Rendering Nirayel-Stepping on Arbitos Page 9

  ***

  "You're a Level Fifty-three," announced a young voice from behind.

  "Why, yes, I am," she replied without turning. "How did you know that?"

  "I was at your Trial… I mean your Hearing."

  "You have a good memory for one so young."

  "I am not so young. I will reach my tenth summer soon, and Grandfather says I may have a dagger!"

  "Goren, please leave the poor woman be," pleaded Tobar wearily while rummaging through a series of old texts.

  "He is no bother," she offered honestly, and then turned to smile back at the youngster. "It is nice to be among friendly faces," she said as the boy entered the library, now sporting a Rogue's cloak, perhaps twelve sizes larger than required.

  Tobar momentarily glanced up. "Yes, mistress. I imagine that you've not been among many of late."

  "Someday, I will achieve the one-hundredth Circle!" Goren blurted proudly.

  "I'm sure you will," agreed Delphi. "You've a solid frame, and from what I've seen, you're very quick."

  At this, the boy's entire torso seemed to expand.

  Delphi's grin was demanding access to her face again. It was by sheer force of will that she continued to maintain a neutral expression.

  "You like Ambassador Thistle, don't you?" Goren asked without warning.

  "What?" she asked, taken aback.

  "Goren!" Tobar exclaimed.

  "Well, everyone's talking about the way you look at him and the way he looks at you. I just figured that…"

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she said quickly, thus cutting him off.

  "Mind your own business, boy! Mistress Bane hasn't the time for your foolishness!"

  Goren's expression abruptly shifted from curious to frightened. "I'm sorry, mistress! I didn't mean, I mean…" He looked from Delphi to Tobar, and then back to Delphi again, tears now filling his eyes. Quite suddenly, he bolted back toward his bedroom.

  "Goren! It's all right!" she called. "Mayhap I should speak with him. It was of no consequence. He just caught me off guard."

  "Don't worry yourself with that one, mistress. He's…of an awkward age."

  "Yes. A most volatile time indeed," she agreed.

  "Ahh, here it is," announced Tobar. "Chronicles Of The Scapegrace." He handed the tome to Delphi, who gingerly took the old book from the old man's hands and laid it down gently on the desk in front of her.

  "It is reputed to have been narrated in part by Surripere himself, though most folk today think such talk is only a matter of fabled nonsense," he offered while gazing at her perceptively, as if waiting to judge her response to such a statement, though she appeared to be too preoccupied with the book itself to hear him.

  "It is the same as the one from our archive, only yours is in much better condition."

  "It's A Pity That Chapters Within The Empire Are So Cut Off," Tobar Offered In A Low tone. There's so much we could teach each other, I'm sure."

  She opened the text with reverence, taking great care with each page. It was well preserved. Each and every word was perfectly legible as she read through previously unattainable scriptures before coming to something which gave her cause to stop. "Please? May I please copy this passage? It means more than you can know."

  "I think under the circumstances it would be all right," he replied. "In fact, that is but one of three copies in this library. I would be honored if you took the tome as a gift," he offered with a sly smile.

  Startled, she looked up from the book. "But… You said you were the Caretaker."

  "What is a Master, but a Caretaker, my dear?" he replied as his grin broadened.

  ***

  "In short," continued Reginald as he prepared to close, "You have all profited from the friendships forged through your own wisdom: the same wisdom that has led us all to the priceless comprehension of nothing more complicated than simple compromise."

  "Yet now we stand at a new precipice: a delicate but profound opportunity to profit in riches most have never dared dream. It is an occasion that will surely stand in history as the birth of a new world, wherein all civilized peoples might find themselves of a single Faction, and a United Nirayel!"

  Reginald had barely managed to raise both hands, thereby signifying an emphasis to his last statement even as he punctuated the end of his Address, when the ensuing cheers from his large audience threatened to engulf him. He had made his dream their dream: a beautiful picture rendered in such a way that all who had heard it yearned for it. Well, perhaps not quite all.

  A cloaked figure, which had joined the proceedings sometime during Reginald's speech, had slowly drifted its way near the Spurious Ambassador, and now stood almost within arm's length of that target.

  ***

  After the little scene she had caused, Sarah doubted that she should return to the ceremony. Even with the problem concerning the filter solved, it wouldn't do to see Jesse until she could better prepare herself. With no other options available to her, she decided to get a good night's sleep, and then begin fresh in the morning, after tempers have had an opportunity to simmer down a bit.

  While turning the corner of the street that she lived on, Selina stared, as something caught her attention. Several people were lurking about near the end of the walkway, where the intersecting cobblestone crossing came to an alley.

  The woman, who was of a rather squat stature, seemed to be leading, while the man who followed appeared to be somewhat hesitant to accede to her prompting. Upon closer inspection, she realized the man was in fact Borin, although she had never seen the woman before. As if in response to a nonverbal question, Selina identified the woman as Colonel Teristha Clawtorn.

  {Umm… Colonel, you say?"} [Yeah. What's he up to?] {Who?} [Borin, damnit! Are you paying attention?] {I believe he's scheduled to take office in approximately five minutes.} [That'll be kinda tough to do from a back alley that's almost a quarter mile away from their little shindig, wont it?] {Hmm. I see your point.} [That's what I thought.]

  She began to make her way toward the darkened entrance of the alley into which her husband and the woman had just disappeared.

  {What are you doing?} [I'm gonna follow and find out what he's up to.] {No. No, absolutely not! It's too dangerous.} [What danger? None of this is real.] {Real or not, if someone runs you through with a broad-sword, I personally guarantee that you will feel it, and in this game, that is just what alleyways are for!}

  Sarah hesitated briefly while considering the possible consequences. After a moment, she continued.

  {Excuse me? Perhaps I failed to make myself clear!} [Shut up, would ya, Doc? It's bad enough without your naggin.] {I just don't understand why…} [Because he could get hurt too! Now pipe down already!]

  ***

  She had missed her first mark. Tyde had made it quite clear she had better not miss the second. "We're almost there," she assured him confidently.

  Borin looked back in the direction they had come. They were getting further and further from the ceremony. "Begging the Colonel's pardon, but are you quite certain she meant to meet us this far from…"

  "I know exactly what you mean. It sounded strange to me as well," she replied, even before he was able to complete his question while managing to sound as confused as he truly was.

  For reasons he could not quite fathom, Borin felt terribly uncomfortable. Something just didn't seem right about all of this. Why would a Colonel run an errand for a Tailor? Especially this Colonel. Neither was he ignorant of the bad blood between this woman and his father. He supposed that she might be making an effort to bury the hatchet, though more than likely, she was simply endeavoring to ingratiate herself with a new Ambassador. She had a long-standing reputation for Apple-shine, as his father had put it. And yet that feeling: a foreboding sense of…of what?

  He continued to follow.

  ***

  "Surely you must admit that it is possible," Delphi asserted, hoping for at least some measure of validation.

&nbs
p; "I suppose," Tobar replied in a noncommittal tone. "I suppose anything is possible where Lord Surripere is concerned."

  "All the signs are there! Even the parts I could not decipher before. They are clear to see in this copy, and only serve to prove my suspicions to be well founded!"

  "Calm yourself, milady. I did not say you were wrong. I only think we should exercise caution. This is not a business to be taken lightly," he offered softly. "You know, there is much of the scripture you have failed to address yet. Rogues have been studying this riddle for millennia, with nothing to show for their trouble but conjecture."

  She stared into the candle's light with a melancholy expression.

  "Oh, now, don't give up so quickly," he comforted. "I may be cautious, but I must admit, there is much of your accounting that rings true."

  She faced him again, with much of her earlier exuberance dissipated, but she did seem a little more hopeful.

  "Now then, that's better. You know, you have a great deal of work to do if you truly have faith in your path. Do you, milady? Do you feel you are on the right path?"

  She met his eyes and nodded slowly, deliberately.

  "Yes," he said, grinning slyly again. "I do believe you do."

  "Then you will sponsor my Quest?" she asked quickly, matching her original enthusiasm, and his own sly smile.

  For a moment, his expression faltered. He was unaccustomed to being taken in so easily, especially by one so young. Presently, his smile returned. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, and then let it out again. "Right, then," he announced, opening a drawer in the desk. "You were certainly right about one thing," he offered while retrieving pen and parchment.

  "What is that?" she asked as her new Guild Master prepared a contract of Apprenticeship.

  "Regardless of Race, a Rogue is still a Rogue."

  ***

  Jester looked about. Where's that oaf gotten off to?

  "Before we present the Ambassadors with gifts to commemorate the occasion, not to mention their Seals of office-solid platinum, I've been told," Reginald said in a confidential tone, thus causing a wave of laughter through the crowd, "I feel that we would be remiss, were we to overlook someone who has played a much larger role in these proceedings than you might realize. I speak of a man whose devotion to a lasting peace is unsurpassed."

  Realizing who the Captain was referring to, Jester leaned over to the Magistrate, who looked as if he were about to nod off, then whispered, "Milord? I believe you're on."

  The Magistrate seemed not to have heard. He leaned forward with his head down, offering only short, shallow breaths to indicate slumber.

  "Jeri!" exclaimed the woman next to him while attempting to shake him awake. With no immediate response forthcoming, the Magistrate's wife began to appear alarmed. As her husband began to tumble forward, she quickly blocked his fall, and with Jester's assistance was able to pull him back into a sitting position. "Jeri?" she pleaded. "My Love?"

  Jester noticed something odd, something unnatural in the contour of the Magistrate's robes. At the same time, the old gentleman emitted an almost inaudible groan. Realizing something was obviously wrong, Jester pulled back the Magistrate's outer robe, revealing the hilt of a large ice pick.

  ***

  "So," continued Reginald. "Without further ado, please show your appreciation for our own Magistrate, Jericoe Tiberius Swelth!"

  The crowd erupted, coming alive with an unprecedented reverberating thunderclap of applause, further accompanied by a barrage of wild cheers and war howls in expectation of the Magistrate's grand entrance.

  After a time, their enthusiasm began to trail off, and then died altogether when it became obvious that the man was having serious difficulty, suggested first by his wife's distraught behavior, and then by her shattering scream of horror as the Ambassador to Spurious withdrew the pick from her husband's back and was currently raising it above his head, as if to plunge it in again.

  ***

  The man was near death, but could yet be saved if he moved quickly enough. Acting on instinct, and in spite of an almost overwhelming revulsion at the prospect of even touching such a vile object, Jester had withdrawn the pick, and then lifted both arms in a wide arc, gathering his mana in order to execute his strongest spell of healing. At the apex of his casting, his concentration was disrupted by a woman's piercing scream. Momentarily stunned, he involuntarily turned to locate the source of the outburst.

  The Magistrate's guards, who by now had rushed to his side, immediately noticed the pick in Jester's hand, held high while turning his murderous gaze upon the Magistrate's wife, as though she were to become his next victim. Their reactions were instantaneous. They both lunged forward, knocking the Assassin backward.

  ***

  Crimsin watched with increasing amusement. This was far better than anything he could have hoped for. He had been on the verge of slipping the pick into the Druid's back when he suddenly realized just how close he was to Krue's puppet Magistrate. With Swelth out of the way, he could use the Colonel with much greater effect. This made the Magistrate a much more attractive target than the Ambassador.

  Two for the price of one, he thought, grinning broadly at the prospect of finally dealing with the Captain as well. As he observed the guards hauling the Druid's unconscious body up, then on toward the Garrison, he corrected himself gleefully. Three! Three for the price of one!

  ***

  Goren sat on his bunk, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tightly about both legs, and his chin resting on his left knee as he stared into the corner of his room nearest the door.

  Even so, he failed to notice the hand mirror as it crept around the door-facing. He was still angry with himself for having upset Mistress Bane. She had also seen his tears, which only served to exacerbate his frustration further. In response, he wiped the tears from his eyes and face with his sleeve, and then did similar service for his runny nose.

  She must think me an infant! he thought reproachfully, his self-anger flaring as he raised both fists high, then down, slamming them into the mattress. I am not an infant! he thought, using his anger to fuel his resolution.

  Then he heard the faint whisper of something that flitted past his ear, followed immediately by a loud reverberating thud as it struck the dartboard behind his head. He whipped about to see the hilt of a dagger protruding from the target's bull's-eye, and then followed the blade's line of trajectory back to the door where he finally noticed Delphi's smirking face within the hand mirror. What remained of his anger dissipated as a grin formed of its own volition.

  "Who's there?" he called, as if he didn't already know.

  "Well, duh," she intoned sarcastically while poking her head around the door facing.

  Goren's grin spread. She wasn't angry. She wasn't cross at all. At first, his relief was such that he failed to catch her joke. After a moment, he recognized her parity of his own original greeting. This prompted an involuntary fit of laughter, more closely resembling giggles, and which in turn caused him yet further embarrassment at behaving in so silly a fashion in front of someone he had resolved to treat otherwise only moments ago.

  Alas, lacking that maturity left him victim to his own childish sense of humor. The best he could offer in the face of such adversity, along with his own bright red face, was to simply pull the covers over his head, a ploy that did offer some small measure of success, or rather, it did for the moment.

  She had not been in the company of children for over ten winters. That was when her training for Heartrot's reconnaissance Quest began. At the time, she had not been much older than Goren himself. During her travels, she had forgotten much about the simple pleasures of laughing and playing. At first, Goren's retreat beneath his quilted bedding had caught her off guard. She stood there for a moment, simply studying his unfamiliar behavior and wondering how to properly respond to such an odd anomaly. Then she remembered something universally true of all children.

  Goren's momentary sanctuary en
ded as he abruptly found himself the victim of a truly vicious tickling instigated by none other than Mistress Bane herself. To compound his misfortune, he had literally confined himself under his own covers, thereby cutting off all hope of escape. Thus had she successfully tapped into his worst weakness.

  His resolve melted as he lost all hope of maintaining any semblance of an adult Rogue's demeanor. Without further option, he was resigned to his fate. Being tickled somehow nullifies one's ability to generate anger, even anger at one's self. Consequently, he found himself at her mercy. Unfortunately, there has never been a word in Dark speech that matches the Homidris term for mercy. By the time she decided to stop, he was completely out of breath and as weak as a newborn lion cub.

  How long had it been? How long since she had heard a child's glee? How sweet to my ears.

  After a time, Goren managed to catch a small measure of his breath and pulled the covers back, revealing a smirk to match her own. His smile dropped upon remembrance of the dagger. "Mistress Bane? Could you teach me to throw like that?" he asked breathlessly while pulling the dagger from the board.

  "Well, of course. After all, it is my job," she replied casually.

  His enraptured attention upon the blade abruptly broke. He looked up at her, and she would not have traded anything for his expression of half confusion, half hope.

  "Incidentally," she continued. "From now on, you will refer to me as Master Bane, if you please."

  His eyes widened as the implication set in.