TheCityAndTheCityIIThe City and the City II(Continued from The City and the City) 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. "There are plenty of inns in the city besides this one and Fraunces Tavern" Dejah says. "Finding a room in another one of them should be easy. enough coin, and any of them will be happy to give us a room, be it for a half night or longer." "Yulanda is going to be disappointed." she adds impishly and then soberly, continues. I'll make arrangements after getting the wine and the wood." Dejah departs. 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." Kenning nods, done with the conversation, the adrenaline from the earlier almost-swordplay beginning to subside. Gesturing to Dejah he says, "I'll need the bed, wine, fresh kindling if you can appropriate some, and a suggestion on where we can find another room at this time of night, as I'm loathe to stay here after a scrying and then a working this complex. Even after shielding our specific actions, this isn't a mundane village. Someone will notice eventually." "There are plenty of inns in the city besides this one and Fraunces Tavern" Dejah says. "Finding a room in another one of them should be easy. enough coin, and any of them will be happy to give us a room, be it for a half night or longer." "Yulanda is going to be disappointed." she adds impishly and then soberly, continues. I'll make arrangements after getting the wine and the wood." Dejah departs. The sorcerer begins to explain while gathering his own tools, "The hooks your mistress has placed are like the claws of a wild animal, but just as a cultured man can trim his own nails, so might those claws be trimmed, and only when the quick is cut does the animal even register the loss." "I expect if I can seperate the barb from the quick, the nature of her hold will wish to reset the hooks, thus I will interpose another construct for that. Once all her hooks are set, I can dispose of the contstruct and thus her enchantment," he summarizes. "I...understand" Richten says after a moment. "I have agreed to our bargain, and will not veer away now. Though it may yet cost your soul and mine." "I pray not, for both our sakes," the archivist agrees honestly. In short order, Dejah has returned with a flagon of wine, an armful of wood, and has departed in order to obtain more rooms in an Inn some distance away from the Green Griffon, leaving Kenning and Richten, and a magical ritual to perform. Kenning checks the wards about the room after Dejah leaves, adding some to further dampen his workings, knowing that the previous wards were set toward physical security as they needed to allow his own scrying, and what can see out allows others to see in. The bed is moved to the center of the room and Kenning gestures for Richten to move there. The wards can only be dampened so far and still remain wards, but the tendency for them to blend into the ambient background arcane environment can be accelerated and accentuated. What might have once been a set of bright pulsing lines of force is now a much more muted and dull light, like embers or coals not strongly heated. "I'm going to put you to sleep so your movements don't interfere, alright?" "If I am to go to sleep" Richten says. "Might I know the process that you are going to undertake. After all." he smiles thinly "I am not going to have the opportunity to pepper and bother you with questions all through the ritual if I am going to be sleeping at the time." Kenning nods. "As I suggested before, I'm going to cut the barbs short of the quick, but first I plan on insinuating a layer of NotRichten between you and the ephemeral hooks, using your breath and the smoke I plan on generating between the kindling and the ash already in the fireplace." "Your breath will infuse the smoke and allow your mistress's barbs to grow back, harmlessly into the semi-solidity I will grant them," he continues. "I will then attempt to remove the remainder of the barbs from your own psyche and flesh, able to take the time as they will be disconnected from her direct control. Like tending an arrow wound, somewhat, I'd guess." "Once we've completed that, we'll move and I'll allow the smoke to dissipate, and then, well... then she'll know you're gone, but if I do this correctly, not where." Richten regards Kenning for a few moments. The look on his face is of calculation and thought, pensive as he narrows his eyes. He looks away for a moment. "I do see, it is as if you intend to carefully remove the lodged arrows, breaking off the stem but holding the stem so that it feels to her as if the arrows are still lodged. Then the removal of the arrow heads, and the shaft is cast away, free and clear. All is left is the wound the removal of the arrow heads, and even that will heal if treated properly." He nods to himself with short motions of the head, several times. "Yes, but I expect that her arrow shafts will grow new heads, as they seem to have grown with you over your time of service, hence the layer of NotYou that I will allow them to grow back into," he clarifies. "Else they might recognize too easily that they had been severed... the holding of the stem, shaft, what have you..." "Do you intend to replace the Consort in Chains' barbs with similar ones of your own?" he asks. Kenning looks visibly shocked by the idea, his fascade of all-knowing sorcerer broken for a moment. The verbal answer is colored by the distaste of the Consort's methods. "No." "You have given me your word at both risk and gain to yourself," he adds. "I will hold you to it, or let Dejah explain the consequences." "I thought she was bound to you." Richten replies, nodding. The relief on his face is obvious. "My word is my bond, and hers is hers." He nods again, mostly to himself as Kenning continues. "Your blade, was it a gift from your mistress? Should I expect to see the ties that bind it to you enmeshes within her arrows?" It's an obvious shift of topic, but important none the less. "Nay" Richten says. "I found Deas in the tomb of Anathaea, one of the blessed of the Elemental Dragons, her tomb in a deep wood on the borders of the Empire. I found it long before I entered *her* service. It took me seven days and seven nights of bearing it for it to recognize me as its lawful owner." An idea sparks in the sorcerer's eyes. "Can Deas cut you?" //If not, then it may be more expedient than even you, my dear Curtana, for removing the remaining barbs, if I can give them enough substance for physical interaction.// he thinks. "Nay" Richten replies. "The owner of the blade cannot have his blood shed by Deas. A ruffian attempted to wound me and flee with the blade in the forest south of Lysea. He failed to do either." "I do not see how it would aid you in the matter at hand." the man continues. //It would work// Curtana suggests. //Given the bond to his weapon, it would cut the enchantment, if you can make them physically manifest. He could not be injured by the procedure.// Kenning helps him to the bed, untying him first from the chair. "Just as I intend to give substance to your breath, if the same could be done with the barbs, Deas could sever the enchantments and ensure better safety for you," he explains. "Then use it." Richten says. rubbing his hands and arms. After a moment, he stands, starting to rub his legs in turn. "I will be sleeping and can hardly protest what tool you use." he responds. "No patient, under the influence of the poppy, cares what the color of the metal of the surgeon's knife is." From his satchel, Kenning produces a fine powder which he forms into a rune on a slip of paper, a glyph of sleep, which then is scraped carefully into the wine. Richten watches carefully as Kenning prepares the draught. He takes the wine, nods to Kenning and gulps it, as if trying to quench a thirst of a thousand years. The cup is drained, and he gives Kenning a smile. He totters to bed, perhaps a bit dramatically, or perhaps he is extremely susceptible to Kenning's runic magic. In either eventuality, he closes his eyes, lying flat on his back, left hand dragging off in a crooked line, his right arm ramroad straight. He is asleep. He also snores. Kenning arranges Richten on the bed and opens his sight once again to identify the twists and turns of the Consort's threads, looking where he might situate a choriplexus between the efferent and afferent pathsways, reflecting the sensory back to the initiator of the link while reflecting the motor back to the barbs themselves so they do not recognize the disconnect. Having Richten asleep and not resisting is of benefit to seeing, better, just how the Consort in Chains has arranged matters. There is evidence that there was an original puppetry that was supplanted by a more carefully constructed set of hooks, suggesting that Richten was taken unawares, and very likely unwillingly, at first, and once he was successfully suborned, then she rearranged and worked the contacts and controls to her leisure. It's also clear from study that there are multiple "tweaks" she has done, like the remnant vibrations on the plucking of a string. This could be from Richten resisting, or perhaps she likes to tweak and experiment with her arcane work. Or the work itself becomes layered with Richten's own sense of self as he settles into his role as her tool/weapon/what-have-you, Kenning thinks. Like a broken bone that wasn't realigned correctly, his own essence has healed skewed, a psychic subluxation, both of which seem to support the thought of the need for something to hold the barbs, as they may react without the Consort's prompting. The sorceror stokes the fire with kindling and uses his finger to draw a rune in the ash and complementary marks atop the sleeping mercenary's lips and sternum. He charges it with runic energy as Richten exhales, allowing the expelled air to mingle with the linked smoke. Someplace in the back of Kenning's mind he remembers The Scrolls of the Ossaioi, someplace around the 820th text, suggesting that they had dealt with possessions of a similar nature. Unfortunately the significance is lost on the archivist currently as he curses his lack of reference material and finally allows his doubt to register in his demeanor. Who was he kidding? He had never attempted anything like this before. The practical side suggested that even if he failed, he would be denying his enemy a tool, a knife that had been poised at his neck, but he had given his word to try to save this man that scant moments earlier had been that blade. As the smoke was imbued with Richten's ressonance, the runic structures and processes settled into Kenning's mind, sharpening his focus and calming his fears. Sound, water, and wind to bind ash, heat, and air, he whistles a codon to form the NotRichtenNotSmoke about Richten's self, listening with a sorcerer's ear as well as eye for the harmonies and minimizing the dissonance. The difference between the theoretical knowledge of a lifetime studied in the library, and the practical implications of trying to perform this psychic runic sorcery-surgery soon become clear. Its easy enough to envision. It takes two tries to get the shroud to fully form. The first time the codon was not perfectly created, and it dissipated within moments. Kenning's attention to detail on the second try through, and the second try it self, proves to have an unexpected benefit. Kenning detects a dissonance, a distant feeling from a long distance that the Consort in Chains is stirring and the puppet strings that he seeks to remove may soon be pulled. Time and distance can be funny things through an aetherical sphere, with atemporality something he came across in a work on such theory by Abdoulla Ahmed. The game is not up by any means, but Kenning does not have the luxury of endless hours to perform his goals. Indeed, time may be of the essence if Kenning is willing to wind up with an ally, and not a lobotomized invalid. Such musings inspire focus in the archivist-cum-sorceror, and given such, he dives into the threads, cutting them with a few deft slices of a dagger sized Curtana between the shroud and Richten's skin, deciding to do all the severing before the barb extraction, lest the Consort notice and flex her psychic marionette strings. Better to deal with the control and then do the healing. Once seperated he encourages them to hold within the shroud, double checking the anchor before moving to the next tie. Once complete Kenning picks up Deas to begin working on the barbs. Expounding on the secondary success of the shroud concept, he fashions a runic tie to the barbs, tracing runes on Richten's skin to bring the psychic ties into the physical. Focus is a wonderful thing, both for the quality and the speed of the work. Over the next half hour. The change in tactics is a good one, and while the approach of attention from the Consort is obvious, it is also slow as well as patient. The clock is something Kenning has on his mind the entire time. The barbs are tricky little buggers, growing and reforming within the shroud, and proving to be recalcitrant to remove from within Richten himself. It is indeed a good thing he uses Deas rather than his own weapon, because the collateral damage to Richten's mind and body would be unavoidable and messy at best. But the charm upon the blade is a very good one, and the point refuses to do any damage to the body, and only digs out the physically manifested ties. There ARE no wounds to be healed or salved. And then it is done. The barbs are out of Richten entirely, and the lines of control are firmly and completely engaged with the shroud of not-Richten. The barbs and the lines of control flex and vibrate a bit, but the deception holds. Richten's sleep, already snoring, seems to go deeper for the lack of the mental puppetry that has defined his life till this moment. Kenning fans the shroud toward the window, watching the essence hang wraith-like in the air as he opens the wards on the fenestration. With a whistled counter to the sucessful codon, he induces a strengthening wind and a dissonance that will carry the NotRichten into the city before the subtle vibrations break the construct apart. Like a wraith, the shroud floats out into the night sky. The whistled up wind hustles it away, toward the city walls, and soon out of sight. It will not likely reach the boundaries of the city before it falls apart, but it will be good enough for the purpose. The Consort will be thwarted. and have little evidence to go upon. Once done, he closes the window again, hangs his wards, and gathers his thoughts and energy until Dejah returns. It's another half hour before there is a knock at the door, and a careful entry by Dejah a few moments later. She looks around the room carefully, taking in the sleeping Richten, and then Kenning. "I obtained rooms for us at the Weber Arms. High Quarter of the city, far away from here, in all senses. I didn't think that it would be a bad thing to relocate to an area of the city that knows nothing about us and has little to do with this one." "It's done, I take it?" she says, with a nod back to Richten. "He's not dead." Kenning nods, a little shaken by the whole affair, but hiding it well, he thinks. "I'm fairly certain that the Consort knows he's been taken, and Richten knows that I plan to lay no such anchors in his psyche. His body will need to recover some and reknit itself about the psychic wounds, but I was able to prevent further injury with the use of Deas here." He pats the blade that now rests on the agent's chest, rising and falling with its owner's breaths. "Clever" Dejah says. "I was just letting him sleep until you returned," the Amberite explains. "To let him rest, and to hear your advice and impression of the whole affair. I will make my own decisions, but Your Lady has trusted you with this mission, thus I trust your opinion." He shakes his head, "That's the monks speaking. I trust you because we've shed blood together, because you've shown me more of this world than I've ever seen, and hold the promise of others." "Because I like you, consider you a friend, and hope desperately that I haven't made a terrible mistake that will endanger us both." He scratches his pate shyly. "That is something you really are going to be answerable to your Mother for, more than me." Dejah says mildly. "If you've tweaked the nose of this Consort in Chains and increased her level of attention in you, me, and your mother's doings, your mother is the one that will be the most put out." "I never really thought" she adds "that this trip was going to be a milk run by any stretch of the imagination. I've been expecting opposition of various kinds all along, and sometimes you have to take risks to succeed." "Like, for example, not killing Richten or taking him as your vassal." Dejah gestures toward the sleeping man. "There is a definite risk he will slip back into his ways, or abandon you and I, or the Consort will manage to locate him again and use him in a moment of our weakness. On the other hand, for the moment, you've taken a piece on the board against you, us, and turned it to our side. That sort of agile thinking will save us yet." "Well, if I can surprise my allies, perhaps the same can be said of our enemies," Kenning says as he shakes Richten's shoulder. "I'd try to awaken him with some sorcery, but I fear he's had enough psychic strain for the night, already." "We do not want him damaged." Dejah agrees "Especially since you have gone to this effort not to slay him." "Awaken my friend, we must away," he tells his new vassal. "Hard to imagine that just a week ago I had no enemies to speak of, or at least of which I was aware," he says with a smile. "One supposes the axiom is true. I do need to be careful for what I wish, as it seems to have come true." It takes a few moments for the command to sink in, but Richten opens his eyes. Panic and surprise is in his eyes as he gropes around, looking for his weapon. His animated motions slow down and calm down as he orients himself and moves to a sitting position. "My apologies..." he looks at Kenning and seems to be deciding on a form of address. Finally he says "my lord." The achivist quirks a smile, but doesn't correct him. He continues: " I lost my sense of position for a moment, as if waking up in a strange bed with no memory of having gone to sleep there." Kenning nods, "I haven't delved into which particular thought centers She was tapping, but I wouldn't be surprised if there were gaps and misinterpretations from her use of you." "Something to keep in mind." Dejah murmurs in agreement. "I shouldn't be so bright thinking as to think there would be no scars from what you did." Richten says, getting to his feet. His reflexes and physical well being, in contrast to his memory gaps, look healthy and unaffected. Nothing more than the physical sleepiness that one sometimes has upon waking, but that is fading quickly. "We'll work at healing what we can, but not tonight and not here," [Kenning] explains. "Have you anything to collect from here or another room before we retire to our new rooms?" Richten considers this for a moment. "Yes, I do have a change of clothes and the rest of my bindle in my rooms. I doubt that you want to have to completely reprovision me right off, especially on the journey we are undertaking. If you will allow me a quarter candlemark, I can be ready to go anywhere." "Dejah, If I become distracted, please remind me to cloak whatever he returns with until I examine it for tethers," Kenning orders, noticing that his paranoia is finally rising to what might just be a healthy level. "Understood." Dejah says. "We don't want to carry something dangerous into our midst." "Was any of your equipment provided by your former employer, or have you been in contact with her from that location?" [Kenning] asks before considering allowing Richten to return there. "For reasons I do not understand, the Con..." he stops, with a clear look of dread and self reproach on his face. "My former employer preferred to have me journey outside of the walls of the city to speak with her and receive further instructions. This was true in many of the cities and larger towns through and to which I have journeyed." Richten says. "And my gear is my own, won through my sweat and blood." A city is too Ordered for the communications of Chaos, the sorcerer wonders. "Hopefully you won't have the same cost retrieving them." "One hopes." Richten agrees. He pauses a beat and continues. "I had heard of some people that use rings, earrings, even a nose ring to enhance their power, or communicate with sorcerers." Richten says. "She never needed any of that." "I've theories on that, but they are of no matter as of now," Kenning nods. "Dejah and I will go first and give you another moment to gather yourself. The Weber Arms, High Quarter, one quarter of a candle." "The room is in who's name?" he asks Dejah. "I employed use names, of course." Dejah replies. "The name is paid for the use of Tybalt and Juliet Glasslane." she says. "When paying, I told the proprietor we might be expecting our city cousin Benvolio to come by as well." "Cousins then?" Kenning chuckles. "I suppose you won't be bedding the King of Cats tonight." Dejah shakes her head. Richten gives a nod. "A wise precaution to obscure my name as well." "And he is the Peacemaker? The only survivor of a generation," the archivist puzzles, nodding toward Richten. "What obscure associations your mind makes my dear companion." "All the better to confuse any who might be trying to pay attention." Dejah replies. She continues. "Shall we go?" "What, drawn and talk of peace? I hate the word as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee, coward," he answers obliquely, gathering his satchel and heading to the door to remove the wards. "A quarter of a candle," he directs to Richten as he opens the door for Dejah, and then they're gone. The trip to the Weber Arms goes without incident or, as far as Kenning can tell, obvious detection. The Weber Arms is, as befits its place in a more well-to-do neighborhood, an upscale, well polished place. In point of fact, Kenning and Dejah's clothes look more than a little plain amongst the patrons in the well-kept common room, or even the staff bustling about in crimson and silver. However, money is a far better suit of clothes than the ones Dejah and Kenning are wearing, and they find no difficulty in getting into the reserved and rented rooms. Said rooms turn out to be substantially larger than their previous quarters. It would be inaccurate to say that their old quarters could be lost in their new ones. But not terribly inaccurate. There are enough chairs, beds, and room for all. There is even reading material, a well-paged folio of some kind, sitting on a table. "Fifteen minutes, Prince of Cats." Dejah says with a smile. "I can't say you are going to bore yourself counting the seconds aloud, are you?" Kenning shakes his head. "One would believe that you only use me for my sorcery, sweet cousin." He begins with the windows as he sets his wards. He'll leave the door for last, hoping Benvolio has arrived in time that he doesn't have to set it twice. The next thirteen minutes is thus a busy time for Kenning, setting wards, checking the integrity of the room, preparing defenses in case of spying or, worse, direct assault. The time does run down in his mind, even without counting the seconds aloud as Dejah feared. As for her part, she idly looks at the folio, flipping through it. She gives occasional glances to both Kenning and the door. On the fourteenth minute, there is finally the sound of heavy boots in the outside hallway, and with a half minute to spare, an urgent knocking on the door. "I suppose at this point a harassment ritual of initiation to make Richten think he has failed would be out of place." Dejah says. "And he did arrive within the appointed time." "One would think he is as cautious of the sorcerer present as much as the one he has left behind," Kenning chuckles. He opens the door to admit the young man. "I hurried as best as I was able." Richten says. "Tomorrow, better clothes for all three of us. Tonight, rest, as we can, with a watch, yes?" he suggests. "I'll take the middle, and Juliet the first. Benvolio, you sleep, and I'll wake you to relieve me, unless there are objections." "I'm not particularly sleepy" Dejah says. "Your plan is amenable to me." Richten just gives some rapid nods of the head. "I concur." He looks around and then looks a little puzzled. "Surely, though, you are a sorcerer and might protect us against mundane threats without the need for watches?" "No harm in being cautious, right?" Dejah says. "Go, get some rest with Tybalt." "Yes" Richten/Benvolio says. "I will do that." "Nicely managed." Dejah says to Kenning as Richten heads away to a bed. "You should get some rest, too. You've been doing a lot of spelllwork lately." "Agreed," Keening answers, letting the fatigue seep into his voice. "To be honest, possibly more than I've done in months in the last day. And he's right, I'm doubtful anything will breech the wards without awakening me, but I'm learning that a healthy dose of paranoia is good." "You're learning about the wider world." Dejah replies. "Mother does know how to get the most from her investments, doesn't she?" he asks rhetorically. He's already shedding clothes as he heads to his bed, modesty forgotten. Having finally lost focus on the sorcery, he notices the folio and almost gathers it up, before deciding better and crawling into his bed. "Wake me for Invitatory and I'll wake him for Martins." "All right." Dejah says. Kenning is tired, and doesn't hear what else Dejah has to say, for he is, soon, fast asleep. The thing is, Kenning isn't awakened. at Invitatory or any other watch of the night. He sleeps on and on. In point of fact, he finally opens his eyes to the grey light of a cloudy early morning. Richten sits in a chair, watching him as if watching over a sick child. "'Juliet' said that she could not rouse you." Richten says. "And so she remained awake until Martins." he says. His hands are in close, folded. "There is no report of any doings in the night." In the bed, Dejah sleeps the sleep of the exhausted, her body a little sprawled out. "It comes of your 'servant' being sworn to your mother, not yourself, this insubordination," Kenning explains as he arises. "So, how was your own rest?" the sorcerer asks the sellsword, shifting his senses, mundane and supernatural, about the room, to see if his wards report the same nocturnal tranquility. There is the softest of pings to the wards, as if someone had sent a very minor, very weak magical-detecting probe in their direction, discovered them, and decided not to engage after all. Given the shallowness of that contact, tracing it back is nigh impossible. If Kenning had waited a couple of hours more, he would barely be able to detect even that.
As Kenning does this, Richten also speaks. "My rest was remarkably peaceful, sir. Free of night terrors or other things." Richten clacks his teeth together. "Perhaps what you did had something to do with that?" Kenning shrugs, unsure exactly, but obviously hoping that it did. He pauses a beat. "My former employer only told me the basics of who and what you are." Kenning says. "I've only a basic sketch of the Family of Oberon and know you are one of his grandsons. Your mother must his eldest daughter, then? Or one of the younger ones?" Kenning nods, "The eldest, or at least that is what I've been led to believe. Until a short time ago, I was also unaware of my heritage and since, have only a basic sketch of the Family." It's obvious that the archivist would prefer to be honest and meet Richten more as a friend than as a vassal/servant/what-have-you. A whistled codon and a wind whips about the room, freshening the stale air and wiping the lesser wards. "Perhaps we could order some breakfast and compare notes." "I shall see to it. Immediately." Richten heads out of the room without further prompting. The wards refresh without incident and the air is much less foul for the cleansing. The gust of wind does make Dejah stir a bit but she does not waken. Richten soon returns with a basket with bread, some savory smelling sausages, tomatoes, cheese, and a carafe of something sweet smelling. The smell of breakfast DOES rouse Dejah, opening her eyes with a bit of sheepishness and moving to a sitting position as Richten returns. "My apologies" Dejah says to Kenning. "It appears that letting you sleep in turn caused me to oversleep." "I was set to explain what I know of the Family of Amber." Richten offers. "In the interest of pooling knowledge." He starts putting the bread, sausages, and other food on a table. "Indeed. Perhaps Kenning should go first." Dejah suggests. "Is there enough for me?" "There is. I did not wish you to be angry." Richten says. Kenning returns to his pack, producing a few books and both his Trump Deck and the Dragon Deck. Dejah starts helping herself. Richten does not yet do the same, instead watching and listening to Kenning. "Amber, the story of Oberon, my grandfather and his myriad of wives,” the archivist begins as if lecturing a petitioner at the Monastarium. He shuffles out the Trump representing the former King of Amber, or the High House of Light, depending on your view.” He looks to the Weaver for confirmation. Dejah gives a smile and a nod. “His first noted wife, Cymnea,” a new Trump, “produced at least three children, Finndo, Osric, and Cyneburh.” Flip. Flip. Flip. “The latter is my mother.” “Then the marriage was annulled, and the new Queen was Faiella, producing Eric, Corwin, and Deirdre.” Flip. Flip. Flip. “And again the daughter produced a son, one Percival.” Another card. “Faiella passed giving birth to Deirdre, I believe.” “I’m unsure if the next name is a queen or paramour, a Nella, and her two children, Arawn and Xavier,” he adds. “I’ve no images of them.” “Then it swings to the redheads, the children of Queen Clarissa,” again, no card. “But her children, Vanyel, Fiona, Bleys, also called the flamboyant one, and Brand.” Flip, flip, flippity, flip. “Fiona has a son, Lorius, one that I suspect visited the Monasterium at one point.” “Queen Rilga, bore him three children, Caine,” flip, “Gerard,” flip, “and Julian.” Kenning is eyeing the food, but too close to be denied. “Gerard has two children, Castor and Pollux, and Julian has one, named Carl.” Flip. Flip. Flip. “ By Moins of Rebma, he had one daughter, Llewella,” The archivist blushes despite himself as he turns this Trump. But Moins doesn’t seem to be a Queen of Amber, but this other kingdom.” “I’m not certain that Harla was either, and I’ve no images of her children Sand and Delwin,” he concludes for the moment, tucking in to break his fast. With a mouthful of food, he says, “I might continue better later, but my histories are just that” "It would appear." Richten says. "That the information that you and your Mother, Cyneburh have, is at best incomplete." he says. "That is a bold thing to say." Dejah says. "But not wrong." Richten says. "Let me fill in the gaps of your knowledge, with truth and supposition." "Starting from the top" Richten says. "I have heard rumor that there is another elder child of Oberon around the marriage to Cymnea. The rumor is that she is some Chaosian byblow, and lives near there. I do not even have a name." "Benedict has a line of descendants in Chaos ending with the Queen Mother, Dara. Finndo does have a family, several children as a matter of fact. As for his brother Osric, he has withdrawn from the physical world and is now in the High House Shadow. He did leave a dynasty behind, however, ruling a region of shadow not too far from here." He spreads his hands. "Eric has one child, a daughter, Noys." Richten continues. "Corwin has two sons, Merlin, by Dara, and Triton, by Moire." Richten says. "Deirdre has one son, Percival." "Arawn and Xavier are mostly erased from Amber history" he says. "It is not surprising you would have no images of them." "The redheads, as you call them, are far more fecund than you have mentioned. Fiona has two daughters in addition to Lorius, Shannon and Brandeigh. Brand has at least one son, Rinaldo, King of Kashfa. I strongly suspect Rinaldo's ally Malachi is also a son of Brand. The resemblance is striking. Although she was claimed by Gerard as his own, Toireasa strikes me as really being Bleys' daughter, not the Admiral's." "Caine has two daughters. Cyllene and Swan. Both are piratical, dangerous, and not to be crossed. Swan, doubly so, since she is not in favor with her father. Julian has a daughter in addition to his son, named Brieanna." "Moins is not the Queen of Rebma, but rather is related to the Queen, the Moire I mentioned before." Richten cages his fingers. "The Twins rule a shadow of their own, and have in their keeping several dangerous magical artifacts. The sister has a son, Jayson by Sand, and the presumed Heir to Corilaine." He stops and looks at the food and then at Kenning. "I have not yet mentioned the rest of the family. There is more. But I require sustenance first." Dejah chuckles. "Agreed," Kenning answers, making his own plate after Richten has filled one. He does so, tearing particularly into the sausages with a will and a hunger that can no longer be denied or even held at bay. "So, I think this is an appropriate approximation of what we've delineated," Kenning offers after a few mouthfuls, putting a page on the table. "And I dare say that my mother's knowledge of the family may be more precise than what I've presented here. Any flaws I present are likely my own." The page reads... Oberon - Cymnea -- Finndo --- Several children -- Osric --- Dynasty -- Cyneburh --- Kenning -- Benedict --- Chaosian line ---- Dara - Faiella -- Eric --- Noys -- Corwin --- Merlin --- Triton -- Deirdre --- Percival - Nella -- Arawn -- Xavier - Clarissa -- Vanyel -- Fiona --- Lorius --- Shannon --- Brandeigh -- Bleys --- (Toireasa?) -- Brand --- Rinaldo --- (Malachi?) - Rilga -- Caine --- Cyllene --- Swan -- Gerard --- Castor --- Pollux --- Toireasa -- Julian --- Carl --- Brieanna - Moins -- Llewella - Harla -- Sand --- Jayson -- Delwin - ? -- Random, current King of Amber He holds the end of the page down with one of the histories, the one that he's not flipping through with the hand that isn't holding a utensil. "Corilaine? It is the realm to which the Twins removed themselves" he asks. "It is" Richten, his mouth still chewing but no longer stuffed to bursting, replies. "Next up on the list of Oberon's descendants is Florimel. She was Dybele's only daughter. Florimel herself has two children: Asteria, who follows her mother's ways of diplomacy, glamour and beauty. And William, who is reputed to be one of the best blades in the family." Dejah coughs at this point. Richten looks at Dejah. "My sister's contact" she reminds Kenning. "Along with Shannon." "Mmm" Richten says. "So you know something more than the list Kenning gave." "Some" Dejah says. "I see" Richten says. "After Florimel, there is King Random himself." Richten continues. "His mother was a shadow woman, Paulette. The King has a son, Martin. I've heard stories that he also has a daughter by some Princess in Shadow." "Finally, there is Dalt." Richten says. "A man we do not wish to meet or cross. He claims Oberon raped his mother and he will see Amber destroyed for that desecration. I've heard...other stories." "Undoubtedly, despite their lack of fecundity, there are members of the family none of us know." Richten says. "And perhaps do not even know themselves. I've heard other rumors of possible family members in various Golden Circle shadows. There's a prince in one shadow, for instance, grandfather of the King, absolutely convinced he really is of Amber Royal blood and has been gathering evidence to prove it. Maybe he is even right." "So, this William? The tales tell true?" Kenning asks Dejah as he scritches in Dybelle, Florimel, Asteria, William, Paulette, Random, Martin. daughter, and Dalt. "Yes" she replies. "Richten and his employer are remarkably well informed about the Royal Family of Amber." Dejah says, looking at Richten. "And why exactly was your former employer so interested in my family?" he asks Richten. "They are the most powerful beings from a realm at the center of many." Richten says. "They stride across worlds as if they were demigods. Why should not my former employer be very interested and very aware of the doings of your family. She would have been foolish not to do so." The archivist nods. "Agreed, but her interest seemed much more focused on me, else you wouldn't have had Deas in hand when we met. " Kenning doesn't ask the question, but gets up and scoops the end of the sausages onto his place, waiting for Richten's reaction. "Aye" Richten says. "The reason that you and your mother are so interesting to the Lady of Chains is something I've only been able to piece together bit by bit, Kenning." he responds. "I believe the major reason is because of your mother's and your seniority and age." "I understand that few of the Amber Royal Family would have any clear idea of the elder powers and races. Your mother, and you, are exceptions." Richten says. "And as those elder powers and races start to stir again as they have, your, ah, presence was desired. Although I was not told, I suspect you were partly meant as bait for your mother." Kenning nods, hiding the idea that this hadn't occured to him. "So, it comes to the Lady again," he agrees. "I'm sure that your former employer has other agents with the same mission, so what do we need to know before we move forward?" "The other thing I can think of now." Richten says. "is an obvious one that bears repeating." He swallows thickly. "I'm far from my former employer's only servant. And far from her greatest one." he says. "You defeated me, and have taken me into your service. The next one we meet may require...other methods. And I do not know who or what we may meet. We rarely acted in concern, although some of her greatest servants sometimes drew us together." Kenning sighs deeply. "Well, I don't believe that we'll be overlooked, in fact your acceptance of service might just be enough to entice further interest, but for now, I've other enemies to focus upon." "What do you know of this city and its factions?" he asks. "Specifically the Windhawks, Captain Denerim, or his employer Aranai." "Vandais sits near the junction of several paths through the worlds, as you know." Richten says. "What you probably don't know is that most people in the world don't know or care or really comprehend that there are other worlds at the end of the Porcelain Highway, or the Great Duchess' South Road. They see the goods come in and think they are from some other part of this world." "Most of the major factions, especially the Windhawks, know of the difference and often have operations that branch out into the other worlds." Richten continues. "That's why having control or influence over Vandais is so important and so contested, using mercenary companies like the Windhawks, or the Browncoats, the Lombards or the Yue. Aranai is reputed to be a retired Enchantress, but I don't know how you retire from that. I do know that my, ah, former employer bade me to be wary of her, but keep abreast of her doings." Kenning's face glows with interest, "And have you?" Richten gives a grave nod. "I'll tell you that she was set to watch for a scholar from the Monastarium." "I know that the Windhawks were set to watching the road to the mountains." Richten says. "I did not quite divine why they were so set on setting a watch. Their monitoring of the road that leads to the path to the world of Etheria seemed far more keeping with their character, as if they were checking to see if anyone would arrive, or depart, by means of it." "That would be" Dejah says "A likely route out of this shadow, Kenning. Not the only one, but one that I might otherwise choose for us." "Advise me," the archivist suggests. "I'm loathe to leave an enemy at my back, but if we can move quickly enough into Shadow and then perhaps another, then it might occur that they never know I've turned my back to them." "The other option is to confront a mercenary band with your two swords and my sorcery," he sighs. "Which means more devious plans that I'm oversteping myself more and more every moment." "Facing a few mercenaries on the road from the Magisterium was one thing, Kenning." Dejah says. "Facing an even warier and wilier band of mercenaries is a bridge too far, even with an extra sword at your back." She gives a nod to Richten who nods back in agreement." Kenning nods in agreement, a small smile. "I hope you didn't really expect me to choose this option." Dejah shakes her head in confirmation. "We leave by a road they are less likely to expect." Dejah continues." We eschew the exit to Etheria, especially since the border to the shadow is so close to Vandais. We instead take the porcelain highway all the way up to Wuyue. Once we are across the shadow border, then we can make our way and continue with your mother's plans, and confuse the Consort in Chains and everyone else. The disadvantage of course, is that a longer road here and after means chance plays a greater role in our travels than I might like." "Is there a way to exercise a greater control over these travels?" Kenning asks, knowing the answer, but not how to achieve it. "Given that you are a descendant of King Oberon" Dejah says. "You could, once you visit the Kingdom of Amber and survive the initiation of the Pattern." "It is said" Richten says. "That to walk that is to unlock other secret, dread powers as well." "Perhaps" Dejah says tentatively. "I wouldn't know. But it would allow you, Kenning, to go where you will, rather than following shadow paths, as the rest of us do. And most people in many shadows as I have said cannot or do not even do that." "The other way is to find something like a Moorcock Staff." Dejah says. "There are artifacts that allow people to become a planeswalker without the need of shadow paths. With such an artifact, we might walk into the streets and walk into a different world entirely and elude those following us. Controlling one's destination with such an artifact, however, is reputed to be difficult." "Perhaps by those without such a staff, and out of jealousy" Richten suggests. Kenning chuckles. "So, to do such as the first would effectively expose my existence to family long left ignorant of my birth, possibly incur my mother's anger, and perhaps unlock secret, dread powers." "The second is a further quest beyond the tasks already set before us," he concludes, shaking his head. "The porcelein way is for us, and quicker than I had expected," the young man decides. "What equipment should we need and can it be had without arousing more interest in us?" "Mercifully little." Dejah says. "Food enough for the journey, although way stations are positioned so that one can reach one even by walking, to say nothing of riding, each and every night. If we wanted to telegraph our intentions, perhaps, but make the end of our journey much easier, we would visit the branch of the Wuyve Bank here and obtain travel documents for our arrival there." "We can always bribe the officials at the far end of the highway to let us into the Five Gated City." Richten says. "Yes" Dejah says. "Although that is a more inelegant solution." "Let's arrange it and deal with what we will. So, some clothes to help me fit in better if such can be aquired, food for the journey, and a visit to the Bank," Kenning decides. "Very well." Dejah says. "We will all have to go to the Bank in person, but other things can be delegated." "While the road is longer and my Dejah's estimate more of a gamble, let's ensure that we can minimize that. If it tells our opponents the end game, well..." he spreads his hands wide in a gesture of supplication. "Such is left in the hands of those greater than I, and well, such worthy opponents would likely have tracked us there as well, and when we prevail in either possible future, it will be easier to continue with the documents than without." Kenning accepts his own decision and turns to the sideboard to make his morning toilet and realizes that somehow he's already falling away from his schedule of devotions and chores, almost without thought. What were once as solid and secure as the walls of the Monisterium were crumbling by neccessity. The jug of water and the coarse towel scrubbed away the doubt and fear before his companions could see it in his face. Schooled to discipline among the monks, Kenning hoped they couldn't read it in his body, yet accepted his companions as trustworthy. "I think, today, I am the master, and you two my servants," he offers as he turns back to face them. "I'll need speak less and allow you to do so for me, better hiding my accent until I can better hide it myself. Unless such subterfuge is beyond or beneath you," he asks gently. Both Dejah and Richten shake their head. "I am hesitant to draw any attention to us with blatant magic, such as the conjuration of suitable articles of clothing, but my tonsure surely gives me away if not covered. Any suggestions on where to find a suitable hat or hood?" "Milliners Lane" Richten replies. "That is where the best places to find hats are at any rate. Something like a hood would be found where one buys cloaks and other such clothing. A hat would mark you as someone of renown, useful if you do wish to present yourself as a Master with servants." "A hood is more practical for road travel, though." Dejah counters. "I suppose getting both is possible." she admits. "I'll deal with obtaining food and other supplies. Your man here" she smiles to Richten. "can direct you to getting a hat, and perhaps a hood too. We can meet at the Bank, obtain travel documents and prepare for the journey in short order." "Then we best get ourselves started," Kenning agrees, seemingly pleased at the idea of a hat. He straightens his current mercenary-hopeful-but-not-a-pikeman clothes and secures his purse within his waistand while Dejah is readying herself. "Which way, my good Benvolio?" Kenning asks as they step out of the room and precede down the stairs and into the open air of Vandais in daylight. As he pauses at the inn's doorstep to let Richten/Benvolio pass, his boot's toe sketches a rune of confusion at the edge of the street in a mud puddle's basin. Once the day's sun dries the puddle, it will crack and disperse, or even sooner if a shoe or hoof or cartwheel obscures it. For the moment, the reflection will send multiples of the street's many travelers every which way, at least to arcane eyes if not those walking the street. Subterfuge for the naked eye will need a different craft. If there is someone watching Kenning and Richten leave the inn, neither of them seems to notice it. As Dejah leaves after them, she, too, will benefit from the runic spell. Arcane Precautions necessary or not, no one is following them by the time Richten has taken a very circuitous (deliberately so and without direct prompting, Kenning is certain) to the previously promised Milliner's Lane. This is a rambling curved thoroughfare that goes up a small hillock in the middle of the city. Not a main way, as judged by its width and the importance of its shops, but clearly a very well trafficked and useful method of getting around, Many of the travelers along the avenue are avoiding the haberdashers, hat makers, and mercantiles. "My lord." Richten says. "Benvolio presents to you Milliners Lane. The more high class establishments, and the heights of fashion are to be found as one goes upslope. If his lordship wishes Benvolio to direct him to where he might engage in a bit of clothes slumming, the establishments below, here, might suit such purchase. A forester's hood, for instance." "A suitable beginning, my good man," Kenning answers, pitching his voice a bit deeper than usual. "Such purchases will result in packages to be carried and the suggestion that I'm a man spreading some money about when we head upslope." "That will attract people wishing our custom." Richten agrees. "Benvolio approves of this to get a chance to sample wares." Kenning casts his eye on a sign above one of the shops, argent, a raven volent sable. "John Uskglass's sigil. One of my favorite fictional sovereigns," he explains. "Perhaps we shall have luck there." In the window hang travel cloaks and the like, suggesting accouterments for foresters, or those that engage in hunting as more than a livelihood. The raven on the coat of arms is matched by a similar raven sitting on a perch at the back of the shop, watching a bright eyed man with brown eyes and a low slung brown hat who greets Kenning and Richten. "Ah, welcome to my humble and small shop." the man says. "Don't mind Hubert. I am Starling, a purveyor of humble travel cloaks and goods for those who work in the woods." "Don't mind me." the Raven crows. "I just want your money." Kenning smiles, despite his chosen role. Starling tsks at the Raven. "Judging from your stylings, I am going to guess you wish travel gear. A hunting expedition to the Forest, or perhaps even to the Mountains?" he guesses. The archivist cocks his head at the proprietor, then turns to examine the cloaks, and specifically the hoods, obviously letting his man deal with the merchant. In the short, he has chosen four cloaks, two with attached hoods (sized for Dejah and Richten), one hooded for himself and one without. He also lets Starling suggest a seperate hood that can be used with his regular clothes or with the latter cloak. He hums to himself as Richten bargains, at one moment even softly singing in a pleasant tenor, "By all the deer that spring, thro' wood and lawn and ling, when all the leaves are green; By arrow and gray goosewing..." before catching himself. Richten is not an expert bargainer, but he does hunt up and down for a while with Starling before settling on prices. The transactions are punctuated with commentary by the Raven, exhorting merchant and purchaser to continue the haggling. Once their items are bundled, he exits, and looks up the hill. "I must admit to liking the idea of more clothes than my robes," he confides to Richten. "It seems almost an indecent luxury." "You are unused to luxuries given your monastic life." Richten says.He rubs a tooth. "This might mark you as who and what you are, lord." he says. "And, such habits are more revealing than clothes." he adds. "Much more so." "I counsel practicing at life outside and beyond your former one." he says. "Lest we be marked and made." Kenning seems to consider that he was careful enough to not make the comment while within the shop. "Yes, but in acquiring the practice, I may reveal myself. A conundrum if there were ever one, and this one holds all our safety." "Do you have a suggestion as to the role I might play?" Kenning asks as they head up slope. Richten considers this for a few moments as they walk toward the Bank. As the elegant wooden lines of the edifice come into view, Richten speaks. "Third son of some Baronness or Lady." Richten says. "One that was going to be packed off to serve in either the church or the military, but you're too freethinking for the first, too bookish for the latter. So your Mother, in her wisdom, and since you're not going to inherit, is seeing that you further your education by travel. Spotting opportunities for your Family, learning what and where you can." "Social awkwardness explained, in addition to your high status." Richten says. Kenning nods in approval, scanning his memories of histories and geographies. "I'm hesitant to draw direct attention to Amber, but a Baroness from one of the outlying nations there perhaps, leaves anyone unlikely to have met her or her son," he muses. Richten gives a nod. "Obscurity would be useful here." "I've read of a Avelyn Emmet, Baroness of Emberley. Several sons, the third was... Rodd, I believe," the archivist recalls. "Proper address woulld be Master Emmet, or perhaps Master Rodd from a household servant, yes? Emmet from an old school chum or such? I don't have all those niceties down." "Lord is also always appropriate for someone of higher rank than a Knight." Richten says. "And is often the safest title a stranger or a servant can use. Thus, Lord Emmet, or Master Rodd from a servant very familiar with you, a family servant." "That would suggest" he says "I have served the Barony of Emberley for all of my life, perhaps my entire family has. It would provide the opportunity to speak more out of turn, if a timely interjection is needed." Kenning nods. "And what role do we fashion for Juliet?" he asks, anxious to have the answer before the press of the bank's custom interrupts their conversation. Richten slows his gait in unconscious response. "Two servants seems a bit much for a third son, but I'd rather not cast shadows upon her character, as a woman travelling with two men might," he notes. "She's not loose in such ways, and in fact declined to advance my... erm... education in such matters." "Did she?" Richten says, only remembering to add " milord" after a moment. "No, a woman traveling with two men to whom she is not related would not do at all. Her reputation will be besmirched, although I suspect she will not return to this world to truly harvest the fruits of same. It would make things more difficult wherever we go, however." "The simplest solution would to make her a bodyguard, which is not quite as ostentatious as having a maid and a servant." Richten says. "I doubt she would consent to a permanent facial tattoo to signify her as a Mharian Gladiatrix " he says. "However, you might be able to provide a glamour or illusion that will suit for the moment? I can certainly describe it well enough. I have seen the ferociousness of their combat skills." Kenning nods, "It's worth a consideration. I know her skills to be able with a blade, likely much better than my own, at least in some aspects. As to a tattoo, I'm sure that if you can describe it, I can do it justice, and something more than temporary, but less than permanent." "Which reminds me. I think it would be something for us to train along the way, as much of my combat experience is recent," he admits. "We have a long trip ahead of us, even if we were to ride on fast horses." Richten says. "I do get the impression that you have not traveled...widely." he says. "The experience of the road may be new to you. We will have time to do many things, and learn many things." "It is said, milord, that to journey a hundred leagues is to take the true measure of a man or a woman, and to know whether or not you would journey a second hundred with them. We will put that to the test when we leave Vandais and travel up to Wuyve instead." "The tattoo, milord." he adds, slowing his pace a little further as the Bank looms closer. "is a stylized half moon, covering the left cheek. Flourishes are idiosyncratic to the artist's style, but it is unmistakably a moon." "And one supposed that it would be better to present ourselves at the Bank with these identities," Kenning nods. "Is there a particular color to the design?" he asks, scanning the others on the street for Dejah. "No, its black." Richten says. "Colored ink tattoos that aren't black are not particularly common around these parts." Dejah at this point finally arrives. The look of consternation on her face precedes her arrival at the spot in the front of the Bank. "Sorry for arriving so late" she says. "milord. I was tailed after obtaining our supplies." She pauses a beat. "I think he was not a simple thief looking for a mark, either. Too well dressed." "And well warded, as he should have been diverted by a construct I left behind," Kenning adds. "Speed is of the essence then." "A fair point." Richten says. "It means forces are on the move." "I have our goods in a holding house at the edge of the city, awaiting our departure," she says. "Will the bank accept Lord Rodd Emmet, third son of Lady Avelyn, Baroness of Emberley and his family servant? Richard is a 'legacy' in fact," he indicates Richten, "His family has served ours for three generations." Richten gives a nod."That will do." "If you fancy a bit of temporary permanent artistic adornment, we had considered a role as a Mharian Gladiatrix for you, my loyal bodyguard," Kenning adds with a smile. "What say you?" "That was my suggestion, mostly. "Richten says proudly. "You don't look much like a valued family servant. And I don't think you have a desire to pass as a doxy, either." "Unicorn, no!" Dejah exclaims. "I would much prefer a martial role. That will suit. Keep the dissolute son alive and well. I probably was hired by your father, not you. Or hired by your Mother instead" she adds with an amused smile. "Two candles lit and no one in the scriptorium," Kenning says rolling his eyes. At his companions confused glances he adds, "An extravagant waste?" He shrugs. "No matter. I read once that all good lies have a foundation in truth. Yes, my Mother employs you and that is where your duty lies, therefore you sometimes might speak out of place, for my safety of course." "We'll need someplace to create a tattoo, and where I might create the right documents. Unless the bank will take our word as long as our appearance matches our story?" He catches himself and puts on the face he imagines a young lord to have, an even expression, similar to that he would wear when called before the Abbot. Dejah regards Kenning for a moment. "It is possible the bankers will not look at me or Richten too closely." she says. "It is possible that we can do this without too much preparation. All it takes, though, is one officious mandarin to cause us grief, however. A glance at me, a few questions, and our story will fall apart. Perhaps not enough to stop us from getting the documents, but slowing us down by a day or a week. Enough that those who are hunting us will have time to find us, and cause a fuss." "We find the back room of a tavern and do this." Dejah says. "Temporary, but long enough to fool a banker." "Agreed" Richten says. "It is the best way, Kenning, Make this as well-formed as possible." Kenning nods and lets Richten lead them to a tavern and an appropriate back room. Once there he slides his dagger from its sheath, letting the weight settle into the warmth of his hand, and a more solid connection with Curtana emerge.
Even as he thinks it, he's arranging ink, quill and paper with his other hand. He also produces a smaller pen knife to trim the quill's tip, as he learned long ago that Weapons of Quality disdained use as ordinary implements. To free his hand he exerts his Will just slightly, urging the dagger to curl about his wrist, thus maintaining the heightened psychic connection, but allowing himself both hands for the ensuing work. From his satchel a small roll of velum emerges, along with some ribbons and sealing wax. He cants the page and setting the pen in his left, or off hand, begins to write with long florid strokes. A small smile quirks his mouth at the idea of the Abbot's face if he knew that long taught skills were being used for blatant forgery. He writes a letter of introduction from his mother to the bank, a bit of runic magic to reproduce the Emberley arms on the wax seal he affixes within and another minute fiddling with it to give it the right amount of wear and aging before wrapping it with a slightly faded blue ribbon, and handing it to Richten. Dejah and Richten watch and stay out of the way as Kenning works. Dejah's interest is far more acute and piercing. The imagery, the memory, the experience of the Mharian Gladiatrix comes to Kenning as he works on the other portions of the deception. A former wielder, long ago! A city called Axis, the center of an aggressive and hungry empire, a polyglot creation of a number of peoples. The Mharians are one of the major people of this empire, a brawling, pugnacious land of women warriors and male bards. The image of a Mharian gladiatrix, Curtana's former owner, standing in the towering stadium in the round in Axis. No, not the, but only one of many stadia in this realm. A blue-black tattoo, in the shape of a stylized and ornate dagger, running from eyebrow to lip. A stern countenance on her face, martial bearing. The tattoo came with pain, but the Gladiatrix is not unfamiliar with pain. The tattoo is a source of pride, and marks her as a wielder of swords and daggers. Information from Curtana flows, images of other gladiatrixes in Axis. Different weapons, different insignia on each. Much flow of blood. To wear such an insignia and do one's duty in the arena opens doors to higher society, to be a bodyguard to the scions of noble families. The mere appearance of the tattoo alone is enough to deter the more common of bandit. It was misfortune of a different sort that finally separated the weapon, and owner, not battle. Satisfied with the memory and the script work now finished, he turns his attention to Dejah's face. A few deft lines of chalk on the page and he's described her jawline, cheekbone, the corner of her lips, and the faint creases at the corner of her eye. With ink he decribes an arc, which becomes the back of a sleeping wyrm, his tail and nose tucked beneath folded wings. About this he weaves a three strant plait, broken several times, yet of a single thread to build the larger image of a moon about the dragon. "It fits you, and will leave less dissonace, for others and likely your own tapestry," Kenning suggests. "If you approve? And Richten finds it acceptable." "A glass." Dejah says. "Let me see what you have done." With one, Dejah scrutinizes the moon and dragon for about three silent minutes, as if memorizing every line and detail. "You've captured the ornateness of one of the tattoos well." Richten breaks the silence, which earns him a frown from Dejah. "Its as if you had journeyed to the Empire and saw them for yourself, though we just spoke of them here and now." "Proper primary research rewards itself," the former archivist answers as if from rote. "It is well conceived, Kenning." Dejah finally says. "There are worlds where such a design woven or imprinted on a shirt would earn you no little coin. I am satisfied with the lines of the design. I can wear this proudly, and with, as you say, little dissonance." "Perhaps if I need a career, once The Lady is done with me," he chuckles. [A House of Dark Designs, Ltd. Original] Kenning moves the light closer and has Dejah sit. One codon in ink near her eye, as an anchor, and another of similarity at her lip. Kenning ties the similarity to one end of the knotwork on the page, and the anchor to the other. "There will be some pain, but such is the life of a Gladiatrix," he offers. Symbolism cannot be understated. The penknife pricks the tender skin at the center of each codon, letting the ink flow beneath the skin. Dejah is not a gladiator, and despite the perils and trials of the road, and his mother's service, she can't help but flinch a little. The flinching ends quickly, her fingers clenched into her palm. All the while, she tries her best not to scrunch up or tighten the muscles of her face. And she has little to do but to stare ahead and study Kenning as he works, keeping her gaze straight as possible, but scrutinizing. In the meantime, Richten hovers around, hoping from point to point in studying the process. He holds the page to her cheek, matching the connections and with the chalk scribes a rune of age upon the parchment. As it falls to pieces, the ink is drawn to the anchors in her skin, almost settling down through the page, through the top of Dejah's skin. The age rune steals the darkness from the ink, bluing it at the edges, almost giving more definition to the sleeping figure. When at last the page has fully crumbled to dust, Kenning draws one last codon, this time with an oil from his pouch. Across the dragon's spine, he laces a slight rune of distraction, discouraging too much investigation of the mark. He nods, noticing for the first time how deep the woman's eyes are. "I think we're ready, yes?" he says, rising and almost uncomfortable under her gaze. She smiles slightly. "I've held us up long enough." "That hurt...less than I feared." Dejah says. "But enough to remember it." Dejah says. "Enough to remember it " she repeats "like the way knighting ceremonies and oaths in Shadow Ibelin end with a blow to the face." "Now it is time to see if your work will ensorcel viewers." Dejah says. "I've noticed I don't want to stare at the tattoo too long." Richten says. "Much unlike the base drawing. I want to look...elsewhere." "Kenning's magics are of line and writing." Dejah says. "As befits a scholar. Let us gather ourselves and head to the Bank." Kenning nods, "Just so." The Bank of Wuyue, as Kenning, Dejah and Richten had seen before, is a brightly painted building of wood, with a succession of smaller and smaller roofs for the second, third and fourth story of the building. The whitewashed walls, the black border of the windows, and the red roofs and columns together give it a look very different and very striking compared to the rest of the city of Vandais. A couple of guards stand on the porch created by the columns, allowing visitors to the bank a moment to get out of the sun, or the rain, before entering the great door that signals entry to the edifice. The style of their armor, too, is not like the Windhawks or other mercenaries here, a lamellar cuirass of a metal that looks like bronze. "Welcome to the bank." the left guard says. He is clearly studying Dejah (but not her face, more her stance and mien) as much as he is studying Kenning. His accent is different, too. Richten is getting relatively little scrutiny, but his walk behind Kenning and posture are in keeping with his role. "Your business today?" "Travel papers for Wuyue," Kenning answers with what he supposes is the boredom of dealing with a functionary while still seeming excited about the prospect of the destination. "My mother suggested that it would save me time on arrival," he adds as if the invocation of the parent should mean something, even though he offers no name. "Your mother is a wise woman." the guard replies. "Traveling to the gates of the city of Umber without prior approval can lead to lengthy delays and unexpected costs in time and funds." He scrutinizes Kenning for a few moments more, looks at the faux-tattooed Dejah again, and this time even gives Richten a look. Finally he returns his attention to Kenning. "What is your business in traveling there?" he says. "You do not appear to be a merchant, itinerant beggar, mendicant, scholar, or one of the other usual class of travelers of the Porcelain Highway." "I'd like to consider myself a student, but of many cultures, not neccessarily a scholar," Kenning explains. He shrugs, "I suppose I'm looking for my place in the world. Mother seems to think that Wuyue is a place to begin. I'm not the heir, nor her spare, so I've no choice but to find my own way." The guard lets out a slight sound of comprehension. He waves a hand at his companions, "Richard is my man, and well... Ophelia was employed by my father." "As long as you are not intending to throw yourself on the mercy of the Public Works Minister , and clearly you are not." The guard gives Kenning an appraising look again. "Then, you are welcome to submit for travel papers. The Vice Minister for Travel to Wuyve is the Lady Bhasundara. Good day." He opens the door, revealing an cavernous interior of a forechamber. The walls are covered in scroll paintings, depicting facets of a beautiful city on a hill, all rendered in simple but effective style. A few functionaries move about, some (with better clothes and possibly higher rank) giving frank looks at the newcomers, others keeping their head down. The Vice-Minister's office is helpfully labeled both in a letter alphabet as well as a more pictoglyphic system that must be endemic to Wuyve. The Minister herself is a middle aged woman with black hair that has not yet been overcome by grey, at least not openly. "We are pleased that a noble of your rank and family." she says, having a servant silently offer tea. "Of course, you will understand that with recent troubles in region, there is a four Moon wait to process applications to travel into Wuyve. (Continued in The Long Road) |
