The Guest House in Upchurch, XX May, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. After Prime.
Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, Dirk, Nym, Bardolph.
Old Nym, the veteran, is crying. He is doubled over, tears streaming down his cheeks. And on the floor beside him, his young friend Bardolph lies in a crumpled heap, shaking uncontrollably. Sir Will Garnfellow gasps, wipes his eyes, and pulls his beard.
“Ole Tim Sharpe…” chokes out Nym, struggling mightily to regain some measure of composure. “Tim Sharpe—working for Maggie at last!” And with this, Nym bursts into hysterical laughter.
Friar Sidrach grins. “I assure you, ‘tis the very truth. The very truth, indeed. Why, young St. James saw it all first hand.”
“Come back to the honey-pot, Tim?” cries smirking Dirk, mimicking St. James. And the entire room roars with renewed laughter.
“Madam Mags ‘ill teach Tim what’s what, certes,” whispers Nym, shaking his head and banging the table.
“And just where is dear Saint Pilfer?” asks Vandoren. “I would so like to hear this story from his mouth.”
“He, Valerius, and Mot have business in Heremac,” answers Friar Sidrach. “They will be staying with Roger for the next couple of months.”
“Well, that leaves plenty of time for us to undertake an adventure of our own,” says Mendelor. “I like Vandoren’s idea of messing with the rucks. Could it be possible to turn ruck against ruck, and free the frontier without more Pentian bloodshed? This action should only be taken with a well-laid plan in place.”
“Agreed,” says Hamral.
“I also like the idea of taking Wimm Copse for ourselves,” continues Mendelor. “I could leave for Wimm copse at once and scout out the area we want to claim. Mark out natural defense positions, hills, valleys, thick woods, streams, and so forth. I can keep an eye out for rucks and other vermin that we would have to dispatch. Surely, when this ruckish occupation is all over, our deeds will be recognized by certain people in power.”
“A pity that Valerius cannot be here to help us decide what to do,” says Ruik, softly. “He usually has an answer.”
“I tell you,” interjects Dirk. “That Valerius sure knew everything there was to know about that statue back at the priory. And he knew right quick just who she—the statue, that is—was. Cynthia. Or something.”
“Cythenus,” corrects Vandoren. “Although recognizing her is not so remarkable—many stories from ancient Tynar are still well known, even today. We read some Lycetus at cathedral school, and learned the names of many of the old pagan gods: Jovanus, the philandering tyrant; His wife, the vengeful Mira; Stern Marnes, the warlord; Neranus, lord of the sea. Although, truth be told, I am almost surprised that Valerius was able to recognize Cythenus.”
“What do you mean?” asks Ruik.
“Valerius has perhaps the quickest mind I have ever encountered,” answers Vandoren. “And he is clearly a man of learning and letters. But have you ever noticed that our dear friend is utterly ignorant about some of the most common matters? His body of knowledge is like a great fissure: profoundly deep, but contained within an extremely narrow channel.
“Valerius has absorbed a handful classical authors—mostly obscure Herachean philosophers, from what I can gather. But he appears to know next to nothing about Pentian philosophy or theology—the major works of the Church fathers. His learning is extremely eccentric, as with someone self-taught. Certainly, he never formally studied the liberal arts, though he appears to have picked up a little of the Trivium—grammar, logic, and rhetoric. But he knows almost nothing of the Quadrivium—arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music.
“In fact, I find that what Valerius does not know is often as astonishing as what he does: Folk songs that any child could sing for you at a moment’s notice. Any sort of poetry—either Tynan or vernacular. Or even common riddles.”
“He sure as hell knows nothing about women,” says Renton, and several men nod in agreement.
“Which, I suppose,” says Vandoren. “Is partly why I was surprised to hear that Valerius recognized Cythenus, of all the pagan gods. Though I am not surprised that he alone was able to resist her charms.”
“Well, he sure seems to know his magick,” says Dirk. “I have seen things in the last few month… spells and such. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed any of it.”
“Let us hope that Valerius knows enough about his own witchery to keep us all from being consigned to eternal damnation,” mutters Mendelor
“My sons, let us leave off this line of talk,” says Friar Sidrach. “‘Tis most unwholesome. Most unwholesome, indeed.”
After an awkward pause, Dirk coughs. “As far as what to do next, I will go along with anything the rest of you decide.”
“That’s a good man, Wyk,” murmurs Ruik, quietly. “Always ready to help.”
“Ruik?” asks Friar Sidrach.
In response, the young man snaps to. “Oh, sorry. I… I forgot there. What I meant to say was, I would like to volunteer to help with Vandoren’s plan to set Briareus against Nestor.”
“Is there any news from the rucks?” asks Friar Sidrach. “Indeed, such tidings may just help us decide what next to do.”
“Well,” says Garnfellow, “Prince Nestor has been laying low, helping his brother Busirane fend off the Seekers. Brother Gregory is stalking up and down the Frounter like a savage lion, harrying Busirane at every turn. I should suspect that Grand Master Alan of Belfort must grow tired of hearing of the Risen’s many exploits.
“Meanwhile, Prince Briareus continues to refortify Utterbol. Fortunately, he shows no inclination of expanding his present territory, particularly not this way. Doubtless the coward has heard that, though the defenders here be but few in number, each of our warriors is the fighting worth of an entire ruckish legion. By the Cup! Setting three whole armies against Upchurch would be folly.”
“Of course,” says Vandoren, with a smile. “And a recent rumor holds that Briareus is now busy constructing an extensive labyrinth beneath the surface of Utterbol. The original Utterbol, destroyed ages past, was fabled to house a similar dungeon.”
“Any news of Lord Kirke?” asks Friar Sidrach.
“Argus and his armies continue to terrorize the north,” answers Garnfellow. “And Prince Wenric and Count Durrell, alas, can find no purchase against him. I fear, lads, that this year will prove to be a most bloody one. The peasants are still harrowing the fields and the cows are just coming into milk, but already the fighting has begun in earnest—and it should last clear through Frostaire.
“They say that last winter King Tereus finally put down, for all time, a nasty rebellion in the Yron Citie, led by one of his own wretched sons—may the Five curse the entire, infected lineage. Some say that the defeated son is now mewed up in one of the innumerable dungeons that wend and wind beneath the city. Others say that King Tereus has made a drinking-cup out of his own son’s skull. Saints’ Bones! With that threat out of the way, Tereus can turn his damned eyes back again to the Frounter.
Vandoren scowls. “You mean to say that the rucks have managed to hold their own against the Seekers and the rest of Pentiandom for over two years—while also fighting a war on a second front?”
“It all bodes ill,” answers Garnfellow, with uncharacteristic sobriety.
Roger’s Safe House in Heremac, XVII Midsommer, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. Sext.
Valerius, Mot.
Noxumbra, perched on the sunny rooftop, suddenly flaps her wings and flutters down to the open window below, where she hops onto the sill.
“Master, Master!” caws the raven, loudly. “The thief approaches!”
Frowning, Valerius looks up from the table cluttered with open books, wax tablets, and sheets of scrawled parchment. He gestures to Mot, who unbars and then opens the heavy oaken door, revealing St. James trudging up the lane.
As St. James shuffles in the door, he shoots a puzzling look at Noxumbra.
“What the hell? How long has she done that?” he asks.
“How long has she done that?” repeats Noxumbra.
“Never mind,” says Valerius, studying the wan face of the young thief. “What in perdition has happened to you? No doubt frittering away your nights in intemperance?”
St. James plops heavily into a chair. “No, nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. I have hardly drank a drop, or eaten more than a scrap, since we arrived in town.”
“Are you ill?” asks Valerius. “Perhaps you should consult a physick.”
“No leech could help me, I fear,” whispers St. James.
“Then what ails you, man?” demands Valerius.
“It… it is hard to explain. I…”
“Yes?”
“Maggie… it’s Maggie,” blurts out St. James.
Valerius rolls his eyes and takes a seat. “What about the slattern?”
“Don’t… Please don’t talk about her like that,” protests St. James.
Valerius cocks his head quizzically, but says nothing.
St. James continues, with a heavy sigh. “Ever since we came into Heremac, I realized that Maggie… Maggie is the only woman for me. I know this now. I… love her, Valerius. Truly. More than anything.”
“Saint James loves Maggie,” croaks Noxumbra.
“Shut up, you stupid bird!” cries St. James.
“Shut up yourself,” says Noxumbra.
“Valerius, we have to do something,” pleads St. James. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. All I can do is think about her. And Tim.”
“What?” asks Valerius.
“Tim,” hisses St. James. “Do you think… do you think that he and Maggie… Do you think that they… they…”
“Saint James, this is all extremely peculiar. You appear to have developed most delicate sensibilities,” says Valerius.
St. James shakes his head. “The very thought… the thought of Tim and sweet Maggie. It makes me sick. Sick. Oh Valerius, I think I am going mad.”
“Saint James, if your condition were not so thoroughly pathetic,” says Valerius, “I would regard this transformation with considerable amusement. You simply need to dismiss any thought of this jade from your mind.”
“Bah, what do you know?” cries St. James. “Sometimes, I think you’re not even a man.”
Valerius allows St. James a moment to collect himself before continuing. “How is our friend Roger faring?”
“Roger?” says St. James, straightening up. “Yes, Roger. He has had a few setbacks in the last couple of weeks. Has put him quite on edge.”
“How awful,” says Valerius, with a smile. “What has happened?”
“Roger lost a couple of shipments, and a few of his men have disappeared. He figures Tim has got something to do with these problems, but Roger cannot figure out what is happening—it’s like Tim has a spy among Roger’s men. But Roger has picked out all of his help himself, and he trusts them all completely. It is really very strange. Also, Roger has heard that Tim… and Maggie… have gotten a new partner. Someone with a lot of weight, they say.”
“Interesting,” says Valerius.
“Were you able to convince Abbot Peter to give us some sort of reward for that business at St. Auratien?” asks St. James.
Valerius scowls. “Father Peter was far less than forthcoming when I visited him.”
“I thought that the Bergenians would have been rather appreciative of our services.”
“Abbot Peter professed his undying gratitude, but evidently this gratitude will assume no material form,” says Valerius. “Excessive generosity is not a vice known to the Abbot. He asserted that our deeds served to repay a kindness done to me by Dame Catherine. Which is not entirely… incorrect.”
“But there is more: it appears that Brother Hugh, the ever so inquisitive Bergenian from Abbermark, arrived at St. Auratien not long after we left. Fortunately, dear Brother Hugh was once again just a bit too late—though I understand that he attempted to make himself useful by posing all sorts of searching questions to the monks there. Abbot Peter, it seems, had to go to great lengths in order to cover our tracks. This interloper is rapidly becoming intolerable.”
“Well, what about the Vavasor?” asks St. James. “Is he still acting like a loon?”
“The Vavasor appears somewhat more composed than when last I saw him,” says Valerius. “But he is still rather… unbalanced. In your current condition, the two of you would make an interesting pair.”
At this, both Mot and Noxumbra cackle, loudly.