TheCityAndTheCitySB: Kenning: The City and the City(Continued from Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow) "Not even with herself in one place," Kenning answers with a little longing entering his voice. "One of her agents," he agrees, looking at his hands with some wonder. "More a weapon than a pen, but either way, suited to her hand. A tool." He quiets and focuses on the road before them. And so the miles pass. There are no encounters of lasting import or consequence as Kenning and Dejah leave the ambush site behind. The river, the Palafox, widens slowly and surely as the road parallels it. Slowly, over days, signs of habitation--farms, hamlets, even villages, become more and more common. Finally, the City, Vandais, appears on the horizon., even as the Ebro river that the Palafox meets at the river part, also comes into view on a convenient ridge. Vandais is not a city of Gold such as in popular tales in the Monasterium, but with its thick walls, and its fortifications, clearly is a city of Iron. "There it is, Kenning" Dejah says with satisfaction. "The City of Vandais. We've reached a milestone, and tonight, we will no longer have to camp amongst the stars, unless we found a religion and stake a claim on a dirt lot on the Lane of Deities." Kenning's mood has obviously brightened from the funk he developed after the bandits, and he feels more comfortable around Dejah. "I've probably enough esoteric knowledge that such an option is viable, stealing an obscure one from another Shadow seeming the likeliest route for the sake of being complete," he chuckles. "But as much fun as it might be, even the brothers at the monestarium don't sleep on the ground when they can help it. Do we have enough coin?" he asks. "Or will we be treating in fairie gold?" "I have coin." Dejah says. "I may not have the abilities that you of your family do to conjure money and items at need, but I was given provisions and coin to fetch you." He begins to lead his horse down the hill toward Vandais. "And we need watch for those that may be watching for us. I don't know the city's customs, but can we approach under cover of night, or is that concealment mitigated by the smaller numbers of travellers? Wait for the morning crush of bodies and goods?" "The gates are not generally open at night, except during certain festivals." Dejah replies. "This IS a mercenary town, and having the gates open to a possible reaving force at night is something that the powers-that-are generally do not appreciate. There are a couple of inns an hour's walk from the city that serve the trade of those who arrive too late to enter." "I think that immersing ourselves in the horde of travelers and farmers in the early morning would be the easiest way to avoid detection." Dejah says. "Staying at one of the inns would also allow us to gain a sense of any latest gossip, as well, before we set foot on Vandais' cobblestones." He nods. "Perhaps you could suggest something more appropriate in the way of clothes, so the particular mercenaries that are watching for us aren't tipped by my robes?" "Dressing as mercenaries ourselves would work." Dejah says. "Or perhaps simple traders coming to Vandais. I don't think we want to dress down any further than that." "I can likely conjure something that will pass until I can purchase the right items," Kenning mentions. "I've always thought that I'd look good in a hat." "A tricorn hat is traditional for traders in this region" Dejah says "If we are posing in a more martial vein, a helmet would be better than a hat. We don't want to be marked as fops. It could lead either of us to be challenged." "A helmet it will be, as they wouldn't expect a mercenary from the Brothers," Kenning decides. He rides far enough from the road that other travelers won't observe his change. Dejah follows, placing herself between Kenning and the road. Curtana expands from the bracelet on his wrist to a dagger in his hand as soon as he dismounts. Unencumbered by modesty, he strips off his robes and lays them out on the turf. Carving codons as much as cutting the fabric, the ebon skinned man fashions himself a padded tunic as is worn under heavier armor or by those that might've had to abandon such heavier armor at some point. His trousers are from longer lengths of his archivist's robes, the blue darker, like a midnight sky, and worn in the knees and seat as if he had been riding much longer than the actual journey. The tan shirt he sketches from the ether, carving codons in the air, watching them coallece as he chains them together. Dejah notices that his whole attention is on his sorcery and conjuration and he's lucky to have her watching for him. There's a slight smile on his face as he looks at the shirt and draws it on. "Now for the leather." Obviously bouyed by his pure conjury, he fashions further accoutrements. Boots, belt, scabbard, a few straps and a cap, all of thick leather. It matches the gear that one of the bandits had worn, save the colors and size. "Metal's a mater of shaping and sizing," he explains to the air as he begins to carve on a nearby rock, the form shrinking and changing, not from the blade's strokes, but from the runes on it's surface. Soon he's a simple iron cap with a shallow brim that fits over the leather cap. He finishes dressing and then adds the straps to the rings inside so he can secure it. "Sorry, I lost focus there for a moment," Kenning apologizes. "Or rather, didn't, and was otherwise focused? Will this do and what can I do for you?" "You did lose focus." Dejah replies with a grin. "If you are going to engage in such attention-grabbing sorcery in the future, you had best do it in the presence of a partner. If you were alone in a city street in Vandais, you could have been robbed. Maybe knifed. That is to say." Dejah smiles "if they were not scared out of their wits by the esoteric display that you just put on." "To answer your question though." Dejah continues "You look like a mercenary from Niani, which is precisely a good look for you. Unexpected, too, the windriders, if they are watching, will be less able to mark you as a traveler from the mountains." "As for myself" Dejah says "I don't think I could carry off that martial look quite as well as you can. Something softer, I think. With an aforementioned tricorn hat in addition to a change in clothes, I could pass off as a factor you have hired in this region. Which would be accepted, wise and make sense to the locals." "Done and done, if you would be the look-out I previously presumed without actually asking your indulgence," Kenning chuckles. "I'm thinking velvet, with matching skirts, split for riding? Dejah gives a nod of approval. [Kenning] sets about the conjury of drawing cloth from the local natural fibers, and the sorcery of sizing it to Dejah. The archivist focuses only pausing to walk over and size the skirt to Dejah's hips. "Will you need different undergarments?" he asks curiously. Color comes to Dejah's cheeks, a flush running across her face like the sudden spreading of the color of fall foliage to red and orange. "By the Five Elements! No!" she says, blinking. She then relaxes. "I forget you have not yet been tutored in the social graces. Making such an enquiry--of a man or a woman, is liable to be interpreted by many as a proposition." Kenning nods, but is obviously missing something. He returns to finishing her clothes, a blouse with ruffles at the cuff and throat as he had seen on a prefect for some grain trader last season of whom the Abbot had gotten the best. He stands. "Will your boots do? You are supposed to be a travelling merchant, yes?" "I think the boots will do as they are. A traveling merchant has to be practical as well as fashionable. I've walked many leagues as such a merchant, of course." He readjusts the helmet, then lets it slip down on his back. "A proposition of?" Dejah stares at Kenning for a moment.. "You are not jesting." She regards Kenning. "Talking about undergarments can be interpreted as a proposition for sexual congress." Kenning looks suitably chastised. "I'll have to leave most of the talking to you." "That will handle the problem of my accent and diction when we arrive at the inn. For now, I'm prepared." "Then I will step out of sight, change my clothes into the new ones, and we will enter the city." Dejah says. She takes the conjured clothes, nods to Kenning, and soon returns to him, dressed in the new clothes. "You might want to consider a secondary career as a clothier" Dejah says with a smile. "They fit perfectly, Kenning." Indeed, the ruffled blouse does show her off very well indeed. Without further ado, Dejah soon leads Kenning down toward the looming walls of Vandais, joining the queue of farmers and travelers looking to enter into the city. Both he and Dejah get the occasional look and glance, but otherwise nothing untoward as they move toward the city gates, person by person. "Names?" the bored looking guard says, looking at Kenning and Dejah with eyes as grey as the mop of hair that peeks from underneath his helmet. Kenning grunts, "Grok of Niani and Mistress Jayne." He seems just as bored with the exchange, his hands casual on his belt, away from his weapon. The boredom of Kenning's voice, or perhaps his believability, is enough that the guard waves him and Dejah on past with a grunted "Welcome to Vandais." The three muttered words after that might be "Murder is illegal" but they are a slurred elided set of words, at best. And with that, Dejah and Kenning are through the gate and are standing on the cobblestones of a square in the city. The smell of people and things both savory and sour, the crush of people, the looming buildings, and the bustle all reinforce for Kenning that he has truly left the Monasterium of his raising, and is now within the controlled chaos that is a city. "Is it too much?" Dejah asks, urging Kenning toward a corner of the square rather than standing in the center. The noise is near deafening to the archivist, who does his best to hold his mercenary's face, a look of appraisal instead of wonder and revulsion. "Yes and no," he admits. "A lot to catalog, but for now I will have to just take it in. Questions will be kept for private discussion. We'll need a quiet, private place to use the book to find the Windriders. I know that the traders have mentioned the Lorette as having warm beds." "I'm not surprised." Dejah says, looking around for an opening. Finally she starts moving, a slight tug on Kenning's wrist indicating that he should join her in the flow of people. "There are many inns and taverns in Vandais" Dejah said. "No doubt the Lorette is amongst their number..." She stops a boy in the street, speaks quietly, and offers him a pair of copper coins. Soon, the black haired youth leads Dejah and Kenning through the streets, stopping in front of a building with a placard that shows a silhouetted picture of a woman, black, on a white background. Whatever the Lorette is, it is not a traditional inn. "Perhaps the traders were having a joke on you?" Dejah says, looking at the facade and then at Kenning. "What sort of joke?" the archivist asks. "Lorette must be the innkeep's daughter or wife, perhaps. He seems proud enough to have made her his symbol." Dejah chuckles. "I do not think this is an inn, Kenning. Rather, this is what you may have come across in your studies as a House of Ill Repute." "A brothel" she clarifes, still amused. Kenning's dark skin hides the blush well, even if his face doesn't. "Oh." He seems thoughtful for a moment. "I've read of such in some of the salacious items that Brother Creed kept under lock in his office, but had no expectation of them advertising their business in such an open way." "In a city full of mercenary companies, open advertisement is an expected practice." Dejah replies wryly. "Men and women have needs." "This is going to be a hard adjustment, more so than just the clothes and smells and sounds," [Kenning] admits. "I find myself a hawk without thermals. One supposes that this mercenary will have to forego his personal pleasures," nodding toward the Lorette, " And follow his employer to whatever inn she feels is appropriate." His smile is wry, but genuine. Dejah chuckles. Soon enough, however, Dejah has led herself and Kenning to a building with a placard showing a green heraldic creature--a Griffin, or a Gryphon, depending on the individual work Kenning has read. Men and women enter and exit the inn at regular intervals as they approach, and a low din emanates from the door. Dejah stops at the threshold, showing a common room full of tables, patrons and a bar. The air is warm and heavy. "Now THIS, Kenning," she says to him, "Is a inn. With a common room for drinks and meals. I'd advise against trying to play any games of chance--at least until I have taught you some. Learning in the middle of a game can be expensive." Kenning nods, a conpiratorial grin on his lips. "My otherwise good employer hasn't seen fit to pay me my wages for the trip yet, so I've skant resources to take such a chance. Of course, I'd appreciate the opportunity to learn, but one supposes its better done away from the other patrons." Dejah laughs. "True on both counts." "I do know a little about Primero, as not all the monks were raised at the monestarium. In fact, most of them come to the calling late in life, and bring with them their associated histories." Kenning waves Dejah into the room, following close behind and scanning the room for threats, or at least trying to look like he's doing such. "Of course, I'm not sure that it's played locally, as Brother Babieca isn't local, but from Jispanola, if I recall." "Primero is not a local game, and it is not one I am familiar with." Dejah demurs. "However, games of chance and skill found in inns usually fall into the same broad types. Wagering games, all, they depend on the players to make advantageous combinations. Tejas, I believe, is the most popular card game here." "Were you unusual, having little life before the Monasterium?" Dejah asks Kenning He nods toward a clear table, waiting for her to sit first in a symbol of respect for her knowledge that might be mistaken by the locals as something to do with her gender. Dejah returns the signal with a nod, and makes her way to the table, sitting down on the far side. She makes a signal with two crossed raised fingers toward the bar. "I think I was more unusual than I ever knew, but as you mention, there were no others that had lived," he scans for eavesdroppers quickly," /there/ much longer than I have if one were to look at it as a percentage of life instead of simple time." "And even in that I eclipsed several of the other residents. The young fostered there often were apprenticed out to merchants or if they decided on a sacred life, sent to other like minded places," he explains. "Others, like even the Abbot, came to the... faith... later in life." "Later in life?" Dejah says. "It sounds like to me there is a story there." "Wine, ale, or something stronger?" a young woman dressed in a wine-dark dress says, suddenly appearing next to Kenning's right elbow as if by legerdemain. "Wine," Kenning answers, attempting to seem like he orders it all the time. She is regarded by him with some attention, this being one of the first interactions with a woman that wasn't Dejah, whom he realizes that he doesn't really think of as a woman, but as Dejah. "The House wine." Dejah clarifies with a nod. The serving girl, oblivious or at least impassive to Kenning's interests, curtsies and disappears. Once she's left to fill their order, the archivist pulls his lips into more of a grin. "Anything known about the Abbot is subject to speculation," he begins. "Some of the brothers claim the scars on his back are like those left by a cat-of-nine-tails, others claimed that they're from a mauling, perhaps by a bear. Either way, he had adventures before he came to the Monesterium." There's a wistful tone to the word 'adventure.' "And now it is your turn for adventures, Kenning." Dejah says. "I don't doubt that you will return to the Monasterium as a base and a place to obtain knowledge, but your days in the brotherhood are over." "It sounds like, though, that you have always wanted something more than the studious life you've led."Dejah says. Clay cups of a wine as dark as the dress materialize in front of Kenning and Dejah by the motion of pale hands of the serving girl. Kenning smiles at the serving girl, thanking her with his eyes. "I love the color of your dress," he offers. "Like the dark grapes of Bourgogne, sweetest are her lips, said the bard Cerwin once." Dejah's near-laugh is stifled by her, and instead is transformed into a gentle smile. The serving girl gives a glance at Dejah before turning eyes as softly brown as wood toward Kenning. "You are very kind to say so, ser." she says. "I saved the money from many generous patrons to purchase it." "I am Yulanda, ser." she continues. "should you need anything. Some food, perhaps, to accompany your wine. Jorkas is a moderately fair cook." "What ever you think is best," Kenning agrees. "And for the lady as well." "Very well." Yulanda says with a dimpled smile. "I shall bring bread and a beef and bean stew for the both of you." When the girl has left he squares his sight on Dejah, asking, "What?" Dejah schools her expression as much as she can, although mirth is quite evident on her face. "It is amusing to see you interact with her, Kenning" Dejah says. "If I didn't think I knew any better, I would say that you were trying to flirt with her." Kenning doesn't blush, but a smile blooms. "I'm getting the feeling that many of my interactions will be awkward for some time until I learn the social interactions that aren't those of communal men." Dejah nods in agreement as Kenning continues. "My readings suggest that awkward interactions aren't what normally charm the opposite sex. It must be an inborn talent," he chuckles. "Perhaps that's where I'll land in the Deck, as The Rake." "I think that your position would be set long before you mastered such interactions to the extent that you would be placed in that role." Dejah says, stopping the motion of her head. "Now, say, a scion of Amber well known for loving and leaving members of the fairer gender, or perhaps both sexes, he or she would be a fit candidate to be named as the Rake. Your mother would be a much better person to ask on such matters than I, to be honest." "On rakes, or my presumed place within the deck?" Kenning asks rhetorically. "I've just become accustomed to the idea of a mother as something more than an abstract concept, so contemplating her amorous activities seems a bit beyond my current comfort level." "Especially with my level of understanding of such matters," he adds. "She seems an attractive girl, our server. Is she?" "Although most men and perhaps some women will stare at her bosom." Dejah says. "It is her eyes, instead, that I think is the most appealing feature. You might try complimenting that, if you truly wish to practice your neophyte charms in a relatively straightforward and harmless manner. I doubt that she would tumble for you and you might not want to do so, even if you are your mother's son..." Kenning's interruption at such a comment falls short as Dejah stops speaking because, at that moment, Yulanda has returned, improbably juggling two bowls and plates, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. Somehow she not only manages to cart all of these to Kenning and Dejah's table, but sets them all down in a near-blur of motion as well. The bowls prove to be filled with some sort of dark-red colored savory-smelling stew, featuring beans only a shade or two less red dominating the dish, along with chunks of meat. "Enjoy" Yulanda says, turning to depart the table. "Of course," he answers. He hesitates as if he was going to continue, but them turns to look at his meal, self consciously muttering, "Thank you." "You're welcome" Yulanda replies, and then turns toward other patrons. Once the girl has left he tastes the food and nods his approval. "I suppose I'm not my mother's son, then," he offers with a wry smile. "Not yet, perhaps." Dejah says, stirring the contents of her bowl with a wooden spoon. "But you are only days removed from the only home you have ever known. And an isolated one at that. You *do* need practice with social interactions, if you are going to prosper out here, Kenning." She takes a spoonful of stew. Kenning eats thoughtfully for a few moments. "Interactions, perhaps, but everything is frought with undertones suggesting sexual relations, or perhaps I'm just reading too much into what you're saying." He sips at his wine slowly, looking about the room. "Perhaps if I had some education in those... interactions... I'd be more comfortable with the talking. Like riding a horse before being able to discuss the experience," he suggests. The archivist doesn't look particularly comfortable with the idea, but seems earnest. "So, how do I go about saddling the mare?" Dejah stares at Kenning for a moment. She shakes her head. "I imagined many conversations with her Ladyship's son during our journey. We've even already had one or two of those conversations." She points the spoon, in a playful gesture toward Kenning. "This is not one of them." Kenning offers her an insolent grin. She takes a spoonful of stew, eats it, and then speaks again. "If you are serious about this, then I suppose we could do worse than have me conduct you to the Lorette. Or someplace of its caliber and nature. You'd allow me to do the negotiation beforehand, of course." "It certainly would help with our cover for those outside of the establishment." "So, I'm not suited enough to your own tastes to take the matter into hand personally?" he jests. "I'm crushed." "Oho!" she laughs. "Well played, Kenning." He's finished with his own stew and is mopping the dregs of it with the heavy bread. "I suppose it will need to wait for another day, as we've people looking for us, and I'm of the mind to find them first," he decides. "Beyond the book, which they have to suspect we have, and may be able to use as we had intended to use against them, they must be aware that something untoward had occurred with their picket." "Indubitably." Dejah says, returning to an all-professional mien. "I think the scrying should be done tonight, if I can find enough calm to do it, and we should either take them unaware overnight, or play it safe and observe them tomorrow before making rash decisions." He tugs at the silver earring. "Others are impulsive, despite their tactical acumen." "Then let us finish this stew, and be about your scrying. Aside from inner peace, what else would increase your chances of success?" she says, speaking between rapid-fire bites of stew. "Have you read The King's Chronicles? If you've a grail filled with an elixir of immortality, one supposes that would go well toward our purposes, but I need not observe all the seven heavens of this universe," Kenning smiles as he sips at his wine. "Nor do I think I seek the deep truths that it might reveal. Dejah shakes her head. "I've not read these Chronicles." "A bowl and water, both of which I can carve into existance. In fact, the latter I definitely will, to limit the correspondences." He considers for a moment. A single candle in the room, and darkness without. I've not decided the best way to use the book for sympathetic vibrations, but it occurs that if were to play bold, I might just write to this captain that seeks me, and save us the trouble." "If you were to write to the captain directly." Dejah points out "Scrying would be superfluous. The Captain would take action, immediately, and find us. On the other hand, I prefer the element of surprise. Let us be about your scrying, is what I say, so that we have an idea of what we face before we take the irretrievable step of announcing ourselves so boldly." "Fortune may favor the bold, or so it is said." Dejah says "But so does fortune favor preparation." "Agreed," Kenning answers. "Shall I secure a room? A beginning on my social interactions?" "Yes" Dejah says brightly. He waves Yulanda over as she's passing from serving another table, raising his wine glass. "Another glass for myself and my employer, and I find that we'll have need of a room for a few hours," he explains. "More likely the night, depending on how well things go. In the past I've found that if I'm close enough, I can extend things for a long while." "We do not rent rooms for the night, good ser." Yulanda says. "If we did, we might gain a reputation that would suggest this establishment be re-located to a different portion of the city." "The Green Griffon Inn would be proud to let you a room for a night, however." She pauses a beat and regards Kenning carefully "A room with one bed, or two?" He chuckles, "Two, one supposes, unless you can't vouch for the Griffin and I'll need sleep across the threshold for my employer's safety." "Is it a safe place to bed down for the night, Yulanda?" He lets a little warmth slip into his tone, hopefully flirting as Dejah had accused him of previously. Yulanda looks at Kenning, and a flicker of an eye glance at the neutral looking Dejah appears to be all that she needs to know to go on. She offers Kenning a smile. "Indeed, ser." Yulanda says with a smile. "The last time someone was injured within or on the doorstep of the Green Griffon Inn was two years ago, when Emirikol the Chaos Mage came through on his rampage." "We pay well for the city guard to include this street in their rounds." she adds "And several of the mercenary companies favor our establishment as well." Kenning nods, casting a more impressed look over the common room. "Really? I've heard a bit of the companies, in fact had some interest myself, after this particular job, of course." Yulanda smiles. "A few good men are always welcome." He leans closer to Yulanda, conspiratorially, "Which enjoy the favor of this establishment? Being able to have such a lovely waitress again, it might be just the thing to make me consider applying to one over another." He offers her a wide smile. Yulanda smiles. "Not that I receive any extra coin from them, of course." Yulanda says. Her eye flickers over toward Dejah, who is remaining almost studiously removed from the conversation. "But three of the more established companies frequent the Green Griffon. There is the Water Hounds, they are a bunch who like to act as marines, going up and down the rivers whenever they can. The Blackjacks are a small outfit, but they often round out battles made by larger forces and so find much employment. And the Ellezelin serve as one of the larger mercenary companies in Vandais." "The Windhawks, the Lombards, and the Browncoats, the other premier companies of the city, are, alas, patrons of other establishments. We would" Yulanda breathes the next word as much as speaks it "love their custom and trade, if you should join one of them." "The Windhawks," Kenning says, nodding. "I've heard of them. Captain Denerim, normally found in the employ of someone named Aranai." Yulanda studies Kenning for a moment, and then gives a nod. "I had hoped to take service with them, and if they'll have me, well... I'd always warmly remember the first smile I experienced in Vandais," he offers, laying a hand atop her forearm gently. She nibbles her lip but does not move, flinch or react unduly to Kenning's gesture. If anything, she shifts slightly to face him all the more. "Of course, rumors aren't the best way to find comrades," he sighs. "If I give my word to the Griffon that you were good enough to recommend them, do you think you might be able to point me toward one of those other establishments, so I might be able to see my prospects without the bluster of their headquarters?" She pensively regards Kenning for a moment. "Since you have already paid good coin for staying here tonight, it would do little harm to tell you what you ask." Yulanda says. "The Windhawks favor Fraunce's Inn and Tavern. Down on the Broad Street where it meets the Street of Pearls. The Windhawks, or their employer perhaps, are stakeholders, part-owners in it, I understand." "If you do eat there." Yulanda adds. "Avoid the beef at all costs. Their sausage is passable. Their wine is average. Only their chicken pie is worth the trouble of putting into your stomach, in my opinion." Kenning chuckles. "I'll keep it in mind, but I think I've already found a place I prefer." He winks at her. Yulanda smiles brightly. "Of course, ser. If you will excuse me, now..." "How about another glass of wine?" he asks his employer. "One each?" "One more each would be sufficient." Dejah agrees. In short order, Dejah has poured Kenning and herself each a glass and takes a sip of hers. "Nicely handled. You are a quick study." Dejah says once Yulanda is off serving other customers. "Very nicely handled indeed, Kenning. We only need decide what time of day to best go to this Inn and Tavern." The young man lets out a breath that he was unaware he had been holding. "We may be better off finding another place to stay tomorrow, as asking about, even as innocently as I stumbled over it, will lead them back here." Dejah makes a small sound of agreement. "I think the scrying will give us an inkling of where and when to begin," Kenning offers. "And we should tip the girl well, correct?" "The girl would be disappointed, even hurt, if she is not tipped well for her pains. " Dejah adds "Emirikol, the Chaos Mage. I should remember him if he were a sorcerer of note, but often these names are over inflated. Likely not even a sorcerer at all. I once read of one of the greatest swordsmen of his Shadow being know as Istvan the Archer, a profession and weapon he found dishonorable, all because of one fateful draw of the string." Kenning chuckles as things begin to process. "I wouldn't be surprised to hear this Chaos Mage was a noble who stumbled onto the wrong item of Power and wasn't strong enough to resist its influence as I am," he tugs at his silver and sapphire earbob, "And ended up riding his stallion through town, incinerating the good people before being burnt to a crisp himself." Dejah laughs. "I have heard that history is just a large, embellished story that we tell ourselves to explain what happened in ways we can comprehend. As far as this Emirkol, the girl did say he only came through a few years ago. Perhaps the story of his exploits, such as they are, did not yet make it into a written record that made it to the Monasterium." Kenning tipples a bit of wine, shaking his head. "I don't know. For an isolated pack of old men, they gossip like the proverbial fishwife." "A good tip for the girl and we'll retire for the scrying," he decides. It's a moment before he looks to Dejah for approval, almost a little worried that he's so presumptive as to order her to do... well... anything. They're both tools of the Lady, and she his senior, even if he can call on a Blood tie. None the less, he doesn't apologize, but does look a bit embarrassed by his own boldness. Dejah chuckles. "I am only letting you lead in this." she says, dropping a few coins on the table "for the reason that you know your arcane business better than I. If you told me that it was necessary to do the scrying by the light of a quarter moon, I would accept your direction in that matter." "Only in Weirmonken," the archivist answers. In short order, Dejah leaves Kenning briefly to obtain the key to the promised rooms. She returns with an overly large brass key, with a lobed three headed bow. "Its a pretty simple key." Dejah says, dangling it for Kenning's inspection. "A decent skeleton key could probably bypass the lock that a key like this will fit. I suspect Yolanda's employer has one or more." Kenning nods, "I can set ward runes on the room after the scrying is done, but I'd hate to have the fields intersecting with the working." "It can keep, then." Dejah replies. In short order, Kenning and Dejah are inside the simple two-bed room. "Normally I'd consider a tripod of laurel or rowan for under the bowl, but I've the idea to use the Book so as to match resonances," the sorcerer explains as he begins to prepare, setting the bowl atop the device. "I've some water left from the bridging a few days ago. While its not moonlight collected, its proximity to the water mana sources should keep it purified enough." "I suppose if we were near the sea." Dejah says "It might not work as well?" Kenning nods, "The solute could have an impact on resonances, that's true." "Should I..." Dejah finally answers her own question with a shake of the head and lurks near the door. Kenning is unobstructed and unmolested in his scrying attempt. Drawing Curtana from his ear, he wills her to the dagger shape. A few quick strokes carve codons into the edges of the container, intending to keep the vision one way. Pouring from one of his skins, he then fills the bowl. Using the tip of the dagger again, he draws it about the rim, setting it to resonating, watching the circular ripples begin to form in the basin. The image slowly resolves as the ripples begin to set up interference with each other and the sides of the bowl. Ripples run outward, and then reflect inward again. The layering of these ripples slowly start to form an image. This image is monochromatic and flat at first, but as Kenning continues to concentrate, and the ritual spools out, the image grows in depth, color and definition. The scene is a room. A tall figure, with a thick black moustache, is making stabbing motions as he points at an object on a stand. It is easily recognizable as the twin D'Hara book to the one that Kenning currently is using for the scrying. Around him, in the room are a number of soldiers, a half dozen, dressed in the same style and cut as the Windhawks Kenning and Dejah met on the road. One person is definitely out of place. A short woman, with red-gold hair, wearing a beautiful dress in white, with accents of rust. She has her arms folded as she watches the Captain with an air of disdain, or perhaps detached command. There appears to be magical protections in place that is preventing conversation, and indeed any sound at all, from being transmitted along with the images. Looking around the room as the scrying continues reveals three pencil drawings on a table near the woman. One is of a bearded man, dressed elegantly. Stories that Kenning has read of musketeers, King's guards, comes to mind when he looks at that drawing. The second is of a woman with reddish-golden hair, young, and dressed as elegantly as the man. A noblewoman of some sort, certainly. The resemblance between this woman, though, and Fiona from the trump deck Kenning has is striking. Striking enough to notice. The third man, though, is a very familiar man in monk's robes. The third man is Kenning. Kenning waits until he's shrouded the bowl before speaking, using the blanket he had wrapped the D'Hara in during their journey. Removing the bowl and dumping the water into the room's chamberpot, he then immediately rewraps the D'Hara with the blanket and stows it in the saddlebag. The archivist looks to the door. "Remind me to ward the room when we're done here. I've still that occasional loss of focus," he reminds Dejah. "Agreed" Dejah says. "Their location may be warded against scrying, or at least sound-proofed in some way," Kenning begins, settling himself on one of the beds. "I think I only was able to watch their conversation due to the connection between the two Tomes." He produces his notebook, a pencil, and a charcoal and begins sketching. they are just thumbnails, not works of art, but while the archivist was never a Scrivener, he had been allowed to do some marginal figures before he was assigned to the Archivists. Dejah hovers nearby, watching as Kenning brings the images to life. The first page is just seven faces, an obvious commander at the center of six soldiers. "Captain Denerim, I suppose, but I’ve no proof to that.” He adds a little thickness to the man’s moustache. The second page has a woman, standing, arms crossed. “She’s a striking strawberry-blonde, I can only assume to be Aranai, the supposed employer.” The next page is of their targets, save himself. “They have three for which they seem to be watching.” First is the woman, which might be a pastiche of Fiona. “It’s not my aunt, but seems to be of the Blood. Don’t I remember her from the Deck?” he asks. <<No>> Curtana responds, aloud. "What do you know of it, or her?" Kenning dismisses. “The second is a man is bearded, a King’s Man, and richly appointed. The third is a humble archivist, who wonders how people could be laying in wait for him, when he didn’t even know he was embarking this journey a week ago.” "This means trouble." Dejah says. "Your mother can speak to this better than I, but those initiated in Greater Powers such as the Pattern can manipulate probability, time and reality to make things happen. They can make it so that a demon that requires five days journey to reach the side of the initiate to appear immediately, having willed it and made it so that the demon left five days ago." "Someone seeks you, and these two relatives of yours." She points at the figures. And this is where my relationship with my sister is useful. These are cousins of yours, born long after the Lady left Amber. My sister has been asked to observe and make contact with them." She points at the bearded man. "That one is Prince William, one of the deadliest swords of his generation." She then points at the Fiona pastiche. "This one is Princess Shannon, Princess Fiona's daughter. She is..." Dejah smiles slightly "a librarian, although being her daughter, likely more than that." "As I hopefully am more than just an archivist, she being our enemy's enemy, and thus our friend, yes?" Kenning asks rhetorically. Dejah gives a nod. "Then this mission to address the ancient power, it would be those that seek to control it that align themselves against us, and the Windhawks just their hand in this Shadow, likely." He looks thoughtful as he sets down the notebook, but keeps the charcoal in hand, looking toward the door. "I should set the wards before we discuss anymore of this," he decides. At each corner of the door, in its center, and again on each wall he sketches a codon, strengthening the material around it. The lock is a bit trickier, as the keyhole seems to fill with some viscous liquid, that hardens after a few moments. "Again, it's easier to work with the present elements than to conjure then. Amber should keep any key from opening the door until I fix it tomorrow." He looks a bit sheepish as an idea strikes him. "I hope you didn't have plans to go out tonight." "I had no plans to do so." Dejah says. She looks around at Kenning's completed work, focusing on the last thing Kenning has warded. There is a small window that Kenning has had to "caulk" with his amber. "Caution is certainly warranted if the Windhawks are being used to find you, and your cousins by some force." Dejah says. "Finding who is behind the Windhawks may be something we will have to do, before leaving this shadow of yours." she adds. "However, now that you have this place under seal, I can tell you something you may have already guessed from what I have told you." She points at the pictures of William and Shannon. "These are the two relatives of yours that your mother wishes you to meet and work on the matter of the Spikard." Kenning considers their pictures. "What are the chances of the Windhawks working for The Lady? They have all three of us, and our expected arrival information if they were set to watch for at least my approach." "Otherwise, her enemies are out in front of whatever she has set before us regarding the Spikard, and likely a compromise in her own people," he surmises. "I can see her layering her protections and segregating the information into cells, but would you at least know of them?" "I had not considered the possibility that the Windhawks ultimately answer to her, Kenning." Dejah says. "It does make sense, though, that she would have additional resources available in this shadow than just the abbey. Whether we've misinterpreted their attention as a threat, or if they have been suborned, it is difficult to say." Dejah regards Kenning. "It is also possible that the Windhawks and their stance toward you represent a sort of test of your character and strength. It would not be unlike the Lady to put them in our path for that purpose." "Enemies..." Dejah says. "Overtly, there would be few, since she remains behind the scenes. They would be old powers, as old as Herself, actively seeking to disrupt her plans as embodied by you." "I can tell you of some of them in detail, if you wish." she adds. The archivist sets aside the notebook, and removes some of the layers of mercenary garb with which he had disguised himself. "The Lady's enemies are likely my own, so forewarned is forearmed, yes?" He takes a seat on the bed closest the window, crossing his legs under him, and nods. "If you would be so kind." "All right." Dejah takes a seat and faces Kenning. "I'll break tradition and tell you of the most hidden and dangerous of them first, rather than last." Dejah says. "Long ago, when Amber was young, Dworkin and Oberon had the help of powerful shadow sorcerers who aided them in making the Kingdom of Amber what it is. Over time, they fell, or died. One survived, and grew to resent that Oberon and Dworkin concentrated their power in Oberon's Queens and children. He works subtly, a long game, to undermine Amber and its scions." "His name is Baralis. He is ancient, powerful, and extremely dangerous." "Next, The King of Pain, Necromaths." Dejah continues. "Necromaths is a completely different sort of enemy, but one only scant less dangerous than Baralis. Necromaths, Kenning is a Primal Red Dragon. He does not leave his barred shadow often, but dragons that are reflections and shadows of him follow his lead and his hatred of The Lady." "Third. Kenning, would be Lorelai, the so called War Angel. I understand she is a expatriate from the far end of the universe, former lover of your uncle Finndo, and has under her sway an archipelago of shadows lurking somewhere outside the Golden Circle. She plays a long game, too." "Those are the major ones. All of them, you will note, would have a strong interest in not only opposing our plans for the Spikard, but obtaining it for themselves." "I am not taking any of this lightly, but you paint them as villians in a children's tale," Kenning says with a grin. "Might I ask more on Necromaths? He unlike the other two seems to have something directly against my mother." He looks thoughtful for a moment, as if still tasting those two simple words on his tongue. "I regret I didn't find any histories that related specifically to his name in the reading room that my heritage revealed." "The Primal Dragons are not found in many histories." Dejah says. "They have warped history that way to keep them mostly out of it. I know of three of them. Gazalarnith, the Lord of Death, Albernoth, the Lord of Light, And, finally, Necromaths. All three of them are old, older than Amber. Your mother is of the opinion that Necromaths, at least, predates even the Courts of Chaos itself. As such, all three are very real beings, and incredibly powerful." "The reason why Necromaths and the Lady have a grudge, Kenning, is extremely simple. You see, once upon a time, your mother raided his hoard for objects of power. I believe she feared he had a spikard or something of equal potency. Necromaths has never forgiven her for this, as Dragons count their wealth carefully. You are, I think, familiar with one of the objects your mother stole from the dragon. She secreted it in the Abbey against the day you might find it." "Me" the voice of Curtana says, almost as a note of pride. Kenning starts for a moment. "And you accuse her enemies of playing a 'long game'?" he chuckles. The monk appraises the artifact with a new light in his eyes. "A primal elemental's hoarde was your resting place before the Abbey? No wonder you find even my company preferable." "The Dragon was more interested in singing to his gold." Curtana replies. "And you complained about my rich baritone," he chuckles. "Then, best to rest, and tomorrow scout the Windhawks, find a new abode, and perhaps my cousins. All of that order is negotiable, save the rest, I think," he says, rolling his neck and going to kneel beside the bed closest the door. He looks back over his shoulder at his guide, "Unless I'm neglecting something in my naivete?" "There are some things you might do." Dejah says. "Find that girl and see if you can talk your way into her bed. Or, you might try and contact the Lady and ask her directly if the Windhawks are hers. She *might* give an unambiguous answer." Kenning looks surprized, as if the thought of Trumping his mother had never occurred. "I suppose, I could." He goes to his satchel and grabs the Trumps. Shuffling through them, he finds the Trump and concentrates on it, willing her picture to move. Dejah stands and watches from a few feet away as Kenning concentrates on the card with his mother depicted on it. After a minute of concentration, the image of Cyneburh comes to life, and just as Kenning had managed before, a mental conversation opens between son and mother. "Kenning,." she says. "It appears you have made some progress on your journey at the very least." "If Vandais can be considered progress, than I have, My Lady Mother," he answers with more confidence than he feels. He begins his report without any further preamble."We've arrived without much incident in the city and are currently progressing with our investigations into a band of mercenaries that have some interest in both myself and two of my cousins, Prince William and Princess Shannon. I worry that our opponents are arraying probability against us within this Shadow. These Windhawks seem not to have the resources to do as such, so either they were set upon our trails to aid us, or one of your opposite numbers plays the long game against you and has anticipated your summoning of me." Cyneburh inclines her head, indicating for Kenning to continue. A thought occurs as he sketches runic formulas on his trouser leg with his fingernail, almost unconsciously. "They didn't have Dejah's sketch among the others, so my initial thought that they may be agents of yours seems less likely, on further consideration. We will move tomorrow after further reconnaissance and decide how to handle their interest hopefully once we've determined its attitude." He pauses allowing her the opportunity to condemn, correct, or confirm any of his suspicions. "These Windhawks are no agents of mine, and as far as I am aware, no agents of my agents." she says. "Prince William and Princess Shannon are the two cousins I do wish you to meet and work on the project we have discussed." Cyneburh says. "The fact that this group is trying to identify the three of you suggests that it is either a rival within the Family, or someone intimately familiar with it, rather than someone familiar with my agents. As you say, they had no picture of Dejah." "Look carefully for who stands behind them." Cyneburh continues. "That would be more enlightening than the simple goals of a mercenary company. They likely do not know the full reasons why they have been set on your path." Kenning nods his head. "As with most pawns, they have no connection to the hand that moves them," her son agrees. "As a new piece on the board, is there some order, regularity, or such that I should be reporting or consulting with you?" His tone suggests that he has no clue which piece he might be, but doesn't doubt the hand that moves him. "While I have more scheduled and strict rules as regards my mortal servants" Cyneburh says after a moment's thought "you, my child, are a somewhat different case. Even if I have had a hand in your life from a distance, a child who is merely an extension of my will and has no independent capacity strikes me as somewhat less than" she pauses "human." Kenning nods, a small smile on his lips. "I bid you to report to me on intervals of importance, such as this one, and only more frequently as you feel comfortable to do so." Mother continues. "After all, if you do not speak to me for too long a time, I have means with which to contact you." A light sparks in his eye, but his tone is still even. "That is good to know. As we determine more surrounding these mercenaries, I will report it. So you have an estimate on my cousins' planned arrival? I'd like to have this well in hand before they appear on the scene." "They are not going to rendezvous with you in your home shadow." Cyneburh says, shaking her head firmly. "Even though I do wish for you to meet, soon, I think it would be imprudent to reveal all of your, our resources. You will meet elsewhere." "Of course," Kenning agrees. "I have not gotten an update on their business." Mother continues "If necessary, I will see to it that you come to them rather than the converse. Exposure." her expression turns thoughtful "to the Golden Circle may be useful for your education." "As you wish, then if there is nothing else, I've still some things to accomplish yet this evening," her son admits.
closes the Trump call. Once the connection is terminated. "Perhaps I will go about trying to further my education, since it seems that all parties concerned feel that it is lacking." He carves a codon that liquifies the amber in the door lock, allowing it to drip to the floor. Each drop he sketches a brief rune upon and they solidify into coins that have the appearance of those that Dejah used earlier. Scooping them into his purse, Kenning turns to Dejah. "I assume you'll be fine here?" "There are matters I can attend to here." Dejah says with a smile. "I wouldn't dream of coming with you or dissuading you, Kenning." "Would it be better only to ask afterward where you will be going?" "You assume I have an idea where that might be at the moment," he replies with a wry grin. "Downstairs to begin with, initially at least and then where my powers of persuasion might lead." Dejah's eyes widen slightly in comprehension. "While I'd appreciate your input, the looks she kept giving you imply that you would impede my attempt at seduction." Dejah chuckles. "It will be interesting to discover who seduces whom." she says. "Until later, Kenning." "Mother claims industriousness is a family trait," he answers obscurely. "Good night, dear lady." Kenning makes his way downstairs to the common room again, finding a lone stool at the bar, just vacated by a somewhat larger patron, who despite the relatively early hour seemed well enough into his cups. The archivist sans mercenary cap sets a coin on the bar, ordering wine, and nervously rubs his bald head once as he scans the room for any recognizable Windhawks first and then the fair Yulanda. There is no immediate sign of the Windhawks, although there are a few patrons of various natures eating, drinking and relaxing. There is no sign of Yulanda either. However, the fresh faced girl who delivers the wine does so with a bottle rather that just a cup. In careful black penmanship, on the bottle of wine is written these words: "You are being watched. Man in the corner. -Y" Indeed, out of the corner of his eye, Kenning can see a hooded and cloaked figure sitting in the pooling shadows, back to the wall and facing the bar. Kenning uses the dagger from his belt to cut the wax from over the wine bottle's cork, thinking to the artifact, //Assessment of the figure in the corner, my four o'clock?// He drinks right from the bottle as he awaits a response, his hand covering the label and its message. It takes a minute for Curtana to mentally contact Kenning. //Male. Mid 20's. Not a muscular fellow. Finesse over brawn// Curtana's mental voice responds. //How he would handle in a fight remains to be seen. Also, he possesses an Ocularis arcane spying device, although he is not currently employing it. His sword also appears to have a minor enchantment on it that does not permit it to be stolen// Kenning slows his drinking a little, and turns to look around the room as any traveler might, not slowing his examination as he scans the corner. His memory, as trained by the monks, captures any number of fine details. //So, you're telling me that I can't take him. Not enough finesse? I suppose I've spent too long relying on dragon treasure,// he jokes. //I said no such thing. I do not have any data on his ability to fight to compare it with yours.// Curtana protests. //I have a long and distinguished history apart from having a dragon as *my* treasure//. Kenning lets a bit of the wine fall to the table, chuckling as if he's just a man who dribbled his drink. He sketches a codon in the alcohol, subtly raising the level of the lights in the room, a little more oxygen as the alcohol evaporates, specifically toward the watcher's corner, but over a good five minutes as Kenning sips at his wine and apparently doodles in the spilled liquid. The subtle raising of the lights, as well as the change in the air, do not apparently go noticed by the man in the corner. As far as other bar patrons and denizens are concerned, any of those paying attention (and aside from Yulanda, nearly no one is), it is Kenning's outward antics with the alcohol that draw interest. The man in the corner, now properly illuminated, is indeed as Curtana analyzed him. A man, mid 20's, wearing a dark grey hooded cloak. He is slowly coming to realize something is amiss, as he turns to look at the nearest lamps with a furrowed expression visible on what little of his face is currently visible. Kenning rises, pulling his purse from his belt with one hand, the bottle still in his other and heads toward the table of gamblers closest to the hooded man. "I'm far from home and just been paid for the trip. Anyone willing to teach me the game?" he prompts as he approaches. A mustachoied man, built like a man who fights for a living, turns to look at Kenning. "If your money isn't those debased crap coins from up north, then you're money is welcome at our table." He scratches his moustache, right below the nose as he studies Kenning. "I'm. Darien" He points to the players in a counterclockwise sweep of his hand. That there's Trumbull, the two brothers are Weston and Wilton. And over here is Redding." "Just Red" Redding corrects. "Name of the game is Tejas." Darien continues He motions for a chair to be brought in so that Kenning has a spot to sit. " Sit right down there and we'll get you set." "Only listen to every third word he says." advises Trumbull. Kenning places the chair so he can see the hooded man in the corner in his peripheral vision and pulls a few coins from his purse, setting them before him. "Tejas? Not sure I've ever played it. Anything like Primero?" "Never heard of Primero." Darien says. "But I am sure a young intelligent man like yourself will pick up Tejas real quick." "Especially if your money's good." Wilton puts in. In short order, while Kenning has the chance to watch the man in the corner, Darien goes through the basics of the game for Kenning and he is soon dealt into a hand and playing. Unlike Primero, where turning tricks are important, Tejas is a build-your-hand game from the cards in the center, and the cards in ones hand, with rounds of betting. The interest of the man in the corner increases as the game starts. Kenning quickly learns that the game depends on bluffing, reading other players, and tactics as much as luck in building a hand. The players are not cutthroat at first, and Kenning wins a small hand or two without effort. A little further in, and Kenning can feel the table mood start to shift, as if Kenning were a deer amidst wolves. In the meantime, the man in the corner has shifted into the shadows, or what shadows he can find in the brightened room. His eyes also study the other players at the table, assessing them as he is assessing Kenning. Kenning becomes more engrossed by the game, watching for the hooded man to make a move less, convinced that he's given nothing away or that he's at least made the man unsure of himself. As the game progresses, Kenning is sure to only win small pots, or a large one if he's let his funds get away from him. It's easy enough for Kenning to not chase the straight when he's fairly certain the outs aren't still in the center deck. Luck might have it's way with him from moment to moment, but it's probable that he'll do just a little bit better than break even. A monk's life has schooled him to the proper mask of his emotions, limiting his tells as he concentrates more on the game, making it harder for his fellow players to read him and unfortunately limiting his focus on the hooded man. Kenning is bright and intelligent. He is not used to the game, and he is playing with experienced players. On the other hand, luck does rear its head now and again and Kenning does find himself waging a constant battle to keep at that break even mark without going too far in and out of baseline He listens to the patter of the players and tries to get more comfortable with the game, letting his accent slip away slowly. "So, anyone have suggestions on where a pikeman can find employment?" he asks after losing a substantial pot bringing his own winnings even again. "If I keep losing like this, I'll need a job soon enough." "Oh, you're doing all right." Red says. "Better n'me, anyways." Indeed, Kenning had come across a reference in a book that every gambling table has one or more people that the others consider to be their prey for the night. It's clear to Kenning that before he joined the table, Redding was going to be that prey. It's clear the players were looking to add Kenning to that list, but have been frustrated in doing so. "A pikeman" Weston says. "That's a bloody and unrewarding weapon to have mastered. You'd want one of the larger mercenary companies. You'd don't get many singletons looking for work as one and I might be able to point you in the right direction." His brother nods in silent agreement. "You any good with it?" Weston adds. "It's your play" Darien says, irritated. "Less chatter and more play" It is at this point that Kenning notes the Shadowed Man has risen from his table and has started to head toward the stairs. He gives the table exactly one glance. "Good enough to hold my own," he answers. "And keep the employer happy, at least this trip." "For the Pike, little else can be asked." Weston responds. Once again, his brother backs him up with a nod. He gets up once the hooded man has started the stairs, leaving enough coin on the table to buy a round for the table. "Come to think of it, I better check and ensure that Mistress Merchant doesn't need anything else. Maybe I'll make it back, never know with women, right?" he bluffs. "You never know." Darien says, the disappointment in his voice obvious. "We'll be here another glass or so." "Fare thee well, pikeman." adds Redding. The look in his eyes is akin to that of a steer who realizes that his competition for the slaughterhouse is walking away clean. The archivist takes his wine bottle along, so as to not reveal Yulanda's subterfuge. He heads up the stairs cautiously. Kenning's caution and reflexes save him from the trap. He can hear, as he mounts up the stairs that the Shadowed Man has stopped just past the top of the stair, around the corner. Given his position, it is clear he attempting to lie in wait for Kenning to get to the second floor. If recognizing that there is a trap is the first step in eluding one, Kenning has taken that first step. But what is Kenning's second step? The archivist feels gullible for falling to such an, in hindsight, obvious trap, but his concern for Dejah led him to overlook his own caution. He suggests to Curtana a short blade form suitable to the close quarters. Swiftly and silently, Curtana takes on the form of a short stabbing sword. He stops short of the corner and addresses the man. "Neither of us wants to create a scene, so either we can talk this out or let us at least be gentlemen and take this someplace more private." "You are not a gentleman, however, Scholar:" the voice of the Shadowed man is a thin rasp, like the sound of an out of tune metal flute. "And neither am I. However, it would be a shame to cause a commotion. As much as it would be a shame to have your traveling companion...spoiled. So you will precede me out into the street, without fuss or alarm" "Do we have an understanding?" he adds. He hasn't retreated down the stairs, but draws a few codons to mind, considering the amount of entropy it might take to let an attacker's weight shatter a tread but not allow the man to fully drop through, localizing the effect. He scratches at the floor with Curtana's tip as he talks. "I think you worry overmuch about my companion," Kenning chuckles. "But why call me scholar? I'm but a hired pikeman who had a bad run of Tejas. You must have me confused with another mark." "I care not for your guise as a pikeman." the man replies. "You do not have the muscles, or the devil-may-care fatalism of a pikeman." Done with instilling the rot on the top tread of the stair, he steps back, avoiding that one and finally agrees. "But we have an understanding, that whatever will pass between us, I wish it not to fall on this establishment, so we will repair to the street." "Slowly" the man says. "And without incident" The monks backs down the stair carefully another step, not sheathing his sword yet, but keeping from the view of the common room with his body. "As a point, I may be a bastard, I know not, but gentleman is about character. I will have to take your word if you have no such manners, but I suggest that you in turn take mine, that I will treat with you thus unless you show yourself unworthy of such trust." The man shifts his weight and position, suggesting to Kenning that he is ready to descend. //Like hiding on the stairs to ambush me and threatening my mother's agent,// he thinks to Curtana. //Fair point. He does know who you are, which says something// The man comes into view, still hooded and cloaked. He does not look directly at Kenning, and his weapon is currently sheathed. His hand is close to the hilt, if Kenning went for a stab quickly without the benefit of the stair, he might get a hit before he got his guard up. Maybe. And then the man takes a fateful step with his right foot onto the rotted stair. A short stream of curses emanates from him as his foot is caught in the ruined step. He shuts up immediately, but Kenning can hear that his outburst, even truncated, has not gone completely unnoticed. The game table has gone silent. Kenning steps in, his blade at the stranger's throat. "So, my first thought is to destroy that blade, as the enchantment won't let me take it. I'd hate to do that to you, as it must've cost a fair piece. Will the enchantment allow you to hand it to me?" "You can just move your head yes or no, but lets keep it quiet. Perhaps they'll go back to their game downstairs," he hopes. "How..." the man starts and then stops, the discomfort of speaking with Curtana at his throat evident. He looks at Kenning for a long moment, and then nods yes. The man then slowly, very slowly moves his hand to offer the blade, turned so that Kenning can grasp the hilt from him. This proves possible. There is still quietness from the gambling table. Kenning can almost hear the players straining to hear what is going on in the shadows of the upper staircase. Kenning chuckles loudly as he slides the blade into his own belt for the nonce, effecting the manner of Brother Manu after the apocryphal incident with the sacramental wine. He takes a step back and waves the man up to his feet again. There is a slight electric shock, only mildly noticeable, that Kenning feels when he puts the blade onto his own belt. The man carefully extracts his foot from the ruined stair, stepping backwards so that he stands on top of the staircase. Undiluted venom is in his eyes. "I suppose we should speak in my room instead, yes?" he whispers before laughing again for the audience below. "Yes" he mutters, below his breath. "Since you still have the advantage." He seems reluctant to turn around, instead retreating backwards along the hall, still facing Kenning all the way back toward the door to his and Dejah's room. The nameless antagonist has not yet made an offensive move, but his body language suggests that he is still considering one, even without his sword. When he reaches the door, Kenning instructs him, "Knock at the door, your swordhand please." After a moment's hesitation, he pounds the door with his fist, three times, and then stops. "Kenning?" comes the voice of Dejah from behind the door The sorcerer calls quietly, "We have company, my dear,and I without my key." There is a pause. "I will be right there." Kenning has spent enough time with Dejah to note the tone of casualness in her voice is definitely artificial. After a few moments, the door is unlatched, revealing Dejah. Even before Curtana can tell him so, Kenning notes that Dejah definitely has a dagger secreted and ready for use. She does not relax even though Kenning has the upper hand. "I would have asked for victuals if we knew we had a guest." Dejah says, backing up and watching Kenning and the swordsman carefully. "I don't even have the pleasure of his name," Kenning explains as he ushers the man into the room. "But he insisted that we talk, and I felt the room would be more comfortable than outside as he had suggested." "Likely so" Dejah replies dryly. She still has a wary look on her face. "Tie him, so I might repair the stair before anyone else shares his misfortune," the Amberite orders. "Very well" she replies, and beckons the man forward... By the time Kenning returns from an successful arcane repair of the staircase, Dejah has the man tied to a chair. Kenning will also note a fresh bruise developing around his left eyesocket. "Underestimating me because of my gender usually has consequences. Isn't that true, Richten?" Dejah says casually. "Yes" the man says sourly, not meeting Kenning's gaze. "I've only obtained a use-name from him so far." she adds to Kenning. Kenning nods and closes the door behind himself. "Richten, so why might you be interested in me, whether I am a scholar or a pikeman?" The sorcerer allows Curtana to grow from short blade to a polearm, specifically a spetum, with which he uses to unhood the prisoner. Kenning rests the end of his weapon on the floor, using his offhand to put the unstealable blade on a table far from its owner. "And if its money that drives you, let me assure you that I can beat the offer." "Bribery with mere money" the dark haired man says. "Will do you little good." Now that he is uncloaked, Kenning can get a good look at his features. He doesn't seem out of the ordinary, looking like most of the denizens he has seen in this city to date. Aside from the large black eye, though, he does have a distinctive, ornate crescent shaped tattoo next to his left ear. His hair has been carefully shaved to keep it visible. Dejah's expression changes and she scrutinizingly studies the man. "My employer has a larger hold on me than money, grandson of Oberon." he adds. "Do you still deny what you are?" Kenning scans his memory for the tattoo, trying to place it with one of the histories he's read over the last several weeks, focusing on those that might have connected to what Dejah noted as his mother's enemies. But he hadn't called him Cyneburgh's Son, but Oberon's Grandson. Perhaps the net need be wider. "I have not lied to you, Richten. I find myself more than a simple label, such as scholar, pikeman, or grandson. Just as I assume you are more than just an employee," he begins. "Can you give me any reason not to fill another role, say as your executioner? Because, I'm becoming frustrated by these games," the sorcerer admits. "The patience of Oberon's grandson, as you dub him, exceeds mine." Dejah adds for emphasis. Studying the man,. and especially that tattoo, Kenning's memory takes a moment to jog. However, studying as one of the monks has blessed him with well developed powers of recall. Well enough to recognize that the crescent shaped tattoo is not a solid shape, but rather an ornate braiding of knotwork in a familiar pattern. Kenning has seen that sort of knotwork design before, in a drawing in one of the histories he read on Amber. Its the exact same kind of knotwork that was depicted on some of the weapons of the warriors in the armies of the Courts of Chaos, as they besieged Amber. "Killing me is of lesser consequence to me than the state of my soul after my death." the man responds. "Do you have a personal hell, princeling, that my spirit will writhe in agony within if I do not do as you ask?" Richten adds."Or, can you promise me that after you kill me that my soul will not return to my mistress and employer for punishment?" "No, I can't claim such a thing," Kenning admits. "But if you treat with me, I might be convinced to allow you to live, so you might not encounter either of those fates." Richten stops and takes a thoughtful expression. He glances at Dejah, whose expression is dispassionate. He notes the mistress comment, and goes to his belt for the Dragon Deck. He shuffles it in his hand clearing his mind of anything but Richten. Flipping the top card when he centers himself on the assailant, he examines it. Kenning could try to, like any divination system, try to learn more about Richten by doing a reading. In this case, however, like a lodestone,Kenning can feel that the "true revelation" overwhelms his attempt at reading. Perhaps practice will allow him to direct a reading in a more controlled fashion. In any event the card that comes up, Kenning can feel, refers not to his assailant, but someone allied to him, or controlling him. He is evidently not important enough to make it into the deck as yet. The card is a woman, enthroned, her dark clothes, and by the chains she wears as garments, and perhaps weapons as well. The idea comes to Kenning that the chains the woman wears could be used to bind others. She is the Consort in Chains of High House Chains. Kenning turns the card toward Dejah keeping it from Richten's eyes, even as he assumes the man is aware. Dejah mouths a single word. "Chaos" "I am not of the Deck, but I am a sorcerer, as you've noticed. Perhaps I might even loose the chains that bind you," Kenning offers when he turns back to their prisoner. "I would have to look to see where they're anchored, but..." "But...?" Richten says. "You are still running this drama. For the moment, anyway." The sorcerer walks closer, intent on the tattoo, looking with an inner eye for the metaphysical hooks set in his flesh. Kenning gets it right in one. The tattoo is the major "hooking point" for the spells that bind Richten to his mistress. It is the major point that thin but supple lines of force radiate through his body, most of the major organs. One snakes its way up to his brain. Another seems to be connected to, for lack of a better word, his aura, his katra. The Consort in Chains can do much more than, say, just stop his heart. While this is the only attachment point to his body, the number of hooks that radiate into his body means that just severing it, say, by cutting the tattoo out, would have a number of unpleasant effects on Richten. "But you may be right about your mistress's control over you in this life and the next," Kenning admits. "The sorcery is deeply enmeshed within your very fibers of being. Such a working as one to free you would alert her most definitely, limiting the time I might have for such a intricate ritual. I would fear her interruption might be fatal for either or both of us." "Suppose I had the means to obfuscate such a working, long enough to ensure each of our safeties," the sorcerer proposes. "What benefit do I see from such magicks?" The archivist's mind is tripping over the options for making the attempt, even as he argues against them. "It is clear, sorcerer, that you seek information." Richten says, choosing his words as if walking carefully through a muddy field. "That is why you reversed the blade on me rather than simply killing me. In a city like Vandais, few would have paid mind." "True" Dejah admits. "The question, I would guess, is what information you seek, and would consider sufficient for such a service." Richten finishes. "I would require your service for a year and a day, your full cooperation in evading the attentions of your previous mistress," Kenning proposes. "Beyond that, your life would be your own. Of course if you decided to remain in my service, I would be willing to continue to offer protection from her." "But that's a year from now," he shrugs. "A year and a day is a traditional length of service" Richten temporizes, looking thoughtful. "Many things might happen in that time. I might die. You might die. And my mistress may learn to sing a song of magnanimity." "I will accede to your offer, sorcerer." Richten says. "I will serve you faithfully, for a year and a day, in exchange for sparing my life and shielding my spirit against she who holds a claim on it." (Continued in The City and the City II) |
