chapter eleven

So dark was his mood, the bitter ale was sweet by comparison.

Still, like his mood, the ale had been brewed in darkness, hidden away from sight to ferment until it might gather sufficient potency to be released. Only then could it be served up and be measured ineffective in allaying his thirst or removing the furrow from his brow. He took another long drink, seeking perhaps to achieve by quantity what the brew could not achieve by quality alone. He lowered his mug to see two men approaching his half-lit corner table. His furrowed brow did not relent as they drew near. He wished to be alone.

"Garth Vencher! Surely you cannot think my companion and I would allow such a renowned man as yourself to drink alone in a corner, away from his brothers, like some haunting revenant? Pray allow us to join you on this celebrated evening, and offer you our good company."

Garth kept his eye on the taller of the two men, the one who had not addressed him, and nodded slightly. "Such as it is?"

Laen Abor laughed loudly, too loudly for this one quiet corner of the tavern, and noisily pulled up a chair with a grin. "Exactly so, good sir. We'll knock that knit off your brow, if any here can." He turned to look up at his comrade. "Sit Victorious! We have a rare opportunity to set aside our burdens and speak with a living legend," He turned to glance at Garth for approval, and continued as if he had received it. "Don't be rude. Keeper!" Goodness. He was shouting now, craning his neck in the direction of the bar. People were beginning to turn from their own excited chatter and conversation of the days events and look towards Garth's formerly quiet haven. "Attend! Another round of this," He reached across without looking back to flick Garth's mug, "fine ale for the lot of us. Do hurry, good man!" Then he turned, resting his arms on the table as Victorious took a seat at his right, between himself and Garth. "What troubles you, friend? Your councilor was in rare form today. You should be pleased."

Garth smiled grimly without looking away from his ale. "I am pleased. Of course I'm pleased. And yes," he fixed a small wry grin on the Godiian Ambassador, "you may join me."

"Of course we may! It is our duty, seeing the great Flaming Blade skulking in the corner like a lovelorn lister, far from home." Garth winced inwardly at this. "We shall endeavor to show you the meaning of Godiian goodwill, eh Vicky?" Laen clapped Victorious' large shoulder to little effect. Victorious nodded slightly at Garth, then looked around idly for a mug similar to Garth's own to suddenly appear.

And appear it did. Ambassadors and visiting dignitaries, of which there were many in The Rook's Nest this evening, enjoyed special attention from the town's serving sector, and faithful old Neckir at the bar was not to be outdone, despite the great load upon his keep this evening. In short order, one of his girls, Prinda, deposited three frothy mugs upon the table, checked Garth's for fullness, found it sufficiently lacking, and bore it away on her tray as she waded back into the throng without a word.

Laen looked after her a moment longer than necessary. "Thank you, fair lady. Don't be long! We shall have need of you shortly!" He turned back around as if about to speak, took in Garth's closed hunker once more, and seemed to think better of it. What a wonderful world, Garth mused behind his expression, if more people like Laen thought better of tossing out their idle, empty commentary on each passing whim a little more often. Or, he frowned inwardly, if beautiful high-flying ladies without peer might deign to walk beside mortal men more often, and open up their closed hearts, and be near.

Phah! Garth attacked Laen's gift of ale at once. He was being piteous and bleak. This was silly. It was silly before, but now he found himself accompanied and should behave with more grace. By the time his mug descended, much lighter now, the decision was made, and he smiled in welcome. "My thanks, Mr. Ambassador. Of course rumor of your generosity precedes you, and is proven just and sooth." He tipped his mug to both of his visitors in turn. "Laen, Victorious, I thank you. Please, be welcome now and speak freely. Cheer this heart, momentarily overcome with the sheer volume of the days events. You gladden the spirit with your passing, and warm the heart by choosing to tarry here. Speak!" He focused on Laen now. "What would you, of this celebration?" he threw a great arm wide to indicate the noisy, shoulder to shoulder patronage. In the distance, invisible through the thick wall of patrons, a faceless musician could be faintly discerned, warming up on a loncel. "This magnificent show?"

"It is all I can do to keep Vicky in line. He's a wolf, I tell you, and would find himself loose among a great gaggle of Siguard's most alluring sheep, were it not for my restraining arm." Laen took this opportunity to turn and wolfishly drink in the many gowns, dresses, and other pleasing feminine wares on display amidst the crowded tavern. For his part, Victorious sighed and turned with a half-look of supplication to Garth. Garth's smile turned half-genuine.

"Such a tight leash, good Victorious? How do you bear it with such grace, I wonder." He took a sip from his mug as he regarded the only man in The Rook's Nest whose shoulder towered as high above his fellows as Garth's did.

Victorious' uncommonly melodious voice seemed out of place amidst the smoke and din of a tavern, piercing both like a musical spear. "You must forgive the Ambassador, Sir Vencher. He is," Victorious rolled his eyes toward Laen, who was still leering at Siguard's finest, "more than half into his cups, I fear. Of course, I am no such prowler among such as these. Such behavior," he again indicated Laen with his eyes, "is beyond my ken. I've done that much good and right."

Unexpectedly, Garth's half-genuine smile became fully so. "Are you trothed, then?"

Victorious took a thoughtful draught, sucking the foam from his mustache with his bottom lip as his mug and eyes ventured elsewhere. "I will be. Soon, I think." He seemed to return to the tavern with the closest Garth had yet seen to a smile--or for that matter, any betrayal of emotion--on his face. "Yes."

For some reason, well, for a rather obvious reason, Garth's interest became narrowed to a sharp point. "Might I have the pleasure of her name, Sir Difont?"

Victorious sighed, then took Garth in with a sidelong appraisal. "Yes, and only that pleasure, sir. Her name is Darsa."

Garth couldn't help grinning. He had no idea from their prior meeting that Victorious could be so charming. Even his Northern accent, blessed as it was with an uncommonly melodious voice, seemed suddenly fair and just. Garth raised his mug, one soldier who loved to another. "A blessing upon you and your fair lady Darsa, good sir."

Victorious nodded politely, eyes not quite meeting Garth's, and returned the salute with his own mug. "What are we toasting to? Vicky's long, lost love? Ah, she is a rare beauty. Emphasis on the rare as much as the beauty." Laen had returned to the conversation, nudging Victorious with his elbow as he descended on the topic like, well, like a wolf. Engaging Garth squarely, and doing his best to drown out Victorious' great size with a mad flurry of gesticulation, Laen began to describe a woman wondrously fair, yet suspiciously unreliable and difficult, it seemed, to track down. Knowing what to expect from Laen, Garth kept his eyes on Victorious to learn the truth of the matter. Victorious was again emotionless, his eyes focused somewhere between his far away homeland and a spot on the table in front of his ale.

Laen was still talking, but turned instead to his comrade now. "This I will say, in all honesty, my very good friend: when the two of you are together, your combined light could strike a man blind." He shifted his eyes back to Garth with a wry twist of his lips. "A prettier pair is not to be found in all of Sid, begging your pardon, Garth--that is, when they are a pair."

Garth ignored this, particularly the sharp implication, and nodded to Victorious. "You put up with this all day?"

Victorious, who had leaned back in his seat until his head touched the wall behind him, looked across his aquiline nose and spoke flatly. "Service and duty, Sir Vencher. Service and duty." He inclined his head slightly toward Laen, who was idly sipping his ale, eyes once more wandering from the table. "He's not as difficult as he appears to try to be, if you understand me."

Laen swept back in like a downpour. "That's right, Mr. Vencher. Keep your ladyfriend afar. Hide her away, as I imagine Vicky does with his little prize, for I am charming far beyond your Councilor's ken to withstand." He made a great show then of draining his mug.

"Subtlety does not become you, good Ambassador." Garth grinned at Victorious despite himself. "Pray, speak more clearly."

The good Ambassador slammed his empty mug down hard on the wooden table. "Very well. You know all that talk about dancing the other--" Garth's hand was on his wrist in an instant, with a grasp so firm Laen was at a momentary loss for words. It occurred to Garth that this didn't happen to the Godiian very often. Not often enough, by any standard.

"Friend, it is my turn now." Garth smiled. "Pray allow me to order the next round. Friend Neckir!" Neckir looked around, saw the Man Without Armor's three-fingered gesture, and nodded. Garth waited one moment longer than needed, and released Laen's wrist. "My pardon. Do continue."

Victorious Difont was a serious man. He observed his duty and obligations straight from the heart. Garth had noticed, for example, that the second he moved toward Laen, Victorious was bolt upright in his seat just as quickly. If he had tried to intercept his grasp, Garth could not with certainty say who would have proven faster. So it was that he found himself ill-prepared for Victorious' mighty roar of laughter, and was nearly swept full out of his seat by surprise.

"Ah Laen, dear Laen," the tall Godiian managed to say between slowly diminishing tremors of mirth. He looked down upon his Ambassador with a good-natured twinkle in his eye. "That simply does not happen to you often enough." He searched the table, still grinning, apparently for something to wipe the sparkle from his eyes with. Finding nothing suitable, he resorted to his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, that was most unexpected. Welcome," he flashed Garth a grinful of newfound respect, "but unexpected."

Laen seemed equally shocked by his friend's sudden good humor. He glared in turn at Garth, then Victorious, over the rim of his ale, went to set it down, thought better of it, sipped again, then set it down quietly between his cupped hands, eyes inward and remote. "Funny, that." His voice was a murmur, almost lost to the background din and applause. Apparently someone had just finished a song or performance on the far side of the tavern, as The Rook's Nest was now filled with the sounds of a captive audience released. "Did I miss something?" The ambassador turned in his chair to try to determine the object of the tavern's appreciation. "Did we miss something, just now?"

Victorious was still smiling, and relaxed in his chair. "Pray, let it pass, Laen. You would not have enjoyed it. You would not have been the center of attention." Then the giant soldier stifled a girlish giggle as he reached for his mug. Garth decided he liked this man.

Laen pretended, with an effort palpable to Garth, not to have heard his companion, and rose from his chair. The applause had diminished back to the dull background cacophony of any tavern running at full capacity this late in the evening. Laen started towards the center of the keep, then oddly turned on his heel and hastily reclaimed his seat. His face was white and his eyes were wide.

The ambassador, eyes momentarily averted, shook his head once, violently, as if rebuking some inner voice. Then with an urgent rasp, looking up at his two companions with what appeared to be a genuine, heart-wrenched sincerity, Laen pleaded, "Vicky, Garth--preserve me!"

Immediately, Garth the lovesick became Garth Vencher, Captain of Siguard. He had seen such faces and heard such tones many times before--on a field of battle. It was the look and sound of one who was looking his death in the eye and was not equal to the task. Before he even lifted his gaze to see what had brought about this drastic change in Laen's demeanor, he immediately took stock of the situation: Garth was armed with his sword and a dagger in his boot. Victorious, an enemy soldier, was at least on the surface unarmed, dressed in a fine tunic of black with gold sleeves. Embassy guards were typically not permitted to wear their armor outside of their ambassador's mansion, except for occasions of ceremony and formal escort. Still, he might have a short blade stashed away unseen. Laen would clearly be of little help in a fight, but Victorious now sat sharply in his chair, all mirth long passed, arms at the ready, eyes fixed upon an approaching figure.

Garth had just decided that he was ready for almost anything when he saw the Jester weave his way past the nearest patrons, an elderly gentleman in a bright purple tunic and his wife? Daughter? beside him in a fine, blood red gown. Both smiled and sent fond words after the poet as he passed them by. This was Laen's death? Garth almost began to suspect the ambassador of pulling off a grand, if ill-advised, joke at his expense. He relaxed ever so slightly in his chair. Victorious, face once again beyond emotion, noticeably did not. Laen sat with his back to the troubadour, eyes fixed on his mug, fingers nervously tapping either side of it. Quickly Garth scanned the tavern for members of his selvat, or any soldiers for that matter. At first glance, he saw none. Not even a local thor. Very well. He would wait and hear what account this artist, and his ability to strike fear into the heart of a Godiian, had to offer.

The slender hand which descended upon Laen's shoulder seemed friendly enough. "If my eyes do not deceive me, I stand humbly now beside a table circled by men of high honor." The Cleppar Jestian was slight of frame and awash in dusty yellow and blue as he looked each of them over with a tilted smile. Garth guessed the poet would favor his right in battle, and that conceivably a dagger or three might be concealed beneath his weather-stained cloak. The newcomer's eyes were bright, perhaps even dangerous. But his voice, in true Jesterian fashion, was a sheer wonder. "May I join you, Ambassador?"

Laen did not look up at first. Then he smiled, eyes still on his mug, planted his hands flat on the table, and sighed deeply. "It is you who honor us, Jon Rever." Then his eyes rose to meet Garth's. "Pray, shed your ill-fitting cloak and be welcomed." The poet smiled at this, dragged a chair from the nearest table, which was empty--most of the tavern's guests were gathered near the center of the keep--and took a seat next to Laen. The ambassador, composure for the moment restored, looked him up and down curiously. "Tell me, was that your fair voice on the far side of the tavern? You're expert hands upon the loncel?"

At this the Jester's smile receded. "I'll not be mocked by you, Laen Abor. Yes it was I, and yes, among," he paused, looking Garth in the eyes, "friends, I can at last relax and give up my pretense. I am Ris Vengel, traveling troubadour of Cleppar Jest, no longer. I am indeed Jon Rever, soldier of Godii once more. Captain Difont, a pleasure to see you again." Victorious nodded, albeit stiffly, as Garth tried to make sense of what this sing-song voice had just declared. Surely this was no member of the Embassy, dressed as a poet for show. Surely this was--could only be--a spy. Below the table, his hand edged nearer his hilt. Unsummoned, Prinda returned to deposit four new ales on the table with a smile and small curtsy to the artist, and without a word departed with three empty mugs on her tray. Garth took this opportunity to stand from his chair to his full height, revealing his sword, and offer a clasp across the table to this Godiian who would seem a poet. A dangerous man, surely.

"My greetings to you, Sir Rever. If you be a friend to the Embassy, I name you so likewise. I am Captain--"

"Garth Vencher, of the Honor Guard of Siguard." The poet's voice finished Garth's sentence with a dark flourish. Rever did not clasp, instead nodding Garth back to his seat, his eyes now shining with a black light. "Be seated, sir. We have met before." Without looking away from Garth, he placed his hand again on Laen's shoulder. "Ambassador, you too may relax. I have not come for you at this time." Laen did not appear to find this very comforting.

"In fact, it is not my intent to bring harm to anyone at this table this evening." He raised his free left hand in a gesture of peace. "Before it occurs to you to call on your dogs, Sir Vencher, allow me to speak briefly to my countrymen. You may listen as well." Without waiting for a sign from Garth, he turned to Laen and Victorious. "Let me tell you a few things about this Savior of Siguard we all met today. I suspect I know almost as much about his history as our good Captain here. Indeed, I witnessed from afar his emergence from the wild woods north of Bemer, naked and witless. I saw him strike the Witch--who today would have us believe he fathered the Krysli--to the very ground."

Garth stifled his reaction to Rever's revelation. He was not going to be commanded nor prodded by an enemy soldier's here, in the heart of Siguard City. His heart began to pound blood fast and true, filling all his limbs. A dangerous man, this Rever, perhaps, but then, so was he. The deciding factor in this odd tableau would be Victorious. A glance to his left revealed no indication as to which way Victorious might go. Laen, certainly, did not love or respect his newly-arrived countryman. But what of his comrade? Victorious would make the difference.

Rever of Godii continued. "Now before--please, Captain, be seated--before I go any further, I'd like to make one thing crystal clear to you, Sir Vencher. I have the true Savior of Siguard, and you know him well. He wears a blue cowl. If anything should happen to me, if I do not return to the Embassy unharmed, he will surely perish. Think well on that, and have a care." Garth balled his fists, released them, and remained standing. Faces began to turn towards the giant in the corner. He even recognized a few. Would that he recognized just one from the Guard. He looked down to see the slender Godiian was waiting for him to comply. Grudgingly, eyes locked on Rever's, he obliged him.

The struggle here was not to win over his opponent's will, but rather those wills that might still be in play. "Know this, scions of Godii: the only possible explanation for your dire countrymen's words would be that he was a member of a raiding party, sent to abduct or otherwise bring harm to Councilor Vianna, whom you have met. They were only barely thwarted from their cause by my selvat and the Councilor herself. The warning came from your office, Ambassador. Or rather, the office of your predecessor." And like that, it all fell into place. Keeping Rever in his peripheral, he took in Laen's reluctant eyes, now raised and fairly sparkling with significance. "You! It was you! Your fear, your mention of the long arm of your homeland, and now this agent surfaces..." Garth's mind was racing. "And you Sir Rever are, among other things base and vile, the author of the former Ambassador, Friend Silva's demise, are you not? You've been out there skulking in the Eastern wild far too long."

As if he could see those few who were beginning to take note of the posturing and raised voices here in the corner, Rever leaned over and hugged Laen by the shoulder, fairly grinning with all but his eyes. "Yes, we've had our doubts about Ambassador Abor for some time now. Silva was, by all accounts, many things, but never one to give cause for his honor's doubt. Not nearly as well suited for treason as some we could name. Still, it was he who personally warned the Councilor. I checked Laen's story against the account of his countrymen who were present on that errant journey to Bemer, and it holds true. So it was Silva who paid the price. And it was our good, new, fine ambassador here," Laen winced and continued his intense focus on the new mug of ale before him, "who I made sure witnessed the payment, on that return trip from Bemer. So he would know, beyond a doubt, just who was waiting for his next misstep to collect again if needed."

"The reports, the murders, the looting--our soldiers have been scouring Eastern Siguard for weeks now, looking for the responsible raiding parties." It all made sense to Garth now. "It was a party of one, eh Rever? Do I have, in conversation with you, the further pleasure of speaking to an actual Rider of the Keep? Who else could live in the wild with naught but his wits to sustain him, engage in elaborate deceptions, and keep the common soldiery guessing, always three long steps behind him?" Garth paused, realizing he was paying compliment to a dire adversary with his musings and guesswork. "It will end tonight, sir. Know this." He smiled darkly. "You have no Magician in your custody. You bluff, sir, and my selvat will soon be arriving, and are indeed already late. You had better come along quietly."

Rever smiled. "Ah, but it is you who bluff, sir. I know where every member of your selvat is this evening, and not one of them stands within a league of this building as we speak. And I said nothing of Magicians. I said that my captive has a blue cowl. Clearly you do know him well. Ask yourself, Captain." Rever's eyes were black iron. "Would you so carelessly risk the Father of the Krysli's life? Is loyalty so rare here in your heathen South?" His fist pounded the table unexpectedly, bringing Laen half out of his seat. "Not so in the honorable North, my friend. Victorious! Come let us have an end to this. Assure Captain Vencher of your allegiance, and your intent to escort him without further incident to the Embassy."

All eyes at the table turned to Victorious, who sat unblinking as if carved from stone. His own eyes met no one's in particular, yet neither did they seek to hide. He was clearly deep in thought.

Garth Vencher longed for such granite resolution. The entire tavern had become a swirling vortex of mistakes and misgivings. He had attempted a bluff and been called forth on it. He was shamed. Of course, none from his selvat were anywhere near the Rook's Nest tonight. Garth had seen to it, longing to immerse himself in solitude to wrestle with such unfamiliar, complex emotions for such a familiar, complex woman. Though the tavern was nearly filled with all manner of socialites, domestic and foreign, empty chairs and tables surrounded this corner of the tavern at least three rows deep, all from a brief word with old Neckir. His emotions had not the least betrayed him.

Rever was clearly a Rider of Godii. An even match for the most highly-skilled member of the Honor Guard, at the least. And he was canny, a spy with the ability and the voice to pass as one of Cleppar Jest's own--no small feat. Grimly, Garth realized that Rever meant to kill him, plain and simple. What could he possibly gain from divulging so much information to a sworn enemy? Unless it was to make it clear to his enemy that death was inevitable. Imminent. Around the corner.

Garth was no stranger to fear, but he discovered he had no prior acquaintance with the sense of being trapped like a cornered beast. Very well. Face it. As you always have. You have danced with death for summers on end now. Words have failed, as they often do. But you still have your wits, shamed or no, and bound, gagged, or otherwise betrayed, you do not intend to be an easy kill. And comfort yourself with this: you were correct from the outset. It all depends on Victorious. If Laen is in half the trouble he appears to be with Rever, and if Victorious is loyal to his friend... you were getting on quite well, the two of you, before the room started swimming of its own accord in Rever's wake.

Victorious stood. He spoke loudly, almost carelessly. Perhaps it was the recent passing of Rever's amazing voice, perhaps it was something else, but Victorious' speech had lost its own rare musical quality. He spoke flatly, as a bad actor might read from a script. "Laen, I fear you're much too far into your cups. Shall we retire? Will your friends here be joining us?"

Laen looked across the table at Garth. Garth had not the words to characterize his expression. It was not happy. His back to the crowd, he too rose and spoke as if from the same flat script. If nothing else, this convinced Garth this was no charade, no ruse. Laen was far too gifted of an actor to conduct himself so poorly. His life was seemingly in as much danger as Garth's own. "Ah, I suppose it is sooth. Pray good friends," he threw his arms out lamely, "will you not see fit to join us? The weather is fitting and the conversation has been most charming. I'd not see it end just yet." He reached down and stole one last swig of his ale, as one who might never get the chance again.

Rever rose silently, eyes full of grim portent. Garth seemed to have little choice. He rose from his chair and flashed a lone, queried look at Victorious beside him.

Victorious lowered his eyes as he stretched a long arm towards the door, inviting the ambassador's "guests" to precede them. He lowered his voice even further, barely a whisper as it drifted across the tiny space between the two giant men like a fluted lullaby.

"Service and duty, Sir Vencher. Service and duty."