Chapter 9 – The Market

CY 579, Coldeven 5 (Waterday)

The next day, Askyrja accompanied Colson on his deliveries again, hoping to see more of the city. Her long blonde hair, freshly washed and shining, waved in the spring breeze and her bright green eyes and well-made form drew admiring gazes.

For his part, Colson was only too happy to have such a charming partner again, and happily packed them a lunch of cheese and cold meats for the road: Askyrja was delighted to see what a sandwich was and dug into it at their lunchtime. 'So you got to see the city a bit last couple days,' Colson said as they ate together on the cart's bench. He could see her mood was still grey and felt a sudden resolve to improve it. 'I've got the rest of the day off – well, 'cept some bill collectin' – so let's go to th' Market! You'll like the Market! Lots of pretty things there! Dresses, that sort o' thing; just the right stuff to pick you up, you'll see! An I've had an idea about how to help you out,' he added with a mysterious smile. 'I figured out somethin'.'

'What?' she asked, unable to resist.

'You'll see,' he said confidently. 'Not to worry.'

If Askyrja had thought the city had been interesting, it was nothing compared to the Market.

She had often been sent into the market at Soull to buy meat and vegetables for the Court, or cloth for the weavers, but the variety and abundance of the Verbobonc Market even in early spring was so much more than that humble collection of stalls and stores. There were so many things of every kind! and she looked over everything. There was dried and smoked fish, whole sides of pork, lard wrapped in oilcloth, pickled vegetables in jars, half a hundred kinds of bread, metal goods from needles to lamps, bundles of strangely coated nails, stone cork-capped bottles of seal oil, furniture, cups, plates, cutlery, inks and paints, firewood, tools of every description, horse tack – and each of a mystifying array of colour and worksmanship. People hawked food, labourer services, farm implements. There were victuals shops in abundance: breadmakers and cheesemakers, wine-sellers and candlers and butchers! The very sight made her stomach rumble.

A sweets-seller had an array of honied candies, little cakes and things she could not even identify laid out in rows on his tablefront. There were bakers with loaves made in regular shapes, and some in curious shapes that delighted the eyes. She wanted to get some, but decided to wait for lunch instead, to see what other novelties this town might have.There were songbirds in small cages, reams of exotic cloth so varied she could scarcely put a name to all their shades, even strange fruits she'd never seen before from other places, packed in melting ice or even sugar.

There were no weapons in evidence; Colson said that those were generally sold in specialized shops like they'd seen back towards North Gate, 'just to make sure level heads stay level', he said, sounding a little like their Saint again. But, he added slyly, there were stores on the outskirts of the Market that sold genuinely magical goods, reminding her of the time his cousin had seen an elf potion-shopping. It sounded exciting and her mind was a-flutter wondering what sorts of things such a shop might have, though in truth magic alarmed her as much as interested her. Askyrja half wished she could do such things herself sometimes, though she doubted she had the head for it, and the very thought of the magical College in town, which she had heard about, still filled her with dread.

'Askyrja, I've just got to go see a man about an order – bit slow with the bills, you might say,' Colson said, indicating a small sheet of flat wood on which he'd scrawled numbers and names with a charcoal stick. 'But here's my thought, like I was sayin': d'you know maps at all?' he suddenly asked. 'There's this fellow in the City does documents and wills and such – some kinder sage; that's a wise man as knows about smart stuff,' he explained to her questioning frown. 'He's got maps, too: big ones, from all over. He might be able to tell you where you're at an' need to get to, though if you're just from somewheres on the Velverdyva or maybe out on the Nyr Dyv I s'pose as you oughter know that already. Then again, luv me ma, but a woman with a head for maps is as rare as a black swan, I've heard it said!' He chuckled, not noticing the cold look Askyrja gave him. 'Bit nor'east of here, just across from the Silver Consortium. We can catch him on the mornin' deliveries.'

Askyrja turned to look unerringly northeast. That might be useful. 'He has maps of many places?'

'Think so; all Oerth, maybe. An' ye can't but try, can ye?' She supposed not. 'You'll be all right for a few minutes lookin' about?' Colson asked, holding up his wooden tally-sheet again. She nodded and he smiled and headed off – but not without a backward glance that she didn't see.

Askyrja looked around. She was momentarily alone in the middle of this exciting place. What to do?

She wandered the stalls to sate her curiosity, getting a vicarious pleasure from examining this and that though in truth she had no real need for anything at the moment. Some of the cloth reams did interest her though, and she wondered what she might make of them.

Then the realization, sharp and unexpected, slammed into her again: she was indeed free. There was no one to order her, to command her comings and goings. There was no one to tell her to do… anything. Anything at all.

Askyrja stoped in the centre of the Market and did a slow, glorious turn with her arms outstretched as if testing the air with her fingers. She was free: truly free! Thrall no more, outlaw no more, but free! She found herself giggling with a delirious, girlish glee, making some of the vendors and shoppers look at her strangely. She was free! She could do whatever she wanted!

But… what was that? What did she really want?

She knew no one here save Orvil and his people. But they could be a useful resource. Surely they would know those who were looking to hire others, or who needed things done. That was the way of freedom: the free were enslaved by the obligations of work and money instead of ownership and intimdation. But what did she know how to do except menial labour? That and the things Bjorn had taught her, of course. But she did not wish to be a maid or a servant, and she did not think the people of a vast city had any need for deer hunting, or building a fire with flint and steel.

The thought of Bjorn, she belatedly noted, could pass her mind more easily now and generated less of a reaction. Or perhaps she was still in shock. It was only a few days behind her. Reflexively she whirled at the rumble of hooves on the cobbles; but of course it was just a pair of passing horsemen, lances gleaming and mail hauberks shining under their leather byrnies. They were soldiers, as so many of those with horses seemed to be, but they were not pursuing her; though one of the young soldiers immediately noticed her and touched the brim of his round helmet, giving her a wide grin.

Among the vendors were seed-sellers with a whole row along the south side of the Market; planting would start very soon. Near them other hawked tuns of wine and ale, which only served to remind her that she was thirsty. She dallied in front of several open-fronted furniture shops, admiring their works of chestnut, hickory and walnut; even a few rare ippwood pieces.

'Miss!' said one. 'A lovely table for your chateau!' He spread his hands over a table with a mirror-like sheen. Then he noticed she was wearing no ring. 'Or a hope chest for the young lady!' he immediately pivoted, tapping a beautifully-finished oaken chest. 'A thing of beauty for the wares and goods of a beautiful young bride-to-be! Painstakingly made by a local artisan – McGinnis by name. Why, a mere four golds and this heirloom for the ages is yours, my dear! Three and a half for the pretty girl!' he called after her when she shook her head.

'A bed! A gorgeous bedframe, miss!' called another. 'A place for you and your beau to lay your heads!' 'Make a home with these wonderful goods around the hearth!' cried still another man, flogging a kitchen table set with benches and chairs with hearts and rose-stems decoratively and cunningly carven into the wood. In the next aisle were tailors – 'A fine dress for the fine girl! Bonnet and skirts!' – and she navigated quickly away through the crowd, having had her fill of aggressive vendors for the moment.

A passing man tipped his hat to her and she nodded by way of reply, working her way to the west side where there were stalls and stalls of food. Her tummy rumbled interrogatively as her eyes seized on a row of pastries at a table where a squat man called 'Pies! Sugar loaf! Strawberry pie, sugared all winter long! Tarts! Oh,' he said, seeing her waiting. 'Hullo, miss!' His brows wrinkled in a friendly smile and he rubbed his hands together. 'And what can I get for such a lovely young lady?'

She felt a momentary pang of guilt since Colson wasn't there; perhaps it was a little unfriendly to have a snack all to herself; but, she quickly rationalized to herself, surely he wouldn't want her to go hungry? And what he didn't know could never bother him anyway. 'May I have one of those, please?' she asked in her politest Common, gazing at a luscious-looking hand pastry capped with mounds of icing and three plump sugared strawberries. She salivated even to look on it.

'The lady has a fine eye!' The baker picked it up carefully with his clean cloth gloves and handed it to her; she took it with pronounced glee, eyes shining. The baker rubbed his jaw, thinking. 'Now, usually I'd ask two spires five commons, but for a nice girl like you, two spires!' He beamed at her and held out his hand.

She stared a little blankly. Two what? Feeling embarrassed, she dug out two silver pennies – which her people called linnwurmen – and gave them to him.

The baker frowned down at them. 'What's this?'

'I – I do not know your coin names but – do you mean silver?'

The man frowned, his good mood evaporated. 'Well, yeah, a spire is silver, but these aren't spires. I've no idea what they are! Look, I need real money, not this foreign stuff.' He thrust them back at her and gestured impatiently for the return of the tart.

Was silver not silver? Who cared where it came from? 'But… this is all I have,' she protested, showing him a few other Rhizian coins as she handed the tart back.

'Well, that's not my lookout, is it?' the cruel baker said testily, inspecting the returned pastry and carefully setting it out once more. He peered at the Rhizian money: 'No, no, that's no good! It's all foreign. You have to get all your money changed to local currency, don't you understand that?' he said, as if explaining to a child. 'You can't use that here, otherwise anyone could bring any sort of foreign garbage into Verbobonc.' She bridled a little at the description of her admittedly abandoned nation's coinage as garbage but paid attention, trying to follow his meaning. 'Go see Flint the moneychanger – over there. He'll turn them into local coins for you for a small fee.' Askyrja frowned as she tried to imagine what sorcery could produce such a feat as the cruel baker pointed to a solidly-built building across the square. 'That's his place there. Go change your money with him; and don't tell him you're foreign, he's like to rob you blind.' And with that, he went right back to calling out 'Pies! Sugarloaf! Tarts!' as if she were no longer present.

Askyrja gave the tarts a last longing look, then pouted and trailed off in the direction the evil baker haad indicated.

The moneychanger's shop was a small, stone-walled warehouse with an oaken door reinforced with steel bands. Over the door was a simple billboard reading "S. Flint and J. Myrig", giving away nothing as to the purpose of the business. Askyrja studied it a while, then tugged hard on the latch, pulling the heavy door it partway open before squeezing through the gap.

The front office was small, and barren, having no furniture but a single rickety stool in front of a thick wood partition with a metal grille. Two huge rough-looking guards stood on either side of the grille, so large they were almost Ogrish in their size and bearing. Behind the grille sat an older man, making entries in a small book laid flat on the counter before him. A little tepid light came in the – barred – glass windows, and from the thick candle set beside the man.

Giving the guards a nervous look, she cautiously approached. 'Er… Master Flint?'

'Close the door,' the old man – presumably Flint – sighed disdainfully, not bothering to look up from his writing and bidding her towards the stool with a gesture of displeasure.

He was nearly bald on top, with a mop of white hair thinning a little on top, large, puffy eyes glowering from under brooding brows, an angular nose and a wide, downturned mouth. He wore an overcoat and a vest of some soft, unfamiliar material, with wide collars and a sort of wide, loosely fit tie, a thing she had never seen before. If he had not been so animate, she might have mistaken him for a walking corpse – a draugyr – from his grim, almost pained demeanour. 

From where she was standing, she could see that many large tomes shot with ribbon markers lay on the counter beside the old man in wht must be a back office, in which another man – plumper, tending towards middle age and dressed in a similar style – slaved away over other books at a high, angled desk. The outer office was quite chilly and she presumed the inner one must be the same, for the only source of heat was a few glowing coals in a small mean grate against the wall; the other man clapped his hands together and blew on them.

'Well?' the older man demanded sharply, without looking up. 'What is it you want?'

She cleared her throat and hurriedly sat. 'Good sir,' she began carefully and formally, 'I have money… money from elsewhere that I wish to… change to… money from… here.' She flushed red as she stumbled over the nuances of Common.

Now Flint looked up. He regarded her with some surprise, but quickly retrieved his composure and leaned forward, steepling his fingers together and producing an unconvincing smile. 'Very well,' he said, with an expressive lift of his brows. 'Let us see your funds – er – Miss – ?'

'Askyrja,' she told him, thinking. Hesitating. She had money now, and that was not a thing that the women of her people ever had. Could she trust him? What if the cruel baker had lied? How did she know this man and his big guards would not steal them? Her hand drifted towards the hilt of her knife.

The man's eyes widened, though only fractionally, and he leaned back in his creaking chair, folding his long fingers together over his waistcoat with a sigh. 'Young lady,' he chastised her in a drawl, 'Flint's has served this community for over fifty years, father to son and son again. In all that time, we have never resorted to the robbery of our clients, and we never shall. We are recognized by the crown itself, and all our accounts are subject to their review; and it is a thorough one, I can assure you. Moreover, we are a member of Verbobonc's Chamber of Commerce and the Guild of Bankers and that is no trivial responsibility.' He raised his eyebrows sardonically. 'You might not care not to do business with us, and I assure you that we would certainly not prevent you from trying elsewhere – and I would add that you would find no establishment with more care for the protection of their clients or for the deal, fairly made. Moneys traded, lent or stored; within these four walls, young lady, you and every penny of your funds are safe.'

Well, that at least she believed. Askyrja had watched his eyes on every word, trying to gauge his honesty, his earnestness and whatever she might make of his mood, she was convinced he was telling the truth. She had long had a sort of second sense of these things, and she knew now she was right.

Askyrja fished out her money-purse and slowly emptied the contents onto the counter: handfuls of gold kronar, some silver linnwurmen and even a few copper thralls, all that she'd had time to snatch as the strange magical mouths had begun screaming alarm all over the Great Hall. The coins poured out, bouncing, clinking and rolling as she kept from letting them flow onto the ground. She gave the bag a last interrogative shake, then put away her purse and pushed the entire unkempt pile towards Flint.

Master Flint gave her a long, sober look, then harrumphed as he picked up a few and studied them, the lines of his mouth frowning still further. 'Curiously minted…' he mused. 'I don't suppose I've seen anything quite like them before. Where did you get them?'

The two thugs leaned in almost imperceptibly, looking her coldly up and down despite his earlier assurance. 'They were… my father's,' Askyrja said, nervously eyeing them. Maybe this man would confiscate her money after all if he suspected it was stolen? 'It is an inheritance… from a treasure he got… as a soldier. He never told me where from.' Deciding suddenly that boldness was better, she held her head up proudly and met him with imperious eyes as noble Suel women did.

'Indeed,' the man said. 'Very well; I shall make an accounting.' He began quickly sorting the coins into little stacks of ten, entering notations on his logbook with a worn quill. 'One hundred… twenty-nine … gold coins… of unknown origin… weight – ' he put ten on a little scale beside him ' – make that a fiftieth of a pound standard.' He logged the weight in a column next to the number, and a summed weight beside that. 'Next, fifty-five silver coins, unknown origin… again,' he added, with a quick but baleful glance from under his brows, 'weight… same… hmm.' He produced one of the strange wooden counting devices with the beads and began some quick calculations that left her immediately in the dust. He finished, then set the device aside and folded his hands again, looking at her from under his brows. 'Very well… given our five percent excise for unknown foreign currency,' he lightly upbraided her, 'I can offer you… one hundred twenty-three sheaves, sixty-one spires and twopence, minus five sheaves for materials and processing fees, leaving you one hundred eighteen sheaves, sixty-one spires - and twopence.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Is this satisfactory, Miss… Askyrja?'

He rolled his r's curiously, she noted, his manner of speaking was very different to Colson's and while she did not know why, she felt that it was designed to be impressive. It reminded her of Felix the magician; he too had been fond of the sound of his own voice. The teacher in her father's Hall had shown some of Orvung's illegitimate offspring, including her, to read and write in the Cold Tongue and in Common, and to do sums and work with numbers. It was probably to make educated spies that could read the correspondences of his guests and send written reports, she now guessed, each tied to him by the loyalty of blood and the hope of formal recognition. If that had indeed been her father's plan, it had been a rather cunning one.

Until her, of course.

'I… suppose. Is that… good?' she asked finally, seeing no other way to reason out the problem.

Flint sighed and retrieved a strongbox that he placed on his desk and opened with a key. He began counting out gold, silver and copper coins but this time with local engravings, and began making a small orderly pile of each. 'Young miss, that is the going rate. I cannot identify your currency, so I shall have to hold it in trust until I can get an estimate of exchange, which the heavens alone knows when will occur, or what the rate might be when it does. I will hold it until a boat is found to leave for Greyhawk, or points eastward, if I am any judge. That will take time, during which your money can do no one any good: I cannot loan it out to do other work; money is work, young lady, and a lesson you might well learn. If I find no one to vouch for it, it might have to go to be re-minted; another expense.' He let out a wordless grumble. 'If you want to try for a better, you can go to the Temple of Zilchus or elsewhere in the Market – many businesses offer foreign currency exchanges – but you'll find I've the best rate in town because I regularly deal in such things and I know the currency market and those that traffic in it; so, there is my offer, take it or leave it.'

As Askyrja did not object, Flint finished his counting, looking particularly displeased as he fetched a piece of papyrus from a drawer. He whetted his quill with a pocketknife, then ducked it in his inkpot. 'This… is your… receipt,' he said as he scribbled his sums on the sheet, then signed underneath the itemized tally. 'Sign here, as you please,' he said, tapping his finger under his own signature.

She looked at it, then at him. He sighed, folding his spidery fingers as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. 'This paper proves you came by the money honestly,' he said impatiently, 'And that you have not stolen it. If you wish to accept this transaction, sign your name at the bottom.' He looked at her pityingly. 'I assume you can write, yes?'

She nodded, knowing her letters but rarely having the opportunity to use them. Yet she had stolen the money. Still, nothing about quill, paper or bank appeared to be magical, such that it might detect such a lie. She took the quill and roughly scrawled her name where he indicated, expecting that he was probably telling the truth. 'You hold onto that receipt – ' he explained slowly, pointing at the paper ' – so that you can prove the money's provenance. I enter the exchange in my logs and the inspector checks them monthly. And here you are.' He pushed across the small stacks of coins, then frowned and looked up as if remembering something. 'Did you declare your imported coinage as you entered town?'

'Uh… yes?' she lied, not sure what he meant.

The other guard snorted and Flint's lip curled skeptically. 'Well, young lady, you have your receipt and your funds. Our business is concluded. However, I would advise you to keep the knowledge of your sum to yourself, providing you don't wish to have your purse cut by one of the many colourful characters of the streets of our fair burgh; your servant, miss; and Good Day to you,' he said with clear conclusion, and returned to his books, already transcribing the day's business.

Feeling both somewhat affronted and bewildered, Askyrja swept the coins into her purse, careful to drop none. 'Thankyou,' she said, but Flint merely grunted without looking up. The man in the back office rattled the coals in the grate to generate some paltry heat, then returned to his chair, tucking his suittails underneath him and taking up his quill again.

The outside air was almost warmer and she greeted the sun thankfully – it was so much brighter and warmer here than at home! She wondered what the mapmaker might tell her, not that it mattered overmuch, so long as she was far enough away that pursuit was unlikely. Her purse filled with new and local cash, she stomped her way determinedly to the pastry man's counter.

A short while later she was licking the crumbs of the wonderfully sweet cake from her fingers. It had been every bit as good as she'd imagined, and she'd also relished the embarrased look on the baker's face as she cooly instructed him to give her the tart back, though he hadn't knocked off the five pence this time and she hadn't asked.

She passed the stall of a woman selling perfumes and colognes; these were things she had never had growing up and their smell was exquisite and alluring. Still, she resisted the draw, though his shopgirl swabbed her wrists for free with a smile. 'For your man to smell on you later,' she winked. 'You'll be back when you see how it strikes him.' Askyrja shared a knowing feminine smile with her.

By dinnertime she was completely overwhelmed. Despite this, she'd bought a few assorted clothes: a simple green dress that set off her eyes, made in the manner of Verbobonc women. Verboboncians? Verbites? She didn't know. At any rate, the dress was charmingly made and very flattering to her pleasing but athletic curves, as the seamstress had said, with a dark hem – a calculated design probably so that any mud that it acquired could not be seen – both practical and attractive. That she'd have to return to pick up, but she'd also bought herself a new pair of deerskin trews and a stout but very presentable jerkin over a wool doublet with green sleeves; a very nice set, she thought. Her boots were still very serviceable, and neither did she replace her cloak, since the only damage it carried was the loss of that corner from…

She did not wish to think about that right now.

Or maybe ever again. She shook her head as if to clear her mind.

She'd half resented paying, seeing a loss in every penny, but there was nothing else for it; her present clothes were dingy and worn after the long race to Granrud mere days ago and she must do something if she wished to look respectable enough to get a job, still not knowing how she might leverage her few skills into something that paid more than a pittance.

Now… for the mapmaker. Northeast, Colson had said. She would not wait, but see for herself what this sage knew.

Glancing back to see that Colson was not at least looking for her, she struck out from the Market, angling northeast through the roads, first right for half a block and then left along a long, largely straight track heading towards the walls back to the warehouse. Again she was impressed at the sheer size of the place; it was huge, much larger than Knudje, twice that even of Soull – a sprawling city surrounding an actual castle, broad ports, verdant fields. It was early spring still but her clothes were warm enough; and she was a daughter of the freezing wilderness.

Felix the wizard had once talked of cities in the South, for he was not a Rhizian and had lived many places besides – Nyrond, Ahlissa called the Great Kingdom, Urnst and other places called Geoff and Veluna that she had thought were just made-up. But she could not place this strange new land… it did not seem to be the Great Kingdom, or Ratik. She'd seen treasure and other things looted from the Aerdy and the few things she'd seen here did not really look like those. Moreover, it was said Ratik was a land of Dwarves and Gnomes, but nearly all the people here were human. So where in Midgard was she?

She stopped to ask a few passers-by if she was in Ratik. Some looked at her strangely, others had never heard of it and one man had actually laughed, long and loud, though she did not see the joke. A Gnome she had knelt down to speak to– a tiny fellow, just taller than her knee – had stared at her in wonder and scurried away.

She'd been walking for a couple blocks, coming to a curved intersection and had just begun to doubt her directions when she spotted a great building of marble, with fluted columns atop pale plinths and a great wrought-iron gate. Robed men and women of various races were walking in and out of it, chatting animatedly or brooding darkly: sorcerors! Some seemed to have the air and mannerisms of Felix and she wondered again if such wielders of the forbidden knew each other in the field, professionally.

Was that perhaps the place? Then her green eyes fell on a small shoppe across the thoroughfare from the great hall of wizards: it was quaint, lined with glass windows and there were were great written sheaves of paper in view.

Her lips curled with satisfaction: she'd found him.

The sign over the door read Cadegar's Calligraph and Common Crafts. She didn't know what a calligraph was but surely this must be the right place.

She pushed in through the door, ringing a bell mounted over the doorjam that she did not see, and looked around.

The place was filled floor to ceiling with dry goods of various but particular kinds: rope, brushes, paints – liquid and powdered – quills, pots, fabrics and sheets of papyrus and vellum. Though she could see that the shop was just across the street from what was clearly that College of wizards she'd heard of – a magic school. She shuddered at the thought, wondering if such people had business on this side of the road. She hoped not. This store seemed more for mundane but useful items connected to the needs of non-magical writing and recording.

She was diffidently inspecting his wares – having had little use for writing so far in her life despite her reluctant, forced competency – when there was the creak of a plank and the sound of someone clearing their throat towards the back of the shop. She peered around one of the aisles.

A short and thin elderly man was at the counter at the back of the shop; Oeridian presumably, but of what other extraction she could not tell. He was sitting on a stool before a podium stacked with sheets of paper, ink pot waiting and quill poised, clearly engaged in the act of clerking; if that was what one called it. But most bizarrely, she saw, he wore a small, strange contraption of glass panes bound with what looked like steel, perched on his nose. They flashed and shimmered with the angles of the light.

He gave her a little scrutinizing frown. 'Cadegar's Calligraph and Common Crafts,' he said. 'Books copied, letters made, writing supplies and arts materials. I'm Cadegar. What can I do for you, girl?'

She did not know quite how to approach the situation; weeks before, she had been nothing but a palace thrall, demanding nothing save the space and time to do her chores. 'Excuse me,' she began, giving the man Cadegar a warm smile as she walked to him with a timid sway; that was a good place to start, she felt.

'Yes,' Cadegar said tersely. 'You're excused.' He gave her another smirking look over a pair of . 'What is it you want? Dress? Cloth? Cloth for a dress? Love potion? We don't have any of those here. Maybe you're looking for Madge's, next door. She has – '

'Good merchant sir…' she began formally and awkwardly in her accented Common.

'Blimey,' Cadegar murmured. 'Here we go – '

'I will not much trouble you,' she reassured him with another winning smile. Perhaps he would let her look at his maps for free? 'I only wish to ask – where is this place?'

'Cadegar's Calligraph and Common Goods,' Cadegar repeated dryly, dipping his quill in his inkpot. 'Weren't you listening? Someone's lost their kept woman and she wanders into my shop,' he lamented under his breath, though he did squint at her unfamiliar clothing, unable to reconcile the image with the presumption.

'Yes – I know this already - thankyou,' she said, nodding and still smiling. 'But – where is here? I am only just arrived. This is Verbobonc City. But I wish to know – where from here is the land called Rhizia?' she said, fumbling about for a lie that would suit, but found none.

'Rhizia? Rhizia?' the old man said, looking up. 'Hell of a long way from here, girl,' he grunted.

A sort of preliminary chill ran through her forearms, like a premonition. 'How far do you say it is?'

Cadegar sighed and stood up, being little taller on his feet than on his stool. He tottered around the counter to a large cabinet with many flat drawers, which he pulled out one after the other until he found what he was seeking. 'Ah,' he said. 'Here we are. Come here, girl,' he said peremptorily and she came to see.

There was a parchment there, right in the drawer, pressed flat under a sheet of thin glass and she realized from the label – a helpful addition – and its contours that it was a map of all Oerth! It was just like her father's tiles in the floor of his hall, but painstakingly drawn and shaped, and littered with details and traces written in a small but florid hand, labeled prodigiously and everywhere. She marvelled again at the invention of the Verboncians.

'Here you go,' Cadegar said. 'Now: Rhizia, girl? That's here, in the Thillonrian Peninsula.' He tapped an ink-stained index finger on a broad spit of land shaped like a wide axe- or plow-blade, far far northeast on the map and her heart jumped as she saw the names there: Soull, Granrud, Schnai, Fruztii. 'And us, we're allll the way down here in the Viscounty of Verbobonc, Verbobonc City.' The nascent chill in her heart grew and grew as his finger traced a straight line all the way past what she recognized from the Common writing as Grendep Bay, over a mountain range, past what looked like an enormous crater and a massive lake to the edge of a huge forest, then past that into some plains bordered by a river, mountains and hills to a moderately-sized dot representing a city labeled Verbobonc on a great river labeled Velverdyva. 'That's where we are,' and he tapped it twice.

As she watched, the cold feeling growing and growing, he used his fingers to space a distance from a legend on the side of the map, plotting off the distance once, twice, four times. 'So, I guess I would make that say… two thousand miles, give or take, north and east.'

The words struck her like the blow of a hammer. 'T-t-two th-thousand miles?' she gasped in a stammer. Seven hundred leagues! Her mind reeled and she swayed backwards, bumping into a shelf that rocked and rattled.

'Well – two thousand as the crow flies,' Cadegar grumbled, spacing off the distance again over his angled table, just to check. 'But if you were to go by ship and land – though I don't know why you'd go by land in those uncouth places! – I'd say at least twice that. No, three times, all told, so about six thousand miles. Plus, you'd have to survive the voyage!' He cackled. 'A hell of a long way to travel, miss and I wouldn't like to think about some of the places you'd have to travel through if you went any of it: Orcs, giants, and the gods know what in those mountains, in the forests, swamps, you name it. Cuthbert's Cudgel; you're not thinking of going there, are you? Heavens above! I wouldn't like to try that, at my age or any!'

'Six. T-thousand. Miles.' she said slowly; a distance so far that he, learned sage, did not think it wise to go there, through dangerous lands and seas. Two thousand leagues. Two thousand leagues. She knew her father's map well enough and that was right across Grendep Bay, past the Oljatt Sea, and all the way round the Azure Sea. Her face suddenly felt hot, her head light and airy.

'Yeah, about that, yeah,' Cadegar said, still squinting down at the map, either not recognizing her panic or ignoring it. 'You're uncommon good with your math, girl,' he grunted in reluctant admiration, noticing something on his map that she could not begin to care about at the moment.

But he looked up as she staggered away from the table, hand braced on another of the shelves. 'Hey – girl? Something wrong? You've gone a deathly shade, there.'

Askyrja could not answer. The noise around her, faint as it was, was a distant whirr, the man's voice coming to her only as a vague buzz. The drawers and cabinets and tables began to blur. She glanced at Cadegar dazedly, his face wobbling in her vision.

Then her blood ran cold, her senses swooned and the last thing she remembered as she crumpled was a bright light, the crashing of shelves and a voice shouting urgently from somewhere far, far away.

There was cool air on her face.

She remembered standing in the open upper window of her father's hall on a bright winter morning, the bracing breeze sending thrills of sensation from her scalp down her body to her thighs, right through her long Schnai skirts. She'd admired the far-off mountains glimmering in the early light, their snow-capped peaks the purest white, set all around with harsh black stone and earth that descended to meet the verdant coverlet of the trees.

Strangely, her mother Kara was there too, turning her to gently shake her shoulder, tap her cheek. 'Girl? Girl!' she said in an increasingly Southron accent. 'What is wrong? Are you all right?'

Askyrja opened her eyes, blinked and looked up into the faces around her. She frowned for a moment, trying to place the thin, wrinkled face of the elderly man; then recognizing the strange glass-and-metal contraptions on his nose. His eyes could be seen through them, strangely enlarged and blinking, looking worried. It must be a magic of the glass, she thought. 'Are you all right?' he said again.

Wait. He was from the map shop… wasn't he? He was. Memory began to flood back. 'What… what happened?' she whispered as she tried to rise.

The man held her shoulder down gently. 'Ah! Now, just – now just you wait a moment, girl: you had a nasty spill there; folded like a fan, you did. I think you had a bit of a shock.'

An equally old woman, stouter than the man, was using a paper fan to cast a little breeze across Askyrja's face and she realized belatedly that her head was resting across the old woman's knees as she lay flat on the cold shop floor. Scattered around her were the things from the shelf she'd dragged down as she fainted, which the old man began to replace as if tidying up. 'Poor thing,' the woman said, shaking her grey head. 'You're – you're from there, aren't you?' she said with a look of utter sympathy. 'Aren't you? What a terrible fright that must have been! Oh, you poor, poor thing!' she repeated, eyes watery with worry.

Fright? What fright? What had – then Askyrja's heart thudded in shock as she remembered – really remembered – and she let out a stricken little noise of horror, eyes wide.

'There-there,' said the old woman again, still fanning as she touched her hand to her cheek, looking down sadly on Askyrja. 'Poor, poor thing. You thought you were near Rhizia, didn't you? I knew she did. I just knew it. Everything will be all right.'

'Well, how was I to know?' Cadegar protested gesturing. 'I've never so much as met someone from there before!'

'I know my Cadegar can be a bit… abrupt, dear, and he didn't know,' said his wife. 'Now, there's no need to panic. Just stay calm, everything will be all right. Would – would you like some tea? I'll make it fresh. Do you take sugar and milk?'

Askyrja began to tremble as she lay on the hard wood floor. She needed – she had – she must get up. There was an irresistible, panicky need to run. 'N-no,' she mumbled, getting up despite their protests and entreties to stay and recover, staggering towards the door before they could stop her, leaning on the shelving as she passed and heedless of the scrolls and papers that fell to the floor. 'I – I need to – to – to go – I – '

'Wait! Miss!' Cadegar said, but she she did not hear him. Instead, she thrust his door open and staggered out into the bright afternoon sun on numb legs.

She took deep gulps of air, standing shaking before their door, her entire body like ice. The hunt. The clock. The magic. Two thousand. Bjorn. Rhizia. Two thousand leagues. She wanted to run; just to run from everything and everyone until this nightmare stopped, but instead she stumbled numbly to the edge of the shop's porch, gripping a post for support, then toppled over onto her knees as she raked her hair back and leaned over the gate, noisily throwing up into the alley. She heaved again and again until everything, absolutely everyting was gone, the memory of the wonderful tart ruined, then spat, wiped her mouth and slid nervelessly down the post until her rump smacked onto the porch. Then she tucked her legs under her, cloak wrapped tight and simply stared blankly into the street for a long, long time.

Two. Thousand. Leagues. The figure rang around and around in her head endlessly. Two. Thousand. Six thousand miles. She knew her sums and letters, but it was a number so huge as to be practically inconceivable. She realized distantly that it would take her a year even to sail home, maybe more, and that assumed she would survive the trip.

She'd always imagined in the back of her mind, even as she'd fled that one day, sometime, she could return home unnoticed and unfound, and maybe just live in some small, out-of-the-way village in the land of her people, her kin; or at worst that she could live among her mother's people, the Fruztii – quietly, but happily, and amongst her own kind. She did not know if she ever could even have done that, but it had been her hope, even as she was fleeing her father's assassins; for what other world, really, did she know?

But that could never be, now. Two thousand leagues…

A wagon passed, the wagon-man flicking his reins casually. His greased axles let out a little shrill squeal as he rolled by, not unlike Colson's trap. A little girl with hair like a raven's wing and bright blue eyes was sitting beside him, her colours strange and alien. She looked down placidly on Askyrja, locking eyes with the despondent woman. Then she gave Askyrja a friendly little grin and a wave as the cart went round the corner and vanished from view.

Askyrja forced herself to take long, slow breaths. Calm. You must be calm. She heard a noise and looked up.

The clerk and his wife were at the window, Cadegar looked a little annoyed but his wife only gazed at her with big, sad eyes, dabbing a handkerchief to her cheeks. Finally Cadegar closed his curtains and they were gone, too.

The sun did not seem so bright now as the clouds crossed Lyertha's face and the breeze running down the street bit into her more keenly. Askyrja tucked her arms together, shivering. She looked back at the shop's entrance almost entreatingly, but there was nothing for her there, and she could not stay.

She staggered awkwardly to her feet, leaning on the porch railing and stumbled out into the road, narrowly missing colliding with a well-to-do man and his wife – who huffed in disdain, darkly muttering 'Filthy drunks; loose women all over the streets these days,' though Askyrja scarcely noticed.

She was alone. She had known it before, of course, but then home had not seemed so far away; now, she was utterly, completely alone. She looked around bleary-eyed, her hands shaking, even her soul numb and empty. She was trapped here in this faraway city with strangers of all kinds, two thousand leagues from home. Passers-by looked at her – some with curiosity, some contempt for her barbarian apparel – but she did not even feel their eyes on her as she usually did. There was nothing left for her. Despair swept over her like a tidal wave and she spun, drowning, in its wash.

Her feet turned back towards the square almost of their own accord and she swayed along nervelessly into the bustle of the Market, which did not seem so joyful or so rich with possibility now. Faces flashed by in the crowd, seen and unseen. Vaguely she remembered – what was his name? Colson? – was here and that she was to meet him again and her feet, obediently, traced the way back towards the cart. He was not there when she arrived, so she plopped down on a bench, rocking slowly back and forth, trembling as the horrid thoughts went round and round her head like a chime that would not stop.

'Askyrja,' a voice sounded. Slowly her head lifted, eyes dazed with fear and realization; Colson was coming. She tottered to her feet and staggered his way, barely seeing. 'Askyrja? Are you all right?' he said in alarm and then she flung herself into his arms, clutching him as desperately as a drowning woman might a lifeline. 'C-Colson!' she whimpered as she sobbed like a child into his shoulder.

And so her tale spilled out from beginning to end, leaving out nothing save the identity of her father – not that it would help much to deny it if she were ever found; but she did not wish his name to pass her lips ever again. Colson stared in amazement as she wept and stammered her way through all the details, hunched over and shaking where they sat on the bench he'd guided her to. Partway through her story he gestured to a man with a cart of hot foods to bring them two steaming mugs of tea; absorted by the tale, he gulped his down and listened with his mouth hanging open so that the gap with his missing tooth could be seen, but Askyrja just clutched the hot mug with both hands, hiccupping and shaking with sobs.

She gasped out the story of her girlhood and womanhood, her flight from Knudje, being trapped on the tower, and the incredible feat of magic that had taken her to the Viscounty. She told him of the death of Bjorn, and the broken sword, and walking the long road to Verbobonc where he and Merrim had found her. 'T-then I – I came here and – I d-did not wish you to – to have to wait for me – at the store of the man with the maps and – '

' – oh, blimey: and that's where this two thousand leagues come from,' Colson said, smacking his forehead with his palm. 'Cuthbert's Comb, but that's a hell of a way and no mistake, Askyrja, gods alive no wonder yer so upset!' Askyrja started to cry again and Colson pulled her in close, his arm daringly around her shoulder and his cheek on her crown, and held her until her weeping slowed. He said nothing for a good bit longer, just sitting and holding the sad, beautiful girl until finally he nodded sagely, feeling every one of his few years. 'I've never heard the like afore, Askyrja, never. That's… that's a hell of a story, I can tell ye, and a long way t' think about.'

Her eyes were still red and her cheeks shimmered with tears that she did not bother to wipe away. 'L-long way,' she repeated brokenly, staring brokenly at the ground.

'I… Askyrja, gods alive, I can't imagine for a moment what yer goin' through righ' now,' he said, feeling his own tears welling a little. His mind struggled for something to say to this beautiful girl who'd dropped into his life a scant day before, whom Fate seemed to have dealt so poor a hand.

Then his heart surged into the gap, bold and confident. 'But – you just listen to me now – you just listen to me – I can tell yer this: it'll be all right, no matter what happens. I promise you that.' His mother had been a tough one, hard as old leather in accordance with her lower station, quick with the spoon but loving. He hadn't always made things easy for her, the gods knew and it had been from her that he'd learned a little rough chivalry, fellow-feeling and kindness. The plight of this shattered girl could not but make his heart cry out in sympathy, and not just because of her looks. He'd half hoped he might be able to find someone she knew in town – there were plenty of Suel here and he'd wondered if she'd have a cousin or something around, but she knew no one. She was utterly alone.

Except, she wasn't.

She started to convulse with weeping again, but Colson grabbed her tight and turned her to face him, getting his round face right in front of hers. 'No, no, now – none of that!' he said firmly, shaking his head and she bit her lips, hanging limply in his arms, red eyes looking dejectedly downward. 'You listen to me. Your tale – everythin' you said – was it the story of some lost, hopeless girl? No, it wasn't,' he said, answering himself. 'It's the story of a strong, brave girl who fought against – Cuthbert's Cudgel, Askyrja! – against impossible odds and survived anyway! A horde of killers? A wizard's favour? A betraying lov- ehh – a horde of killers?' he said again, catching himself. 'You're no victim! You're – you're a bloody heroine! I can't believe you done all that! I couldn't have done it! I'd have capped it at the first pass,' he said in admiration. 'You're not some man's woman – you're your own, and you done what you done 'cause yer strong. Think anyone else coulda lived?'

Askyrja sniffed and swallowed, thinking, and her shivering seemed to lessen. She shook her head, red-rimmed eyes seeking out his as if searching for a spark of hope.

'So – all right, so you're here and home is – ' Colson couldn't quite process the figure himself, and anyway it didn't matter. 'Askyrja… you were a bit nervous at the gate the first day. Was it the soldiers? That knight? Did you think they was gonna arrest ye?' She nodded, sniffing.

He grinned. 'Naw chance o' that! If what you say's all true – and I believe you,' he added, knowing she was now in earnest, 'you're safe. Think: your father can't reach you here! Sure, you're thous– a long way from home,' he caught himself again, 'but that's a long way from harm, too. You've escaped, Askyrja! I can't reckon with the notion of a father as… as'd kill his own daughter – Cuthbert's Crown! – but you're better off by far by bein' so far away: he could never find you here, halfway across the world!' Excited beyond words, he thumped his fist on the table. 'Why, by now he must be turning over hill and dale back there for you! But he'll never find you!' Colson said with a grin so earnest he was almost laughing.

Askyrja blinked, wiping her eyes. It was true, she reckoned. She could never go home again – that was a fact as hard as ice – but her father surely had no idea where she was now, and no way to reach her here even if he did. Colson's infectious smile began to rise in her.

'See? You know… and I know that that… other fellow did you wrong – ' he'd nodded a little bitterly through the part about Bjorn, if he was honest with himself, ' – but that Felix, now, I agree he didn't mean the other thing to happen. But you're right: he got you to where you're safe. He kept his word: he protected ye. He got you far enough away that yer father could never reach ye. And that's something.'

She nodded. She knew at least that was true: Felix had come through, even if Bjorn had not. He had not betrayed her.

But she was… thousands of miles from home, instead, say the kingdom of the Fruztii, or the Cruskii, or even the still faraway Stoneholds, far from anyone she'd ever known. 'M – my – my mother,' she whimpered, the lump in her throat threatening to return, tears filling her eyes again. 'My brother and sister. Bjorn – they were all I had,' she sniffed. 'I will never see them again and there is… there is no one like me here. The map-man said as much. He has never seen another from my land, ever. My people are lost to me. I am alone.' She looked down and her face fell.

'Hey – hey – there there, now,' Colson said, a great pout dampening his face. 'Now that's just not so, is it? This Felix helped you. And that Bjorn… well… never mind him. Your ma wouldn' want you within a thousand miles of your father right now… which, you aren't,' he had to admit. He gave her a squeeze and smiled into her sad, searching gaze. 'And yer a grown woman; ye kin learn new things, ye know! And you ain't alone either, Askyrja: hells, you ain't been alone since yesterday! I'm yer friend now – and so is Orvil, an' we ain't in the habit of lettin' girls wander about w'out friends or help. And – and even if Orvil wouldn't help, I would,' he said firmly. 'So – no matter what – everythin's goin' to be all right for you, I promise.' He pulled her in, holding her tight again and she clung to him, sniffling on his shoulder.

'Listen. You got a place and it's no nevermind to us, and you're paying for it. An' really, it's not as though we can really ask much for it anyway: who'd want to stay there? Er… not as it's bad, mind.' His smile turned a bit. 'Also, there's this y'see, which I was goin' to mention t' ye… see, a lot of the lads have left; workin' elsewhere, joined the army, some. Seems like there's summat goin' on. So we got lots of things about that ain't gettin' done. An' you're a nice girl an' all, Askyrja an', I been thinkin'… I could ask Orvil about a job for you – at the Coster! There's lots you could do w' us, I bet!' He patted her back, her head tucked into his shoulder.

She let out an accidental hiccup and looked up at him with wide green eyes. 'You… you would do this for me?'

'I do. I mean I will.' He smiled. 'You're… you're a good one, you don't mind me saying, Askyrja.'

There was a sudden surge in her, an irresistable electric moment fanned by his nearness, his warmth. Suddenly she lunged upward, clutching his head and planted her lips on his, kissing him hard, gratefully. Their teeth bumped and her soft full lips moved against his as he froze, eyes wide.

Then she pulled sharply away, gasping as she realized what she'd done. 'I… I am sorry,' she said, touching her mouth. 'I – I did not mean – I – it is just that I did not know how to repay you, and – '

Colson swallowed, his heart thumping in his chest, the sweet taste of her still on his lips and her scent in his nose. 'ER – y-you d-don't h-ave ter – ' He cleared his throat. 'Askyrja… yer my friend, and – and I'm yours. You don't have to – er – well, do nothin' like that, anyway.' His face was bright red. 'Friends do that for each other. Ain't you never had a friend before?'

She stared at him in shocked silence, then looked away. She felt her hand shaking and clenched her fist on it. 'I – I am sorry,' she stammered, horrified at her impulsive outburst, knowing she'd behaved shamefully but unable to explain it reasonably. 'You – you think I could work… at the Coster? W-what – ' she cleared her throat, spreading her hands over her knees soothingly. 'What do you think I could do?'

Colson adjusted his collar; the cool spring day seemed to have turned unexpectly warm. 'I'll – I'll check w' Orvil, to start. There's a fair bit to do – cleanin' and fixin' for a start. The old place has seen better days, I'll tell you. Are you any good with tools and such?' Colson asked, feeling that this was a hopeless question.

But to his surprise Askyrja nodded quickly and jerkily. Bjorn had shown her many of those, and she could learn that which she did not know: she was young, energetic and strong for her size. 'I know many tools. In Rhizia, even women know something of this,' she added, then felt she'd undersold herself.

'Well good!' Colson said. 'An' if that's not to yer taste, well, there's all sorts you could in town. You could… well, be a barmaid, like. You said you were… well… you said you served back in Rhizia, right?' She nodded again. 'Well… bein' a waitress would be the same. You bring people beer and food, and bring back their money. There's a little besides, but surely it's all the same. And it's money. You could make a lot in tips, a girl like you,' he nodded seriously, the memory kiss burning in his mind.

Askyrja thought, trying to forget what she'd just done and regretting it. Being a barmaid sounded much like her duties in Orvung's hall… maybe a little too much like… but it would do for now if it gave her money; she knew the importance of that at least. She had escaped exactly as she always wanted, and better than she'd imagined possible. And now, specifically because of that, she had the chance to start over – here. 'I – I changed my money,' she said, feeling a little proud. 'At the money-changer's. The man, Flint, did it for me.'

Colson's reaction surprised her: 'Oh, you shouldn'ta done that all by yerself!' he exclaimed. 'I coulda gone w'ye! Just to help out, like. Flint'd never try any nonsense with the likes of me around.' Askyrja nodded dutifully although in truth she did not think Flint or his bodyguards would be particularly intimdated by Colson.

'It was no trouble and he said his rates were the best in town,' she protested wanly.

But Colson looked pained. 'Well… Askyrja… I'm here to help. I am. You can count on me, you know.'

Her brows furrowed at his big, puppy-dog eyes. 'I… I am sorry – I did not think.' She reached out and touched him on the arm. 'You – you have indeed been helpful, and I am very grateful to you.' She managed a weak smile.

He smiled. 'It's no trouble. It's – just what friends do.'

Askyrja couldn't help but smile in return.

Askyrja sat on the bench outside the Coster House, knee bouncing nervously. Colson had said that he would 'plead her case' to Orvil and the conversation sounded like a vague murmur through the door.

Suddenly the door banged open as the old man burst out. 'Oh my gods,' Orvil said, taking her hands in his, bringing her to her feet. 'I'm so, so sorry.' His own eyes were reddened up. 'You're – you're far from home. You – you can explain it all in your own time but – I'd like you to stay here. You seem a good sort to me – I can feel it, young lady! – and I'll find you something to do round here. I'm no spring chicken and there's lots a strong young girl could help with; and what's more, I'll not turn some poor girl out into the dark, damned by St. Cuthbert if I will!' He patted her on the shoulder. 'Helpin'd be just what ol' Walder would have wanted,' he said, and he and Colson made the strange genuflection.

Askyrja let out a squeak of joy and did a little dance on the balls of her feet. 'Thankyou!' she said sincerely, grasping his hands and grinning ear to ear; then lunged in and hugged him. 'Thankyou!'

'Oof! Nothing to thank me for,' Orvil chuckled as the girl grappled him; she was a lot stronger than she looked. 'We have the room! And I think we can waive the cost at the least if you're helping; and maybe pay you a little pocket money, just until you get properly back on your feet. It's good for all of us!'

Askyrja let out an enormous sigh, feeling warm relief tingle through her.

Surely everything now was going to be all right.

At long last, she was safe.

CY 579, Coldeven 5 (Waterday)

Soull, Rhizia

A fire burned in the wide hearth of the Great Hall. It was deep in the night and while the Hall was never silent, it was still enough that the very air was heavy with dread. The moon was waxing higher; the next night would be the Goddess' Blush to the followers of Wee Jas, not that there were as many of those these days. The goddesses of the new religion were starting to replace that of the old, and the 4th of Coldeven meant nothing to them.

It was said round the court that the Old Bear had not slept in days, so filled with rage as he was and that his anger was a terror to behold. A thing had been stolen – Orvung did not say what, of course, but it was known he wanted it back and all made their excuses to stay out of his sight. There had been a pursuit and the news of the hunt was not good.

The riders had already returned from Granrud by fast longship, leaving their tired mounts in the town, and their report had not pleased him: the girl had been run to ground in Soull at the Temple of Lendor and climbed to its roof until she was treed on the very Hands of Lendor themselves – and then had simply vanished into the ether with a clap of thunder, leaving behind a savaged clock tower, the partial remains of Bjorn and the broken blade of a sword. The thing – whatever it was – had not been recovered.

Even Gnorri Giantsbane had trembled to deliver the news and had left their private conference pale as old bone. Frustrated beyond his tolerances, Orvung had brought forward his only card: a lowly, humble prisoner.

Firelight gleamed off the thin, sweat-slick form of the man who knelt on the cold stone floor before the Great Jarl, Orvung Bearslayer. Orvung sat his stone seat with a frown like thunder. The room was empty save for the Jarl, his son Lief, two of his most trusted guards – and the prisoner himself.

Orvung looked down on the man in a rictus of rage, big teeth bared. 'I ask you again, mage: where is the document?' he said in a slow rumbling growl that had the semblance of patience, but behind which a fire raged; his eyes were red with fury and his huge fists – almost the size of a human head – clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

Felix the Sorceror's face and torso were a mass of bruises. One eye was swolled shut with a great blue-black swelling. Several fingers on one hand were broken and twisted, and the other was bound in a cloth reddened with blood where other digits had been cut away. His hair, once lustrous, had been half shaved away from his scalp as if by a rough knife and his left hamstring cut to hobble him. Proper torturers the Schnai had not – unlike the secret dungeon's galleries of Southron lords – but a man could be beaten until his tongue set to wagging, and it was a simple enough task for such a brutal people.

'I… do not… have it,' Felix said in a stattaco groan. Bloody saliva oozed through his shattered teeth.

Orvung leaned down again; a giant towering over a broken scarecrow. There was an acrid stench; the man had fouled himself. 'We know of your complicity, sorcerer. You thought you were clever, but you were easy enough to catch. From the Southron we expect deceit,' Orvung rumbled in an almost benevolent tone. 'If you want your suffering to stop, you need only tell me where my document is now. Save yourself pain, Southerner. Tell me what you have done with it.'

 'I do not have it, great Jarl,' Felix said again. 'Doubtless your clerics are watching my words with their magics' they will say I am not lying. Your – ' he coughed, then choked on blood and saliva, ' – wards were successful. The alarms sounded everywhere. She took it with her; I never even saw it, or her. I assume she fled.' He sagged, panting and bleeding.

 'Water,' Orvung grunted and one of his guards hurled a pail of cold water bodily onto the prisoner to smack into his chest and face.

Felix the sorceror jolted bodily from the impact, almost crying out. Then he looked slowly up with water dripping from him and running in rivulets down his thin chest, shaking his head like a dog's. 'J-j-jarrl… Or-vung,' he gasped, 'Why… would I lie… to you? I am dead… no matter what I say.'

There can be more pain, Orvung thought. 'You know where she is,' he said in a tone that made grown men tremble as his hands clenched into fists the size of a man's head. 'You know what happened. The girl had been run to ground. She was trapped, as good as in our hands. Then she just disappeared, and took my best hunter – most of him! – with her. That was magic, sorcerer. That was you.' His lips curled back over big, blunt teeth. 'Now tell me where you sent her, Southron dog!'

'It was not I,' Felix grunted in a ragged, gravelly voice. 'I was in your gaol. I had no spells left. If I could have teleported anyone, would I not have got myself out of your gaol? And my hands – ' he chuckled ruefully ' – do not seem to be working these days, thanks to your men. I could not cast a spell if my life depended on it.' Felix began chuckling through his smashed mouth, looking up into Orvung's eyes with his good eye. 'I did not send her away, great Jarl,' he said. 'It was someone else.' He grinned, showing the shattered stubs of his teeth. 'You have… an enemy.'

The Old Bear stared, red-eyed, his rage growing until his temper, already shortened by days of unsatisfied rage. exploded. 'Your shoulders seem weighted down, sorcerer,' he growled. 'Let me lighten your load!'

'It was not I!' Felix gasped, fear leaping back into his maimed face. 'But I think I know – '

But Orvung's huge fist – more paw than hand – closed suddenly around his head, cutting him off. The sorcerer moaned and begged wildly, muffled by that huge palm as Orvung's other hand clamped the back of his skull. 'I have heard a sorceror's mettle is his mind,' Orvung grunted savagely, red eyes blazing. 'Let us see what is in yours!' And the massive muscles of his arms convulsed.

Felix jolted, his scream drowned out by Orvung's growl and his massive hands. There was a moment where he flailed desperately, then the pause of a heartbeat, and then not so much a crack as a strange, chilling pop as Felix's skull simply collapsed between Orvung's hands. Blood, bits of bone and brain sprayed in all directions between Orvung's thick fingers and Felix's body slumped, practically headless.

His corpse had scarcely hit the floor when Orvung snatched it up like a dog seizing a rabbit – huge hand squeezing clothing, skin and bone into a pulp inside his massive fist– and with a bellow of frustration he hurled it into the hall fireplace.

The others watched in horror as the spinning body smashed awkwardly into the bricks of the fireplace's lintel and throat, then dropped onto the firebox. The flames began eagerly licking at Felix's body even as it hung, twitching. Orvung's chest pumped like a bellows and his fists squeezed tight as his anger smoldered.

'Well… that is the end of conspiracy,' Leif said, wanting to fill the silence with something. 'Bjorn is dead, unless a man may walk without his legs.' Leif did not mention the shattered sword blade that had been found as well. It was not meet to the Schnai to think about unalterable things broken by chance; it seemed too much like a curse and they did not like to think about such things. 'There were a few minor conspirators, but they also have been – '

'The plot is not dead,' Orvung grunted in a thick warning growl, his big fingers flexing and unflexing. 'Where is she? Where is the betrayer? My own blood – ' he snarled.

Leif was a brave man; a renowned warrior in his own right and a leader of battles, a chief of hosts for his father. He had never failed the man and his reputation among the Schnai was unimpugned, but he feared his father, and rightly so. 'Father, we searched all Soull, the forests and hills around it, brought in dogs, horsemen, and searched the Jarldom high and low,' he said guardedly. 'There is no sign of her anywhere. Her horse was found as well, so she did not come back for it.'

'Of course she didn't come back for it,' Orvung said dangerously. 'She was whisked away by magic!'

'This tells us she was sent a long way off, father, outside Soull at the least.' Leif put in, wondering if reminding his sire of their blood relationship was wise or not right now. 'She may not even be in Rhizia. Such spells can take a subject a long way away.' He glanced – with just a hint of nervousness; he had made his peace with the gods, and death was death – towards Felix's shattered form hanging in the fire-grate; the flames were merrily burning his clothes away and his flesh was starting to sizzle, making the repulsive scent of burnt pork begin to fill the hall. 'Not Rhizia. Fruztii, maybe, or the Stoneholds.'

'Or further,' Orvung suddenly grumbled, thinking. 'This Felix – where was he from?'

Leif blinked, thinking. 'I think… he told me long ago,' he said, wracking his brains, trying not to notice Felix's own brains scattered over the stone floor. That would need to be cleaned up. 'He mentioned some Southron nations – Urnst, Furyondy… and someplace called… Verbobonc, or something similar.' They both glanced at the wide tile map on the floor under their feet, partially obscured by the scattered remains of Felix's head. Those were long ways away, they could both see; but revenge was an obligation both in the old religion of Lendor and Kord and Phaulkon and the new one springing up everywhere, with their Odin and Thor and Frigga. Her trespass could not be ignored, not ever. 'She must be found. I need that which she carries,' Orvung rumbled. 

'We will send our spies to all the neighbouring lands.' Leif thought. 'And we have traders everywhere with eyes of their own. I will arrange for messages to be sent to our spies in Ratik by messenger pigeon. They will pass those messages on, though it will take time for word to spread,' he hedged, choosing not to mention that such messages could have been sent almost immediately by a living sorceror. 'We will find her if we have to search all Oerth itself for her,' he promised.

His father turned big, red-rimmed eyes on him, teeth bared, and Leif could have sworn at that moment that those eyes glowed red as if his father truly was more bear than man, as in the freemen's tales. 'Do that,' Orvung growled in his enormous snarl, the very air trembling. 'Find her and return her. I will cut off her hands and feet and tear the meat from her living bones!' he swore. 'Mind that you do not fail me in this, Leif,' he told his son a low, warning voice, his great paws dripping blood and ichor. 'She has dishonoured us, despite every kindness. What are the rules of a leader?'

Leif had heard this one many times, and nodded. 'To protect his people. To do as you say you will do. To permit no insult.'

'Good,' his father grunted. 'Go you, and see to her capture. Now go.'

Leif nodded, spun on his heel and marched out, happy for the wide, ambiguous order though he knew it could take him far away.

Given his father's mood, it was probably better to be anywhere than in Granrud right now.