Rendering Nirayel-Stepping on Arbitos Page 5

  "You need not apologize to me, milord," she offered.

  "No, I believe I do indeed need to do just that. You see, I have utilized that term in reference to your entire Race for my entire life. I now realize this was a most improper display of bigotry, not to mention outright poor taste. I am, after all, a Half-elf. I of all people should be more sensitive to such levels of unmitigated ignorance, yes?"

  "If you say it is so, milord, then it must be," she agreed.

  "So, what say we see about offering you an opportunity to present your side of the story, as should be your right?

  "As you wish," she replied.

  "Tell me, mistress. Is what my colleague contends about your Deity ring true to you? Is The Lord of Thieves an advocate of mistruth?"

  "No, milord. I believe there is something of a loss in translation between our languages in this matter. It is true, he is a thief. In fact, he is The Thief. What has been left out of the translation is the term, Lord. In this instance, Lord conveys more than just rank. It conveys a higher significance, as should be applied to any Deity."

  "And what does that application mean to you?"

  "It means that his dealings in thievery have to do with something more substantial than petty mortals and their meaningless properties."

  "In what way do you imply, substantial?"

  "He stands for Justice in the eyes of the Scapegrace. He exists to retrieve that which is rightfully ours. We have been forced to retreat into the darkness for so long, that our very natures have become a part of the darkness itself. But when the Prophecy comes to pass, my people will be led back into the light, and all who now see us as something to be hated and feared will learn who we really are. Then shall we be received back into the arms of the world. Then shall your light, also become our light, once again."

  She had not meant to, but in the course of her testimony, she had ended up giving a speech. Her attentions returned to Jester, who was now wearing an odd smile. He appeared to be almost gratified somehow.

  "I spoke rightly, milord? You are pleased?"

  Jester caught himself staring back at her with a sloppy grin. In looking about the room, he found he was not the only one impressed by her accounting. Many in the crowd had been moved. He returned his attention to Delphi.

  "My colleague contends that you are the Assassin who killed Elder Pynewood. Furthermore, he has provided extensive evidence that strongly supports this allegation. Even so, I contend that the weight of responsibility for this act of aggression rests solely upon your superiors. Was it not Baron Heartrot who gave you the order to kill the Elder?"

  "No," she replied without reservation.

  At this the entire assembly began to murmur.

  "What?" Jester asked in a slightly higher pitch.

  "The Baron gave me no such command."

  Now the Dwarf's interest rekindled. It had seemed for a bit as if this Half-breed upstart had effectively turned the tables of sympathy, but this last answer offered hope, if she continued to hang herself.

  "Are you saying you killed him on your own?"

  "No," she replied.

  Now both Jester and the Dwarf looked confused. Jester took several moments to let this new turn sink in. "All right. Exactly who ordered you to kill the Elder?"

  "I was not ordered to kill the Elder."

  Until that moment, it had not occurred to anyone to ask the most basic of questions in any trial. "Delphi Bane," Jester continued with an intense expression. "Upon affirmation to your Deity, did you in fact take the life of Elder Pynewood?"

  "No," she replied.

  "Then how can you account for the darts and blow tube found on your person? They were conclusively determined to be the same as was used by the Assassin."

  "They had belonged to the ranking Rogue in our group," she replied. "When he learned that he was to be executed for his failure to Assassinate Ironwood's messenger, he passed his belongings to me, including the tube and darts. This has been our custom for many thousands of winters. After him, I became the ranking Rogue."

  "But…your eye. It was my understanding that you had been disciplined for failure of duties?"

  "As I had been under the direct command of a dishonored Assassin, it was also my duty to bear some small portion of that dishonor upon taking his post. Thus was my eye taken as a disciplinary action."

  Everyone in the courtroom seemed caught off guard. The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves while the Dwarf and his staff riffled through a large pile of scrolls. Finally, he spoke up. "Your Honor? This information is not admissible. There is no way to confirm the validity of the witness's statements."

  Jester had not even heard the Dwarf. He was too occupied with his own inner conflict. If what she said was true, then he owed her yet another apology concerning unmitigated ignorance. "Your Honor? I wish to call for a short intermission. I would confer with Amara Ironwood, concerning the existence of this other Rogue of higher rank. I would also research Dark-elf military customs concerning field commissions."

  ***

  "Merfee!" Nefari called again, now adding a note of rising anxiety.

  He entered their tent a moment later, though his attention was yet centered on the campfire. "Sorry, Nef, I was stoking the fire for supper. Tonight we eat turnips!" he announced excitedly. They had not had proper turnips in some time. It would be a most pleasant change.

  "It's time," she intoned seriously.

  "Yes, of course, dear. I have but to set the spit and our supper will commence roasting."

  "No! I mean it's time !" she repeated with an edge of urgency.

  ***

  "I don't believe I can wear this. It…it swishes." Borin protested.

  "It's a robe, milord. It is supposed to."

  "Yes, perhaps, but I assure you, Warriors don't swish, they…well I suppose they swagger. Of course, that is to say, male Warriors swagger. I suppose Lady Warriors swish… Well no, not all of them. I'm sure some sway…"

  "Please, milord. You really must stand still," implored the Tailor. "I might accidentally stick you."

  "Now see here! Don't you have something less…less…"

  "Less what, milord? Less effeminate?" she inquired expectantly, her expression suggesting that he exercise caution.

  "I meant no impropriety towards your gender. I know many notable female Warriors."

  "I suppose milord's objection only applies to those of us who are overly effeminate?"

  "Not at all. In fact, so far as women are concerned, I wholeheartedly feel there is no such thing as too much femininity."

  "Are you mocking me, milord?"

  "What? Don't be stup… Ouch!"

  "I beg pardon, Ambassador, though I did warn you," she crooned.

  "That's it! I'm not wearing this poofy, buttocks-wiping evening gown!" he shouted while commencing to step down from the dressing pedestal.

  "It's not poofy!" she shouted back while stepping up to block his path. "It's regal! You have heard of regal, haven't you?"

  They both paused as their respective standoff lingered uncomfortably.

  "Oh, now that's simply magnificent," crooned the Magistrate as he entered his Tailor's Quarters.

  "I rather thought so, myself," the Tailor added with enthusiastic agreement. "The Ambassador however, seems to think it's too swishy."

  "Swishy?" intoned the Magistrate with an elevated brow.

  "I believe milord's Tailor has mistaken my meaning," Borin asserted.

  "He thinks it's effeminate," she said with a pouty expression.

  "I didn't say that!"

  "You called it a poofy, buttocks-wiping…"

  "I know what I called it!"

  "My boy. You have a great deal to learn about dealing with underlings, not to mention diplomacy in general."

  "Yes, Magistrate," Borin agreed absently while examining his hemline with no small amount of revulsion.

  "As for you, Petunia! I'm simply shocked! This young man is about to become our Ambassador. You should b
e more respectful."

  "Please forgive my impertinence, Magistrate," she implored.

  "It is not I whose forgiveness is required, my dear."

  She slowly turned to Borin, who was now wearing a most annoying grin. Reluctantly, she curtsied deeply. "Forgive me, Ambassador Krue. My behavior has been deplorable," she offered without inflection.

  Borin's grin broadened. "Petunia? Your name is actually Petunia?" he asked as she looked up at him with lips drawn thin and eyes narrowed into furrowed slits.

  "Ouch!"

  "I can see we've a great deal of work ahead of us," intoned the Magistrate while rubbing both of his temples.

  ***

  Due to the sheer number of requests for admittance, Archive directors were forced to restrict access to a maximum of twelve members from each of the opposing Litigation teams.

  While Jester and his team endeavored to extract any relevant material on Dark-elf military Customs within all Rogue factions, Amara went over the initial records of death within the Dark-elf opposition from the recent raid on Howling Cavern.

  Delphi had been immediately ushered back to her quarters until her statements could either be confirmed or discredited. She had some rudimentary idea of what was taking place, but had no misgivings in the matter. What had been ordained by destiny would come to pass, regardless of her concerns. She would either be granted Sanctuary, or she would not. If she were to be refused, then so be it, for that would be the path she had been intended to take all along.

  Sanctuary would of course be her preferred choice. It would afford an opportunity to become more acquainted with Jesterwolf before the final path of Prophesy. Also, there was still much to be seen and understood. The more she knew, the more she could be of assistance to him.

  She heard one of the guards draw the bolt back. The door was then opened, but only slightly.

  "Milady? May I enter?" Jester asked.

  "Yes, of course. Please come in."

  "I've just come from a private conference with the Prosecutor and the Judge." he informed her quickly while closing the door behind him. "Your information concerning the other Rogue and field promotion customs have both been confirmed!"

  "That's nice."

  "In fact, it was the Prosecution who made the initial discovery. When one of our people caught him attempting to exit the Archives with the information concealed in his satchel, he decided it was in his own best interest to drop his case."

  "Then you are the winner of the contest?" she asked, smiling.

  "Contest? Oh, yes. I suppose it actually was a contest, of sorts. Yes, we won, and now your request for Sanctuary has been approved!"

  "So, I may stay here?" she asked, indicating her new room. It was infinitely preferable to her previous quarters.

  "Are you joking? This place is a dung heap."

  "Milord? I've been thinking about something," she began, and then turned away.

  "What?" he asked. There was obviously something bothering her.

  "Well, I think you should know… If the order to kill the Elder had fallen to me, I would have carried out my responsibilities."

  Now it was Jester's turn to feel uncomfortable. "Yes. Well, you shouldn't feel you owe anyone an explanation. In fact, I believe I owe you yet another apology," he intoned seriously, placing his hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

  At his touch, she turned to face him.

  "I…was angry," he began, his gaze attempting to wander, and then returning by force. "I was angry, and…somewhat childish," he continued with resolve. "I failed to see things from your point of view, and became…well, much like that Dwarf in the court room."

  "Point of view?" she asked, not recalling this particular phrase in anything she had learned to interpret.

  "Err, yes…" he struggled, trying to think how to explain.

  Then it struck her. She reached out, tracing her fingers over his brow. "Empathy?" she inquired, softly.

  "Of a…sort," he confirmed absently. Her proximity, combined with her touch and tone, had effectively disabled his concentration in so far as linguistic tutelage was concerned.

  "Ambassador?" called the guard who had unlocked the door. "There is someone here who wishes to speak with you…I think."

  "Great! Wonderful! Be right there!" he returned with no small amount of annoyance.

  After a moment, Jester poked his head out of Delphi's room. Merfee was waiting just beyond the guards, and leaning against a stone wall while breathing as if he had run the entire distance from Spurious to Arbitos, which had almost been the case. He had only stopped for three very brief periods in which to regain his breath. He was also holding his stomach as if he were experiencing indigestion. Between this and the heavy breathing, he almost appeared to be in labor.

  As Jester emerged, he attempted to speak, but had not quite gotten his wind back.

  "Easy, Merf," Jester offered in a soothing tone. "Take your time."

  Of a sudden, Merfee was bathed in a blue wash of showered light. Presently, his fatigue began to slowly dissipate. "Time!" he croaked, as if repeating Jester's advice, but with an odd urgency.

  "Yes, just rest a moment. There's no hurry."

  "Time! Hurry!"

  Jester's expression of concern for his friend's distraught parroting was shared by both of the guards, and Delphi, who had followed Jester to see what the commotion was.

  "Perhaps your friend should lie down," she suggested.

  "He appears to be somewhat addled," added one of the guards, as if Merfee were not coherent enough to understand the remark.

  This was proven otherwise when Merfee delivered a distinctively disdainful glance directly at the offending guard in question, who in turn looked away uncomfortably.

  "Nefari is about to give birth!" Merfee finally managed to blurt.

  "I'm aware of that, Merf," Jester intoned patronizingly. "After all, I am to be the Godfather." He smiled proudly, glancing back at Delphi to confirm she had understood how honored he felt at being chosen for such an auspicious role.

  He reconsidered his tone when Merfee offered him a look closely resembling the one delivered to the guard.

  "Oh!" exclaimed Jester as it finally struck him. "Oh, we have to go!" he cried, grabbing Merfee's arm and jerking him into an all out run, back toward Spurious.

  ***

  She opened the messenger's scroll. It was lettered in real platinum.

  Captain Magnatha Thistle,

  Your attendance is requested upon the darkened eve of morrows end as we commemorate the Alliance of two great peoples with the appointments of Ambassadors Thistle and Krue.

  You are authorized and encouraged to invite anyone you see fit, most especially, anyone who is of relation to either yourself, and or Ambassador Thistle.

  A full Detail of Arbitos' finest shall arrive in the morning to escort you and your entourage to your Ambassadorial Suites in time to take tea with our Honorable Magistrate, Jericoe Swelth, his charming wife, and myself.

  My congratulations on your son's Appointment. Sincerely, Reginald Krue, Captain of the guard, Defender of Arbitos, and your friend.

  She sat down, and read the scroll several more times to make certain she hadn't misinterpreted something. To her reckoning, Jester would have been certain to continue rising in the circles of his calling. He might even have managed a position on the Council, after perhaps another three of four hundred Summers. But this? Who'da thunk it? Such as this could be no more easily accepted than if she were told Huey had just been granted a Directorate Professorship at the University of Brinehaven.

  "Cleetis!" she barked.

  "Yes, Nanna," he replied from inside his wagon.

  "I want ya to dig out me old trunk! And everybody's gonna take a bath! Now!"

  ***

  Orval analyzed the data collected so far. He monitored Sarah's experiences while interacting with the N.P.C. during their dream sequences. What he observed was quite disturbing.

  Apparently, there was an ongoing
breach of DIT protocols: a failure during her transfer, causing the lines that had been drawn between the N.P.C.'s template and Sarah's own pattern to interface in areas not secured. Areas like dreaming.

  He had not anticipated this particular problem. The filter was originally designed to function as a short-term diagnostic tool in far less complex situations. Now he wasn't sure what to expect. If her interaction with the current interface continued, it was entirely possible that the filter could degrade into a full cascading failure. This could either end with Sarah locked within the Selina persona, or even worse: her pattern could become fused over the Selina template. To avoid this, he would either have to determine some way of nullifying Selina's influence over Sarah's higher brain functions, or simply abort the entire connection. He preferred not to abort. There were so many lives at stake: lives for which he felt responsible.

  He could extend the filter to include a virtual storage link. This would provide a confinement area to separate, and then hold the Selina pattern while Sarah occupied the N.P.C. template. Such a maneuver would most certainly alert the security sub-routine, unless he recalibrated the makeshift placeholder template to reflect an identical pattern as that of the Selina character. This would require a spawned copy of Sarah's neuro-pattern to be overlaid onto the placeholder. In essence, it would be similar to using a mirror to fool a photoelectric security system. The reflection is of course false, but the alarm doesn't know that.

  When she did finally wake in mid-morning, this was how he explained the theory to her. It was a very simplified way to relate the procedure, but considering her previous difficulty with technical information, he thought it best. Even so, her first impression was that he was attempting somehow to literally copy her mind. Orval was careful to explain that the copy of her pattern was simply a tool to incorporate Selina's signature, thereby tricking IBOT into thinking that Sarah was an N.P.C. It took several attempts, but he finally got the idea across.

  Once the revised template had been placed within the filter's interface, they would need a proper test to confirm its stability. The best way to accomplish this was to have Sarah use the new interface simply by going about Selina's normal daily routine.