with colorful, arresting blue-green eyes. Her pale hair was pulled back but fell unconfined to her shoulders, and she wore a plain, dark gown that was buttoned all the way to her neck. "May I help you?" Caisy went through his introduction again, and the woman, Jande Tes, invited them to sit. "Could you tell us what happened?" Jande sighed, and her face took on a patently sad expression. "My friend Grana took me to the Lucky Lady. I've never been to a place like that, but my husband had died, and I was so lonely. I just ... I knew it was wrong, but I didn't want to offend Grana. And then afterwards ... Delex was so nice to me, so kind. I never thought that he would do this to me." She dropped her face to her hands and began to weep. Caisy motioned Nusa with his eyes, and she moved to the other woman. "Don't cry, madam. We don't mean to distress you, but we need to know, if he is to be punished appropriately." Caisy nodded and added, "Indeed, madam. You must be brave if he is to get his due." Nusa wondered what Caisy really thought of the whole affair. She felt so sorry for Jande; at least the woman knew what was right and what was wrong. Jande lifted her face from her hands and wiped her eyes. "I will never go back to such a place again," she vowed. "I was well served for doing something so ..." "Tell us what happened that day," Caisy encouraged when Jande paused. "Actually, it was what happened before that," Jande said with tears in her voice. "See, I went to the Lucky Lady more than once. Oh, my God forgive me. I went to a man of pleasure." Nusa thought she saw Caisy roll his eyes, but wasn't sure. She said, "Madam, please. We understand how upset this makes you, but you must tell us what happened so that we can take the right action." This time, Jande straightened her shoulders and began to speak. "I'd gone to see Delex before that at the Lady, and the first few times, he was nice to me. Then he started being mean to me. I didn't know what to do, so I told Grana about it. She wouldn't believe me!" She said the last sentence with such a tone of injured surprise that for the first time, doubt rose in Nusa's mind. She had believed Jande so far, but for some reason, the dismay in her voice seemed overdone. Jande continued, "She said she'd known Delex a long time, longer than she'd known me, and she simply couldn't believe that Delex would hurt a woman. So I told her I'd prove it to her." There was a hard tone in her voice as she spoke the last sentence. For Nusa, that little, first doubt grew a little as she recognized hostility among the nameless negative emotions in that voice. "I borrowed Vennie from Grana and sent him to invite Delex here. I knew that when he saw me away from the Lady, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from trying to hurt me. I took precautions, of course. I had my husband's assistant watch everything from just outside this room. When Delex came and he saw me, he tried to molest me. And when my assistant came in and tried to help me, Delex killed him!" Again, the horror in Jande's voice seemed forced, and tinged with something stronger. Nusa focused on it for a moment, and it sounded very much like satisfaction to her. She wanted to hear the other woman speak about the events again, so that Nusa could hear those emotions again, but it seemed Jande had finished. So Nusa asked, "Then what happened?" Jande said softly, "I was all hurt, and my dress was torn. I screamed and screamed, and then Grana came in. Then she sent for the guard and they took Delex away." After a few moments of silence, Caisy asked, "Tell us about your husband's assistant, madam. Did you know him well?" "Yes," she said carelessly. "He was my husband's nephew. His parents died in the Beinison War. He always spent most of his time here, and after the war, he moved into our house." "I see. What was his name?" Caisy, it seemed, was very interested in the victim. "Boling." "Boling Tes?" Caisy asked again. "Yes, yes. And Delex killed him. Delex hurt me." Jande began to weep. "He will be punished, won't he?" Caisy motioned to Nusa again, and she soothed the other woman. "There, there, madam, don't worry. He will be punished." With that, the two of them took their leave. Once they were on the streets, Caisy said, as if they were still continuing the same conversation from inside the house, "Don't you mean: he will be punished if he's guilty?" Nusa frowned. "Don't you believe her?" He glanced at her and did not answer. The chatter of the passersby seemed unusually loud to her. The late afternoon sun felt pleasantly hot against her neck. "We should speak with Grana Baugar also," she said slowly. Caisy laughed. "There." He pointed to a house close by. They walked to the next street and knocked on the door. The interview went differently. For one thing, the two women were as unalike in appearance as they seemed to be in disposition. Everything about Grana was brown: her dress, her hair, and her eyes. Grana's eyes were as arresting in their own way as Jande's had been. Grana's were large and wide with long eyelashes. Her pupils were dark with rings of honey that resembled nothing so much as a stone thrown into a pond. Despite her lack of height, she had a presence that Jande, for all her beauty, had lacked. Grana, voice dry and businesslike, confirmed every aspect of Jande's story. The only time when that aloof voice wavered was when it first spoke of Jande's accusations. "I couldn't believe what she was saying." Grana paused as if reliving that conversation, a sad expression in those beautiful eyes. "I told her that I'd known Delex for a long time, and I wouldn't believe her without proof. So she asked me to her house and sent off a runner to get him." Nusa frowned. She remembered Delexand's words about the runner, so she asked, "Whose runner did she send?" "Mine. She doesn't have a runner; she uses any runner in the city." "What happened after that?" Caisy asked. Grana continued, "He must have come, for the knocker sounded. I was waiting in the dining room, and the boy Boling was waiting in the little alcove outside her drawing room where Delex was. I heard screaming and when I ran into the drawing room, I found Boling dead in Delex's arms. Jande's dress was torn and she was bleeding. She was screaming so loudly I thought it would bring back her husband from the dead. I slapped her and she stopped. Then I sent Vennie -- that's my runner -- to get the guard." "What could you see from the dining room?" Caisy asked. Grana frowned, her brows drawing together in an expression that combined surprise with puzzlement. "I had the door ajar so that I could hear, but I couldn't see into the drawing room." Nusa had caught on to what Caisy was after, and she asked the next question. "Could you see the alcove?" Grana shook her head, still frowning. "Why are you asking?" She paused briefly. "We'll be in touch, madam," Caisy stood without answering Grana. Three days later, the knocker sounded loudly at Jande Tes' house. It was mid-afternoon and she was alone for the moment. After her husband's nephew, Boling, had been murdered, she had not employed a replacement. The cook was not yet returned from the marketplace, and the parlor maid was gone to the seamstress, Leana Mudge, to pick up a dress that Jande had commissioned. She rose from the armchair in her drawing room where she had been trying in vain to total some receipts, glad of the interruption. She had never been good with numbers, and she knew that she needed to find an assistant who was. Her husband had been a gem merchant, and if she were to maintain her present standard of living, she needed to make sure that the business stayed successful; her own lack of understanding of both gems and currency precluded doing that on her own. The knocker sounded again, and she raised her voice, "I'm coming; I'm coming." She flung open the door. There was only one person outside, a man probably in his thirties, well-built, tall, maybe a hand taller than her. He wore the ordinary breeches and tunic of a dock worker. He was a good-looking man with a bald pate, narrow face, pointed chin, muscled forearms, and slender hips. His hazel eyes bored into her, and as she gasped in utter shock, he smiled. It was not a pleasant one. "Well, hello, Jande. Aren't you pleased to see me?" His voice was deep and low, just the way she remembered. It was his voice that she had first fallen in love with. "Invite me in," he said, and put his hands on her waist and pushed her back gently. Then he stepped inside and kissed her bruisingly. She responded with equal force, and only when she tasted salt did he release her. There was red on his lips and she leaned forward to lick it off. "What are you doing here?" she asked, staring up at him, knowing that he could see the hunger in her eyes. How could he not recognize it? It was his job, after all. He smiled down at her, and for the first time since she had met him, there was something in his face. No, she corrected herself; something had gone from his smile. The gentleness with which he had always regarded her was missing. A thrill of fear ran through her and she shuddered. His eyes narrowed, the only recognition he gave of her trembling, and he continued to smile that ugly smile as he turned her around and pushed her toward the drawing room. She obediently walked to the room, but turned to face him once she was inside. He moved his hands to her waist and began caressing her body a little roughly. She did not stop him. "What are you doing here?" she asked again, a little breathlessly this time. His actions were very distracting, for he had untied the bonds that kept her dress up. "I am here to do what you want," he murmured, his eyes glittering. By this time, Jande could barely think. He knew all the secret places of her body, what she liked, what she loved. "What I want," she said between harsh breaths, "is for you to leave the Lady and be with me forever, to do this ..." Her voice was suspended as she drowned in sensation, all coherent thoughts lost. "Is that what you really want?" he asked, still watching her with that unnervingly bright gaze. Her breath still came harshly, but she could open her eyes now and maybe think a thought or two. "Yes," she said, between slowing pants. "I always ask you that, and you always say 'no'. I need you beside me, Delex. I need what my husband couldn't give me. What he went elsewhere for. Tell me you love me and I'll tell the guard to let you go." "The young man is dead," he reminded her, his hands caressing her gently now. The air in the room was cool against her bare skin, despite the sun shining through the open doors, and his palms were warm. "Ah, don't worry," she muttered, throwing her head back, enjoying the sensation of his fingers gliding all over every bit of exposed skin. "I will tell them that it was an accident. I will even have the parlor maid say that you are innocent, that she saw the whole thing." He bent to kiss her, and this time it was gentle, sensuous. "Did she see everything?" he asked between gentle nips at her lips. "No, but she will say what I tell her to." Jande opened her eyes, looking into his with a smile. "They will all say what I tell them to. Or they will feel the pain. That stupid husband of mine never understood the way that you do. Will you come to live by my side?" "Only if you tell the guard the truth will they release me," he said. Then he ran his gaze down her mostly unclad body. "You are so beautiful, Jande. So ... very ... beautiful." He punctuated his last sentence with a kiss on her lips, then one on each breast. "I will live with you if you promise to tell me the truth. Always." She shuddered. "Truth. I promise to tell you the truth." He kissed her lips again, and his hands wandered, searching to incite her passions once more. She caught and held his wrists and said, "Do you know how much I love you? You give me everything that my husband didn't. What a small thing you ask of me!" Delex smiled as he rotated his wrists gently. He was holding her hands rather than the other way around. Then he bent and his mouth created sensations that made her feel as if she were about to climb out of her own skin. "Tell me the truth," he growled, lifting his head to meet her gaze. Jande opened her eyes, her breath coming fast. "The truth is that I love you. I love you so much that I would do anything to keep you. I first came to you because I wanted to get back at my husband for his visits to another house. Even though he's dead, I wanted that taste of revenge. He stopped sleeping in my bed. But you, you liked everything we did. I needed you and you wouldn't leave that stupid house," she screamed. Her eyes were afire and it was as if another woman had taken her place. Her face twisted in hatred. "I killed Boling for you and tore my own clothes so that you would understand what I could do, what pain you would feel without me!" He straightened, more out of fear than anything else, all traces of passion gone from his face and eyes. Then he pulled up her gown, and she frowned. "What are you doing?" She was back to the loving woman, pleading with him. Suddenly the room filled with people, and Jande shrank back, holding her gown to her bosom. Delex stepped behind her and began lacing up the ties. Jande looked around, eyes wild, and she saw Grana Baugar. Behind Grana were the Town Guard. "What are you doing here?" "I left the door open so that they could enter behind us," Delex offered. "You're not the only one who believes in truth, Jande; the guard does too. So they released me to help you speak the truth." "We heard you say that you did it all yourself," Grana sounded shocked. "Delexand, you are free to go," one of the guards said in a formal tone. Then he turned to face Jande and said, "By your own admission, you killed Boling Tes. You will have to come with us, madam." "Grana," Jande wailed. "Delex, stop them. I only did it because I love you. You have to stop them." The female guard -- Jande remembered her name was Nusa -- moved closer, saying, "Don't cry, madam. You have to come with us now." She began pushing Jande to the door. Jande wept loudly as she was led out of the house. I began to follow them out when someone put a hand on my arm. It was Grana. "I'm sorry, Delex," she said, looking up at me. Her eyes were sad and she looked like I'd felt when she had first refused to believe me: betrayed. "It's fine, Grana," I didn't bother to hide the bored tone in my voice. I couldn't forgive her for her lack of faith in me. Granted, we had been seller and buyer in the past, but we had known each other for a long time, and I had been her friend and confidant. She knew me very well indeed, and her lack of faith in me, her easy belief that I was capable of doing something so base as violating a woman, had hurt me beyond measure. She sighed and turned her eyes away. "I should have trusted you. I'm sorry I didn't. It's just that Jande told me that she would prove it. You should have heard her --" "How could you believe that I would do something like that?" I asked, unable to stop the bitterness within me. "You've known me for a very long time, Grana. I almost thought you were my friend." Grana barely waited for my sentence to be completed. "I am your friend. Why do you think I am here? The first day when those two guards came by to talk to me, I guessed that they were suspicious of her, or at least Lieutenant Caisy was. Who do you think convinced them to agree to this trap? The guard may believe in the truth, but do you think they would have released you to come here if I hadn't come up with this plan? I spoke to Jande and I became suspicious myself, so I spoke to the guard. I made them agree to let you come here." "You did nothing," I yelled. "It was Nusa Abarris, Masian's sister, who arranged the whole thing. If it hadn't been for her, I would be in a cell, waiting for the noose. I was dependent on the good nature of a bleeding Stevenic who thought I was less than a bug for my choice of profession. Tell me, Grana, would you have found it so easy to believe Jande if I'd been a merchant, if I'd been anything other than a toy?" She came to me and put both hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. "I'm sorry, Delex." Her eyes were swimming in tears. "We are friends, and I did what I could to help you. You can believe it or not, your choice." She raised herself on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against my lips and then retreated from the room. I went out after her and pulled the door behind me absently. My mind was full of relief on the one hand and turmoil on the other. I knew that it behooved me to go back to the Lucky Lady where my friends would be waiting for me, but I needed some solitude to calm the whirligig in my mind. A few menes later, I walked down the Street of Travellers. As I passed the business district, Masian waved a hand at me. When another hand waved, I noticed Nusa standing next to him. I waved back. Then they turned together. But the small joy of seeing brother and sister together didn't find its way into me. I continued onward until I made my way to the port area and set my face out to sea. I'd chosen my profession for stupid reasons, but I'd stayed in it because I'd enjoyed giving joy to women, seeing the start of pleasure in their eyes. I felt betrayed not only by Grana, someone whom I'd begun to think of as a friend, but also by my profession. ======================================================================== The Farewell Tour by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb 1st of Seber, 1018 The door closed. The latch fell into place with a click that was no different than any other morning, but to Butler, it rang within his ears like the tenth bell that heralded the oncoming night. With a sense of finality, he slowly turned away from the home he'd known for twenty years and began his long journey into the unknown. He'd grown up in Dargon, three blocks closer to the docks. When he'd come of age and become a journeyman over at the old chandlery on Atelier Street, he'd moved into this small town house outside Foxmarten Square. Although he'd eventually inherited the shop, he'd never been rich, but had made enough to pay the rent, his necessities, and his few indulgences. Now all he owned was the small sack on his back, which contained little more than a cheese and some dried meat and fruit. He smiled to himself, knowing he was going forth on a long, arduous journey without even carrying a knife. Certainly, if he was waylaid on the road, the brigands wouldn't get away with anything more valuable than his boots, and he could even make do without them, although it would make the journey slower and more painful. Not that the journey wasn't painful enough already. The first few steps away from his home weren't easy. He had a nagging feeling that he'd forgotten something, but he didn't need to bring anything on the journey he was about to make. He felt like going back and checking to make sure everything was settled properly, but he knew there was nothing left to settle. In truth, his life was more settled now than it had ever been before. He'd said his goodbyes to all the people at the chandlery who used to look up to him for leadership, and the shop was now running under Donagal's tutelage. He still felt like going back for one last look, but he knew that the memories of his forty-four years were carried inside his heart, not in his empty residence or the tiny shop he was leaving behind. Still, he was going to take a few bells to walk around the city that had been his home for so long. After all, he would probably never see it again. He paused and looked back at the house one final time before he set his feet on Traders Avenue toward Foxmarten Square. As he crossed Foxmarten Square, for a moment he could see the rise of Temple Street on his left. Above the close-shouldered buildings, the red-tiled roofs of the churches to various gods shone brightly in the crisp light of the autumn morning. Instinctively, Butler's eyes found the cornice of the Olean temple. The statue of Ol was too distant to be seen clearly, but Butler raised its image in his mind, and pictured its upraised hand wishing him safe journey and the fulfillment of his quest. Butler only had a vague idea where that quest would lead him. Until a year ago, he'd been happy living out his life running the chandlery. He'd learned all there was to know about candle making and waxworks, and had shared that knowledge generously with his co-workers. When he was young, he'd thought that bringing light to the people and passing on his knowledge and passion for candle making were noble ways of contributing to the community. However, at forty he'd begun asking himself if there might be something more meaningful that he could do with his life than merely dipping wicks. And so he had found himself doing what he'd always thought unthinkable: going to temple. The rote chanting and singing and rituals hadn't impressed him, but the sermons had. He'd begun to see how traits like compassion, generosity, and self-restraint weren't just platitudes, but a way to live that could help him feel good about himself and take satisfaction from his life. It wasn't that he necessarily felt bad being an everyday chandler, but he'd never felt like he was really helping people. He'd done his best to nurture his apprentices, but teaching chandlery to a handful of journeymen just didn't constitute a meaningful contribution to society. He had begun quietly donating money to local healers, and even if it was sometimes difficult for him to spare the coin, he could see the real difference it made for people. That had given him a deep feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction that no amount of candlelight could provide. The more time he spent at temple, the more he realized how important it was to him. Then, one day, when the priest was giving a sermon on a topic that was already familiar to him, Butler happened to look around the chapel and was amazed at what he saw. He saw someone asleep during the sermon! And one woman was paying more attention to her knitting! Another woman was preoccupied trying to keep her children quiet, and two men were actually playing paquaratti in the back! Butler felt like he was the only person in the whole temple for whom the priest's words meant something. It was then that he knew that he had to do more than just sit and listen; he had to actually practice the precepts he'd learned. That had led him to where he was today. In practical terms, he was leaving his old life behind and journeying to faraway Magnus to join the monkhood. There he'd learn the Olean teachings from a great master, and perform the good works so desperately needed in that crowded metropolis. But it was much more than that; he was embarking on a quest, seeking something incredibly powerful but utterly insubstantial: wisdom. But both wisdom and the Olean temple in Magnus seemed awfully far away as Butler walked slowly down Traders Avenue toward the Rogue and Quiver, which dominated the corner where Traders met Tanner's Street. Butler stopped and considered his old haunt, which seemed eerily silent and unfamiliar in the bright morning light. So close to the docks, it might have been a rowdy place but for owner Malcom Shortclip's connections with the Town Guard and the skill with which his girls plied the customers. After a short walk, Butler reached the northern end of Dargon's seaport. He'd come this way to take one last look at the Valenfaer Ocean before his journey took him far inland. He wasn't a man of the sea himself, but Dargon was wedged between the ocean and the river Coldwell, so he'd never been more than a short walk from the water. Taking a path that turned away from the docks, he climbed a steep little rise up to the Sailors' Shrine, a quiet little patch of green amidst a quiet copse of cedar and spruce. The granite outcropping served as one half of a natural seawall, protecting the harbor sheltered in its lee. The harbor was also protected by Havensight Island, a hilly, wooded islet just offshore, uninhabited save for a solitary lighthouse that faced the open ocean. Butler stood there for several menes, staring out at the distant horizon, which seemed so still when compared to the thunderous surf crashing into the rocks below. It drowned out all the noise of the city, save for the piercing cry of a screegull that soared and wheeled skillfully in the stiff ocean breeze above Butler's head. As he left the Sailors' Shrine, Butler fancied that he was that screegull. At the top of the hill, he could see much of the city of Dargon spread out below him, much as a bird in flight might regard it. Way up there, he could see so much that it made him feel like he was bigger than the city. But as he descended the hill, the town got bigger and he felt smaller and smaller. Soon he was no higher than the masts of the ships docked at the piers. And then, after the calm, quiet heights of the shrine, the road dumped him unceremoniously into the absolute chaos that was Commercial Street. Commercial Street was simultaneously both the biggest open space in the entire city, and the most crowded. Even calling it a street was a misnomer. On the seaward side of this great open space were Dargon's dozen-odd piers, with all manner of trading vessels from throughout the kingdom and beyond, all loading and unloading cargo just as fast as the steeves could work. With the recent closure of the causeway that connected the two halves of the city and the resulting need to ferry goods across the river, Dargon's shipping firms were raking in money ... except for poor Tyrus Vage, whose dozen-odd ships had somehow all been lost at sea in a single freak storm just days after a rogue barge had caused the causeway's collapse. Opposite the piers, the landward side of the square was a near-solid wall of massive warehouses where those goods were received and distributed. The one exception was the Harbormaster's Building, where all the harbor traffic was coordinated, and where the manifests and taxation of all the cargo was overseen. As Butler reached the first set of piers, the bell atop the Harbormaster's Building rang out thrice, indicating midmorning. On the south side of the river Coldwell, the time was marked by the bells in Dargon Keep, but the New City -- which had been called that for many generations -- took its time from the Harbormaster's Building. Butler must have missed hearing the distant bells from Dargon Keep while he'd been up at the Sailors' Shrine. Between the docks and the warehouses was a great open space, paved with huge granite setts the size of coffins which had been used as ballast aboard ship. Or it would have been a great open space if it was ever free of people and merchandise! Even at this early bell, the plaza was a beehive of activity, with cargoes piled in huge stacks or being lugged by man, horse, and ox. Many foodstuffs were brought right from a ship to permanent stalls and sold, making Commercial Street the second biggest marketplace in the entire city. The people who came to buy produce drew other merchants, who sold everything from firewood to horseshoes to yarn from makeshift tables, jostling one another for the best location each morning. The spectacle of the ships and the foreigners also drew countless spectators, eager to satisfy their curiosity. Because of that, Commercial Street became a place where friends and neighbors met to exchange news, goods, and gossip. Just walking the length of Commercial Street could take all afternoon, and the hubbub hardly subsided at night, when the loading and unloading continued while locals and visitors alike found refuge in the pubs that lined the streets just behind the warehouses. The Town Guard did what they could to maintain order, but more often than not they were so outnumbered that they gave up or grew indifferent to it all. Seeing a pair of guards doing their rounds, Butler recognized Liat, one of the more cranky veterans of the service. He didn't know the man who accompanied him, but judging by his youth and the cleanliness of his accoutrements he was probably a new recruit who would soon become equally jaded and negligent. As Butler walked toward the southern end of Commercial Street, he came upon the three wooden wharfs that had been burned when an enemy fleet arrived in Dargon during the Beinison War. That had been several years earlier, and rather than dredging the debris from the bottom and sinking new pilings, a public bathhouse was going to be built on their ruins. The bathhouse was going to be the first stone building ever erected on the seaward side of Commercial, and he wondered whether it would be boon or bane. Finally Butler reached the end of Commercial Street, or rather the place where it turned sharply eastward. As the road narrowed, the huge paving stones gave way to cobbles of a more familiar size, and the way became known as Dock Street. This was where the mouth of the Coldwell emptied into the Valenfaer. Some people thought this was where the river's fresh water met the sea, although locals knew that the ocean tide actually kept the water brackish several leagues up the river's estuary. Dock Street was still a major thoroughfare, seeing a lot of commercial traffic in the form of carts and sledges driven by teams of oxen. This was because Dock Street was the shortest path between the seaport and Dargon's river port. Naturally, the deep-water sailing vessels couldn't navigate up the narrow and much shallower river channel, and the shallow-draught river barges would be swamped by an ocean swell, even within the comparatively protected harbor. And forcing goods to travel those four furlongs overland allowed Duke Clifton Dargon's men to tax the goods passing through the city both as they arrived and as they departed. Dargon profited greatly by being the intermediary in all trade between the towns and villages of the interior of northern Baranur and the distant ports that could only be reached by oceangoing ships. Because it was located halfway between the ocean and river ports, the neighborhood around Dock Street was the roughest part of town. Most of its old townhouses had been converted into sketchy little bars and rooming houses for itinerant sailors. Butler paused at a corner and looked down the length of Layman Street, toward Coldwell Street and Dargon's Lulling District, as it was called. On this side of Coldwell Street was the Lucky Lady. Its proprietress, Madame Tillipanary, had purchased it fifteen years before, and turned it into the most profitable and reputable brothel in Dargon. Across the street was the Mother of Pearl's, where all the girls were named Pearl ... at least while they were working. However, these two large establishments were the exception; the further you went up Layman, the smaller and sketchier and less differentiated the doorways became. Knock the wrong way on the wrong door, and your body would wind up nourishing either the rats or the compost pile out back. Butler shook his head and walked on, wondering how anyone could find fulfillment and lasting joy from a surfeit of drink, drugs, flesh, and violence. Butler shortly reached the docks of the river port section of Dargon, where a dozen barges were tied up. As he watched, a bargeman poled a craft full of people toward a hastily-erected wooden pier. After the Causeway had been closed due to its near-collapse a fortnight earlier, several barges had been converted into makeshift ferries to carry people and goods across the river to Dargon Keep and the Old City. Turning away from the river, Butler walked up Division Street, past Grey Talka's -- yet another seedy bar -- and between more rows of warehouses. On his left was the long, low warehouse that was the headquarters of Dargon's Fifth I merchants. Fifth I was one of the biggest businesses in Dargon, and Master Percantlin was one of Dargon's wealthiest commoners. To his right were several warehouses that once had been owned by Camron; Camron's Shipping had gradually declined in the years since his death. Butler turned right, parallel to the river, and hustled down Coldwell Street toward Market Square, eager to put the Lulling District behind him. The next street on the landward side was Ramit, which Butler thought was an apt description for a street where sex was bought and sold. The only openly displayed sign on Ramit was the pictogram of the Shattered Spear, one of Dargon's worst establishments. Butler had heard that the only reason why peace was kept in the small tavern was because of the threat of violence from its two owners, Jamis and Jahlena, who took delight in also being the bouncers. Butler believed it; he had seen Jahlena in the marketplace, and she was a strong, physically intimidating woman with arms like a sailor, and she haggled with the skill of an assassin. But the Spear looked even more run-down than Butler had expected. There was broken lumber piled high all around the entrance, nearly blocking the dark alley that was usually referred to as simply "Ramit". Another block further down Coldwell and Butler turned left onto Nochtur. Beyond the borders of the Lulling District, the taverns looked a bit better kept. Partway up Nochtur he spotted the elaborate red and green statue that marked the entrance to the Inn of the Serpent. The Serpent was best known as a carding pit. Although fights weren't unheard of, the proprietor of the Serpent, Ballard Tamblebuck, was well regarded by most. At the other end of the block was the weather-beaten sign for Belisandra's, which bore large, red lettering above a buxom serving girl hefting a huge tankard of ale. Set on the busy corner where Nochtur met Main Street, the tavern got plenty of foot traffic, and the hot food, live music, and dancing girls helped draw travellers in. Butler thought the tattered sign was at odds with Belisandra's reputation as one of Dargon's most stable and reputable taverns. He followed Main Street down to Murson, his steps growing a little slower until he finally came to the Street of Travellers, which was Dargon's biggest main thoroughfare. From the shadows across the junction, Butler looked over at the familiar storefront of his chandlery: Trills Candles. His journeyman, Donagal, was talking to one of the monks from the Stevenic temple, and it was obviously trying his patience. However, Butler saw that while the journeyman was occupied, one of Dargon's shadow boys crept up from the side and pinched a pair of candles. Butler instinctively looked around for the Town Guard, and found Sergeant Cepero talking to a produce vendor and enjoying a quomo fruit from his stand. Butler twisted his face up as he watched; they were shipped down the Coldwell from the wilds of the Darst Range as delicacies, but Butler found their bitterness not worth the effort of peeling their tough, spiny skin. While he debated with himself whether to go get Cepero's attention, the shadow boy dodged into the crowd and disappeared. Butler thought about going over and pointing out to Donagal what had happened, but he'd already said his goodbyes, and even if he told Donagal about the theft, what would happen tomorrow? It was a lesson Donagal would learn soon enough on his own. And there'd been plenty of times that Butler had intentionally looked away when one of the underage thieves pilfered a taper. That kind of give-and-take was just a part of what being a merchant was about, after all. He turned onto Travellers and after crossing Thockmarr plunged into the melee that was the Venilek, Dargon's largest marketplace. It always produced a sense of amazement and revulsion at the same time, as merchants hurried to sell strange, rare foods from across the land and sea before they spoiled and went bad. It was as if the vendors hoped that by increasing the chaotic din of fervent haggling, they might drown out the stench of overripe produce and the day's haul of fish. Butler held his breath and wandered across the market to the point where the Street of Travellers merged with Traders Avenue. Yes, Traders ... His home, where this journey had started, was near the other end of Traders, and this morning he could have just walked its length and saved himself a lot of time. But with no particular agenda, Butler had dallied, looking upon the sights of his home town for what would probably be the last time in his life. And if he wanted to take his time leaving town, there was no living being that he had to answer to. However, even having dawdled, his perambulation of town was nearing its inevitable end. Behind him, Travellers ran from the docks on Commercial Street and straight through the heart of the New City. Before him, after passing the Venilek, it continued out the landward side of town, passed the city walls, then turned south, where it went around a swampy area before ending at the causeway that carried traffic across the river to the Old City. As it turned south, Travellers skirted a small but steep hillside whose town houses gradually cut off his view of the rest of the New City. With nothing but fields and a small brook to his left, it really felt as though Butler had left town. He stepped across an old wooden bridge over that brook, which, he knew, came from the old flooded granite quarry a few leagues to the east of town. As a child, he'd gone swimming there, jumping into the cold, spring-fed lake from the many rock ledges surrounding it. The brook paralleled the Street of Travellers -- now little more than a broad dirt road -- for a while before emptying into the swamp. The swamp was a marshy area near the tidal estuary of the Coldwell that no one had built upon, because it was regularly flooded by the brook during heavy rains, or by the river during extremely high tides. During low tide, it reeked, but it also was something of a boon: it was the only place where people could dump offal and refuse without having to cart it leagues away from town. Finally Butler climbed up the embankment that had been built above the River Coldwell. Here a stone causeway -- really a bridge, but Dargon's residents had called it "the causeway" for generations -- had connected the commercial part of the city with the older, wealthier districts like Coldwell Height, spanning the river at a narrow point between two bits of outcrop that protruded into the river. Butler walked a few steps up onto the causeway before stopping, letting his gaze go over the river to fall on the familiar stone tower of Dargon Keep, atop its high granite crag between the Coldwell and the sea. The keep was the center of Dargon's history, having been founded centuries ago by explorers from the long-fallen Fretheod Empire who had called this place Wudamund. Only a hundred years ago, Dargon had been a remote part of Narragan, another duchy within the Kingdom of Baranur. During the Great Houses War, Baranur's Queen Dara had fled to Dargon all the way from Magnus. Shortly thereafter, she'd rewarded Duke Sumner Dargon's loyalty by giving him authority over a large duchy bearing his surname. Butler wondered what Dara's capital would be like when his own journey ended with his arrival in distant Magnus. He regarded the crenellated towers of Dargon Keep, which stood majestically over the Coldwell estuary. The river's channel ran deepest right next to the rocky outcrop that the fortress was built upon. The castle that had once sheltered Baranur's besieged queen was now home to the court of Clifton Dargon II, including his wife Lauren and infant daughter Myrwen. Butler didn't go further than the approach to the causeway, for his path didn't cross the river, and just as well. The causeway had been severely damaged when a barge coming downriver had slammed into it a fortnight ago. Since then, all traffic and goods had been shuttled across the river by ferry, and the lack of boats to do the job had spawned long work days, dockside wares piled high, price gouging, and fisticuffs. He turned around and looked toward the Duke's Highway: the road that skirted the river's edge, heading inland. Beyond his sight, it followed the Coldwell upstream until it came to Kenna and the foothills of the Darst Range. From Kenna, Butler would keep the mountains to his left and follow a trail three hundred leagues straight south through the crossroads village of Tench, fording the Grenweir at Sharwald, across the hills of Narragan to the town of Wachock, and on to Port Sevlyn, where he'd finally meet the mighty river Laraka: all just names on a scrap of parchment he'd gotten from the Olean priests. From Port Sevlyn, he would follow the river another hundred leagues upstream to Magnus, where he would begin his new life as a monastic, a life that would hopefully be wholly fulfilling and rich in meaning. But it all began with leaving Dargon. He stood there, immobile, knowing that it would be easy to quietly watch the city all afternoon. Turning away from the causeway and the rest of Dargon, he set his footsteps upon the dusty path and set himself to pondering life, its many mysteries, and whether his footsteps would finally lead him to the wisdom he so earnestly sought. ========================================================================