The Apartment, XVII Firstblome, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten. After Prime.
Dale, Hamral, Mot, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
“Perhaps it is meet now to decide what our next move will be,” says Vandoren, addressing the consortes, who are drawn in a tight ring in the common room. Outside, the streets of Heremac are crowded with a thick, roiling morning fog, rising up from the river. Vandoren looks carefully at each of his comrades before continuing.
“I would like to linger about town for a few days more, to see what haps with the Seekers. I would also like to visit with my father, and perhaps even receive the honor of meeting some of the esteemed folk who are now in town. After that, if my fellows have not decided on a definite pursuit, I would just as soon venture off to see Bracy for a bit.”
“That may not be necessary,” answers Valerius. “I concur that it will be extremely interesting to see just who shall replace Edric. While Gregory is a local favorite and an acclaimed hero, this Wich seems to curry favor with no less a figure than the Pope! Friends in high places, hmmm…
“I am uncertain whom I would rather see win the election, but with this war, Brother Gregory would appear the logical choice for successor. However, things are all-too-often not as they appear. There is a third candidate from the north—Brother Alan, I believe—perhaps he also has some trick up his sleeve.
“Regardless, I feel that we must leave at once and attempt to rescue Reginald—or at the very least, discover what has happened to him. The Penitent has proven a most valuable associate to our cause. And if by some misfortune he has gone on to the Shining Citie, then I am quite certain that Reginald, ever the good Pentian, would want for one of you bold brawlers to have his sword… to carry on with the slaying of evil and whatnot, of course.
“I submit the following course of action: we set aside the next two days to make any necessary preparations or arrangements. On the third day we leave Heremac in search of Reginald. Two days should give you sufficient time, Vandoren, to perform your filial obligations.”
Vandoren nods. “I am most uneasy about the events that are unfolding around us. So many Seekers and other members of the Church here in Heremac to mourn Edric—I worry that the rucks will try to take advantage of the current condition. Perhaps we should all consider leaving town for awhile.”
“No,” says Hamral, flatly. “If something goes down, I will be here.”
“Damn straight!” says Renton, spitting.
Wyk spits also. “I ain’t much fer runnin’, either.”
“I do not believe it is cowardice,” says Vandoren, “To want to avoid being trapped here should something… inopportune befall Heremac. If anyone is interested in coming along with me, they would be welcome. Providing Saint James can behave himself.”
“I have no idea what the hell you could mean by that remark,” says St. James. “Though the rest of what you said, Wetpants, surprisingly makes sense. But to get back to this half-baked plan to find Reginald. Does anyone here have the first idea just where this great knight has gotten to? I didn’t think so. Now, how the hell are we going to find him?”
“Two days should be ample time,” says Valerius, “For someone as resourceful as you, Saint James, to uncover a lead. You might try some of your ‘friends’—Maggie, perhaps, or Roger. Which reminds me: I must meet with Roger, and soon. I have an… inquiry.”
“Whatever,” answers St. James, “But I tell you, first, that I will be lucky to even find Roger. He has been up to something for the last two weeks—he always seems to be running here or there lately. I wot not what sort of dodgy deal he has on tap, but I wager it is something big. And as for Mags, with all these randy soldiers in town, she barely has a moment to spare, even for her… special patrons. Business has never been better, if you know what I mean. But even if I had a chance to talk with Mags or Roger, I doubt they would know much. Old Reginald really was never their sort of person, if you know what I mean.”
“How very—disappointing,” says Valerius. “In that case, we should all think about possible leads: we depart in two days!”
Mot sleeps.
Walking now. Walking and walking and walking through woods. Dark, all dark wood here. Just me, and woods. Me and birds now. Birds flying, flying in the dark, flying at me. Dark birds, quiet birds, flying, make me fall down, make me scared, make me hide in the prickly bushes, in the dark wood. No. No, not birds, not birds, but bats, they are bats and bats are nasty and fly. I am running away, I run until I am far away, I run until I am underground, far, far underground, and there are no bats here and I am underground and I am safe. Here there is a big stone table, and on the table is a man, is a friend, on the table is Reginald. Reginald lies on the table, lies on the table and sleeps. His armor and sword are shiny underground, so shiny, and he is sleeping. I see a horn sitting at his feet, I want to wake him, I want to ask him, ask him something, but a voice, a voice calls, calls me away, calls my name, calls Mot, Mot, Mot, Mot…
The Bristling Boar, XVIII Firstblome. After Vespers.
Mot, Ruik, St. James, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
Young Ruik wipes the ale-foam off his lips with the back of his sleeve and grins, his face bright and flushed.
“Good consortes, my father once told me that an ounce of charm can twist an ogre’s arm. If we wish to go engage this Geaunt, I believe I have some ideas, but you shall have to let me consult with Valerius first.”
“Holla, lad!” cries Garnfellow, slapping Ruik hard on the back. “Art thou so weary of this wretched, sin-filled life that thou wouldst wish to seek the Citie before your time? By the Cup!”
Ruik laughs, and sets his empty mug on the table.
“I am rather curious, Garnfellow, about this Wich of Threk fellow. Ellen! Ale all round! Keep the mugs full! And mutton! Pottage! Good friends, partake and be merry! And good sir, if you could indulge us as only you can…”
“Ah, lad, I shall endeavor to do so,” says the fat knight, who beams as Ellen brings over a fresh round. “Dame Ellen, may the saints bless thee and thy fine ale! Fret not—my dear friend Coric here has offered to pay for my drink.”
“Enough, you rascal,” says Ellen. “I wot not why these fine gentlemen would ever want to carouse with such a crooked old windbag.”
“Old? Nay, gossip—I am merely well-seasoned! But the proof of the pudding, as they say, is in the tasting!”
Garnfellow pinches Ellen on the behind, making her draw up suddenly, straight and stiff. She bites her lip, and without uttering a sound, promptly dumps a full cup of ale into the fat knight’s lap. The entire crowd in the common room roars with laughter.
“A quick meal,” announces Ellen, triumphantly, “Is nothing without a good ale!” At this, the room roars again.
“By the Cup!” cries Garnfellow, raising his hands in despair. Wyk and Mot wipe tears from their eyes. The guffaws and catcalls continue for a long while, before gradually fading into the normal buzz of conversation.
“You were going to speak on Wich,” ventures Ruik.
“Ah, yes, Wich,” says Garnfellow. “Where was I… Wich is ambitious, a noble who hails from the Harpish border. Though still rather young, Wich has quickly risen through the ranks of his order. He is shrewd and a man of inestimable persuasion—talk about charming geaunts! Wich could enthrall a serpent with his words!
“Despite this gift, or maybe even because of it, Wich is not much beloved by his fellow Seekers. Unlike, say, Brother Gregory. Many Seekers feel that Wich has never really earned his keep on the field of battle. But despite his lack of support among the rank and file, Wich chooses friends carefully and is adept at forging alliances, even unexpected ones.”
“I myself,” interjects Vandoren, “Was curious of the relationship between Brother Wich and Bishop Martin. I spoke with my father last night, and it seems that the Bishop appreciates the respectful manner with which Wich approaches the Canglen Diocese—A marked contrast with Edric.”
Vandoren looks cautiously about the common room and lowers his voice.
“Even after talking with my father, I still have a few unanswered questions. Why was the Legate summoned so promptly? And I have to I wonder, as Saint James mentioned, how such a strong man as Edric could die in his bed? Maybe there was something in the works—which would explain the advance notice to Augustine. And curious that we have heard so little from our friend Tim.”
“By the Cup!” booms Garnfellow. “‘Twas well known, for many months now, that Old Edric was languishing. Why, that man was older than any two of you here. And he was revered by all his fellow Seekers. Why, there’s plenty of talk about town about canonizing Edric!”
“I cannot see that happening,” says Vandoren. “Many of the other religious orders are jealous of the Seeker’s power, and resented Edric’s haughty manner.”
Garnfellow shakes his head.
“Perhaps the other orders hold their grudges, but I have heard that that Pope Augustine himself is a great admirer of the Seekers—after all, they are ever the most stalwart defenders of Pentianity on the Frounter. And the Pope must certainly appreciate all the coin that has flowed freely from the Seekers into the coffers of Reims.
“But enough talk of Wich—he has no chance of being made the next Master, mark my words. This morning Alan of Belort finally arrived, and soon the balloting will begin in earnest. Gregory is still the clear favorite.”
“I don’t know,” says St. James. “A lot of folks in town noticed how convenient it was for Wich to arrive with the Legate, Ubertino. I think Wich might have more going for him than you realize.”
“Unfortunately,” says Vandoren, “It seems as though naming Wich as the new Master might potentially divide the Seekers at a less than opportune time.”
“Good friends, we will surely not be able to resolve these questions tonight,” says Ruik. “Perhaps we should retire early. After all, we will have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“I’ll say: We still don’t have the foggiest idea where to even start looking for Reginald!” says St. James.
“Turning in early sounds fine,” says Vandoren. “I guess cavorting with all of these dignitaries has worn me out: I am exhausted.”
“Me too,” says Ruik. “I don’t think I slept three winks last night.”
“Me neither,” says Wyk. “I kept waking up.”
“I saw Reginald last night,” says Mot, matter-of-factly. “We were under the ground.”
His surprised fellows stare at him for a moment.
“Hot damn,” says St. James, “That’s the best lead we’ve had yet.”