Ashes and Dolls

Previously: Asked to recount what made her decide to become a Falcuhn, or freelance historian, Esmiralda tells of a day in her early childhood, while on a ill-fated hunt with her father. The forest is quiet, Mira is cold and tired and then she sees smoke in the distance...

I don't remember much of the trek up the hillside, toward the smear of smoke in the sky. Mostly, I remember the way the branches stung my face as I hurried along, heart pounding at the thought of losing sight of my father. He was already so far ahead of me, crouched low but moving quickly, knife in his hand. I slipped and landed on my knee, but bit back a cry—better to bloody my own lip than to earn a reproachful look from him. He would not have slowed anyway.

I wanted to call out to him, to call him back, to tell him to turn around. I wished—and still wish, to this day—that I had never seen that smoke or at least never pointed it out to him. Maybe then we could have just gone back to our home and things would have gone on the way they always had. I think that even though I know it wouldn't have made any difference whether I showed him the smoke or not. We hadn't caught anything yet and he would have stayed on the hunt until he had something for supper. My father was not one to return empty handed, no matter how quiet and empty the forest seemed. He would have seen the smoke eventually and wanted to investigate it.

Some things are just meant to be.

I nearly bumped into him at the top of the hill, so well-hidden was he. He hissed and cursed my clumsiness, then shoved me harshly to the ground. I whimpered, afraid to move or speak. Father was crouched behind the same bush he had thrust me under, peering through the top branches down the slope below. His eyes were wide and alert, scanning the scene and horizon for any sign of movement. I could hear my own heartbeat, but not the sound of his breath. The air smelled of cinders.

"They're gone," he whispered. He didn't move, but I sensed that he wouldn't be angry if I did. I slowly rolled over, pushed myself up and peered down through our hiding spot, taking great care to be as silent as possible.

Still, I couldn't contain a gasp.

The forest fell away at the base of the hill and opened up into a small valley that had once been clustered with homes and, from the look of it, a small mill or smithy. Now scorched earth replaced the soft grass between skeletal structures that still smoldered with putrid smoke. I saw a few shapes that may have once belonged to people—both large and small—but their bones had been so consumed by fire that there was nothing left for the birds, and there were no other scavengers in sight. I whimpered and pulled on the back of my father's shirt.

He was already pulling away, drifting down the slope with his bow half ready. I stumbled behind him, heart racing, eyes scanning the horizon the way he had always taught me to. He reached the bottom and his boots churned up new clouds of dust and ash that clung to his legs. He stood in the middle of the town road, ears cocked, then lowered his bow and slung it over his shoulder.

"It's okay," he called to me. "There's nobody here." His voice seemed impossibly loud and I wanted to tell him to be quiet. I could never do that.

"What happened?" I think I spoke just to break the silence. It was obvious what had happened.

He picked a torn bit of fabric from a scorched bush and looked at it in disgust. "Salviks," he spat. "That'd be my guess. Don't know how or why they'd be this far north."

We crept through the ruined village, poking at piles of rubble and refuse. Nothing stirred. The silence was so thick it pressed in on my ears. I peered around a ruined chimney, black with soot and crumbling, and saw the remnants of a scorched table—the only recognizable form in a blasted square peppered with piles of burnt furnishings.

"Where are the people?"

My father grunted in reply. "Gone," was all he said.

I caught a glimpse of a tiny splash of color and broke away from his grip, pulling at a piece of fabric that had somehow escaped the destruction. It was a doll of some kind. Most of the color had been bleached away or dirtied with soot, but it looked like it might have once been dressed as a pretty young girl, maybe a princess, with blue eyes, dark hair and rosy cheeks. I held it up.

"Take it if you like," he said. "Nobody will care where you found it, or who had it last."

I shook some of the dust free of it. Nobody would care where I found it. Something stirred in me when he said those words. This had once been a loved plaything, most likely hidden when the trouble first started. It had brought someone joy, perhaps dreams of a better life, yet that person was gone now, and there would be none to remember her. None to tell what happened here.

"I want to go home," I whispered.

Father suddenly straightened, ran a hand over his head, and swore. He was looking back over the hill, toward where I thought our home would be, with real fear in his eyes.

It took a second to register and when it did, it felt like I had turned into ice.

"Momma," I said, and then ran after him.

 

An ill-fated hunt

Previously: Mira, a freelance historian loosely in the employ of Queen Phedera, is alone in a small town and running out of coin when she stumbles across a potential story. As she investigates, she is kidnapped and taken out of the city and plopped down in the center of a clearing and threatened further by a small group of men. Fearing for her safety, she forges an uneasy truce with them. Now they prepare to share their stories...

"What of you? How did you come to bear the mantle of the Falcuhn...?"

I sat back and looked down at the fire, then picked up a stick and poked at it. I asked myself that very question throughout the years, when I was involved in one bizarre situation after another, or sat, cold and hungry, outside some city I didn't have enough coin to enter. There were plenty of opportunities to question it, to question myself, to question the very world around me and to wonder why I didn't just settle down with some well-meaning and congenial farmer who would offer sturdy walls and a warm bed. Or, better yet, a brewmaster with his own tavern. But there would always be people to toil in the fields, to provide people with their vices and to wash up after them and not—as I learned long ago, someone to care that they did, or even that they lived.

My first memory that mattered was of a wisp of smoke curling above the pointed trees that dotted the hillsides in Kenemeh. I had survived five or six winters by then, and my father had grudgingly come to accept my presence. He and I walked along the the base of the hills, weaving in and out of the forest, he with his bow ready and me stumbling over roots, rocks and ducking branches as I tried to stay close to him. So far, my first hunting lesson was similar to those handed down as he taught me how to plant seeds, milk a goat or the proper way to act at mealtime: stay quiet and try to keep up.

I tugged at the bottom of his shirt, eliciting a hiss of frustration. He stopped and turned abruptly, face painted with impatience, probably expecting me to tell him I was tired, cold or needed a bush. All three, in fact, were true, but even then I knew better than to speak of my many wants or needs. Instead, I just pointed to the black smear over the horizon. He followed my wavering finger and swore quietly.

"Too much smoke to be a campfire," he muttered. He ran a calloused hand through his thinning hair, then looked down at me. "Can you find your way back on your own?"

He must have seen the terror in my eyes. We had been walking for hours and I lacked his memory of the land. I saw myself wandering, cold and crying, until my whimpers attracted a pack of hungry wolves. I shook my head, my lip quivering.

He crouched and gripped each of my shoulders. "Girl, you must know the way by now." If it weren't for my mother, I wouldn't know my name.

I shook my head again. I didn't want to leave his side.

He stood up and scratched his head with a barely concealed grunt of disgust. He slung his bow over his shoulder and loosened his knife in its sheath. "We won't get too close. I only want to see what happened and if anyone needs help. We'll need to be careful, too, so..."

"Be quiet and try to keep up," I mumbled.

"There's a good girl." He scanned the horizon again, looking for some kind of clue, then started up the slope. We would stay among the trees now, I knew, and move as quietly as we could. I suddenly realized why we had seen no game yet that day. The woods were utterly silent; the skies free of birds. All the woodland creatures were cloaked in shadows, hiding in their dens or concealed thickets. We were the only things moving in the forest and I felt very much out of place. Every twig I snapped sounded like a thunderclap.

My father moved ahead of me like a shadow while I clumsily stumbled behind him, shivering in the ominous silence.

Next: The Wounded Man's Gold continues in: Ashes and dolls

The Wounded Man's Gold, Part 5

"I am Esmiralda," I answered after a long pause. "If I decline your offer, will I be carried back to the city, or must I find my own way?"

Merrick's initial response was a slow, mischievous grin that made me a bit nervous.

"Or will I be allowed out of this clearing...?"

He shook his head. "Nothing quite so nefarious, I assure you. You would be free to go as you please and continue your travels. We are harmless."

He didn't sound too sure about that, but I was intrigued. It seemed a strange group of people and I wondered what their purpose was. Besides, my coin was dwindling. Perhaps the tales he referred to would translate into more.

"Then I accept your offer," I said. He nodded as if that was the expected answer and beamed.

Broo-Fang stepped forward and bowed his head briefly, like a child ducking a thrown stone. "I am...pleased...to make your...acquaintance," he said. His voice was soft, his speech slow and lilting. I am not sure if that was due to an unfamiliarity with the language or some form of speaking impressed onto him by his temple tutors, for he was surely some kind of monk. His robes identified him as one, although I could see no insignia so I could only guess at his order. I bowed in return.

"Well met," I said, then frowned. That wasn't exactly true, but of all the men I had met that night he, at least, had not threatened me, carried me or begged any of my coin. Perhaps that was the best I could hope for. "It is good to see one such as yourself about in these troubled times. The Robes of Peace are a most welcome sight."

Strangely, that intended compliment had the opposite effect. Broo-Fang Tane's face clouded over and he lowered his head and stepped back into the shadows. He might have whispered, "Of course," or it might have been something else, entirely.

"We've little food to share," Merrick said after clearing his throat and stepping in front of the smallish man. He shot Seymuhr a glare. "We weren't expecting any other companions. You are welcome to share our fire. It is small out of necessity, but warm, nonetheless."

If Sehmuhr sense any irritation from Merrick, he gave it no sign. He merely walked to the edge of the clearing and peered into the darkness, flexing his muscles until his armor squeaked.

"I thank you." It was not very cold, but I found that after my recent capture and wild flight through the city, I felt chilled to the bone. My fingers trembled as I reached them toward the glowing coals. Perhaps it was a natural reaction from one who thought death was imminent only moments before. I reminded myself to get an opinion from a priest or healer at some point on that topic; perhaps that information would be worth a mention in a medical journal? "What are you doing out here?" Surely there are rooms within the city walls that would be safer and...shielded from the elements?"

Merrick chuckled. "I suppose it depends on which elements you wish to shield yourself from," he said. "There will be time for our tale later, if my alternative plans have worked out. We'll know soon enough. What of you? How did you come to bear the mantle of the Falcuhn, and what fortune has brought you to our fire?"

Tane leaned in from the shadows and I heard Sehmurh approach, as well. I hesitated and licked my lips. They seemed innocent enough—besides the travel manners of the brute that tossed me there—yet I was reluctant to tell much of my tale. I never thought it was that interesting, for one thing. Perhaps that was the best way to learn more about these men—and fully decide if I was indeed safer in their company or out in the forest, hiding from wolves.

"As to the 'fortune' that brought me here, you know that well enough," I started, with a glance up toward Sehmurh, who stood with his massive arms crossed over his chest. "As to the rest? You would have to know me as a little girl...."

Up next: Mira tells her story

 

Blades by the firelight

My eyes were transfixed by the blade held inches in front of my face, and a rare thing happened: I was speechless.

He was a big man, in bulk if not in muscle, taller than Seymuhr, who had tossed me over his shoulder and carried me to this place. A dark cloak covered his shoulders and was held in place above his left breast with a silver broach that glinted with dark rubies. Metal glinted at his wrists. He wore a cap of blackish leather that pushed his hair out above his ears like a canopy. His beard covered his chin and throat, the ends touched with gray. His eyes were dark and piercing under a furrowed brow that was split above his right eye by a small scar. A wide, tan belt encircled his middle. Several small tubes were poked into it and pouches dangled from it like bells on a harness. The hilt of another blade, well worn and dull in the firelight, peeked from the top of his boot.

Seymuhr had disappeared; drifting behind me to cut off my escape. Nor were they alone in the clearing. Another form that I did not notice at first rose gracefully to his feet. Small and slim, he had the appearance of an easterner and wore only short pants under a plain tunic. Sandals covered his feet. He had a spear in his grasp, but he held it as a staff and did not point it in my direction. Another dark shape hanging from his belt could have been some form of club, but I could not tell. He wore a bemused smile on his face, his eyes half closed as if he were politely appreciating a joke or some kind of dullard recovering from a blow to the head.

"Well, speak up!" The bigger man growled. "Seymuhr, what have you done now? Can you not follow simple instructions?"

"She saw me."

"He...I think he killed a man back there," I stammered. I had quickly surmised that any hope I had of escape meant lulling these men into a false sense of security and then running as fast as my thick legs could chase me.

My inquisitor made an exasperated noise. "Apparently not, then. Perhaps we should have sent you, instead." This was directed at the smaller man over his shoulder. He shrugged, but the other man could not see him.

"I expressly forbid you from two things," his ire was directed at Seymuhr, now. "Killing and wenching. And what have you done? Brought back some kind of....trophy...and left a bloody wake behind!"

"I beg your pardon! I am no man's....trophy."

"That much is obvious," he cut me off, dismissively, but lowered his blade. "Well. It can't be helped now. What of our quarry? Did you find him, at least?"

Seymuhr moved back into the firelight. "Aye. He was where you said he'd be. He spun the tale. I would have followed him, but she interceded. Then things got..."

The other man waved off the rest. "I can only guess. Interceded how?"

"I heard his tale," I said. My heart had slowed and I thought that I might no longer be in immediate danger. Now, I was questioning what had actually happened back at The Bent Lance. Had I inadvertently wandered into some other kind of drama? Perhaps these men were agents of the crown? "I merely sought more information from the man."

He sheathed his sword. "Is he a friend of yours?"

I didn't care for his tone, or the insinuation. "No!" I said, and perhaps I was a bit too loud and indignant. "I sensed a tale to tell, and that is my responsibility—a right I was given by Queen Phaedra herself. I am a Falcuhn, and..."

He raised his eyebrows at this. "A Falcuhn? Well, that is interesting. Very interesting indeed. And did you glean any information from this man?"

"I did not, but only because this brute interrupted me, although I guess it was no fault of his."

He shook his head. "It rarely is; not in the way you mean, anyway." He stroked his chin and lifted a leg to rest his boot on a stump. He pushed the knife hilt down. "A Falcuhn," he mused. "Perhaps, just perhaps, Seymuhr, you have accidentally done us all a good service." His face suddenly brightened, and he turned to me with a smile, hand extended.

"I am Merrick," he said, then motioned toward the other, smaller man in the clearing, who nodded as he was introduced. "This is my companion, Broo-Fang Tane. You have already met Seymuhr, of course. If you are interested in a tale, we have one worth telling. Perhaps many of them. Will you join us?

His grip was firm. I nodded in answer to his question, thinking what a strange night it had been—for I was once again speechless.

 

The Wounded Man's Gold, Pt. II

The night air hit me like a spike to the ribs. I stumbled behind Seymuhr, half pulled, half carried like an unseated horseman still tangled in his saddle. I could not pull my wrist free from Seymuhr's steely grip, so I tried to get my feet under me and regain my balance as I looked over my shoulder at the The Bent Lance. A man peered timidly out the door, then pointed in our direction.

"What did you do to that man?"

A grunt was his only reply.

"Let me go!" I shouted, pulling at my trapped hand. "I don't know who you are or what you think you're going to do to me, but I promise you it...it won't go well for you." I didn't know what was more embarrassing, being pulled along like a string of fish or not being able to come up with a witty or dire consequence. I stopped trying to keep pace and set my feet, thinking he would let me go if he knew he had to drag me behind him like a broken wagon. I probably didn't have to delay him for long—surely, even a town this small had some form of guard, and they had been alerted by the patrons of the Bent Lance.

Seymuhr paused only for a second. He looked me up and down, scowled, then hoisted me on his shoulder and continued on his way. If my struggling and kicking caused him any difficulty, he gave so sign.

There were still a few people on the street, despite the lateness of the hour. To my chagrin, none of them were uniformed. Nobody seemed too interested in helping what obviously was a struggling, panic-stricken woman, either, although plenty were willing to move aside, point and call out insults. I slapped his back and pounded on his shoulders with my fists, but my hands quickly grew sore and he acted as if he didn't even notice, so I decided to save my strength and plot my escape. He had to set me down, sometime. I might only have a second or two, then.

Alt was not a large city, but it possessed enough winding alleyways to disorient me—given that I could only see our route in reverse. Perhaps I could translate this experience into more coins: A Backwards Guide to the Alleyways of Alt. I could see some possibilities there. I tried to memorize each turn and distinguishing mark I could find. I would need to remember them to find my way back to the relative safety of the main streets.

Soon Seymuhr slowed, though not because he was fatigued. His breath was no more rapid than it had been. He took one final look over his shoulder, then up at the nearby rooftops. I followed his gaze, but could see nothing. The moon was invisible, the stars hidden behind a blanket of clouds that roiled in the autumnal wind.

Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he moved toward a shadowed alcove that I hadn't noticed before and then slipped inside it. We passed through a low aperture—and I shouted in pain as the oaf knocked my skull against the stone—and then we were outside the city, weaving through the darker shadows beneath the trees.

My heart hammered and the first tendrils of real fear rippled down my arms and spine like an icy snake. Being carried kicking and screaming through the town—as humiliating as that had been—was nothing compared to being carried off into the forest, where I could killed and buried or just cast aside to be found by some wandering soul days or weeks after the woodland creatures snacked on my bones.

"Let me go," I whispered, hating how timid I sounded. "Please, I will not tell anyone where you've gone. I..."

We approached a dull flickering light that I soon discovered was a small campfire that was partially hidden by a hulking shape. I caught a quick glimpse of other figures as I was dumped painfully on the ground. I rolled over and pushed myself up as Seymuhr dusted off his hands. I heard a sword slide from a sheath and the large form turned to me, his bearded face framing eyes that squinted in suspicion. The edge of his blade glinted in the soft light of the dying fire.

"Well," his voice was a deep rumble, filled with casual menace. "What do we have here?"

 

The Wounded Man's Gold, Part 1

Later, much later, I started to worry that my coin would run out before I would get the chance to talk to the wounded man. Malak had already left, whisked off by someone younger and more shapely than I. The boy had gone, too, escorted by the woman who had consoled him earlier. She must have been some kind of friend of the family; an older sister, perhaps? She took the news of the boy's father's demise with too much calm to be his mother. Maybe she was just familiar with such scenes. I wondered, briefly, if there was an orphanage in this town, or a temple with an inordinate amount of children that had been abandoned, either by design or by fate, but then I decided want to follow that gloomy line of thought.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to an orange glow that peeked out from under the blackened logs. The occasional snap punctuated the muted conversation that continued in the corners and along the walls of the tavern room. The central tables were all empty and being attended to by a dull-faced youth with a gray rag.

I swallowed the last of my ale and made my way over to the wounded man. I stood at the edge of the table for a moment or two and, when he only looked up at me, grunted and gave a short negative gesture, I sat down across from him.

"Hello."

"Perhaps you missed my intent," he growled. "I have no interest in you. Nor coin to spend."

I blinked away my affront. "I have no desire for your companionship," I guessed that was the best word to use. "I overheard your tale—or part of it, leastways—earlier and wanted to know the rest."

He glanced up, his eyes suspicious and looked me up and down as if I had just appeared there. "There's nothing left to tell."

"There is always something to tell," I said as gently as I could. "The boy's father. Was he a friend?"

The wounded man grunted again and took another sip from his mug. The liquid looked much darker than what I had filled my cup with and it gave off an acrid scent. The man lowered the mug with a smile that bordered on a grimace. His eyes were wet.

I took that for an affirmation. "Then he deserves a better ending," I said. "There are those that love him; they deserve to know what happened to him. His story should be told so that the man is not forgotten."

"I said, THERE'S NOTHING. TO. TELL." He punctuated each word by slamming his fist into the table top with enough force to bend it slightly in his direction—and wake up the slumbering man behind me.

I stood, surprised at the sudden ferocity, and held up both hands. "My apologies. I meant no harm or offense. I merely wanted..."

"I know what you want," he snarled. He got unsteadily to his feet, and he towered above me. He hadn't looked that tall or broad earlier that night. "and I'll have none of IT." He took a step toward me, hands the size of small shields reaching out for me.

I took a step back and bumped into a wall. That was strange; there hadn't been one there moments ago. I glanced over my shoulder and saw, not a post or pillar or any other type of structure that supported the ceiling, but a somewhat diminutive person, scowling up at me. The top of his head was bare, but his cheeks and chin were covered in black stubble. His arms were thick with muscle, his chest deep and brawny. His nose looked like a malformed vase. He wore a shirt of torn mail and a mace hung from either side of his peeling belt.

"Leave that man alone," he said.

"Wha...?" He thought I was the threat? But then I saw that the other man's gaze was directed not at me, but my towering aggressor. "Wait a moment," I felt anger rising, and faced this new man. "Did you just call me a man?"

He smirked, showing a tooth that jutted up and out of the side of his mouth like a hound's.

The wounded man had stopped. "I know of you," he said, "and this is not your quarrel, Seymuhr."

A sudden tension had fallen over the place. The conversation, as muted as it had been, stopped altogether. I heard the sound of scraping wood and saw the few patrons left in the tavern pulling tables onto their sides and then crouching behind them. The tavern keeper was frozen in place. Someone sprinted out the back door to the other part of the tavern, where I heard the dull clatter of dropped pots.

"Then don't make it so," was the reply. His voice was husky, as if his throat had been damaged long ago.

I was directly between the two and I tried to inch myself out of the way. Surely, the wounded man would not take such a direct challenge from a man who was much shorter than he was who was, in fact, a bit or two shorter than I was. The one called Seymuhr put a gentle hand on my shoulder--or at least the gesture appeared gentle and effortless. In fact, he held me fast. I glanced down at his arm and then back at his face, astonished by the casual display of strength.

"Please," I said. "There's no need to fight." I strained against Seymuhr's arm to no avail. I might have been a mosquito pushing against glass. "I was leaving anyway."

I cannot honestly recall if I ever dreamed of a day when two men would find cause to fight over my attentions. My childhood was not the sort that leant itself to such fancies and neither did my physical attributes as I grew into womanhood. Even if I had, I doubted I would conjure up this kind of scene. A handsome prince returning a token before whisking me off to a sun-baked castle by the sea, where my diet would consist of lemoncakes and cheese, perhaps, but not trapped between an ill-tempered lout whose wounds were barely scabbed over and a diminutive protector who smelled like a chicken rotting in a casket of spoiled mead.

"I am unharmed," I added, facing Seymuhr. "You can lower your arm now. Please." Perhaps that would cut down on the odor.

He did, but it didn't.

"There, then. You see?" I turned back to the wounded man. "I apologize for interrupting you, my good man. I hope that your wounds soon heal, and you find prosperity on your next journey." I bowed and hoped that would be the end of it.

Alas.

"Perhaps the tales of your prowess have been exaggerated," the wounded man growled. "Or do you always take orders from women?"

I winced. There was a collective moan from behind one of the upended tables, followed by: "Oh, Will....You fool." The tavern keeper started to cry. Someone else sprinted out of the main room, and more pots fell.

Seymuhr reached up and slapped Will with an open hand. It looked like a slow, almost gentle gesture, yet it was forceful enough to snap the wounded man's head to the side and knock him to the floor. I gaped. Seymuhr looked down at the man as he struggled to rise with the curiosity of a man looking at a strange insect for the first time. His hand curled into a fist and I heard his knuckles crack. I was frozen in place, wondering if I had wandered into the middle of a bizarre performance, for surely a blow that looked so easy could not have had such an effect.

Will had pushed himself to his hands and knees. His head hung low and he shook it as if trying to clear it. Seymuhr looked down at his fist, then shrugged and took my wrist.

"I was leaving, too," he said.

He pulled me out into the night.

Mind the little things

I turned quickly, but Malak saw me and recognized me at once. A broad grin on his face, he headed in my direction.

"Why, Esmirrrrrrrrrelda," he called, loud enough to quiet some conversations and direct attention toward me. He had an annoying habit of drawing out rolling the 'r' in my name, making him sound like someone with a bad stutter calling for help while rolling down the side of a mountain. "Whatever are you doing in a place like this?"

"Correcting your mistakes, as usual," I replied.

Malak was all that most women would look for in a man. Tall and not overly slim, he was capped by a tousled shock of blond hair that occasionally obscured his bright blue eyes. His clothes fit so well they appeared tailored to him and they were always clean. Always. His jaw was well-defined, his teeth all present and relatively straight and his face was unblemished by scar or pox. A gold chain clung tightly to his neck and blue gems sparkled at his ears. A silver ring shaped like a serpent coiled around the middle finger of his right hand. His only other accessories were the black pouch slung over his shoulder, rectangular in shape and sturdy of material that held his assorted writing quills, inks and most likely an expensive spyglass and perhaps a compass or other tools. He wore a long knife on his left hip tucked into a scabbard of rich leather that looked fresh from its maker's hand.

"You wit is as quick as a snake, as always," he responded.

"Only to some." Another form filled the doorway, but the boy I had noticed earlier was still disappointed. I frowned, then turned back to Malak. "I should thank you. If it weren't for your traipsing about and misinterpreting basic history or your staggering inability to remember basic geography, I'd find little enough work."

"You can buy me an ale, then," he said with a broad smile.

I protested, but he already had his hand in the air. My night was going sour in a hurry.

Later, he waved off my complaint.

"What do you mean, who cares?" I felt warm and my head was buzzing slightly. The noise of the crowd had increased, too. Laughter drowned out even the sound of the minstrel—a blessing, because the man wasn't all that good to begin with. All seemed content to regale each other with stories of their day and spend whatever coin they had to forget their toils at the same time. All save the boy who stared intently at the door, his growing nervousness evident, and another man who I hadn't noticed before. He sat alone in the far corner, his back to the room. He was short, bald and thick and drank with a serious purpose. When had he come in? I hadn't noticed. But he was either a stranger to this town or not liked by anyone, for no one paid him any heed.

"I mean just what I said," Malak said. He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a look intended, I think, to disarm me. "A river here, hills there. It is all close enough."

"It's a map."

"It's still a map."

"People use maps to find their way."

"And they will! Think of the surprised they wouldn't otherwise find."

"It's irresponsible," I said. ""Doubly so if you don't even attempt to get things correct. This is why we're here; this is why we took the commission to begin with. Didn't you take the oath? Does it mean nothing to you?"

My questioning must have started to annoy him—either that or he sensed he would get no more drinks from my purse—because he sighed and looked around, trying to catch the attention of an unoccupied lass, or at least a willing one.

"It means something to me," I muttered. I thought of a scorched clearing that had once been a small village, the only remnants a child's toy I had pulled from the rubble. "These are important things."

He scoffed. "Important? That I got a few trees out of place on a map in the archives of a temple in a town nobody will even bother visit? How is that important?"

"Your name is on it, Malak. OUR order. If people cannot trust us on the little things, they won't trust us with the bigger things, their stories, their customs. If we can't be bothered to do the little things right, we might as well not do any of it right. It won't be true."

"Every story is true, depending on who writes it," he said.

I was about to say something else, but the door opened again and this time, the conversation did stop. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy stand slowly, his knees wobbling, as a man staggered into the tavern. He was a mess. His clothing was torn in several places and each rent in the fabric or split in the leather showed an angry red welt of blooming purple bruise. Blood was caked around his mouth and matted in his hair. He lurched forward, clutching the boy in a one-armed embrace—the other did not look like it worked properly.

"Papa?"

"I'm sorry lad, I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Several people broke away from their tables and approached the man concern and fear in their eyes. "Where are the others?" One of them asked. "What happened?"

"We were lost; misdirected," he managed. A mug was offered to him and he smiled, took his arm from the boy's shoulders and lifted it with a grimace. "Nothing was where it was supposed to be and then we were ambushed. The others...they are all dead, or soon will be."

The boy started to sob, then, and one of the tavern wenches pulled him close and patted his back. Connell Malak looked decidedly uncomfortable. I think he would have sprinted to the exit then, if the door was not blocked by the large crowd. I reached for my mug and eased myself closer to the group, so that I could overhear some more details.

My respite, as brief as it had been, was over. I smelled a story.

The things along the way

Later, I rested my back against the wall of The Bent Lance, my tired feet on the stool in front of me. I longed to pull them out of my boots, but decorum prevented me. It was comfort enough to take my weight off of them, to sit back and let the general merriment of the tavern wash over me like the sun breaking through the clouds. It had been a long time since I was among people.

My mood had improved considerably. A hot bath will always do that for me, and I had been fortunate enough in my negotiations with the temple clerk to earn a spare coin to pay for that luxury. I also had a room for two nights, at least, and clothes that were clean, but still a little damp. And a large glass of Verupian red wine, which was inexpensive and a bit bland, but strong enough. I was surprised to find that it was available at the relatively small tavern and delighted when it was served in a glass large enough to make a nice home for a pet fish.

I usually allowed myself one night to relax, free of any concerns after a successful trip and deposit into the grand history of the land. Only one. After that, I started to get antsy. Some members of my occupation were happy to live freely, taking their assignments when and if they came. Not me. I needed to know where my next coin would come from. I needed to chase a tale or learn about something as soon as I could. I didn't like to sit idly or watch my hard-earned coin disappear between my fingers.

I often took my respite at a local drinking establishment, for they were rich mines of local customs and personalities and they very occasionally led to larger things. I had learned of the survival of a cult of Koskians in the upper reaches of The Spine at one such place, for example, and my account of their existence there had not only earned me my largest sack of coins, but my most prized possession: a gift from the head priest himself. I could feel its cool weight in my hidden pocket right now: a Traveling Stone. I remember his moist, appreciative eyes as he pressed it into my hand and I felt the tingle of its old power.

"Use it sparingly," he advised. "It is only a Minor Leaving and its power grows shorter with each use."

Leavings are magical items or tomes left behind by the Elders. They rely on the touch and spirit of their possessors to work. Traveling Stones—or at least the one I have—are activated by a series of gentle rubs and concentration. I cradle the flat, smooth stone with the index and middle finger on my right hand, rub the back of it with my thumb and think of the place I wish to go and the creature to take me there. I had only used it on a few occasions during the long years it has been in my possession because I fear I will exhaust its properties and because if you take such short cuts all the time, you miss many things along the way. And the things along the way were important to me—as they should be to everyone.

Alas, those were the places where a stranger was always welcome at a table and they were disappearing as fast as dew under an early summer sun. I grieve, sometimes, for the future, when I think about what is fading from the world and the only thing to keep them alive is the babbling writings of a cranky old woman.

I pushed aside my empty glass and signaled for a mug of ale instead. Apparently Verupian wine made me as cranky as a wet dwarf and as gloomy as a minstrel among the deaf. I shook it off, forced a smile and took a closer look at the other patrons, instead.

It looked like a good natured bunch, nary a scowl among them. The tavern keeper was a lean man with a piercing gaze that shifted around the room constantly. He wore a colorless shirt that was fraying at the collar and cuffs. The gray apron tied around his waist might have been a darker color once. A short, thick cudgel was tucked into it, just above the string.

Near him, a fat man with loose trousers hoisted one of the tavern wenches on his ample lap and curled her hair around a finger as rounds as a cucumber. She giggled and smiled as she tried to subtly turn her nose away from breath so foul it nearly made the poor girl's eyes water.

A boy caught my attention. He was sitting quietly at a wobbly table near the doorway, a shapeless hat resting on the tabletop next to him. His straw-colored hair was pushed down straight, yet it curled up at the ends like the petals on a flower. His expression was solemn. He might have lived ten summers. He stared intently at the door, his hands clenched together with fingers in constant motion. He started and his eyes widened whenever the door opened, but each time he looked crestfallen at the man or woman who appeared there.

He was waiting for someone, and worried about his or her fate, that much was certain. There might be a tale there and I got to my feet, grasping my half-empty mug as I did.

But then the door burst open again, and the boy and I both looked up, startled at the man who stood framed in the archway. The boy let out a sad sigh because he did not know the man. I cursed softly because I recognized him at once.

It was Connell Malak.

Intro, or a canoe and a swift pair of boots

The colossus outside of the Port of Feeno towers above the bay like a green mountain. Its prominent jaw juts out over the crashing waves in a permanent snarl, revealing jagged teeth that are chipped with age, with edges worn smooth by the eternal winds. Stubborn slime clings to its cheeks, which are taller than the largest spire in the great castle in Veral Ski. Hundreds of feet above the sloshing waves and sneering stone grimace, the brow of the Bay Guardian is furrowed in constant displeasure at those who sought to plunder the rich trading town, the anger and power of the stone still evident despite hundreds of years of exposure to the slashing winds and thunderous sea. Its eyes were pits of despair where fires taller than any two men once burned. Its fearsome countenance was modeled after Bloorn, the irritable god of the undersea, and designed to strike fear among the pirates and villains who patrolled the coast of Knorr as well as respect among the sailors who made their living on the tempestuous waters. It was frightening and majestic.

The clerk in the Temple of Yaner in the town of Alt, far removed from both the coast and its age-old guardians--the man who reminded me of that grand sculpture--was not. He was merely hideous. He probed his few remaining teeth with his tongue as he hunched over the parchments in front of him. Hair curled from his misshapen ears like burnt grass, and one thick strand stuck out from a rumpled mole on his temple like a flagpole.

"Is that all you have, then," he asked. "A map?"

It was amazing he could see anything through eyes so rheumy I could not distinguish their original color. I hoped, then, that he could only see my smile, and not detect the irritation behind it.

"It's a very detailed map," I told him, "better than anything you have in your archives."

"Hmmm." The tongue went back to probing his teeth. I was reminded of a mole searching for grubs under loose soil. He spun the paper around and bent closer to it. I was afraid the bubble of snot hanging precariously from his nose would fall, smear all of my delicate ink work and rob me of the few coins this effort would bring me.

"See, here? Your map shows the village near the Green River, while the river itself is a league away. 'Tis only a tributary that passes that close," I pointed out. "And the hills? They are much closer. Why, someone could follow your map to the river and find themselves surrounded by hill giants, instead. Imagine that. Pack a canoe and need a sword, instead--or a pair of swift boots."

I craned my neck to catch the signature, wondering if the Falcuhn who created the document had even been to that area—and how he or she had earned the quill in the first place. Ah. Connell Malak. No wonder. He was to facts what dwarves were to ocean fishing. Yet Malak managed to connect with the right heroes, tell the right legends and earn much more coin. Even now, he was probably resting on some well-padded divan, drunk on fine wine, while I was left chasing ghosts and quibbling over the position of trees and creek beds. And correcting his mistakes.

"You do show much attention to detail," he allowed. "And your strokes are sure; your lines clean. Have you ever considered scribery?"

I blinked and took a half step away from the counter before I recovered and give him a sweet smile. "You are kind to offer, but I fear my backside was not meant for a desk." A scribe? A...a copier? There was no appeal in that. Not for me.

He peered over the counter and grunted in agreement. I felt offense, but could not show it. I had to show nothing but patience while he poured over my map; my immediate future was in this abhorrent man's hands. My stomach rumbled, my legs were tired. My head itched and the gray hair that resisted most attempts to contain it probably looked like a wind-tossed nest. I wanted a bath, some food and a room and I had coin enough for none of it.

Finally, he favored me with something like a smile and pulled a heavy box from behind the counter. "The good queen's efforts to document the land are noteworthy, and the crown is usually quick to reimburse. I am happy to offer you some payment for your work, paltry though it may be."

I had hoped for the musical jingle of silver or the solid weight of gold and felt dismay when the pouch he pulled out rattled with the dull clamor of copper. The bath, needed as it was, might have to wait.