Outside Eredy Village. XII Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Eleven. Before Tierce.
Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Ruik, Renton, Dirk.
“The boots, really, are what most concern me,” announces St. James, shivering in the cold morning air. In the distance, curls of fragrant wood-smoke drift above the rooftops of Eredy, and all across the countryside the Autumn woods are aflame with orange and red leaves. From where St. James stands, good pastureland, faded to wan yellow and sparkling with frost, slopes down abruptly toward the stream, swift and swollen from recent rain. From behind the fur muffler wrapped around his face, St. James peeks out to judge Dirk’s reaction.
Dirk nods at St. James’s words, but doesn’t return the young thief’s gaze. Instead, Dirk examines a newly strung short bow, turning the weapon over several times. Dirk carefully notches an arrow to string, then holds up the bow and draws, aiming for a target of red cloth placed against an oak tree a good fifty yards distant. The string twangs, and the arrow swoops towards its home: a hit. Dirk nods in satisfaction and turns to St. James, who waits anxiously.
“At this point,” begins Dirk, “I feel I have no use for any of these magical items, but if need be I will carry something for the group. I am content with my share of the coin.”
“Excellent, excellent,” says St. James, forcing a grin through his chattering teeth. “I knew I could count on you, Dirk, for some common sense. What do you think, Renton?”
“I could care less about those boots,” says Renton, stepping up beside Dirk, his own bow at the ready. “It’s just too damn bad that we didn’t find a sword or anything we could use against the rucks.”
“Yes, yes, an excellent point,” says St. James, tucking his hands under his armpits.
Renton plants his feet firmly, studying the target. Then, with one fluid movement he sets an arrow to string and draws. Renton’s arrow flies true, striking barely a hand’s span away from Dirk’s shot.
Ruik jumps up and down. “Such archery! Just imagine if that had been a Hagge—She would have been done for!” The young thief suddenly picks up a stone, big as a girl’s first, and sets it in his sling. With a flourish and a triumphant cry, he flings the missile at the target. All watch in amazement as the stone clatters soundly against the target.
“Excellent aim, Honkeydo… that is, friend Ruik,” says St. James. “I was just wondering, what were your thoughts on the boots?”
“Well, Valerius said that the boots were strong with Mutabilitie magic,” says Ruik. “Perhaps they could allow one to transform into a giant sparrow! I could wear those boots and fly to the Yron Citie. Why, I could dump rotten eggs on the head of Old King Tereus.”
Ruik’s eyes gleam with the possibilities. “Or what if the boots let a man walk on water, like the saints of old… or maybe swim as fast as a fish!”
“Right…” says St. James slowly, his lips contorting wildly as he formulates a reply. “Of course, you bring up a good point that had not occurred to me. We don’t know just what these boots will do, now do we? What if they’re cursed? I remember a story about some enchanted slippers, that made its wearer dance until she died of exhaustion.”
“Really?” says Ruik, enthralled. “I never heard that one. It sounds like a smashing story! Do you remember enough to tell it all?”
“Uh, no, no,” mumbles St. James. “It was a long time ago, anyway. And besides, even if the boots weren’t cursed, I have to wonder just how much good they would ever do you. While I have been spending my time fiddling with traps and locks, you have been working on your sneaking and skulking. Why, already you are the stealthiest man in our party. If anyone had the most to gain from the boots, it would be probably be me. I know it might be risky, but for the good of all I would be willing to take my chances…”
“Do you really think I am the stealthiest?” asks Ruik.
At this, Bear brays loudly. The donkey had been quietly grazing nearby, and Friar Sidrach walks over to the beast to gently stroke Bear’s neck.
“As for me, I have no interest in those boots,” says the Gerardian. “However, that incense sounds intriguing.”
“Of course, of course, good friar. I doubt that any man among us would deny you the incense, “ says St. James, who now steps beside Renton and Dirk, his own bow in hand. St. James shivers and then prepares his own shot.
“You know,” says Dirk, just at St. James releases, “I have never heard the whole story of Tim Sharpe and Merry Maggie. Just what happened there, St. James?”
The bowstring groans, and St. James’s arrow flies wild, landing high in the branches of the oak.
Eredy Village. Nones.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Mendelor, Mot.
“I think that the boots,” says Vandoren, “are really what most concern me.”
The minstrel sits in a chair by the fire, idly strumming the psaltery in his lap. At his feet lies the wolf-cub, a dark and furry ball. Achaela, at hearing his voice, looks up at Vandoren with half-opened eyes, then stretches and returns to sleep.
“As for the rest,” continues Vandoren, “Each item has its most logical recipient. St. James or Dirk, for example, could take the elfin arrow, after displaying such deadly accuracy against the Hagges. The Friar or Mendelor would be the best ones to receive the incense—for after all, they are our primary protectors, and it may add to their established abilities. And Mendelor, you and Sir Hamral are probably good choices for the wine and unguent. Those items have Mutabilitie magic, and might serve to only increase your already formidable fighting powers.”
At this, Mendelor moves his gaze from the fire to the minstrel’s face. “I don’t want any of the magic items,” says the woodsman, flatly. “That potion I drank dulled my senses into thinking we could dispatch the hell bitch in close combat, and that arrogance nearly got the entire party killed. Never again.”
Vandoren shrugs. “As you will, good Mendelor. The horn, then, should perhaps be given to Renton—if only because it seems somehow fitting. This assumes that the horn does not require any specific musical skill. The two remaining items—the candle and the dust—should be given to Valerius.
“Which leaves us with the problem of the boots. Now, I understand that St. Pilfer has duly expressed an interest in the boots. And while he is no less deserving than any other man among us, I have some concerns. We have already entrusted so many of our company’s enchanted goods to his care—the dagger and the amulet, to name just two. It is a heavy burden for any one man to bear, and I wonder if perhaps we have asked St. James to shoulder more than his fair share of responsibility. What if, the Five forbid, something should happen to our good friend? Think of all the resources that would be lost to us on that sorry day! Do we really want to—as is commonly said—put all of our eggs in one basket? I wonder if perhaps it is high time for me to start pulling my own weight among you fine men—to accept my own fardel on behalf of our company: namely, the boots.”
Vandoren’s words are spoken with the mingled sweetness and force of a trained rhetorician, and Hamral and Mendelor cannot help but nod in agreement. Even Mot smiles broadly and mumbles approval.
“I am not entirely persuaded by your argument,” interjects Valerius. All turn to the tall, lanky magician, who has suddenly appeared behind them all. “Personally, I have no interest in the boots and could care less who wears them. However, the candle and the horn are mine.”
“Of… course,” says Vandoren, quickly recovering. “I would not dream to gainsay your request.”
“How very percipient of you,” murmurs Valerius.
“Well, perhaps we should continue this conversation with the rest of the group,” ventures Vandoren. “And not to change the subject, but I heard back from my father yesterday. I had written to him whilst I convalesced. I told him of our battle with the Hagge, and asked if he had any more information on those wicked creatures. He has promised that he will try to learn some more.
“My father sent other news, as well. It seems that there is still no word from Reginald, and it is unclear what will be done with Antace. In his present condition, Lord Charles is unable to represent the crown. There is much speculation that King Weremach may appoint a new Castellan. Antace is too important to the Frounter to be left at less than full strength.
“Father also sends word of the Seekers. Master Alan of Belfort, it appears, has been taking an increasingly active role in directing the war against King Tereus. Perhaps it would be meet to send word to the Seekers, informing them of the removal of the Hagges, and suggesting that Gwynnon village may be easy picking for them. Obviously, the rucks are using—or planning to use—the village as some form of base camp to launch raids on the surrounding lands. And who is to say that the rucks are not up to even worse mischief at Gwynnon?”
“I do not think we need to rely on the Seekers to dispatch that motley rabble,” says Valerius. “I am confident that we could achieve that all by ourselves. And besides, an assault on Gwynnon should provide an excellent opportunity for us to try out some of these new-found treasures.”
Mendelor clears his throat. “I would like to suggest another trip into the Corbiestone. I think it would make an excellent hideout: bandits have thought so for years.”
“Provided that the Seekers left anything standing,” says Valerius. “My understanding was that Brother Marcus and his troops were very thorough. And in any case, once Gwynnon has been freed my secondary goal, of course, is to determine the identity of Tim’s newest secret ally, and to squelch this accursed alliance before Tim can regain any more of his former strength.”
Eredy. XIII Storing. After Matins.
Sir Hamral, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Mendelor, Renton, St. James, Ruik, Valerius, Dirk, Mot.
“Help! Murther! Murther, I say! Murther!”
St. James: his desperate calls break through the utter darkness in the visitors’ chambers. Then: sounds of struggle; groans of men suddenly rousted from sleep; the metallic rasp of blades sliding from sheaths.
Friar Sidrach, now: a clear, loud voice, sounding the blackness:
“Fiat lux!”
Instantly, the room bursts into light: dazzling, brilliant light, centered on the pentifix that the Gerardian holds high above his head. And all around the friar, his fellows squint and blink, confused and half-dressed. Sir Hamral bears his sword, Mendelor crouches with his axe ready to throw, and Renton and Dirk wield knives. All men turn toward where St. James had lain down to sleep.
Laughter, now: one by one, the consortes break into sudden, raucous laughter.
St. James groans and covers his face with his hands. Lying beside him is a young lass with a pretty face and long, curly brown hair, a lass perhaps a few years younger than the thief. Blushing, she desperately struggles to cover herself with the blanket.
Valerius strides to the fore, his staff in hand. “St. James, for what cause is this imbecility?” he bellows. “And just who the blazes is this trollop you’ve brought home?”
Mot ogles the girl and giggles nervously.
“Valerius, I swear,” pleads St. James. “I have never laid eyes on her before. On my mother’s own soul, it’s true.”
The girl turns to him now, temporarily forgetting any embarrassment, her face flushed bright red with anger. “You liar!” she hisses. “You know full well who I am, St. James: it’s Annest. Annest! You saw me a few days ago, in the market. You remember. You must remember—you gave me such a look, like no other man ever has.”
“I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about… Annest. Valerius, it’s true,” implores St. James.
Annest slaps St. James. “Liar! You rotten liar! For the last three nights I’ve had a dream. A special dream. A… vision. Each night, one of the blessed saints from heaven above has come down to me, and tells me that you will love me more than any other woman… like no other woman has ever been loved…”
“What the hell are you talking about?” demands St. James.
“Enough!” commands Valerius with a sneer, only now turning his full attention to the girl. “Just which saint, Annest? Which saint has visited you?”
“I… I wot not,” answers Annest, fearful now. “She is so beautiful, though—she must be from the Shining Citie. Like the most beautiful woman you have ever seen, all bathed in light, all…” But her words trail off into silence and the girl seems to struggle to remember her dream.
Valerius snaps back, evidently satisfied with her response. Without another word he turns on his heels and leaves the room. Mot giggles and then follows.
“Aren’t you the cobbler’s wife?” asks Vandoren. “That big burly one… what’s his name…”
“Brude,” whispers Annest, suddenly turning very pale, as if awakening from a dream.
“Well, St. Pilfer,” says Vandoren, with a smile. “I’m sure that Brude will happily fashion a pair of boots that will fit you…”
Eredy, XIV Storing. After Vespers.
Valerius, St. James, Vandoren.
“These boots were made for a sneak, and that you are not!” declares St. James, pointing to Vandoren. “I feel that those boots would be most valuable on my feet, as I serve as the primary scout for our group. Now, I could almost see Ruik’s claim: he is also quite sneaky and… and it’s too bad that his ring no longer works. If push came to shove, I could probably see letting him have the boots, even though he only drags people out of harm’s way. Vandoren, though: your claim comes as a complete shock to me…”
“Shock? Yes, I am sure it came as a terrible shock, especially considering that you currently lug around more enchanted items than an entire guild of wizards!” cries Vandoren.
“Well, if the boots do not go to me,” says St. James, “then they probably ought to go to Ruik. If those boots make the wearer move more quietly, and you got those boots, becoming the most stealthy man among us, who are Ruik and I, then—henchmen? Also, just what exactly did you do during the fight with the Hagges, besides getting yourself knocked on the head so that Ruik could drag you out and I could slay the enemy? The last I knew, getting knocked on the head wasn’t very lucrative, treasure-wise.”
“Oh, so you want to deny Sir Hamral and Mendelor their share, too?” says Vandoren. “Is that your game? I think that they might be interested in hearing your opinion on this matter. St. Pilfer, indeed…”
“There’s no need to get anyone else involved in this, Wetpants,” answers St. James, quickly. “Fine, then. If you really want the boots, then you can now serve as the official scout for our merry band. From now on, you can do all the sneaking, leading the way, and opening all the traps.”
“That suits me just fine,” says Vandoren. “Though I am not certain that Ruik is quite so willing to relinquish his role…”
St. James winces and scratches his head. “Well look, let us wait a moment. If you let me take the boots you can have the elfin arrow. If, for whatever reason you wind up with the boots, I will expect the elf-bolt and your share of the coin, in addition to my own full share. However, if Ruik gets the boots I will be content with the elf-bolt and just my share of the coin. This seems fair—right, Valerius?”
Valerius hunches over, staring at the open box containing the chess set, attempting to ignore St. James.
“For the last time, you love-struck cut-purse,” growls the magician, “I could care less who gets those miserable boots! I can only hope that they’re cursed and that you each get one!”
Valerius starts to take the chess pieces out and separate them by color, taking careful notice of how they were placed in the case.
“As I have already stated, the horn and the candle are mine,” mutters Valerius. “As for the coin, I have use for some, but would accept a lesser share since I have taken two of the items. Now leave me alone: I’m trying to… do something.”
As St. James and Vandoren retreat to continue their argument in a more agreeable area, Valerius puts the pieces already separated by color into groups separated by their shapes. Next he brings out the board. Holding it up for close inspection he then sets it on the floor and starts to place the pieces on the board, seemingly at random. He starts trying different combinations, after each he pauses and carefully studies the board. Soon the pauses grow shorter and the careful study gives way to angry glares and muttered curses.
“Friend Valerius! Would you care for a game?” asks Ruik, startling the magician, who hadn’t heard the quiet tread of the thief.
“Would you care to spend eternity as a toad?” snarls Valerius. “Now go away!”
As Ruik starts a hasty retreat Valerius stops him. “Wait… Ruik, I spoke too quickly, perhaps you could confirm some of my own deductions about this infernal… game?” Valerius pronounces the word ‘game’ as if it were most offensive.
“Of course,” says Ruik, as he starts a slow return to the side of the visibly agitated magician.
“First of all,” starts Valerius. “The two pieces that are taller than the rest and that are decorated with crowns, they are the most important, yes?”
“Do you mean the kings?” asks a puzzled Ruik.
“KINGS! Yes, yes, of course,” interrupts Valerius. “So, based on that information I conclude that the second tallest and feminine pieces are called Queens! And the horses must be representative of a Prince! Well, am I correct? And where are the Princesses?”
Ruik gestures for the magician to slow down. “Good friend, some of what you say is right, but some is wrong. Do you want me to show you how to play? It is indeed a grand game, and don’t worry, it’s easy, I learned it as a child…”
Ruik starts to continue but recognizes a look in Valerius’s eyes that reminds him that this man can throw fire at people. Ruik trails off and walks away. Valerius spins around and glares at the small pieces at his feet. He stares at them for several minutes, attempting to learn the game by sheer will. Finally, in a fit of rage he grabs his staff and raises it above his head, as if to smash the insufferable game out of existence.
Just then he hears another voice behind him.
“Valerius, is everything all right?” asks a very calm, warm voice. Valerius sighs and lowers his staff.
“Yes, Sidrach, I’m fine. What do you want?”
“I’m concerned about the villagers of Gwynnon,” begins the friar. “We need to save them from those horrid Black-blades.”
Valerius pauses and then responds: “Yes, of course Friar. In fact at this moment I would rather enjoy visiting those horrid ruck-men. But first send Ruik back here. I need him to… explain something… to me.”