From: "SilentElf" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 10:35:18 EDT

1                                                             /
   DDDDD                              ZZZZZZ                //
   D    D  AAAA RRR  GGGG OOOO NN  N      Z  I NN  N EEEE  ||
   D     D A  A R  R G    O  O N N N     Z   I N N N E     || Volume 5
 -=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue  1
   DDDDD   A  A R  R GGGG OOOO N  NN  ZZZZZZ I N  NN EEEE  ||
                                                            \\
                                                              \
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 --   DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 1        03/20/92          Cir 1155   --
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 --                            Contents                                --
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
  Sonnet to the Bichanese      Wendy Hennequin        Yule 4, 1014
  Lessons                      Wendy Hennequin        Yule 8, 1014
  Dummy                        Bill Erdley            Yule 10, 1014
  Pact III                     Max Khaytsus           Yuli 14, 1014
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                      Sonnet to the Bichanese
                          by Wendy Hennequin
                    (b.c.k.a. <HENNEQUI@CTSTATEU>)

      I looked up  from the poem I  was struggling to write  as I heard
 someone enter,  and then  I lowered  my eyes to  keep from  staring. A
 Bichanese man, one of the samurai the Emperor of Bichu had sent to the
 King by the looks of his weapons, stood in my cubicle, confused. After
 an awkward  moment in which  he searched my  tiny, dank cell  with his
 eyes and I didn't dare raise mine, I asked meekly, "May I help you, my
 lord?"
      "Please," he  began courteously, to  me of all people,  and Bichu
 and Dargon flavored his words, "I think  I am lost. They said I should
 seek the  bastard to translate and  transcribe my order, but  I do not
 see him."
      My heart  seethed. Oh, I  didn't mind  that the masters  had sent
 this Bichanese  lord to me--I  am, after  all, the only  translator of
 Bichanese in the city--but they could  have sent him to seek *Fionna*.
 I kept my  face docile, though, as I had  long practiced. This samurai
 hadn't insulted me, and thus I should not insult him with my anger.
      Even if he had been the one to throw my bastard birth in my face,
 I would not  show him my wrath. Oh, they  can all tolerate-- barely--a
 meek, gentle, unthreatening  bastard, but an angry one  who fights for
 her own justice, never.
      At least, that  is the way of things in  Magnus. My mother should
 have stayed  in Dargon  where she belonged,  where bastards  and unwed
 mothers are truly tolerated and never  shunned. I'll be very glad when
 I have enough money to go there myself and leave Magnus behind me.
      I beckoned the samurai without looking at him. "Come in, my lord.
 I am--" I  hesitated to name myself bastard, though  it is true. There
 are others enough who so call me. "I am the person you seek."
      The samurai  advanced, and when  I stole a  glance, I saw  he was
 smiling, but his  eyes were bewildered. "I do not  understand. You are
 no despicable man."
      "Despicable man? What do you mean, my lord?"
      "My--" He  paused and  pondered. "My liege-lord  calls despicable
 men bastards. He has never used that name for a woman."
      I tried not to  laugh. For the first time in  my life, I actually
 wanted  to laugh  at  the  word "bastard."  "The  word  does not  mean
 despicable man, my  lord, though no doubt your liege-lord  so uses it.
 Many people do so."
      The Bichanese considered this. "What does the word mean, then?"
      Somehow, I courageously looked the samurai  in the face. He was a
 good-looking man, and his slanted,  hazel-brown eyes were serious, and
 gentle. I was able to continue  looking directly at him as I answered,
 "It means an  illegitimate child." He shook his  head, still confused.
 "A child conceived or born while his parents were unmarried, my lord."
      The samurai thought  for a moment, then, as I  lowered my eyes to
 avoid offending  with my  direct gaze,  he asked,  "This is  an insult
 here, to have unmarried parents?" I nodded glumly and looked away, for
 my  eyes  had  flooded.  I  had much  better  control  usually.  "Why?
 Luthias-sama--my liege-lord the Count of Connall- -he says such things
 often happen in this country, without blame from law or church."
      "Not in  Magnus," I  told him bitterly,  blinking away  tears. He
 cares about  a bastard, I  thought. "The new religions  competing with
 the Stevene have made our priests very strict."
      "And people insult you with your birth?"
      "In  my case,  it cannot  be  considered an  insult," I  managed,
 gulping down my  sobs. I am a  bastard, I have always  been a bastard,
 and  I must  survive despite  it. Oh,  God, I  wish people  would just
 accept me  despite it! "It  is true. My  parents were not  married, my
 lord. I don't even know my father's name."
      "Do they also taunt your mother?"
      My mother. My face warmed with indignation. Only her mistreatment
 burned me more than mine. "They did, my lord. God rest her, she's dead
 of the Red Plague these six years."
      "But they still call you names, although you were not at fault?"
      I turned toward  the samurai and tried to smile.  "Is it not like
 that in  Bichu? I understood that  the Bichanese honor code  was quite
 strict."
      The Bichanese  returned my smile  warmly, and mine  drew strength
 from his. "No, in Bichu, it is  enough to know one's mother." He began
 to search my face curiously, and I ducked my head. "What is your name?
 They did not tell me."
      Of course, they  hadn't. "The bastard" is all they  ever call me.
 "My name is Fionna."
      "I  am  Ittosai Michiya."  While  I  wondered  why the  name  was
 familiar, he seized  my hand suddenly and pressed it  to his cheek. I,
 astonished, could  not move. He sat  on the unsteady stool  next to my
 table, and when he looked at me, his smile collapsed. "Did I not do it
 rightly? Is that not how a man greets a lady here?"
      "I'm not a lady, my lord," I sputtered, trying to yank my fingers
 from his. "I'm a bastard!"
      Ittosai Michiya's hand  tightened on my fingers,  and he laughed.
 "I cannot catch it, can I?"
      Completely without  my guard,  I laughed  too. "You'd  never tell
 from  how the  people  of Magnus  treat  me." I  stared  at him.  This
 Bichanese, a  foreigner, made  me forget  myself and  laugh. I  do not
 remember the last time I laughed. When he let go of my fingers, I held
 the hand out. "What have you brought me, my lord?"
      The samurai gave it to me  without looking at it. "My liege- lord
 needs  two copies,  one  in Baranurian  for the  King  and another  in
 Bichanese for General Kirinagi."
      I unrolled it  and stared. After several  minutes of concentrated
 scrutiny, I managed only to make out Connall's signature. Comparing it
 to the rest of the document, I surmised the hurried Count had scrawled
 the words out himself, hastily and  impatiently. But then, from what I
 had heard  of the Count of  Connall, his hurry might  well be expected
 and excused.
      Keeping my eyes  on the illegible scratches, I  said quietly, "Do
 you know what it says?"
      "Yes, of course. Luthias-sama told me as he was writing it."
      "Please tell me."
      When Ittosai  Michiya didn't answer,  I looked at him  through my
 eyelashes. He wore a bewildered expression again. "Can you not read as
 well as write and translate?"
      I have never been bold, but  I looked at this samurai and smiled.
 "Only  when the  writing is  legible, my  lord. Your  liege the  Count
 Connall is  a great warrior and  a fine general from  all reports, but
 he'd never make a scribe."
      The Bichanese chuckled. "I am not surprised."
      "What does it say, my lord?"
      He took a  deep breath. "It is a request  to General Kirinagi for
 my official transfer.  I go to war tomorrow with  the Count of Connall
 and the cavalry."
      Ittosai Michiya,  I remembered suddenly.  No wonder the  name had
 been  familiar; last  autumn, he  had been  tried for  treason. I  had
 thought, however, that he was Connall's castellan. Why would he need a
 transfer? The obvious answer came: protocol.
      I drew a paper  toward me. "I shall have to  make my own wording,
 but I have done such things before," I assured him.
      "Wait--I am not interrupting  other work?" Ittosai Michiya tapped
 my poem.
      "No, my lord. That is..." I  wondered how to explain, and looking
 at the very bad  poem, I decided not to. If only I  were a great poet,
 people might accept me, but I was not one.
      "It can  wait," I told the  samurai, dipping a pen  and beginning
 the  Baranurian order.  Translating from  Baranurian to  Bichanese was
 easier than writing the original order in the foreign characters. "You
 are part of the cavalry?"
      "Yes. My leige-lord is its general, and I am his aide." His voice
 held great pride when he spoke of  his lord and his position with him.
 "We ride for Pyridain to held the Knight Captain, Dame Mar..."
      "Martis  Westbrook,"  I  supplied. Although  the  master  scribes
 rarely let me work on recent chronicles and the other scribes scarcely
 ever spoke  with me, I had  overheard conversations. There had  been a
 great  battle in  Pyridain  recently, at  some  village called  Oron's
 Crossroads.  Baranur had  lost,  and  the Beinison  army  had all  but
 slaughtered  Dame Captain  Westbrook's troops.  I glanced  up at  this
 samurai who  treated me not  only as  a human, but  as a lady,  and my
 stomach tightened. Pyridain? He could well die.
      "Yes,  Dame   Martis  Westbrook  shall  be   our  chief  general.
 Luthias-sama shall  be one  of her advisors."  His eyes  searched mine
 curiously. "Why do you look at me like that?"
      "I--The fighting in Pyridain is dangerous, my lord."
      The samurai bowed  in the Bichanese way. "That is  the way of the
 sword, and I am prepared for death as I strive for life." I shuddered.
 Ittosai Michiya laughed. "Do not think  that I wish to die, Fionna. If
 I do, I shall...what  is the expression here? I shall  pay hell, for I
 promised the Countess that I would see her husband safely home."
      That made me laugh, and I returned to my work. As I wrote my neat
 letters, the  samurai held my  incomplete and incompetent poem  to the
 one small  candle that tried to  light my cell. I  graciously offered,
 though  embarrassment squeezed  my stomach,  "You may  read it  if you
 wish."
      "I cannot read your language."  Ittosai Michiya returned the work
 to my desk  and reached for one  of the books on my  desk. I continued
 writing, quickly and neatly. "Did you do this?"
      I  smiled warmly  at the  awe in  his voice  and glanced  from my
 current work  to see what  he held. I  recognized the bright  gold and
 blue  illumination  of a  Fretheod  work  I had  finished  translating
 yesterday for the University. "Yes, my lord. I did that."
      "You do beautiful work."
      I actually  blushed. I don't  believe I had ever  blushed before.
 "I--thank you, my lord."
      "Despite their insults,  they allow you beautiful  things to work
 with."
      "Not usually," I muttered, not meaning for him to hear.
      "What do you mean?"
      I blushed  more deeply, this time  with shame at my  words. "I am
 the only scribe here who knows the Fretheod tongue, my lord, and that,
 and  the money  from the  University, are  why they  allowed me  those
 beautiful things to  work with. Usually, I receive  the last, plainest
 work."
      "They are fools."
      I said nothing, for I agreed. I continued my work diligently. The
 samurai kept patiently silent.
      "You are not married?" he suddenly inquired.
      I laughed again, but my merriment was bitter. My tongue wished to
 tell him that no Magnus man would  lower himself to marry a bastard or
 even to come near her and speak  with her. For this, I dared not speak
 at all.
      The  samurai had  sharp wits.  "They  think they  can catch  your
 bastardness? They will not have you?"
      His tone demanded an honest answer. "That is the case, my lord."
      "They, too, are fools, and below you."
      Astonished, I squeaked, "Below *me?* Below a bastard?"
      "Any man  who cannot  appreciate beauty  and talent  is certainly
 unworthy of a woman such as you."
      I actually stared at him in acute shock. He could not be serious.
 He  smiled  at me  gently  and  chuckled at  what  must  have been  my
 completely horrified expression.  Since there was nothing  I could say
 to his comment, I continued working as the samurai flipped through the
 book, pausing  occasionally. When I  finished the order  in Baranurian
 and  pushed it  aside, Ittosai  Michiya  again pulled  my poem  toward
 himself. "Why are there no drawings?"
      "It is only the first draft of a poem, my lord." I had heard that
 great poets' words  flowed from them; mine were forced,  and they were
 far from good.
      The samurai studied them as I  searched my little box for a brush
 with which to write the Bichanese characters. A pen would never render
 them correctly. "What does it say?" he interrupted me.
      "I--it is a very bad poem, my lord," I stumbled.
      Ittosai Michiya passed the paper to me. "Please read it to me."
      I took  the paper and set  it aside. "It  is not a good  poem, my
 lord," I repeated. "I--I would be ashamed to have you hear it."
      "Why?" he  demanded, and I turned  away. For all that  I wished I
 were a  great poet,  I knew  that my  words were  hardly worthy  for a
 member of  the nobility. I am  no great poet. Perhaps  someday I shall
 be, but not yet. "Why, Fionna?"
      "It is  very bad," I  repeated, and I  found it harder  to ignore
 this foreigner's gentleness  than all my countrymen's  scorn. "I would
 not have you think badly of me."
      "Of you? You have written  poetry?" Because he sounded pleased, I
 looked at  him, and Ittosai Michiya  was smiling. "Please, read  it to
 me. I too write poetry. I would like you hear your poem."
      "But it is  so bad!" I protested. I knew  how horrid, forced, and
 mismetered the words on that page were.
      "Please," the  samurai said again,  covering my hand  gently with
 his.
      So I read  the incomplete verse softly before  I turned anxiously
 away  to dip  the brush  and  translate Luthias  Connall's order  into
 Bichanese characters. Ittosai  Michiya did not speak, and  I knew why.
 That poem was so bad.
      "I  do not  know the  Baranurian  forms of  poetry," the  samurai
 ventured as I began the second vertical line of Bichanese. "Is that in
 keeping with them?"
      "It isn't," I admitted. "I am working very hard, but I can't make
 the words fit."
      "It is not  the words," he told  me. "It is the  poem itself. How
 can something as ignoble and horrible as this jail they give to you be
 made into a beautiful poem?"
      Shocked, I stared at him. "You may be right," I mused softly, and
 then I returned to my work.  "Don't the Bichanese write of very common
 things?"
      "Yes, but of things of nature and of beauty--a frog, a tree. They
 do  not write  of squalor  and oppression,"  he concluded  scornfully,
 glaring at his surroundings. "How can this place be worthy of poetry?"
      "But I  wish to be a  great poet someday,  and I will never  be a
 great poet if I do not write."
      "That is true."
      I handed the samurai the brush. "Please, my lord, write your name
 in Bichanese." He scrawled the  fanciful characters only slightly more
 neatly  than his  liege lord  had scribbled  my alphabet,  but Ittosai
 Michiya's writing  was at least readable.  I copied his name  onto the
 order and continued.
      "It  is true  that you  will not  be a  great poet  if you  never
 write," the samurai  was saying as I translated, "but  it is also true
 that you  will never  be a  great poet as  you are  now. A  great poet
 writes of great things. Nothing great shall happen to you here."
      "I have nowhere else to go,"  I protested, turning toward him. "I
 am an orphan, my  lord, and alone. I have no money. If  I had money, I
 would go  to Dargon and seek  my mother's kin,  and even if I  did not
 find  them, I  would  be  accepted, for  in  Dargon,  they follow  the
 Stevene's teachings more closely. But as it is--"
      "Please,  Fionna,"  Ittosai  Michiya  soothed,  taking  my  hands
 despite the  fact that  I painted his  palm black, "I  do not  mean to
 upset you. You will  be a great poet, but you must  leave. You are too
 fine for this place."
      I yanked my  hands from him and quickly finished  the order while
 trying hard  to forget Ittosai  Michiya's presence. Forbidding  my own
 tears, I handed the samurai the  order in the two languages. "They are
 finished, my lord."
      "You are angry with me?"
      The pain in his  voice required me to look him  in the face. "No,
 my lord,"  I admitted  as my  heart melted before  the anguish  in his
 eyes. I tried to smile, and the tears oozed into my eyes. How could he
 think me angry with him? How could  I be angry with the one person who
 showed me kindness, who treated me as a human instead of a leper?
      I offered  him my hand in  friendship, for I had  nothing else to
 give. "I will not forget you."
      Ittosai Michiya smiled  then and took my hand. I  should not have
 been surprised  when he placed my  hand on his cheek  once more. Still
 holding my hand, he gazed at me with  such a look on his face, as if I
 were a princess in  a tower, a beautiful lady worthy  of a legend. "If
 only you and I had met earlier," he said, and his voice was thick.
      Ittosai Michiya  was a  man worthy  of a legend;  of that,  I was
 certain. I stepped closer.
      He kissed me  quickly, and before I could recover  from my shock,
 the samurai released both my hands. "Forgive me. I must go."
      I  can speak  only a  few words  in the  Bichanese tongue,  but I
 managed, "Sionara, Michiya."
      He  smiled at  me bravely,  a  smile that  gave hope  as well  as
 absorbed it, and then Ittosai Michiya was gone.
      I faced my  lonely, dark desk and sighed. Once,  only once, a man
 looked at me with  kindness and caring, and he went to  war. I felt as
 if I  would never see  him again. When  the tears threatened,  my body
 weakened, and I put a hand on the desk for support. A paper in a place
 where I kept none moved beneath my hand.
      I lifted it and gasped when I realized that it was sprinkled with
 Bichanese characters.  For a  moment, I  thought that  perhaps Ittosai
 Michiya  had forgotten  the  orders he  had come  to  get. My  stomach
 wrenched at the thought of going to the Royal Quarter to deliver them;
 if the common people were such  snobs to me, what would the 'nobility'
 be like?
      Then again, Ittosai  Michiya was a noble man,  and the characters
 on the  paper were in  his hand. "I will  return for you,"  the pretty
 lines promised. Following them was a  short haiku poem, from which all
 beauty would be lost if the tiny lines were translated, but they spoke
 of my eyes.
      Resolved, I folded  the paper gently and put it  in my little box
 with my  pens. I  gathered my one  bottle of ink.  "I will  return for
 you," Ittosai  Michiya had written, but  he would not find  me in this
 place. I had no doubt he would be pleased.
      "Greats poets write of great things," the samurai had said, and I
 knew  he was  right.  There  were great  things  happening, great  men
 living,  and I  would go  and see  the war  and watch  Sir Luthias  of
 Connall  and Sir  Edward Sothos--and  perhaps Ittosai  Michiya--become
 great heroes.  And I  would write  great epics  and songs.  Nothing so
 wonderful would ever happen here.
      I lifted my pen box and the one, lonely bottle of ink and paused.
 One great thing had happened to me  here. Hurried, I sat one last time
 at the  unbalanced table, and for  once, the words flowed  easily, and
 from my heart.

        Thou saids't, "Had thou and I met earlier--"
        And finished not, nor needed to; thy look
        So sad, profound, thy meaning did confer
        Far better than the words in any book.
        Thou saids't thou knews't regret; now I too know
        Thy prophet's vision, wondrous to the eye
        As roses risen from the Deber snow,
        But wrongly timed, were choked by cold to die.
        But still the roots beneath the snow await
        The spring and summer, time enough to bloom
        When winter's done; do not regret the fate
        Which might delay, but not forever doom.
        And I rejoice, that I have lived to see
        A living man who looked that way at me.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                             Lessons
                        by Wendy Hennequin
                  (b.c.k.a. <HENNEQUI@CTSTATEU>)

      "It is  not your  place to  lesson my  squires in  courtesy!" Sir
 Ongis roared,  "forgetting" the  honorific that courtesy,  custom, and
 his superior's rank and title demanded.
      Sir Luthias,  Count of  Connall, Knight  Captain of  the Northern
 Marche,  glared at  his  officer  coldly. "You  are  wrong, sir."  The
 younger  Knight's jaw  was  as tight  as his  clenched  fists, but  he
 managed  to quote  his wife's  father,  Sir Lucan  Shipbrook, who  had
 taught Luthias  himself the ways  of chivalry. "'It  is the duty  of a
 Knight to correct the behavior of all those who aspire to the chain.'"
      Sir Ongis' eyes narrowed. "My squires behave as I teach them."
      That  much was  obvious. "As  does my  squire," Luthias  replied,
 keeping his voice even with great effort. "I taught him to give a curt
 reply to anyone churlish enough to taunt him."
      The other Knight  snorted, his contempt for  Luthias obvious. "So
 your idea of a 'curt reply' is a blow to the mouth?"
      Luthias' fists relaxed as he  thought of what Marcellon might say
 to this  buffoon, and the  young Knight had to  conceal a smile  as he
 said it. "My squire is mute, sir. He can only speak with his hands."
      "You--!" Ongis growled,  taking a step closer to  Sir Luthias and
 putting a hand on his sword's  hilt. Behind the Knight, Luthias' chief
 aide, Captain  Ittosai Michiya, silently grasped  his katana's handle.
 "I should teach you a lesson in how to respect your betters!"
      "At  your  leisure, sir,"  Luthias  invited  coolly, keeping  his
 temper in check.  He had had more infuriating foes  than this. "I look
 forward to thrashing  you as thoroughly as my  squire thrashes yours."
 When  Ongis took  another step  toward  him, Luthias  looked over  the
 idiot's shoulder at his Castellan. "Shall  I have you escorted to your
 pavilion?"
      The Bichanese  offered a smile  and a bow,  as if he  would enjoy
 such a piece of work.
      When  the older  Knight  didn't move,  the  young Knight  Captain
 walked to the fireside and contemplated  the battle plans he had drawn
 in  the  dirt. Sir  Ongis  seethed.  After  a moment,  Luthias  added,
 "Dismissed."
      Out of  the corner of his  eye, the Count saw  Ongis stalk toward
 his bright pavilion. Michiya smiled, and Luthias returned it.
      The Bichanese  released his katana  and approached. "A  year ago,
 you would not have had such an easy time keeping your temper."
      Sir  Luthias  chuckled  and   clapped  his  aide's  shoulder.  "A
 Bichanese friend of mine has shown  me the advantage of control." As a
 pleasant flush covered Michiya's round  face, a dark shadow, angry and
 painful,  floated  through  Luthias'  eyes. "The  training  I  got  in
 Beinison helped greatly also."
      The castellan set his mouth. "A harsh lesson, that." Then Ittosai
 Michiya smiled again. "It is good to  see that the fool does not anger
 you much."
      Luthias  flashed  a  smile,  bright  as the  fire  and  quite  as
 dangerous.  "Oh, I  am  angry, Michiya,  and I'd  love  to drive  that
 craven, pompous son of a whore into  the ground, but I haven't got the
 time to worry  about him." The Knight Captain waved  his hand over his
 crude sketches. "I have more important matters to deal with."
      Michiya nodded  and squatted  over the  pictures. "You  are still
 certain that the Beinison army goes to Magnus, Luthias-sama?"
      Luthias' certainty knotted his heart. The Beinisons flowed toward
 Magnus as steadily as the Laraka river flowed from it. "They won't get
 there,"  Luthias vowed,  his eyes  hard.  "If I  have to  die for  it,
 Michiya, they won't get there."
      The Bichanese looked  at his leige-lord seriously  and said, "You
 may have to."
      Luthias gaze was  serious and sincere. "If that's  what it takes,
 I'm willing."
      Michiya smiled like a sunrise. "I  hope it will not come to that.
 I promised Myrande that I would bring you home safely."
      Luthias actually laughed. "I wonder  how many people promised her
 that."  The King  and  Sir Edward  knew they  could  hardly make  such
 promises, but  everyone else seemed  to think themselves  qualified to
 reassure  Myrande that  her husband  would return  from war  alive and
 safe.  Marcellon's  promise  rested  in the  sword  on  Luthias'  hip.
 Michiya's promise danced in his merry eyes. Luthias' vow burned in his
 heart: *Sable, I'll come home to you.* Their last night before he left
 raced  into his  mind, recalling  the Count's  most urgent  reason for
 halting Beinison's  progress--his beautiful wife. "We  have to protect
 Magnus, down to the last man."
      "Yes," Michiya agreed with a nod.  "There is much at stake there,
 but  do  not worry  about  Myrande  and  the children.  Marcellon  put
 protections on his house, he said."
      Luthias laughed shortly. "If she consents to stay in it."
      "Still,  she   has  protection,"   Michiya  reminded   him.  "But
 Fionna..."
      "Who?"
      "Fionna," Michiya repeated.
      "Who?"
      To Luthias'  surprise, his  castellan looked away.  "A...woman of
 Magnus. She is a scribe."
      A scribe? "Friend of yours?"  Luthias wondered, scribbling in the
 dirt.
      "Yes. I--I think I love  her." When Luthias' jaw dropped, Ittosai
 grinned up  at his lord, and  his openness disarmed any  teasing words
 Luthias might have  been preparing. "That is something  that I learned
 from you: how to love a woman."
      The  young  Knight couldn't  decide  whether  to be  repulsed  or
 amused. "You'd better  find another teacher. I think  I've pretty well
 botched it."
      His friend  shook his head.  "No, Luthias-sama, you  always loved
 Myrande well, even when you did not know you loved her."
      Luthias saw  about as much sense  in that statement as  in Ongis'
 behavior.  Luthias  needed  to  return  to  concepts  that  he  better
 understood. "What do you think?"  the Knight Captain asked, indicating
 his diagram with the stick he had used to draw it.
      Ittosai Michiya again surveyed the plan. "Well done."
      "If  it  rains tonight,  we  might  have  a little  trouble.  Mud
 could--" Sir  Luthias looked at  the figure  entering the glow  of the
 campfire as noiselessly as a ghost. For that--and his mute tongue--the
 other squires had named him the Silent. "Come here, Derrio."
      The Knight  inspected his squire  sternly, noting the  blood, the
 dirt, and  the bruises. "Brawling  with Ongis' squires  again?" Derrio
 hung his  head, but  managed to  nod. Luthias  waited a  moment before
 asking, "Did you win?" The boy  grinned. "Good. Now come over here and
 look at the plan for tomorrow."
      As the boy  settled near the sketch, Luthias used  his stick as a
 pointer and explained,  "We'll meet Beinison here, and  after a while,
 we'll retreat  into this  meadow. The  archers will  be hidden  in the
 trees around the field. The troops  will split into four parts--one to
 protect  the archers  on  each side,  and  the last  to  seal off  the
 meadow--and the archers will open fire."
      Derrio studied  the plan  intensely, then looked,  astonished, at
 his Knight. The squire cupped his hands, then sprang them together.
      "Yes, of course, it's a trap," Luthias agreed. The Knight laughed
 at Derrio's  appalled expression.  "What's wrong?  Don't you  think it
 will work?"
      Derrio  shook his  head. He  pointed  an accusing  finger at  the
 Knight Captain, another at the battle plans, then shook his head.
      "Unlike me?"  Luthias didn't  understand his  squire at  all. The
 young Count had  been trained in strategy for most  of his life. "What
 do you mean?"
      Disgusted and  stern, Derrio motioned reproachfully  at the trap,
 then  made a  fist,  with  the protruding  thumb  pointing toward  the
 ground.
      Luthias stared.  The down-pointing thumb was  Derrio's signal for
 "bad"  or "evil."  "It's  not  evil," Luthias  argued.  "This is  war,
 Derrio. I'm trying to save lives."
      Derrio jabbed a  furious digit toward the plan and  drew the same
 finger across his neck.
      Luthias had to admit it. "Yes, it will kill many, too, but that's
 the purpose."
      The  squire actually  snarled. Again,  he signaled  that Luthias'
 plan was unworthy and evil.
      Luthias  seized  his   patience  desperately.  Roisart,  Luthias'
 year-dead brother, had  never quite grasped the  concept, either. Now,
 the  Knight  Captain  found  himself once  again  in  the  frustrating
 position of trying to explain war to an idealist. "This isn't a matter
 of good  and evil, Derrio," the  Count of Connall attempted.  "This is
 war."
      Derrio shook his head angrily,  and Luthias rolled his eyes. This
 was  all   he  needed,   Roisart's  idealism  combined   with  Sable's
 obstinancy.  Again,  the squire  pointed  at  the sketches,  then  his
 Knight, then disapproved once more.
      Luthias hurled  his drawing stick  into the fire  in frustration.
 "You  can't judge  me by  my battle  plans!" Luthias  cried. "A  man's
 conduct in *peace* makes him good  or evil, Derrio, not his conduct in
 war. The only  moral decision in war  is whether or not  to start one.
 After that,  it's survival--kill or be  killed, and end as  quickly as
 you can."
      Derrio  blinked,   astonished  once  more.  Slowly,   the  squire
 indicated the sketch and  held out his hands, palms up,  as if he were
 weighing something.
      Luthias  smiled. "Of  course, it's  fair. There  are no  rules in
 war."
      Confusion suddenly  rushed onto silent Derrio's  face. Slowly, he
 pointed at his Knight, drew his hand across his chest where a Knight's
 chain  might fall,  then  made an  odd gesture  near  his waist.  When
 Luthias  shook his  head--he had  yet  to understand  all of  Derrio's
 signs--,  the squire  tipped his  head back  as if  drinking from  his
 curled hand. When  Luthias shook his head once more,  Derrio grabbed a
 small stick and wrote in uncertain letters, "Lawrence."
      "Oh." Luthias  recalled the battle  against that noble  Knight of
 the Star,  who had gifted  Luthias with the sword  he now wore  at his
 side.  "That  wasn't  the  same."  Derrio  shook  his  head  in  utter
 bewilderment. "Single  combat does  have rules. It's  not the  same as
 war."
      Derrio again shook his head, and  Luthias tried to think of a way
 to make  him understand.  "You used to  wrestle Sir  Edward's squires,
 didn't you?" Derrio  nodded, uncertain. "You were...playing  a game of
 sorts, and there were rules.  With Ongis' squires, though, you're just
 trying to beat  them into the ground." Derrio nodded  again, still not
 understanding. "When  you wrestle  Sir Edward's  squires, it's  like a
 Knight's single combat.  You fight by rules. Thrashing  Ongis' boys is
 like a war--the object is to win, and win fast."
      Derrio considered this. After a moment, he pointed to Luthias, to
 the  name "Lawrence"  scrawled in  the dust,  then made  a gesture  of
 killing. He  looked at Luthias  questioningly, and the  Knight nodded.
 "Yes. I  would have  killed Sir Lawrence  if I had  to, Derrio,  but I
 would have done it under the rules of chivalry."
      Derrio pointed to  the name, then at the battle  plans, and again
 his look questioned Luthias. "If he's there tomorrow, he'll die by the
 bow, the same as the rest, if all goes well."
      Derrio opened  his mouth,  pointed at  Sir Lawrence's  name, then
 made  a gesture,  same as  the sign  for evil,  except that  the thumb
 pointed toward the sky. "He is a  good man," Luthias agreed, "but if I
 were in his trap,  he would let me die, too. This  is war, Derrio, and
 we all do what we must."
      Derrio tapped his chest with both hands and shook his head.
      Luthias smiled sadly.  "You'll learn." Luthias gazed  down at his
 hands;  once  feeble and  trembling,  they  had murdered;  strong  and
 steady, they  had killed.  "Believe me, Derrio;  you'll learn.  We all
 do."
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                              Dummy
                           by Bill Erdley
                    (b.c.k.a. <BERDLY@BUCKNELL>)

      "Hey,  dummy!  Watch where  you  are  walking!" The  angry  voice
 startled  him out  of his  daydream. He  had been  thinking about  the
 marches, and about the war, and  especially about *her*; and he wasn't
 paying attention to where he was  going. The man that he stumbled into
 stopped only long  enough to issue the insult, then  he trudged off to
 his own business.
      But his words stayed behind.
      'Hey dummy, watch where you are going.'
      It rang in his mind as he crawled into his bedroll for the night.
      'Hey dummy!'
      He was so tired of hearing that word.
      'Dummy.'

      He drifted off to sleep thinking about the time that he had spent
 with Luthias after  he had left the farm. They  first went to Pyridain
 City, then they travelled on to Magnus. It was there that he had taken
 to  exploring the  city  when  he had  the  time,  which, between  his
 training, his schooling, and his chores, wasn't much. He did, however,
 discover several places that he  liked: the marketplace, the liveries,
 and the docks. He liked the docks  most of all. Coming to the city was
 the first time  he had ever seen  that much water in one  place, so he
 was facinated by  it: the ships, the sailors, the  cargoes, the waves,
 the smells.
      On one such trip, he was walking  back to the castle where he was
 staying when he  heard the frightened squeal of a  horse. Turning down
 an alley, he saw the horse rearing  back onto its hind legs, eyes wild
 and nostrils flaring. On the ground in  front of the horse was a large
 snake. He quickly  ran down the alley and dispatched  the snake with a
 piece of wood  that he found on the ground.  He then slowly approached
 the horse, and carefully reached for  the reins. The horse's eyes were
 still wide with  fright, but his motions were smooth  and relaxed, and
 his manner non-threatening, so he was  able to reach the reins without
 a problem. He stroked the nose of the horse carefully, then worked his
 way to  the neck and  shoulders. As the  horse quieted, he  thought to
 look for the rider. She lay face down  in a pile of refuse, one of the
 many  such piles  cluttering the  alleyway. Holding  the reins  of the
 horse low and  tugging gently, he turned it in  the narrow passage and
 guided it back  to the trash heap. He carefully  rolled the body over.
 She appeared  to be older  than he, but  smaller in stature.  Her long
 brown hair was woven into a thick  braid, which was tied at the bottom
 with a jet black ribbon. She had a nasty gash on her chin and a bruise
 under one  eye that was already  beginning to swell. He  picked her up
 and, as gently as he could, draped  her across the horse's back. As he
 led the horse back to the keep,  he wondered what the she was doing in
 the alley  in the first  place; and what a  small girl was  doing with
 such a  large animal. He  stopped several times  to check on  her; she
 remained unconsious,  although the bleeding  from the cut on  her chin
 seemed to  be slowing. He  reached the  compound and walked  the horse
 directly to the stables where Lasran, the stableboy, was busy cleaning
 the  stalls.  Lasran,   seeing  the  body  draped   over  the  saddle,
 immediately  ran off  to  find help.  Soon two  men,  guards by  their
 appearance, appeared and lifted the small form from the horse. As they
 hurried into the main building, he  heard one of them say "...gives me
 the  creeps. He  must be  some  kind of  dummy, 'cause  he never  says
 anything..."

           The snake was huge, with six heads and fangs that
       oozed venom.  The horse faced away from him, and it's
       young rider was oblivious to the danger.
           "Look out!" he screamed, but the voice was only in
       his head.
           The snake slithered closer to the horse and began to
       raise its head.  Even now it was even with the horse
       rider's head.
           He tried to run toward the horse, but several guards
       appeared and grabbed his shoulders.
           "Call to her, dummy.  Tell her that the snake is
       coming."
           The guards began to laugh.  He tried to pull away, but
       they held him fast.  He tried to cry out, but his voice
       was only a wish.  The snake now towered over both horse and
       rider, and it's mouth opened as it prepared to strike.
           "Come on, dummy!  It's up to you!  You'd better say
       something..."  The guards were laughing and poking him.
       He looked at them.  They had no ears!
           The snake struck, and the rider tumbled from the
       horse.  Rolling over and over, she came to rest at his
       feet.  As her face came into focus, he recognized the face
       of his sister!  Through her tears, she whispered, "Why
       didn't you warn me, you dummy."
           Then she died.

      He  bolted upright,  so drenched  in his  own sweat  that he  was
 chilled  instantly in  the  cold night  air. His  heart  raced and  he
 breathed in short, gasping heaves.
      Just a dream. It was all just a dream.
      Remembering the incident caused a  flood of memories to wash over
 him as he tried to go back  to sleep. He remembered at sneaking out at
 night; and how he  had learned to limit his visits to  only an hour or
 two,  since losing  more  sleep  than that  made  too  tired the  next
 morning. Most of the time she would  meet him at a place that they had
 aggreed on  the night before.  She spent  many nights showing  him the
 city...
      "Hi, Derrio."
      Hi.
      "Where would you like to go tonight?"
      Water. Boat.
      "To the docks? That's a bad place to be at night."
      Why.
      "It's  dangerous. There  are thieves  and ruffians  and drunkards
 there at night."
      I. Afraid. Not.
      "I know, but let's go somewhere  else. I know. Some of my friends
 like to go down  to an old, abandoned house and  tell scary stories in
 the dark. Like to go?"
      Yes. Yes.
      "Ok, follow me."
      As they  ran, he thought about  how much he liked  her, and about
 how much  he wanted to  tell her, but "hand  speak" didn't seem  to be
 very romantic.
      Once in the old house, he saw a dozen or so people sitting around
 a lighted candle.
      "Hi, all. This  is Derrio." Her voice echoed from  the bare walls
 of the empty room.
      "Hi, Derrio."
      "Come in and join us."
      "Yes. We have lots of room."
      "Newbees tell the first story"
      "Derrio tells the first tale."
      I. Talk. Not. I. Listen. You.
      "What's wrong."
      "What are you doing?"
      "He's a witch casting a spell!"
      "Ha ha ha. Look at him, thrashing around like a dummy...
      "STOP IT!! He can't talk! That doesn't mean that he's an idiot!"
      "Easy, Risa.  We didn't mean any  harm. Here, you and  Derrio sit
 over here and I'll start the first story..."

           "Hey, Dummy!"
           "Dummy, dummy, dummy."
           The children's chant echoed over and over, until the
       voices of the small group sounded like the cries of a mob.
           "Dummy, dummy, dummy."
           Louder and louder the voices grew, until the sound was
       like a physical presence in his head, pounding this way
       and that, looking for an escape but finding none.
           "Dummy, dummy, dummy."
           The pain of the voices was intensifying.  His head
       felt ready to explode.  He opened my mouth to scream, to
       free this monsterous beast from its prison within his
       brain...
               Nothing came out.
               "Dummy, dummy, dummy."
               "Dummy, Dummy, Dummy!"
               "DUMMY, DUMMY, DUMMY!!"

      The  sound that  he made  as he  flew from  his bedroll  was loud
 enough to  wake most of  those around  him. Luthias and  Michiya found
 themselves standing, swords drawn, before they were consious enough to
 realize that there  was no danger. Then, realizing that  it was only a
 child's nightmare, they crawled back into their bedrolls.
      But the youth stood still.
      And shook.
      The nightmares  were getting worse.  He had  to find some  way to
 clear his mind so that he could get some sleep; but it drifted back to
 Risa. Her smile. Her face. Her hair. Risa...

      His  courage was  at a  peak.  It had  been  a day  off from  his
 studies, his sparring with Luthias had  gone well, and he had finished
 his chores early.
      Tonight is the night.
      He washed and dressed as quickly as  he could. Then he ran out of
 the compound and into  the city streets as fast as  his feet would go.
 Only when he approached her house did he slow and stop.
      Her parents. How  could he reach her without  seeing her parents?
 If they saw him, they would talk to him. What would they think when he
 didn't talk back?
      The door opened and a lady stepped out, looking straight at him.
      "Derrio?" Are you Derrio?"
      Yes.
      "Come. Risa is expecting you."
      He moved forward hesitantly.
      "Come, now.  Don't be afraid. You  needn't be shy about  your not
 being able to  talk. From what Risa  has told us, you  talk very well;
 you just use your hands instead of your mouth."
      He froze! They know!  Oh no, now what do I  do?! They know! "Come
 on in, son, before I find it  necessary to come out there and drag you
 in. I'll make you  a deal. I won't mind that you  talk with your hands
 if you don't mind that I talk with my mouth."
      A hint  of a smile  snuck onto his  face. Some of  his confidence
 returned as he entered the house.

      After dinner he  found himself sitting in a small  room with Risa
 and her mother.
      "So you came here from the farm."
      Yes.
      "And your parents?"
      Father. Archer. Army.
      Mother. Cook. Army.
      "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
      Risa's  face held  a look  of  horror as  she tried  to stop  her
 mother's question.
      No.
      "Oh, dear. I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?!"
      Risa jumped in quickly. "Mom, don't ask him about..."
      Wait. No. Fear.
      Sister. Dead.
      Bad. Man. Far. Army. Kill. Sister.
      "Oh. I'm sorry, Derrio."
      No. Sadness.
      "Well, I must excuse myself. There  are lots of chores to be done
 tonight. I'll leave you to yourselves."
      I. Help.
      "No, Derrio. I can handle them. You sit and visit." The woman got
 up and walked quickly out of the room.
      I. Ask. You. Question.
      Risa smiled. "Of course you can ask me a question."
      He rose from his chair and knelt before her.
      Marry. I.
      She smiled and spoke his language.
      Yes.
      They embraced for  a long moment. Her long brown  hair smelled of
 smoke from the fireplace as he ran his fingers through it. Finally she
 broke the embrace and spoke. "I must  tell my mother. I'll return in a
 moment..." Then she ran out of the room.
      Yes. She  said 'yes!' Just wait  until I tell everyone!  She said
 that she would marry me! She said...
      "NO!!! I WILL NOT ALLOW  IT!!!" Risa's mother's voice pierced the
 silence. "RISA,  I SAID NO!!  I WILL NOT  HAVE YOU MARRYING  HIM!! YOU
 KNOW WHAT  HE IS!!  HOW CAN  YOU EVEN THINK  IT!! I  WILL NOT  HAVE MY
 DAUGHTER MARRYING A..."
      The rest was lost  to him as he burst from the  house. But he had
 heard enough to be able to fill in the missing word.
      Dummy.
      'I will not have my daughter marrying a dummy.'
      He ran as fast  as he could through the streets  by the docks. It
 was late  and the normal dock  traffic was missing. There  were only a
 few drunks to witness his flight.  Tears streamed from his eyes and he
 ran blindly on, navigating by instinct more than sight.
      Dummy.
      Dummy, dummy, dummy.
      'He must be some kind of dummy 'cause he never says anything...'
      'Ha ha ha. Look at him, thrashing around like a dummy...'
      'I will not have my daughter marrying a dummy...'
      Dummy, Dummy, Dummy...
      WHAM! The  impact made  his head  spin. He  tumbled to  the rough
 cobblestones and slid to a halt.
      "HEY!! You should  watch where you're going, lad.  There are some
 who would see your  head roll for such an act." He looked  up to see a
 man dressed in  a dark cloak sitting  beside him on the  road. The man
 reached over and took him by the  arm. "Now, would you like to tell me
 what you are running from?"
      No.
      "Are you running from the town guard, perhaps?"
      No.
      "Is someone chasing you, then?"
      No.
      "Well, next time you wish to run from no one, try not to run into
 anyone, OK."
      Yes.
      "Why don't you talk?"
      He looked into  the eyes of the stranger, and  for the first time
 the man could see the tears within.
      "Can  I help  you?"  The man's  voice was  soft  and filled  with
 compassion and gentleness, but Derrio heard it as pity. He pulled away
 violently from the  man's grasp and ran away, leaving  the man sitting
 there, shaking his head.

           "Aw, poor little dummy.  What's the matter, dummy?
       Why do you run?  Are you being chased?"
           He turns from the cloaked man to look behind him.
       From everywhere on the docks, people approach.  People
       without ears.
           "Dummy..."
           Their words are mere whispers, but the meaning
       tears into his soul.
           "Dummy..."
           They come from everywhere, young and old, men and
       women and children.  All without ears.  All murmuring
       the same thing...
           "Dummy, dummy, dummy..."
           The cloaked man still holds his arm, and he can't
       seem to pull away.
           Here come the guards, earless and chanting...
           "Dummy, dummy, dummy..."
           Behind him are Risa's friends, laughing...
           "Dummy, Dummy, Dummy..."
           Risa's mother is before him now...
           "DUMMY, DUMMY, DUMMY..."
           He looks to his captor, who looks with pity and says
       "Poor little dummy.  Who will help you?  Where can you
       turn?  Can there be any place to hide for a dummy...?"
           "Dummy, Dummy, Dummy..."
           "DUMMY, DUMMY, DUMMY..."
           "DUMMY!!!"

      He wakes with a start and  cries out, but the sound resembles the
 wail of a beast more than the cry of a man.
      The voice of a dummy.
      He sits there and weeps.

      Between the memories and the nightmares, the night had not been a
 restful one for the squire. The morning brought the remembrance of the
 previous day's marches, and the  realization that this day would bring
 more. Derrio  was finishing his morning  chores when the man  from the
 night before walked by. He noticed Derrio and smiled, "I see the dummy
 has mastered the art of standing still, now if he could only...AWK!
      The man suddenly found the point of Derrio's sword at his throat!
 With his free hand, Derrio signed violently.
      I! NOT! DUMMY!
      The man tried to step sideways to avoid the sword tip, but Derrio
 rapped him on the side of the head with the flat of the sword, cutting
 his scalp slightly.
      I! NOT! DUMMY!
      "Hey... Look, kid. I don't know what has you so mad, but whatever
 it is, I'm sorry. Ok?"
      I! NOT! DUMMY!
      "Derrio!"
      The  boy froze  at his  Knight's voice,  but did  not remove  the
 sword. He heard Sir Luthias' footsteps approach, but did not turn.
      "Put down the sword, Derrio," Sir Luthias said, his voice deathly
 stern. "I don't care what he  said--" The Knight Captain glared at the
 cloaked man.  "--but a Knight  *never* draws  steel on someone  who is
 unarmed." Derrio's hand wavered. "Am I clear, Derrio?"
      Slowly, so slowly, Derrio lowered and sheathed his sword.
      He. Speak. I. Dummy. He. Laugh.
      Sir Luthias frowned. "I see." He  turned to the cloaked man. "Who
 the hell are you, anyway?"
      The cloaked man mumbled something.
      "Isn't Beinison  enough for you? Do  you have to make  enemies of
 your commander's squire?" Sir Luthias asked in that death-calm voice.
      "Your squire, Sir Captain? But he's--"
      "Well  trained. I  agree. His  draw has  gotten amazingly  quick,
 lately, and if I hadn't said something, you would be dead right now."
      "But he's--"
      "Honorable, too. Like  any honorable man, he does not  like to be
 insulted."
      "But  he's a  dummy!" the  man finally  got out.  "An idiot,  Sir
 Captain!"
      "He  is *silent*!"  Sir Luthias  roared. "My  father used  to say
 there was wisdom in silence. Dismissed."
      The cloaked man slunk away.
      Thank. You.
      Sir  Luthias smiled.  "It is  one of  my duties  as your  Knight,
 Derrio, to protect you. That man was  a mage, and he could have killed
 you."
      He. Say. I. Dummy.
      "I know." Sir  Luthias paused. "Now, about drawing  your blade on
 him--"
      Sorry. Angry.
      "I know," Sir  Luthias said again. "But that  doesn't excuse you.
 You can't control what you feel--nobody can--but you've got to control
 how you act. Your action was wrong, Derrio."
      The boy hung his head.
      "When I drew steel on an unarmed man, Sir Lucan took my sword for
 a month."
      Derrio's eyes panicked. Then: You. Draw. Sword?
      Sir Luthias smiled,  then sobered quickly. "Now, I  can't do that
 to you in a war zone. But what I am going to do is give you additional
 chores to do. We'll talk further about this later."
      Sadly, Derrio nodded.
      Shortly  after  the  midday  meal,  a  small  group  of  horsemen
 approached. Luthias  and Derrio stood as  the horsemen rode to  a stop
 and dismounted.
      "Sir Luthias, this needs your immediate attention." The leader of
 the group handed  Luthias a sealed letter. Luthias accepted  it. As he
 opened it, another of the horsemen approached Derrio.
      "A young  lady asked if  I would give this  to the squire  of Sir
 Luthias of Connall. Are you said squire?" He held out a small package.
      Yes.
      Derrio  took the  package  and  looked it  over.  Attached was  a
 letter, which he opened and tried  to read. He could only understand a
 few of  the words. As patiently  as possible, he waited  until Luthias
 finished reading his letter and spoke  a few commands to the horsemen.
 As they turned and rode away, Derrio handed his letter to Luthias.
      Read. Please.

           Derrio,

               Please forgive my mother for saying those
           terrible things.  We have spoken long about this,
           and I understand her fear.  My father was a
           member of the militia.  He died at Oron's
           Crossroads.  My mother didn't want me to have to
           know the same kind of pain that she has known.
           She said 'I will not have my daughter marry a
           warrior', but I asked her if she would keep her
           daughter from marrying a knight!  You will be a
           knight someday, Derrio.  I know it in the bottom
           of my heart.  When you return, I will marry you,
           with or without my mother's blessing!

               I wait for thee, my knight to be.  Be safe
           and be well.

                   Risa

      He carefully opened the package. Inside he found a thick braid of
 dark brown hair, carefully woven into  a small loop and decorated with
 a jet  black ribbon. He gingerly  removed it from it's  wrappings and,
 with trembling fingers, placed it in  the small pouch which he carried
 at his side; the pouch which  contained his only other treasure in the
 world.
      A small harp.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                              Pact
                              Part 3
                         by Max Khaytsus
           (b.c.k.a. <[email-masked]..Colorado.EDU>)

      Ilona  had no  intentions  of showing  the note  or  the gem  she
 received during the night to Kalen. Not knowing if he was still at her
 apartment, she carefully pushed open  the door and stepped inside. The
 door  had the  bad tendency  to squeak  when it  was opened  or closed
 slowly and she tried to minimize the sound, but there was still a loud
 squeak as the door shut.
      "Shhh..."
      Ilona jumped at the sound of Kalen's  voice. He sat in a chair by
 the desk next  to the window, looking outside. That  desk, a heavy old
 wooden monster, had  been a gift from Captain Koren  just a few months
 before, when new furniture was purchased for his office.
      "I thought you were supposed to be at work by now," Ilona said.
      Kalen put  his index  finger to his  lips. "Tara's  sleeping," he
 whispered. "We were up half the night talking."
      Ilona took  a seat  by Kalen.  She had  spent a  big part  of the
 afternoon of the previous day  with Tara n'ha Sansela, Captain Koren's
 niece, talking  about her  uncle's death, trying  to comfort  her. She
 turned the young woman  over to Kalen when she had to  go to her shift
 and  hoped the  problem  would be  solved by  the  time she  returned.
 Something in Kalen's manner told her there were still things to do.
      "How is she doing?" Ilona asked.
      "She cried herself to sleep," Kalen sighed. "I wish we could tell
 her, but it  would only expose her to unnecessary  risks. You know how
 much she'll want to see him."
      "Did you get any sleep?"
      "A little," Kalen motioned to a  pillow and blanket in one of the
 corner chairs. "She got me thinking.  What if the assassin hadn't been
 stopped?"
      "He was," Ilona said, half promising and half hoping. She did not
 want to think about the alternative.
      Kalen nodded, but did not speak.
      "You best go. I'll watch Tara."
      "All  right,"  Kalen  agreed.  He kissed  Ilona  and  left  after
 gathering his equipment.
      Ilona removed  her own sword  and weapon  belt and hung  the dark
 blue guard tabard on  the back of a chair. It had been  a long day and
 she felt it would  last much longer. It was barely  noon now. She took
 out  the gem  sent to  her  during the  night.  It was  a clear  white
 crystal,  two fingers  wide, carefully  cut  into a  flat oval  shape.
 Definitely expensive. In fact, more expensive than she could afford on
 her lieutenant's  pay. It could be  made into a nice  piece of jewelry
 and for  a moment she considered  keeping it. She knew  she could not,
 simply because  of who had given  it to her. Besides,  it was probably
 stolen. She would have  to check the reports and return  it as soon as
 this case was over, but it was nice to dream.
      The note that came with the gem ominously predicted the direction
 of Ilona's  career for the  duration of her  tenure as one  of Liriss'
 people.  She understood  that,  with time,  the  rewards would  become
 smaller and  demands of  the job  would increase.  For now  Liriss was
 simply luring her into his trap, to get her in deep enough so that she
 would be unable to leave or tell  anyone else. She was glad that Kalen
 and Jerid  already knew. They  would help  keep her from  falling into
 that trap; the same one too many innocent people had been drawn into.
      Putting everything  in the desk, Ilona  took a peek in  the other
 room, where Tara was sleeping. The  Captain's niece was in bed, buried
 deep under the blankets. At least she was resting. The things that had
 happened were the worst  for her. About a year ago  her own father and
 mother were killed  by bandits down in the village  of Myridon, in the
 Duchy of Narragan. She had spent weeks finding her way up to Dargon in
 hopes of locating  Adrunian Koren, her long lost uncle.  It was a big,
 happy reunion when they had finally met and Captain Koren had thrown a
 two day long celebration. Koren's own wife, Talei, died in child birth
 many years ago and the child died  not long after. When Tara came into
 his life, he  once again had a  family and uncle and niece  hit it off
 immediately.
      The injuries the  Captain received during the  invasion of Dargon
 threw  Tara into  a panic.  She was  helping with  the wounded  at the
 castle with Ilona when Adrunian Koren was brought in. It took hours to
 calm  her  then,  while  only  the skills  of  the  Duke's  physician,
 Elizabeth, kept  Koren alive.  Now it was  different. Everyone  had to
 believe  Koren was  dead.  Unfortunately this  included  Tara. In  the
 girl's mind she was once again all alone, just like in the fall a year
 ago when her  parents were killed. This did not  make the conspirators
 feel any better.
      With a  sigh Ilona  returned to  the main  room and  made herself
 comfortable under  the blanket in  the corner. She  had been up  for a
 long  time, since  the day  she  went to  speak with  Liriss, and  two
 sleepless nights finally  caught up with her. She fell  asleep as soon
 as she was settled comfortably.

      Having knocked  twice without receiving an  answer, Kesrin opened
 the  door and  entered Liriss'  office. The  crime lord  stood by  the
 window, sipping wine from a goblet, thoughtfully looking at the events
 taking place in the street below.
      "My Lord?" Kesrin said cautiously.
      Liriss  did not  answer,  unblinking eyes  still  focused on  the
 market street below.
      Kesrin coughed. "My Lord?" he said louder this time.
      Liriss turned his head to look  at his lieutenant, a scowl on his
 face.
      "I knocked twice, my Lord,"  Kesrin explained. "You didn't answer
 either time. I thought something was wrong."
      "Sit  down, Kesrin,"  Liriss  said  harshly. He  had  no time  or
 patience  to be  disturbed and  his temper  has been  running hot  all
 morning, ever  since the news  from the  streets reached his  ears. He
 started pacing as Kesrin sat down, passing behind his lieutenant twice
 and making him cringe.
      "I want to know who killed Adrunian Koren," he finally said.
      "Sir?" Kesrin  felt sweat forming  on his forehead. "Word  on the
 street is that you sent a man."
      "I did not  send a man!" Liriss bellowed. "I  would have told you
 to send a man! I want to know who did!"
      "Sir?"
      "Stop saying that! Get  off your ass and find the  man who set me
 up!"
      "Yes, my Lord," Kesrin hurried to his feet. He had never seen the
 crime  boss so  furious  and even  if  he could  not  provide the  man
 responsible, his best option was to get out of Liriss' office while he
 still had the chance. He would see immediately to finding a culprit or
 a fall guy.
      Liriss watched  his lieutenant  retreat, then slammed  the goblet
 down  on the  table. Red  wine slopped  onto the  rich oak  table top,
 quickly forming into bubbles of liquid. "Damn them all!"

      Rish  halted at  the far  end of  the corridor,  watching Captain
 Bartol's office  door, where Kalen  had disappeared as  the chronicler
 was making his way to see Jerid Taishent. Now he paced back and forth,
 waiting for  his chance  to see  the castle lieutenant  and ask  a few
 questions about the assassin's methods and the investigation.
      Quite some time had passed while  Kalen and Jerid talked and Rish
 once again had the chance to  evaluate his research. It seemed strange
 that he was faced with so many stumbling blocks while trying to make a
 simple historical record. It was  as if information was being withheld
 from him  on purpose.  Everyone claimed  not to  be familiar  with the
 facts. Rish found this to be highly disturbing.
      The door down  the corridor opened and Kalen stepped  out. He was
 about to  close the door behind  him, when he stopped  to listen. Rish
 listened, too, but could hear nothing coming from the office.
      "Okay, I'll  do that,"  Kalen agreed.  "And don't  tell Elizabeth
 anything. I  don't need her  on my case  again. It's bad  enough Ilona
 knows. She  won't let me hear  the end of  it, but at least  she's not
 threatening me."
      Something more came from the office.
      "No, not at  all," Kalen spoke again. "A wound's  a wound, right?
 You  just keep  your end  up here  and  give me  a yell  if there's  a
 problem." He closed  the door and turned, finally  spotting Rish. "Uh,
 good afternoon..."
      Rish forced himself to smile. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant."
      "Stalking the castle again?" Kalen asked carefully.
      "No,  I'm   just  waiting  for  Lieutenant   Taishent  to  become
 available." The forced smile remained frozen in place.
      "He's in the office," Kalen hurried to say. "Have a good day."
      Before Rish had  a chance to answer, Kalen was  off. Rish watched
 him go, a bit puzzled and concerned  if what he had just overheard was
 a conspiracy.  If it  was, his  own life  could be  in danger  now. He
 hesitated  at the  door, wondering  if he  should knock  or not,  when
 suddenly it was pulled opened from the inside.
      Rish stepped back as Jerid Taishent came face to face with him.
      "Rish... Is  there something I can  do for you?" Jerid  asked. He
 was obviously unprepared for this meeting.
      "I, uh..." Rish had already decided that he would not do anything
 to cast  suspicion on  himself, but  had no idea  what he  should say.
 "Ah... I came to tell you somebody stole my ink."
      "Your ink?"
      "My ink."  The story  was still  not complete. "I  have a  box of
 ink." Rish paused for a moment,  trying to organize his thoughts, then
 went on. "There were still fourteen full bottles there. This," he held
 up the bottle  dangling on a rope  off his belt, "is  almost empty and
 someone  took my  box.  If it  were  the quills  or  the parchment,  I
 wouldn't mind so  much, but ink is so expensive,  there will certainly
 be questions."
      "I have an errand to run now,  Rish," Jerid said. "Can I get back
 to you later this evening?"
      "Of course," Rish said agreeably. He  needed the time to hide his
 ink.

      Ilona  woke to  the sound  of splashing  water. She  rolled over,
 realizing she  was on the  floor. The  sounds came from  the adjoining
 room, probably Tara  washing up. Ilona sat up with  the pillow between
 her back and the wall. She was still tired and sleepy, but it was late
 afternoon and there was no reason  to lounge around. There was work to
 be done.  She pushed herself up,  letting the pillow and  blanket fall
 down around her.
      "Tara?" Ilona stepped into the other room.
      Tara stood at the basin of water, wiping her face with a towel.
      "How did you sleep?" Ilona asked.
      "Well, thank you. I hope I'm not imposing on you..."
      "No, not at all," Ilona said. "I'm glad to have you here."
      "I'd like to go back to my uncle's house," Tara said. "Boxter and
 Zed have been alone all day. I need to check on them and feed them."
      "Do you want me to go with you?" Ilona offered.
      "I'd like  to be alone," Tara  admitted. Ilona could see  the red
 and a faint trace of tears in the teenager's eyes.
      "Tara..."
      "I'll  be fine,"  the girl  said with  a catch  in her  voice. "I
 should be getting used to this now."
      "Oh,  sit down,"  Ilona  said, putting  a  comforting arm  around
 Tara's shoulder. "I don't think we ever finished yesterday and I don't
 know what garbage Kalen filled your head with."
      "He was very  nice, really. I don't  want the two of  you to have
 problems because of me."
      "We won't have problems," Ilona snapped, "Now sit down!"
      Tara sat on the  edge of the bed. Ilona brought  over a chair and
 sat down across from her.
      "Look, I wish I could make  you believe that I understand how you
 feel. I lost my parents many years ago and I know what it's like to be
 alone, and I'm sure it doesn't get easier the second time around..."
      "I'm fine,  really," Tara insisted  again, wiping tears  from her
 cheeks. "You don't need to worry."
      "All  right," Ilona  agreed, not  really believing  the Captain's
 niece. "But promise that if you ever need to talk, you'll come to me."
      "I promise."
      "All right, then," Ilona still did not believe Tara was well, but
 she was not about to force herself  on the girl. In due time when Tara
 would be ready, the truth would be told, but until then she would have
 to suffer along  with the rest of  the city. "I'm going  to the market
 now," Ilona said. "Be sure you're  here for dinner...and I suppose you
 can bring Boxter over and keep him  in the stables. I'm not sure about
 having a shivaree prowl the house, though."
      Tara remained  after Ilona left and  looked out the window  for a
 long time. She was once again on  her own, having lost her family, but
 this time there was  no one else she could go to.  This time she would
 have to learn to be self sufficient.

      A heavy hand fell on Ilona's shoulder as she made her way through
 the crowded market  and although the touch was gentle,  she jumped and
 grabbed for her sword.
      "I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Cormabis laughed. "I meant no harm."
      Ilona took  a deep  breath, looking at  the smiling  elderly man.
 "It's all right.  I'm just a bit  jumpy today. What can I  do for you,
 Sage?"
      "Nothing for  me, thank  you, but  I was  wondering how  you were
 doing. I heard about the Captain."
      In  spite of  herself, Ilona  followed Corambis  down the  market
 street towards his booth.
      "It's my fault, Corambis. You gave me good advice, but I made the
 wrong decision."
      "Did you?" the Sage asked. "Or did uncontrollable events overcome
 you?"
      Ilona kept silent  while they walked past a  cloth dealer's stand
 where a crowd had assembled. "What uncontrollable events?"
      "Did you hire the assassin to do the job? Did you encourage him?"
 Corambis' eyes grew  bright, almost seeing inside  her soul. "Whatever
 you did, the assassin was not your direct doing."
      "How do you know that?" Ilona  challenged him. "How do you know I
 didn't hire him to do that?"
      "Because I know you, Ilona  Milnor," Corambis laughed, "just like
 I knew Dane Milnor and you are every bit your father's daughter."
      "Am I really that predictable?"
      "You?"  Corambis  continued  walking  in  silence,  a  thoughtful
 expression on his face. "To an old Sage like me, you are. You wouldn't
 trust a crook  as far as you  could spit a mouse and  neither did your
 father."
      "I can't spit a mouse all that far," Ilona smiled.
      "Take my advice,"  Corambis went on. "Bad things  happen, but you
 have to be strong and prepared. I'm sure your father wouldn't give up,
 and neither should you."
      "But my father was a merchant!"
      "Even merchants  can have  strong character,"  Corambis insisted,
 "as do their daughters who want revenge."
      For a long time Ilona could  not answer. "He..." She was not sure
 what she wanted to say. "It's  been over two decades! You don't really
 think that's what I'm after?"
      "Only you can answer why you  joined the guard, but I know you've
 hated Liriss  since the day you  learned what really happened  to your
 parents."
      Ilona paused  to think about  what Corambis had said.  She always
 had a hidden desire to bring Liriss'  empire down, but that was also a
 part of  her duty  in the  Guard. It was  her job  and she  started to
 wonder if that was why she chose this line of work in the first place.
      "No  one doubts  the need  to rid  the city  of crime,"  Corambis
 continued before Ilona  had a chance to justify herself,  "but it will
 have to be a gradual process. Don't let your haste interfear with your
 progress.  Adrunian  Koren  will  always live  right  here,"  Corambis
 touched his finger over her heart, "he knew the risks. Now you must do
 your job."
      And with those words Corambis shuffled into his booth, which they
 had now reached, leaving Ilona outside to ponder his wisdom.

      Tara brought Boxter, her horse, under the overhang that served as
 the stables. She secured him to a  rail by the wall, making sure there
 was  plenty of  hay, and  returned to  the street  where Zed,  her pet
 shivaree sat waitin g for her, cleaning out the fur on his side.
      "Come along, Zed," Tara called and the animal quickly got up. She
 patted the  shivaree as it  brushed past her leg  on the way  to Ilona
 Milnor's apartment.
      Boxter and Zed have been alone  at her uncle Glenn's house, where
 she had lived  since coming to Dargon  a year ago, for  an entire day,
 ever since  she went to  visit her uncle at  the castle. Tara  had not
 been able  to speak with  her uncle, the Captain  of the Guard,  for a
 month  now, since  the castle  doctor had  put him  to sleep  with her
 medicines, but she would come every day anyhow and sit by his side for
 an hour  or two and  talk to him. The  physician always said  that the
 Captain could  not hear  the words  in his  trance, but  Tara believed
 otherwise and continued her daily visits, until the previous day, when
 Lieutenants Milnor and Taishent told her that during the night someone
 had assassinated her uncle. She had  cried at the loss, remembering of
 another loss less than a year ago, when her parents had been killed by
 bandits and she  had to travel to  Dargon to meet her  uncle, whom she
 had never seen. Passing through the trading village of Tench, Tara had
 encountered a  young woman by  the name of  Lana who looked  very much
 like  herself and  who tried  to kill  Tara, believing  she was  being
 impersonated and her reputation destroyed.
      Tara fled  Tench with a few  cuts and bruises, together  with Zed
 and Boxter. Zed saved her life, coming  to her rescue just as her twin
 was about to deliver the killing blow.  Zed lost his right ear in that
 fight, but mauled her attacker in  his frenzy. Lana was left alive and
 as she  staggered off,  dripping blood, promised  Tara she  would come
 back to kill  her. At first those  words scared Tara, but  after a few
 weeks in  Dargon Tara relaxed  in the safety  of her uncle's  home and
 even began  to doubt that Lana  survived her injuries, let  alone that
 she could find Tara in Dargon, so many leagues away.
      It has  now been almost ten  months since Tara came  to Dargon to
 live with  her uncle Adrunian  Koren. They  both liked each  other and
 lived well  as a family.  Her uncle taught her  to fight and  to read,
 although she  was still having many  problems with both. Then  the war
 came and he was grievously injured. If not for a young mage trapped in
 Dargon during the war, her uncle would have died on the battle field.
      Tara paniced at first, when her  uncle was brought to the castle.
 She  was helping  treat  the  wounded in  the  Dargon  Keep while  the
 Beinison fleet pushed  wave after wave of soldiers into  the city, but
 she was never  really prepared for what she saw.  The castle physician
 got to him immediately and eased his wounds, although he was still far
 from being in good shape. Now, just when it seemed everything would be
 fine, he was killed, without even the chance to defend himself.
      Tara wiped the tears that had formed in her eyes and reached down
 to hug Zed  who kept circling her with anticipation.  "You're all I've
 got left," she sobbed. Zed pressed  his wet nose against her cheek and
 a grumble came from his throat.
      "It'll be all right," Tara assured him through her sobs, stroking
 his short light brown fur.
      She opened the door and went into Ilona's apartment. The shivaree
 followed her in, carefully sniffing  the floor and the furniture. Tara
 watched him  look around, knowing  full well  that he should  not stay
 here for long,  but she let him  prowl around for the  time being. She
 did not  want to stay  long here either.  No more than  another night,
 until she could prove to herself  and the Lieutenant that she could go
 on alone. Then she would go back  to her uncle's house and live there.
 She was his  only living relative and  knew he would want  it no other
 way. Then she would have to find a job. She could possibly get on as a
 guard or maybe helping  in one of the stores at  the market or working
 at the Duke's castle.
      "We're  going to  have to  go soon,  Zed, if  I'm to  be back  by
 dinner," Tara  said. The  shivaree trotted  over to  her and  tried to
 climb into her lap.
      "Oh, Zed, you're getting so  fat," she complained, gently pushing
 him down. "City  living's too good for you. I'll  have to start taking
 you to the forest more often."
      He slipped  under the  chair Tara was  sitting on  and reappeared
 under the table. After a moment she heard him licking something. "What
 did you find?" Tara looked down. Zed sat with his rear to her, licking
 at something by the wall. Tara  pushed him aside. "What are you doing,
 you trouble maker?" When he looked over at her, she snatched a feather
 quill from under his paws. It probably smelled like a bird before. Now
 it was  all wet  with shivaree spit.  As Tara got  back in  the chair,
 drying the wet  pen, Zed stuck his  head out from under  the table and
 licked his chops.
      Having wiped the  quill on her tunic, Tara opened  the top drawer
 and put it there, so Zed could not  get to it again. She moved aside a
 narrow strip of paper and put the  quill on a small simple wooden box.
 She was about  to put the paper  on top of that, when  some writing on
 the strip caught her attention. She  looked at it, careful to make out
 the  letters. "You're  well on  your way,"  the note  said and  it was
 signed, "Liriss."
      At first Tara dropped the paper -- she knew who Liriss was -- but
 then picked it  up and read it again, ignoring  Zed's nuzzling at her.
 There was no doubt that what  she read was right. Quickly Tara started
 searching through the drawer. The  only thing there that obviously did
 not fit was  a large gem stone in  the box the note had  lain on. Tara
 heard how  expensive these  gems were and  that lieutenants  could not
 afford them. Even her uncle, with his pay, would probably have to stop
 and think twice if he could afford to buy something like that.
      "Come on, Zed," Tara got up. She put both the gem and the note in
 her pocket and hurried for the door. Lieutenant Milnor was working for
 Liriss, which meant  Lieutenant Darklen probably worked  for him, too.
 She knew they were very close.
      Tara closed the  door after herself and Zed. The  only safe place
 now was  the castle where Jerid  Taishent stayed. She had  to tell him
 what she learned.
      "Come on, Zed," Tara encouraged  the shivaree and he bounced down
 the street after her.

      Corambis shuffled  the chips from  his casting on the  table. "By
 Kurin's beard! Twice!" He gathered the  chips in their pouch and shook
 it. "Of all the things to cast!"
      He tossed the bag in a box in the corner and went looking for the
 other, older one he had. "Trissa, my girl, how could you get me an oak
 casting  table?"  He found  the  old  leather  pouch and  checked  its
 contents. Everything was there, all ten chips. Before casting, the old
 sage walked  to the  door leading  to the waiting  room and  pushed it
 open.
      "Thuna?"
      His assistant entered the room.
      "Has Madam Labin come by?"
      "Not yet," Thuna said. "I'll let you know as soon as she does."
      "Did you tell  her to come for  noon?" the Sage did  not stop his
 questioning.
      "Yes, I did."
      "Well, rush her in here as soon  as she comes!" he shook his head
 and absentmindedly closed the door on Thuna.
      "Now, as  for you..." Corambis  looked at the casting  table. The
 wheel, appearing as a giant eye, almost seemed to look back at him.
      Corambis chanted  in incantation, then  read another one  for the
 chips in the pouch  he held. After a minute he  was satisfied that the
 ceremony was conducted correctly and emptied the bag on the wheel. The
 chips unceremoniously slid back to the positions he had seen before.
      "Saren's own curse," Corambis muttered  again. "Why does it never
 change? Koren is dead!"

      Jerid  Taishent knocked  on the  door of  his father's  house and
 waited. A few  moments passed before the door opened  to reveal Dyann,
 the town mage. The old wizard wore a common blue robe with a silk belt
 tied tightly around his waist.
      "Jerid!" the  mage exclaimed, then  coughed into his  fist. "What
 brings you here?"
      "You do," Jerid came in.
      "I do?" Dyann asked, confused. "I  must be getting old, son. Just
 how did I bring you here?"
      "Come on, Dad, you know what I want."
      "I'm just a humble mage. I don't read minds."
      "Dad, I want you to come stay at the castle with Aimee and me."
      Dyann frowned. "I'm  a mage and I  still have my work  to do," he
 snapped.  "Just the  few days  that I  lost last  month cost  me three
 months of work. I have experiments  and enchantments going on. I can't
 afford the time!"
      "Dad..."
      "If that's all you're here for, go away. I'm busy."
      "Well," Jerid hesitated, "I'd also like some advice."
      Dyann rubbed his hands together. "Fatherly advice or should I get
 my cards?"
      "Fatherly advice, Dad. I don't believe in that card none sense."
      "Now, don't start that again. You've seen what I do."
      "Dad,  you've spent  all  my  childhood trying  to  teach me  and
 nothing came of it. I think I've earned the right to be skeptical."
      Dyann  put his  hand on  his  son's back  and walked  him to  the
 kitchen where a meal was set out on the table. "You, my boy, inherited
 all of your mother's bad traits..."
      "I'm happy with them," Jerid interrupted.
      "Bring Aimee to live here with me  and I'll teach her. She has it
 in her blood. By the time she's your age, she'll be one of the best."
      "I'm thirty-five,  Dad. I  don't want you  torturing her  for the
 next thirty years."
      "Oh, Jerid, where did I ever go wrong with you?"
      "I think it happened when you told me to be who I want to be."
      Dyann started  setting another  place at the  table. "I  hope you
 haven't been telling this sort of silliness to Aimee, have you?"
      "Yes, I have, Dad."
      Dyann shook his head, pouring soup into a bowl. "Do you know that
 during the war she left a chamber pot in the chimney to the big room?"
      "A chamber pot?" Jerid asked.
      "A chamber pot and a filled one, at that." He put the bowl before
 Jerid and sat down. "She must've put it there during the invasion, but
 since it's  summer, the vent was  sealed. I opened it  up yesterday to
 get a big fire going to cook a potion. You should've seen the mess."
      Jerid smiled. "Sounds like she's experimenting."
      "It was  all so  old and dry  and decayed that  I almost  set the
 attic on fire," Dyann drew a deep breath.
      "I'll talk to her about it," Jerid promised.
      Dyann nodded. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"
      "I wanted you to know what's going on with me, Dad. And what work
 I'm involved in and what you can expect..."

      Sitting in the great hall of Dargon Keep waiting for the sergeant
 to return, Tara was beginning to  have second thoughts about coming to
 see Jerid  Taishent. He did, after  all, live in the  castle where the
 murder took place and it would be next to impossible for him not to be
 involved in some capacity if outsiders had gained access to her uncle.
 She wanted to get up and  leave and pretend that nothing had happened,
 but she  did not  have that luxury.  If she left  for no  reason, that
 could make the Lieutenant suspicious.
      Tara did  not know Jerid  very well. She had  only met him  a few
 times at official functions. She could not begin to guess at what kind
 of a person he was, although he did seem like a nice man.
      She did  know Kalen  Darklen and  Ilona Milnor,  or at  least she
 thought she  did, before she  found clues of Ilona's  association with
 Liriss. Both the gem and the note now lay in Tara's pocket, waiting to
 be shown  to the castle guard  lieutenant. But now that  she developed
 new doubts about his honesty, Tara did  not know what to do. `Maybe if
 I ask him about the funeral,' Tara thought to herself. `Certainly they
 can't have the body just lying around for days doing nothing.'
      But for  the longest  time neither  the sergeant,  nor Lieutenant
 Taishent came  down the stairs.  Just when Tara  got up to  leave, the
 sergeant who met her at the door returned.
      "Lady, I can't  seem to find the Lieutenant  anywhere. Perhaps if
 you left him a message, or maybe I can help you with something..."
      Tara shook her  head with relief. "Thank you, no.  I'll come back
 tomorrow."
      "Very  well," the  sergeant bowed  and escorted  her to  the Keep
 doors.
      Tara left the building, heading for  a post in the yard where she
 left had  Zed tied  on a leash.  Seeing her, the  shivaree got  up and
 started pulling on the rope.
      "Missed me, did you?" Tara played with her furry friend. She bent
 down to untie the rope and heard an elderly voice behind her.
      "Miss,  you're the  niece of  Captain Koren,  are you  not?" Rish
 Vogel asked, looking more at the shivaree than at the young woman.
      Tara turned to look at the old chronicler, still holding onto the
 rope. She knew who  he was, but little about him  and it surprised her
 that he had come to talk to her. The chronicaler's eccentricities were
 widely known and she really did not  want to spend the time talking to
 him now about what  has happened to her uncle. She  was still having a
 lot of  problems dealing with  it herself and  did not need  others to
 spoil her mood for her.
      "Yes, I am," she answered politely as Rish came closer.
      "And you're  staying with Lieutenant Milnor?"  the old chronicler
 went on.
      "Yes..."
      He was  now so close  that she could  hear him whisper,  which is
 what he did. "Have you noticed anything strange?"
      "What?"
      "About the Lieutenant, I mean."
      "Uh..."
      "I think your  uncle was killed by his own  guards," Rish rumbled
 on.
      "Why?" Tara interrupted him.
      "I don't know why!"
      "No, I mean what makes you think it was the guards?"
      "I saw his room after  the murder. Everything looked wrong." Rish
 stopped and looked around to make sure  they were alone and no one was
 trying to listen in. "And the lieutenants are hiding things. It's been
 a day  and a half  and no one  has seen the  body yet and  they're not
 talking about what they're doing about  it. No one even knows where it
 is. And..." he looked around again, "the guard who killed the assassin
 is missing. The room was cleaned,  but I don't think they searched for
 clues."
      That was enough  to convince Tara that Rish was  on her side. She
 looked around as well, then took the  note and the gem from her pocket
 and handed them to Rish. "I found these in Lieutenant Milnor's desk."
      Rish read the note, then examined the gem. His hands shook. "This
 is it...this is the proof," he muttered.
      Tara took  a step back,  backing into  the post the  shivaree had
 been tied to. She was not sure where Zed himself had gone.
      Rish suddenly grabbed Tara's hands  and put the evidence in them.
 "Thank you, thank you," he rushed off.
      "Wait!" Tara hurried after him, returning the gem and the note to
 her pocket before anyone else had seen them.
      "What?" Rish looked back at her impatiently.
      "What am I supposed to do? I can't stay with Lieutenant Milnor!"
      "You can  and you must!"  Rish insisted.  "Go back and  put those
 things where you  found them and don't tell anyone.  I'll take care of
 everything."
      "But  I can't  stay with  Ilona Milnor!"  Tara went  on. "If  she
 killed my uncle, I can't stay with her!"
      Rish  looked  around,  hoping  no one  heard  the  young  woman's
 outburst. "If she hasn't killed you  yet and doesn't suspect you know,
 she'll have no reason to harm you. Now go back and do what I say!"
      Tara watched Rish  hurry back to the castle, his  long brown robe
 tangling at  his feet. Zed was  back, rubbing against Tara's  legs and
 she bent down and hugged him.
      "You'll protect me, right?"
      The shivaree nuzzled her cheek and ear and snorted.

      Rish hurried into his small cubicle of a room and locked the door
 behind him. He  had his mystery, his  clues and now his  proof. Now he
 just needed a miracle to get it all resolved.
      Taking  a pen  and a  sheet of  parchment out  of his  desk, Rish
 started writing furiously.  If it was the last thing  he did, he would
 bring order back to the town of Dargon.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1     (C)    Copyright  March,    1992,    DargonZine,   Editor    Dafydd
 <[email-masked]>. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may
 not be reproduced or redistributed (save  in the case of reproducing the
 whole 'zine for further distribution)  without the express permission of
 the author involved.