Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:35:07 GMT -5
“Hullo, mom.”
The female satyr at the door looked at the stranger incredulously. “Do I know you?” She looked too young to be anybody’s mother, but satyrs lived a long time.
“It’s me, Dinadan. You know, your son?”
She spoke sharply. “You’re not my son. For one thing, you’re too tall. For another, your eyes are green and his are brown. For aNOTHer, no son of mine would be caught dead in that hat.”
Dinadan sighed. “I –like- the hat, mom. As for—“
“Stop calling me that. I think we’ve pretty well established you’re not my son. Are you a,” she paused, searching for the word, “clone? I hear that happens when Gifted Ones die sometimes. You better be careful, or I’ll have the Sentinels down here faster than you can blink those green eyes of yours.”
“I’m not a clone, mo—Ylonna. Look, is Glim around? I’d hate to have to explain this twice.”
“I, he, umm, yes, he’s carving out back.” Ylonna looked at the stranger again. “I suppose you want to be invited in for tea and cake?”
Dinadan shook his head. “Beer if you’ve got it. You know I don’t drink tea. And cookies. I can smell them from here.”
“So now you think you’re going to convince me you’re my son by knowing what he does and doesn’t eat?”
“Just give me a chance to explain, will you please? If I can’t convince you I’m your son, I’ll pay for anything I eat.” Dinadan pondered the strangeness of having to convince his own mother of his identity.
“Alright then. Give me a moment to fetch my husband. In the meantime, have a seat. And I know exactly where all the silver sits on the shelf, so don’t even think about taking any of it.”
Dinadan knew where all the silver was kept, too. He also knew that Glim had pawned more than a few pieces, replacing them with silver-plated imitations. His father was a good man, most of the time, but Glim’s binges were extreme even by satyr standards. The house seemed wrong, somehow, and continued to look wrong until he realized that it was a perspective difference. Ylonna was right. He was taller than he had been. He could see more dust from this angle, and his favorite chair didn’t fit him right.
In due course, Ylonna returned. She didn’t show her age, but Glim did. His horns curled proudly about salt-and-pepper hair, and there were pronounced crow’s feet about his eyes. Still, he seemed in good health, dusted in wood chips and smelling of resin. Dinadan resisted the urge to get up and hug the old goat.
“What’s this about my son, stranger?”
“He’s me.”
Silence.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but I’m not senile yet. You ain’t my Dinadan. He’d never wear that hat.”
“And I’m too tall and my eyes are the wrong color, I know.” Dinadan sighed again, and gulped down half the beer Ylonna passed him. “Let’s see…last time I wrote, I was just getting over that mess with Dulcet. A schoolboy crush, I know, but it still hurt when she left the guild.” That got their attention. “After that, a lot of things changed. I graduated my apprenticeship—or would have, if Dulcet had still been around. Won’t try to make up a tale about running with a bad crowd. I ran with whatever crowd would take me. I got used to dying, too. That’s a weird thing to get used to. I hoped for a while that I’d just keep falling and never reach the shadowlands. Falling’s not that much different from flying, and not a bad way to spend eternity.
“Anyway. I got in the habit of tangling with paladins and templars. Don’t look at me like that. I know we were never good Sikkarians, so don’t try and preach at me now. It’s not like I was serving the Nameless One or Varkyll-on-what’s his face. I just liked blasting them, they were convenient, and they had a decent bit of money. I don’t know how many I killed. I never counted anything but the coin I had afterward.
“Eventually, Blitzar decided that I’d done enough damage. Why he decided to pick on me and not the Fallen or cultists that prey on that place, I’ll never know. At any rate, some templars showed up, made some threats, told me to recant, and hounded me for a few weeks. Killed me plenty of times, and were usually waiting when I got back to the land of the living. I gave up. Instead of a priest, I put in a call to a druid, and started over as a templar. An anakim templar.”
Ylonna broke in. “Is that why you have the feather in your hair?”
“Eh? Oh. No, that belongs to...a friend of mine. My feathers are all gone, unless there are a few strays in my room back on Raji.”
Glim interrupted. “Call me stupid, but I don’t see no anakim templar sitting at my table drinking my beer.”
“Give me a moment, huh? A bard’s got to have a chance to tell his story. So, there I was, a templar. At first, it wasn’t so bad. Sikkarian church choirs are about as tone-deaf as they come, but so are the sailors and thieves that sing along at taverns. I went through the motions, tried to believe in Sikkar’s Will and all that. I healed paladins and called down His Wrath on the unrighteous. Went to services. But it was...boring. And high pressure. Everybody kept expecting me to save their souls. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. And I wasn’t cut out to preach. Sing, yes, preach, no. So I talked the church authorities into suspending my sentence. As long as I’m good, they won’t send their goons around, and I can go back to being a bard. And a satyr.
“I’d really hoped that I could just go back to being the old me, but it doesn’t work like that. I still remember pretty much everything, like the time in the woodshop when Manada and I—“
“Spare me the details, boy. I’ve worked hard to not know what goes on in that shop when I ain’t there. Don’t clutter up my head with extras. My wife does that enough.”
Dinadn looked at his father and decided not to ask. “Reincarnation is tricky business. I couldn’t just go back to being the old me. The one that grew up here. I could go back to being a bard, and I could go back to being a satyr, but I couldn’t go back to being a particular satyr, if you know what I mean. That body’s dead, lost to time. Now... Well, now I’ve got green eyes and I’m not so short. My voice is lower, and I’m left-handed. That one was a surprise. I’ve had to completely re-learn to play, even with the strings reversed.”
Glim and Ylonna sat and stared, first at Dinadan, then at each other. Satyr marriages weren’t known for their longevity, but Glim and Ylonna had made theirs work with a simple formula: both were very good at knowing when to shut up. Dinadan didn’t do silence so well, but he bit his tongue and waited.
“Now I know you’re not our son,” Glim muttered. “No way in all the hells that he could sit still so long.”
Dinadan reached for a cookie and drained the rest of his beer. And he waited.
“Why did you come home after all this time?” Ylonna asked quietly.
“I dunno. Not really. But it’s been such a long time. I’ve done so much, seen so many places. I’ve been a dragon’s chew toy and seen rivers of lava. I’ve insulted necromancers and fallen, knowing they’d reach for their blades or their spells. I’ve sung drunkenly in the treetops of Sosel and not had a moment of fear. But any time I thought about coming back here, I’d panic. Hard enough on you to have a Gifted son, harder still to realize that he’s spent his time and energy on wine, women, and song. And not much else. It’s not like I’m off saving the Retroverse from the Nameless One. I’ve been living a big party. Sure, a deadly party, but that’s part of the thrill.
“I was scared of disappointing you. Scared of having to admit to myself what I’d become. But now, I’ve got some direction. There’s this Order...more like a club right now than a knightly something, but we do good work. And I’ve got friends that help me out. So I guess what it comes down to is that I came home because I finally had something to tell you about my life that I thought you’d like.”
Ylonna looked at Glim. The old goat nodded and pushed the plate of cookies to Dinadan’s side of the table. “Eat up, boyo. You and me are going out drinking, and you’re buying. ‘Bout time my son paid for his beer.”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:35:36 GMT -5
Dinadan leaned on the bar at Corporal’s End. Corporal was a distant cousin of the famous (and prosperous) General of Abarack, but his bar was a dive whose lone saving grace was its status as the only public house in the village. The crowd hadn’t changed much since Dinadan had first left: mostly human, with a smattering of Anathaeran traders and the big minotaur Lackhorn who served as bouncer and town sheriff.
Glim didn’t pound the bar to get Corporal’s attention. He just chucked his empty flagon in the man’s general direction. Corporal caught it, as he usually did, filled it full of something brown and foamy, and slid it back down the rail. Din flipped Corporal a coin, which the human caught just as deftly, and sipped his own ale.
“Well, dad, how’s business?”
Glim wiped foam out of his beard. “Ask me again when we’re drunk.”
“That bad?”
The older satyr spit into the sawdust on the floor. “The nobles took a hankering to hardwoods from Sosel, carved up Drakhen style. They want bowls that grin back at ‘em, plates with teeth, and chairs with wings comin’ out the sides. Wouldn’t know elegant if it bit ‘em on the arse. I sell a few pieces here and there, but mostly simple stuff for the townsfolk.”
“I could take a few pieces back to Raji, if you’d like. Anything wooden gets a good price there.”
“I’ll not have you peddlin’ for me, Dina.”
“It wouldn’t be peddling, exactly. More like a display.” Dinadan thought about the customers at the Drunken Wench. “On second thought, maybe it’d be best not to. They’d have to be nailed down, and that couldn’t be good for the finish.”
Glim chortled. “That it would,” he said, staring into his beer. “So...er...”
Dinadan stared into his beer, too. “How’s mom doing, really?”
Glim’s eyes didn’t leave his drink. “She took it hard when you left, an’ harder when you stopped writing. She—we knew you couldn’t be dead, not with you bein’ what you are, but she worried anyway. I s’pose I did, too. Your last letters weren’t exactly encouragin’, either. Arguing with Wizards, your mentor getting booted from the guild... We wondered if maybe the wizards had done for you, too.”
“Me? Naw. It took a lot of tongue-biting, but I managed to keep from saying anything personal. Besides, I’m not even a full bard yet. Got another few rounds of testing to pass. Wizards don’t take much notice of us younglings unless we make ourselves a nuisance to the whole Retroverse.”
“But you’ve spoke with wizards before.”
Dinadan nodded. “Yeah.”
Glim just shook his head. “You be careful, boyo. Most powerful things in the world, they’re a little unbalanced. Them wizards don’t see the world the way you and I do. Studied it too hard, I guess. Or maybe it’s just power warpin’ their brains. But be careful.”
Dinadan nodded again. “Yeah. They’re not bad sorts, though. Like you said, they look deeper into the way things work than any sane person should, but they mean well. Pretty much always, as far as I can tell.”
Glim did the chuck-and-refill drill. The two satyrs drank in silence for a while.
“So...you didn’t answer my question. How’s mom?”
Glim raised his eyes from his drink to the ceiling. “I think she’s going to need some time to get used to this new you. Hells, -I- need some time t’get used to the new you. You talk like my Dina, and know what he should know, but you don’t look much the same. Imagine what it’d be like for you if some strange satyr came up to you on th’street, knowin’ everything I do, makin’ free with the language like I do, and claimin’ to be your dad. It’d take some time to get used to, aye?”
Dinadan nodded slowly. “I didn’t think it was going to be easy. But do you think she’ll come around?”
“Like enough she will. She’d rather have a strange-lookin’ son with bad taste in hats than no son at all. She’s still going t’be shocked every time she looks at ya, though.”
“Hrm. There’s no real way around that. I am who I am, and now I’m not quite the same satyr who left for Nineveh two years ago. I—“
With a dull crack, the door to Corporal’s End came off its hinges and fell into the common room. Right behind it came an uruk armored in black and silver. He was very, very fast, and his jagged axe was even faster. Dinadan grabbed for his lute and contorted his voice in the fastest spell he knew. The dusty mirror behind the bar shattered and the uruk’s ears started bleeding, but the axeman didn’t slow.
Dinadan twisted aside, falling backwards off his barstool as the uruk’s axe took a head-sized chunk out of the bar. The bard started in on a more powerful spell even as he scrambled to get back to his feet and out of reach. Something metallic scraped behind him, then there was a grizzled satyr making a textbook lunge straight at the uruk’s chest. Dinadan lashed out again with his voice, and the uruk stumbled to his knees.
“Wait!”
It was too late, though. Lackhorn had gotten his big hammer unlimbered, and the uruk’s skull disintegrated into a messy pulp of brain and bone.
Glim stood in front of Dinadan, a bloodied long sword held easily in his hand. Dinadan blinked.
“Wha-? Guh-?” He closed his mouth, trying to pick one of the dozen questions in his mind. “Okay. Is everyone okay?”
It was at that point that Dinadan realized that the bar was almost entirely empty. Corporal stood behind the bar with an oversized crossbow in his hands, Lackhorn towered over the corpse, and the two satyrs stared. Everybody else had fled.
Dinadan dusted himself off, apparently the only one ready to speak. “Well then. Somebody mind telling me what this is about?”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:38:06 GMT -5
“Dunno.”
Dinadan looked again at the messy uruk corpse on the tavern floor. “You don’t know,” he said, nonplussed.
Glim shrugged and set the bloody long sword on the bar. “Dunno what this is about. I figured he were after you.”
Lackhorn grunted and used the one unsullied corner of the uruk’s cloak to wipe the brain-bits off his hammer. “Unseelie brooch on ‘im. Either of you two have trouble with the Unseelie?” The minotaur seemed thoroughly annoyed. “’Cause I don’t want no elf-wars setting up new fronts in my town.”
Corporal returned his crossbow to wherever it lurked. “Double for me. If I wanted a tavern full of bloody brawls, I’d have opened shop on Perdow or Raji. I’ve got myself a nice quiet bar here, and folk who bring their troubles in with them aren’t welcome. You’d better pay up your tab, Glim, and not come back until you’ve got matters settled. Double for you, lad.”
Dinadan rubbed his temples. “Hold up a minute. Give a bard a moment to think. I’m trying to remember whether I’ve pissed on any Unseelie plans lately. Can’t think of any.” He eyed his father suspiciously. “And where’d you learn to use a sword, dad? Hells, where’d you get that one?”
The old satyr chuckled. “Fellow next ta me dropped it in his haste t’get out o’ the way of that head-chopper.”
Dinadan sighed and prodded the corpse with his hoof. “How much do we owe you, Corporal?”
The barkeep examined his wounded bar, his broken table, and the blood splashed liberally across his sawdust floor. “One twenty for the bar and the table. And Glim’s tab is 837 gold.” He did not sound happy.
“That much?”
Glim nodded sorrowfully. “Like I said earlier, none of th’good stuff is sellin’ these days. And a goat’s gotta have his drink now and again.”
Dinadan dug around in his pouch and pulled out a handful of electrum. “This should cover the damage. I’ll see that dad’s tab gets paid once I get to the bank.”
“I’ll not have ye payin’ my debts, Dina. Leave me some dignity!” Glim’s face was red.
“Let’s go argue about this someplace else, dad. We’ve already given these two enough trouble for the night.”
[--*--]
“Do we –look- hurt, mom?”
Ylonna looked Dinadan and Glim over carefully. “Well, no. But--”
Dinadan sighed again. It was becoming a habit. “Could you please just be quiet? It’s a little loud for the kind of thinking I need to do right now.”
Glim seemed unconcerned at his wife’s fretting. For a man who’d just been attacked by a bloodthirsty uruk, he seemed awfully calm. Ylonna chewed her lower lip and kept glancing at the door.
Dinadan finished replaying the fight in his head. “Nope. He couldn’t have been after me. In fact, I don’t think he even expected me to be here.” He looked hard at his father. “If I hadn’t been there, you’d probably be dead. I was sitting between you and the door, and he had to take a few swings at me before he even got to you. By then, I was able to hit him with some spells, and Lackhorn got his hammer out. Plus, the uruk didn’t follow when I ducked out of the way.
“So here’s the question, dad: why would the Unseelie be after you?”
Glim sighed. It was apparently contagious. “Honestly, Dina, I dunno. I was never more than a lady’s doorwarden, and I can’t on me life figure out why she’d send someone after me. Especially an Unseelie.”
The young bard did a double take. “Wait. You were a guard? For a Seelie lady?”
“Aye. Proud member of the Fighter’s Guild, too. Ye don’t think they just let Gifted ones in, do ye? No guild’d ever fill their ranks if they made queer souls a joining mark. Did ye think I’d been a woodcarver all my years?”
“Well,” Dinadan stammered, “yeah. I did. It’s not like you ever mentioned it.”
Glim shook his head and smiled proudly. “I didn’t get these muscles wielding a chisel, boyo.” The smile fell away. “But I retired near 80 years gone.”
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons. Your mother dinna like it much, for one. For another, I’d made enough money t’buy a house and open a shop. I might’ve got another promotion, but going any higher meant getting’ involved with Seelie politics, and I wanted that about as much as I wanted t’cut off m’hands. Seemed like a good time t’get out of th’business.”
Dinadan frowned and leaned back in his chair. “And you spent most of your time as a guard?”
“Aye. Funny thing about th’Seelie. They’re happy to have satyrs around to cook and sing and run errands, but they aren’t much fer givin’ authority to them what don’t have pointy ears and clear skin. I’d put in enough time to earn some extra duties, but that were about it.”
Ylonna glanced at her husband. “We should call the Sentinels.”
Dinadan thought about the ones he knew, and about giving them a case with no clear motive, no real harm done, and no evidence beyond a body that Lackhorn had probably already burned. Carnely might look into it as a favor, but the muridan had better things to do, and Dinadan didn’t really want the case solved over a trail of dead bodies and scandalized maidens. Especially if he wasn’t going to be doing the scandalizing himself. “They wouldn’t touch it, mom. For all we can prove, this uruk was just some psychotic from Charthur on a rampage.
“Look, I need to ask you two to do something for me: move to Raji. At least for a while. Torso’s got this castle called Satyrhome, and it’s got plenty of space. You can take your tools and plenty of wood. You’ll find plenty of buyers in Nineveh, or Nimbus if you want to take the Skyship. Go quietly, and nobody will know you’re there, at least not right away. Hopefully it’ll buy me some time.”
“Time for what, Dina?” Glim asked, mirroring Ylonna’s concern for the first time.
“Time to figure out what the hell is going on and who wants my father dead.”
“I’ll not have ye fightin’ my battles for me!”
“With all due respect, stuff it. You’re 80 years out of practice, and you’re the one they want to kill. You’d have about as much luck investigating it as an overweight deer would have investigating the Dragon Isle. You protect mom, and I’ll find out what’s going on, if I can. I know a lot of people.”
“Where are you going to go?” Ylonna seemed resigned to the move already.
“Where better to find the Unseelie than on Perdow?”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:38:46 GMT -5
Dinadan stared into his drink. He was never sure what they put in the ale on Perdow, and he didn’t really want to know what caused the aftertaste. Still, booze was booze, and it was better to face the ever-dark sky of this twisted rock with a bit of a buzz. The satyr took a healthy pull and racked his brains.
Alcohol had inspired some of Din’s better lyrics, but it wasn’t doing much to inspire his investigations. He’d sung a bloody swath through the lair of the Daroq Goblins, but they hadn’t known a damn thing. Tanglewood had required a much more...surreptitious...investigation, but it hadn’t panned out, either. Goblins and trolls might be Unseelie in name, but their isolated outposts weren’t much up on court intrigues.
“You are bard with long poking nose and too many questions, yes?” whined a sing-song alto.
Dinadan turned on his stool. It was without a doubt the most gaudily dressed goblin he’d ever seen. It wore a violently yellow sash, a red-and-and-green checked tunic, and pantaloons that were somewhere between vomit and grasshopper innards. “Maybe. You don’t happen to have an invisible troll following you around, do you?”
The goblin looked a bit confused. “Why would Hanada need invisible troll? Hanada quite capable of taking care of herself.”
Herself? Din shook his head and looked the goblin over a little more closely. Yes, female, with a bit of tattoo showing beneath her collar. The bard was no expert, but he suddenly suspected that the atrocious costume held at least a dozen daggers. “Er, I can see that. So, Hanada, what if I am that bard?”
The goblin’s eyes twinkled. “Hanada perhaps is having information for poking-nose bard. Information about other goat-man and why he’s on dead-list.”
Dinadan gestured to the stool next to him. “Have a seat and maybe we can talk about it.”
“Is bard having money? Hanada’s secrets are not for the free-taking.”
Money. Why did it always come down to money? Even Sentinels had to pay their witnesses, Dinadan had heard. “This bard is not some merchant with deep pockets. Perhaps you’d like something else? Maybe a song?” Goblin musical tastes, goblin musical tastes...what did goblins like? Probably lots of ridiculous banging and screaming. Probably –not- the vaguely pornographic tavern songs that Dinadan specialized in.
Hanada shook her head, setting her huge golden earrings swinging. “Hanada will be doing singing for goat-bard. You will be paying, or this goblin keeps her secrets.”
Her whine was getting on his nerves, but this was the closest thing to a lead he’d had in a fortnight of digging. Dinadan pulled some electrum out of his belt pouch. “This is what I’ve got right now.”
“Hanada wants more.”
The constant third-person was a toss up with the whining. “I don’t have any more right now. Don’t you know about the penniless minstrel?”
“Hanada will get more, or nose-poking bard will get his nose cut off. Spite his face.”
“Now now, let’s leave the threats aside for the moment.” There might be a way. It made Dinadan’s stomach churn, but it might work. Luckily, it was one of the quieter spells he knew, easily accomplished with a few gestures and a twist of thought. “Surely the great Hanada knows the importance of favors.” He looked deep into her beady yellow eyes, hoping his revulsion didn’t show. “Maybe I could do you a favor.”
The goblin’s frown showed off a set of crooked yellow teeth. “Goat-man will do Hanada a favor?” she asked skeptically. “What can Hanada buy with a favor?”
Dinadan made himself lean closer. “Not all favors are for buying things. Certainly you’re clever enough to know that. There are...tricks...I’ve learned in my travels. I could show them to you.” He leaned even closer. “Maybe upstairs?” he whispered.
Hanada looked the bard over. “Hanada will give pretty goat-man a name: Iqua. Iqua put old goat-man on dead-list.” She scooped the coins off the bar. “Now you will be showing Hanada your tricks.” She put a lukewarm, clammy hand on his.
Dinadan swallowed hard. She smelled about like she looked, some sort of horrid Wysoomian kelp-perfume lathered on top of goblin stink. “You must be very good to learn that kind of thing, Hanada. I’d like to know more about you. What do you do?”
“Kill things and steal things. Secrets tasty like baby birds.” Hanada said. “The Imam thinks so, too. He not always so proud of Hanada, though. Big dangerous bug not think much of goblins.”
“He must be a fool not to see your worth. You’re so...pretty.” He choked out the word. “And talented. And you must be clever to have found me here.”
“Oh, handsome goat-man easy to find. Hanada’s cousin is Daroq underchief for sanitation. He tell Hanada all about Daroq corpses shook to pieces by bard asking questions. Hanada knows no place else for bard to stay than Scarrowfell. Also knows bards notorious drunks. And now Hanada has found pretty goat-bard to teach her tricks.”
Dinadan forced a smile. “Yes. You’re as beautiful as you are smart. Your voice is like honey to my ears.” Honey full of angry bees. “Your form is an artist’s dream.” A horrible, insane artist’s dream. “And your mind a thing for philosophers to envy.” So long as ignorance is bliss.
Hanada’s grin was even worse than her frown. “Goat-bard good with tongue. Hanada wonder how good.”
The bard winced. He couldn’t go through with this. Not with her. There wasn’t enough ale in the Retroverse. “Hmm. Maybe I should--”
“Shut up and kiss Hanada, fool goat.”
He did. Her teeth were quite sharp, her breath foul, and her enthusiasm tremendously apparent. Dinadan came up gasping for breath.
“Stories of bards are being true. You good kisser, goat-man. Hanada will take you upstairs for trick-teaching now.”
Dinadan swallowed hard and sucked the dregs of his ale down. The aftertaste was a pleasantly familiar annoyance. Mind racing, he headed upstairs with the goblin Hand behind him. The spell would wear off soon, but he doubted that Hanada’s attentions would wear off with it.
The room was dingy and cramped, dominated by a narrow, unmade bed. Hanada had already laid four daggers on the bedside table and was busily removing more along with her particoloured clothing.
“I know a spell that helps this sort of thing.” Dinadan said.
The goblin eyed him hungrily, half-naked. “Play your song, goat-man.”
He didn’t want to give her any time to figure it out. “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home...”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:39:35 GMT -5
Satyrhome was unusually quiet. Dinadan chewed on a mint leaf (a rather suddenly developed habit) and watched the boulders fly by. Glim sat nearby, carefully sanding a pair of interlaced tongs.
“So, dad, does the name Iqua ring any bells?”
Glim didn’t even look up. “Iqua? Nope. Sounds Unseelie.”
“Really.” Dinadan deadpanned. “It should. She’s the one who, in the words of a certain goblin, ‘put you on the dead list.’”
“That’s funny, as I ain’t never heard of an Iqua.”
“She’s heard enough of you to want you dead.”
Glim set down his carving. “I’m tellin’ ye straight, Dina. I dunno any Iqua. I dunno any Unseelie who’d want t’kill a guard who hasn’t been guardin’ aught but his woodshop for eighty years.”
The bard sighed, spontaneously realizing several steps he’d missed in his investigation. Maybe he should have at least asked Carnely for advice. “Your son’s a fool, Glim. I should have asked you a double handful of questions right off. You mind answering some now?”
Glim looked around at the green sward, empty but for a few other satyrs busily placing bets on the sky-boulders’ likely impact. “Not like I’ve got much else t’do. Yer mother’ll want me help with her dye vats in a bit, but she’ll have t’find me first. Ask away.”
“Okay. Who was it you were guarding? You said it was a lady, but if you mentioned a name, I missed it.”
“Elanoralana Da’Aethryll’Ellion. And that be th’short version of her name. She were an elf an’ a noble, skilled in all them arts th’Seelie courtiers love so well: seducin’, spyin’, playin’ politics, attendin’ balls. She were up and coming, but up and coming takes a few decades when yer court bedfellows are immortal.”
“And you weren’t in on any of her plots?”
“Like I said aforehand, my job was t’guard her door. The elf lords’re always ready to knife one another in the dark, whether they be Unseelie or no. Oberon and Titania’s court’s a mess for a guard. I weren’t in on any plots, but I prob’ly foiled a few by stoppin’ danger at her door.”
Dinadan hummed softly. “That might be enough motivation for vengeance, but you’d think they would have acted sooner.”
Glim shook his head. “What’s eighty years when age doesn’t touch ye? I knowed some of th’lords that’d take five years t’finish a chess match. If any of ‘em truly wanted me dead, it hasn’t been all that long to ‘em.”
“Yeah, but Iqua sounds Unseelie. Did you get in the way of any Unseelie plots?”
Glim didn’t have an answer for that.
“Look, dad, this is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. But I promise I’ll get to the bottom of it. I think I’ll avoid Perdow for a while, see what I can dig up on Welstar and Raji. Is there anything else I should know?”
“M’Lady Elanoralana’s still alive, last I heard, and living at court in Anathaera. You be careful. She were always one for seeing lots of folk, good and bad alike. Lady Long-fingers, some called ‘er, though it were my job as t’smack them what did. You’re getting’ into th’deep games that made me quit in th’first place. I’m getting to be an old goat, and not much loss to the world if I go. But you—“
“I’m Gifted, dad. There are ways around that, but it’s a good protection.”
“It weren’t good enough to save you from the Templars. And I don’t want to have t’get to know ye all over again. You be careful, boyo.”
[--*--]
“Are you with the Sentinels?”
“Well, no. But—“
“Then I see no reason to let you pester the Court.” the major domo said, his staff of office glittering. “Have a pleasant day. Jalen will show you out.”
Jalen, an elf whose stance shouted volumes more danger than the thin rapier he wore, quickly bustled Dinadan out of the major domo’s office and all the way to the gates of Anathaera.
“Have a pleasant day.”
Dinadan swallowed his curses and resisted the urge to spit. Stupid, stupid, coming and asking permission to investigate. How many more things could he manage to bungle before his father ended up dead and Torso was complaining about assassins in her castle? First he’d forgotten to ask his dad about particulars, then he’d almost seduced a goblin Hand, and now he’d effectively announced to the Anathaeran court that he was looking for information. Yeah, that’d make asking questions easier.
He needed a drink.
Better yet, he needed drinking to miraculously provide him with information.
Speculatively, he glanced up at the sky. The goddess Ishtar was known for Her meddling, but he’d never heard that “miraculous answers in ale” was something She did. He wondered if She had a suggestion box...
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:40:24 GMT -5
“Excuse me. You wouldn’t perchance be Dinadan Whistler, would you?”
Dinadan looked up from his ale. He wasn’t even close to drunk, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t broken any laws lately. “Aye. That’s me. Who’s asking?”
“A friend,” the purple-garbed elf said. “who might be able to help you.”
“Help me with what?”
“Whatever it is that involves you flapping your jaws at Anathaera.”
Din’s eyes narrowed. “And why would I want anything to do with the elves?”
The elf’s grin was about as authentic as a gem left on the side of the road. “You tell me. My mistress learned that you were asking admittance to the Court, then sent me to find you. She isn’t in the habit of giving her agents more information than necessary.”
So far, Dinadan’s investigations had hinged almost entirely on the intervention of strangers. First Hanada, now this elf. “Deep games,” his father had told him, and the young bard was beginning to suspect that they were deep indeed. Well then. If it were to be manufactured expressions and contorted verbiage, Dinadan would manage. “Might I inquire as to who your mistress is?”
“You might.”
“Then I do so. For whom do you work?”
“Her Grace Elanoralana Da’Aethryll’Ellion, Marchioness of Seven Pines, Baroness of Coldbrook, Ambassador to Suthnas, and Member of the Order of the Flaming Griffon.” The elf delivered the titles with familiarity just short of contempt.
“Ah. Lady Longfingers.” Dinadan said.
That got his attention. “Careful with that tongue, goat. I’d hate to see it cut out.”
Score one for the home team. “You mentioned that you might be able to help me?”
The pretense of politesse vanished. “My lady is in need of a singer for a private gathering tonight. For some incomprehensible reason, she has decided on you. Can you sing anything other than drinking songs?”
Dinadan grinned sweetly. “You mean, will my voice hold up through your interminable elven love ballads? Yeah.” He cleared his throat, enjoying having the initiative in the conversation for once. “Excuse me. I am acquainted with several distinct genres of elven song. Does your mistress prefer the Welstarian tuning or the Rajian? Personally, I find that the Rajian allows for greater nuance, better matching the inflections of the poe—“
“Enough, goat. You’ll do. Clean yourself up, buy some clothes without wine stains on them, and arrive at Anathaera by sundown. And if you show up in that hat, do not expect to be let through the gates.”
[--*--]
Dinadan, of course, showed up in the same hat. He wore a clean tunic, freshly cut hair, and a stiletto he’d borrowed from Starstorm. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but showing up unarmed seemed outstandingly foolish.
“What did I tell you about that hat, goat?”
“I believe you told me that I wouldn’t be let through the gates. Apparently, the gate guards didn’t share this information. And if you glance up at the sky, you’ll find it’s nearly sundown. Do you really think you’ll have time to find a replacement before your lady’s party?”
The elf growled in a most undignified fashion and ushered Dinadan into the mansion. The satyr bit back a whistle. The decorations in the entry hall alone could probably have purchased half of Torso’s castle. Apparently being a Marchioness had its perks. Even “dressed up,” the bard felt particularly out of place. These polished floors were for silk slippers, not cloven hooves. Din grinned. If he’d been cast in the role of outsider, he’d play it to the hilt. He pretended to be unimpressed by the casual display of great wealth.
“So, seigneur—I never did catch your name.”
The elf didn’t turn his head. “I didn’t tell you. And I’m not about to tell you now.”
“Well then. What sort of audience is there going to be tonight?”
“I’m not going to tell you that, either.”
“I’ll be sure to inform the Lady of your cooperation.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Dinadan grinned. Goading Elanoralana’s go-fer was a lot more fun than sitting in a tavern waiting for answers. This was better than hunting bandits or geocairns, too. “You don’t much like me, do you?”
That finally got his guide to turn around. “Why the Lady would want some third-rate gutterbard to sing for her petty council is beyond me. You reek of the most juvenile kind of adventure, and you no doubt do it from behind warriors more capable than yourself. I’d just as soon run you through as bring you any further inside. You’re scum, probably a lecherous drunk at best. How could I possibly do aught other than loathe you?”
“You could try it. I hear effort works wonders.”
--sssnkt--
Oops. One too far. Dinadan stood his ground despite the rapier’s greenish glow. “Nice sword. Had it long?”
“Long enough to be tolerably well-acquainted with its use.” Elf grunted, keeping his blade leveled at the bard’s throat.
Dinadan ducked around the blade and took a step closer to his guide. “Again, I remind you that your Lady will be most unhappy if I end up dead before I sing for her. How about we put the sharp things away and get on with it. I don’t want to be late. First impressions and all.”
The sword went reluctantly back into its sheath. Then the elf’s fist shot squarely into Din’s gut. The bard doubled over, struggling to get air into his lungs.
“Don’t worry, goat, it won’t show. Now hurry up. You don’t want to be late.”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:41:07 GMT -5
Elanoralana Da’Aethryll’Ellion’s “petty” council met in a room that was anything but. The walls were hung with black-on-black tapestries from Crypt. The table was wood and crystal, and the floors were richly carpeted. Dinadan winced. The acoustics could hardly be worse.
As of yet, he and his guide were the only ones there. The elf stood near the lone door, glaring at Dinadan as the bard examined the tapestries. Expensive, expensive, and expensive. The tapestries also concealed at least three different alcoves, Dinadan guessed. Maybe more. No doubt they’d be occupied by guards or assassins. The chairs looked heavy enough to be difficult to move quickly, except for the elegant one of filigree and silk. That would belong to the Marchioness, Din guessed. She’d hold all the cards.
Well. No improving the room. Dinadan sat on a stool in the corner and began tuning his lute. The elf could say what he wanted, but Din was a professional, and he’d treat this gig professionally even if he had a personal stake in it. He knew enough elven ballads to get by, but if the gathering went too long, he’d have to resort to some of the instrumentals he’d picked up on Wysoom. Just to be safe, he ran through a few of them. They sounded a little hollow without the sympathetic strings the Jotunkin favored, but they’d do. At least he hoped they’d do.
The elf cleared his throat. Dinadan looked up. Oh. The guests. The satyr switched from practicing to some of his more impressive-sounding warm-up exercises. They’d keep his fingers busy while he watched the entrances.
The first three arrivals were all male elves, and they came together. Richly dressed but armed only with obviously ceremonial daggers, Dinadan pegged them as merchants or aristocrats. The fourth was a heavily-muscled minotaur. The distinctive belt and harness of the fighter’s guild was mostly empty, but it looked as out of place as its owner in the rich room. A good yard taller than the elves, the minotaur dominated the room...
...until she walked in.
She was stunning. Din missed one measure, then a second, then a third before he got his fingers running properly again. Hair so black as to make raven’s feathers look pale. Skin as flawless as a midsummer sky. Her amethyst eyes swept the room imperiously. As for her body...Dinadan hardly dared speculate what lay beneath her velvet gown, not if he wanted going to finish the gig.
Dinadan’s guide seemed immune to the newcomer’s charms. He rang a small bell as another woman entered, flanked by a gaunt Irrdu. “Her Grace the Marchioness of Seven Pines, the—“
“Enough, Lan. These happy few are more than familiar with my titles.” The Marchioness was, in her own way, no less impressive than the changeling who’d preceded her. Her hair and skin were golden, her eyes liquid sapphire. She was a bit thin by Dinadan’s standards, but still a beauty in the fashion that elfmaids managed. Her green gown was masterfully tailored, and her gold and emerald diadem elegantly caged her locks. More gems sparkled at wrists, fingers, and throat. Elanoralana’s voice was perfectly pitched. “You may sing, bard, while we hold our council.”
It was not a request. The satyr ripped his eyes away from the changeling and launched into the first of many songs for the night. Clearly, he was not here to listen. The varied folk at the table spoke in low voices, easily covered by his singing. That was why he’d been brought here, he realized. At least part of the reason. Should anybody manage to eavesdrop, all they’d hear was his music.
[--*--]
By the time the meeting broke up, Dinadan’s voice was gone. He’d cycled through most of the instrumentals he knew, too. Apparently, elves could talk for a long time. The merchant-princes were the first to go, followed by the minotaur, who gave Dinadan a respectful nod as he left. That left the changeling, the Irrdu, and the Marchioness herself. Plus Lan, who’d remained steadfastly by the door throughout.
The changeling whispered a few final words to the Marchioness, then walked out, so close Dinadan could smell her perfume. The smile she offered as she passed was payment enough for the whole evening.
Then it was just Dinadan, Elanoralana, and her henchmen. Lan looked a bit tired, but the Irrdu was entirely inscrutable.
“You scarce resemble your father, Dinadan Whistler.”
“I, er, used to, your grace. It’s a long story.” Dinadan was exhausted. He’d played without a break for nearly four hours. It was hardly the ideal time for verbal fencing with a seasoned elven courtier. And Elanoralana knew that.
She looked him over appraisingly. “You look fit enough. Handsome, too. I wonder if you share your father’s bedroom talents.”
“You bedded my father?”
“I bed whom I please, young goat, and your father suited my whims for a time. The games of the court are not without their pleasures.”
Dinadan attempted to rally. “I didn’t think decadence was part of the elven aesthetic.”
The Marchioness’ laughter was musical. “Seelie and Unseelie alike have their decadences. We elves can scarcely be blamed if we treat ours with more discretion. Such has always been our way. Decadence, as you call it, is a consequence of whiling away eternity.”
“Somebody is trying to have my father killed, and I want to know why.” Bluntness was hardly the soul of virtue, but Dinadan was too tired to dance words around the subject. “The Unseelie are involved.”
Elanoralana’s fine mouth curled slightly. “Playing at intrigue, are we, bardling? Do you really think that’s sensible?”
“I’m a bard. It’s not a profession for the sensible.” How much did she know? How much would she tell? “Not for the discreet, either. How soon is this going to get me killed?”
“That, young goat, depends entirely on your sense and discretion.”
“Then I’ll no doubt cease troubling you soon enough. For now, though, I wouldn’t mind some information.”
The elven lady chuckled delightedly. “Just how far do you think impudence will take you? I invited you here out of curiosity more than anything. I take an interest in those who take interest in me, so to speak. I wanted to see what kind of a person would be so foolish as to ask permission to interrogate the Court.”
“Call it a whim.”
“Anoleth, I believe I am charmed. Do you think Mister Whistler here is an assassin?”
Dinadan shuddered as he felt another mind brush his own. Its touch was light, but Din did his best to keep it from going any deeper into his brain.
The Irrdu spoke very softly. “He is not strong enough to do you any lasting harm. Should you wish to incinerate him where he stands, it is well within your power.”
Joy. A mage with a psychic henchman. And here Din had thought all the jewelry was mere expensive decoration.
“Well, your grace, are you planning on incinerating me?” Dinadan asked.
“Not until I’ve made a more thorough comparison betwixt you and your sire, Mister Whistler.” Her tone brooked no argument. “Lan, escort him to my suite. Anoleth, you shall accompany me by a different route.”
Anoleth merely nodded. Lan, still standing by the door, somehow managed to add new depths of distaste to his glare. “Come along, goat.”
[--*--]
Later, on a bed nearly as large as his room at Satyrhome, Dinadan could not escape the image of a raven-haired changeling smiling at him, and laughing.
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:41:36 GMT -5
Dinadan’s dreams were restless, and when he awoke on a strange set of silk sheets, his agitation grew. He was on his feet before the scent of perfume registered. Elanoralana’s room. That was it. Her bed. Her underthings scattered about the floor. But no sign of her.
“Bloody hell. Foot’s in the trap now.”
As quickly as he could, Dinadan dressed. He’d just gotten his shirt buttoned when Lan appeared at the door, contempt apparent in every line of his bearing.
“M’lady asks if the goat would join her for breakfast.”
Dinadan grinned slightly, wishing he could just go home now and tell his dad that all their problems were solved. “Come now, Lan, I do not believe that the Marchioness would be so uncouth as to call me ‘goat.’ Surely I’m not the first conquest she’s summoned to breakfast. Are you this polite to all of them?”
“Only the ones I plan on killing by lunch.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Dinadan breezed past the elf. “You should be careful. That sounded like a threat.”
“It was.”
Dinadan kept walking. “Are you naturally this unimaginative, or does the Marchioness coach you?”
The sound of grinding teeth was the only answer he got.
[--*--]
Elanoralana set a good table. Not so laden as to sag, but everything was of the finest quality. The elf woman ate slowly and daintily. Dinadan ate far faster, occasionally reminding himself that this was a noble’s private dining room. A noble that could kill him out of hand, apparently. He studied her more closely. Lots of rubies and sapphires in her jewelry, at least the pieces that she hadn’t changed with her outfit. Definitely a mage of some sort.
“You seem to have quite an appetite, Mister Whistler.” Elanoralana’s mouth curled slightly upwards. “And the food seems to agree with you, too.”
Din nodded. “If there’s one thing an itinerant bard learns, it’s ‘eat well when the food is free.’”
“Come now, do you really think that this is free?”
“I was rather hoping, yes. You’re about to tell me it isn’t?”
The Marchioness’ laugh was crystalline. “You are indeed your father’s son, Dinadan. Though you are much better spoken.”
“My father was a swordsman, not a courtier.”
“You seem adequately acquainted with the use of your sword, young bard.”
Dinadan shrugged. A fling was a fling. Elanoralana was too thin for his tastes, and too restrained by half. “As you say, your grace. But I suspect that this meal is more than simple thanks for yestereve.”
“For that, you should be thanking me.” The elf woman’s mouth seemed frozen in that same slight curl. “I forget how impatient you mortal races are. Let us, as they say, ‘get down to business.’ You can guess, of course, that I have extensive information gathering resources.”
Dinadan nodded. “Not that I was making myself scarce, but your man had no trouble finding me.”
“I have agents aplenty, but too many of them are known. I need somebody of a more...common...mien to do some investigating for me.”
“I don’t know if you caught it last night, your grace, but I’m rather busy trying to find out who wants my father dead.”
“I’m willing to pay you 10,000 gold.”
Money. It was right up there with wine, women, and song on the list of ‘things likely to get Dinadan killed.’ He sighed, already regretting his words. “What would the Marchioness have me do?”
“I am seeking rights to a certain tract of land in the mountains east of Suthnas. There are other parties interested in the same tract, and I want to know who, and I want to know which way the winds blow at Odie’s palace.”
“Begging your pardon, but aren’t those things your grace should know as ambassador?”
Elanoralana’s mouth tightened. “I have enemies. Enemies who delight in feeding me misinformation. Enemies who yet elude my grasp. Enemies who do not know you.”
“So you send me into the lion’s den, hoping that my strange smell will be enough to keep the lion from deciding I am food. Not very sporting.”
“Ten thousand gold. Ten thousand gold and the potential for more work. Musicians are always in need of patrons, are they not? You could do worse than me.”
Dinadan plucked a grape off its stem. “You are correct, your grace. I could do worse. But I’m an adventuring bard, not a court minstrel, and the idea of playing at your parties for the next few years doesn’t hold much appeal. It’s information I want. You know why the Unseelie are after my father.”
She shook her coroneted head. “I do not. Not precisely. His dealings with the Unseelie are long done.”
“Long done? But what were they?” And how dark were they that Glim had lied about them?
“It is a matter of some dishonour on my house. I will not speak of it. If you must have the story, you may speak to my niece. Or your father.”
Something about the way she said ‘niece’ set off alarm bells. Dinadan suddenly wished he’d studied elven idioms a little more. “Niece?”
“It involves her father.”
“Really.” There was something tugging at Din’s memory, but it refused to come clear. “Does the young lady have a name?”
“She attends my council. I saw you staring at her last night. Her name is Iqualanelle al-Mazur.”
The satyr quickly reached for a goblet to hide his expression. Iqualanelle didn’t sound Unseelie, but it didn’t take much effort to drop the elven flourish. “And where might I find her?”
Elanoralana’s eyes flashed briefly. “Don’t go getting ideas, bardling. You are my plaything, not hers.”
Thank the gods for lust, and that the Marchioness assumed that was the only thing in Din’s head. “Who would prefer silver and cheap jet to gold and finest rubies, your grace? I wish only to question her.”
“Bah. Flatterer.” She looked pleased, anyway. “She maintains apartments in Suthnas, on Nql street, I believe. I had hoped you could cooperate with her in your investigations, had you the discretion not to be seen publicly with her. I cannot have you associated with me or mine in any way, not on Raji. Avoid her unless absolutely necessary.”
All that money and possessive, too. “And I assume that you will deny your involvement should I be captured and held to account.” Every moment this looked more like the kind of investigation that required borderline suicidal tendencies—just the sort of thing for the Sentinels to deal with.
“Of course. Shall I transfer the funds?”
Dinadan sighed. His dad’s life was at stake. And it wouldn’t be long before his own would be just as much on the line. “My services are yours to command, your grace.”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:42:06 GMT -5
Dinadan slammed the door hard enough to make the shelves rattle. “Damnit, dad, how in the seven hells am I supposed to keep you alive if you lie to me?”
Glim looked up from his work. “Not so loud, boyo. I ain’t gone deaf yet.”
“Look, I need you to come clean with me and I need you to do it now. Or we’re both going to end up dead. What the hell were you involved in that Elanoralana won’t even talk about?”
The old satyr’s face went instantly somber. “She told you, did she?”
Din waved his hands. “No, she didn’t. She didn’t tell me a damn thing, except that you’re involved with something Unseelie. What was it? What –is- it?”
“I were afraid you’d get tangled up in this.” Glim said quietly.
Dinadan sat down, put his palms flat on the table, and looked his father straight in the eye. “Well, dad, I managed to put my foot in it. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I going to have to guess?”
“What do ye know?”
“Gods above and below, I just know how to sing. Start from the beginning.”
“Elanoralana were married once. Husband choked t’death on a grape, so they say, but not afore he got a kid on her. A son. His name were Ecthelidan. He were about fifty years older than I, a fine swordsman, and near as cunning as th’she-wolf what birthed him. Ambitious as th’day is long. Only he were terrified of his ma. He figured there weren’t no place for him ‘mongst th’Seelie. Went over, as they say. Joined up with th’Drow. Gave ‘em a lot of information they shouldn’t a had, cost a buncha elven high-an’-mighties their lives.”
Dinadan frowned. “That explains why she didn’t want to talk about it.”
“That ain’t th’half of it, boyo. Th’Marchioness were sore angry about th’defection, true enough, and prob’ly woulda had me do what she did anyway. But Ecthelidan knew that Crypt weren’t safe for him, not with half the Seelie in the Retroverse wantin’ him dead. So he made up a new name for himself and hid out. Elanoralana sent me after ‘im.”
“You found him, then?”
“After eight months of lookin’ and a double fistful o’ luck, yeah. I found ‘im. He’d been hiding out for near two years by then. Carved himself a whole new life. Passed himself off as a bard an’ a wit. Big hit at th’Sultan’s palace, had all th’ladies fawning over him.”
Something clicked. Niece, Elanoralana had said. Not granddaughter, but a proud people with a wide decadent streak would surely have a euphemism for bastards. “He got one of them pregnant, didn’t he.”
Glim nodded slowly. “I think so. That’s what th’rumours said, anyway, and he wouldn’t be his mother’s son if he weren’t fond o’th’warm congress. Of course, it brought even more shame on ‘im. Mostly because he did it in such a way that people found out about it. Some landholdin’ sheik out east, I think. His daughter. Anyway, he was stackin’ shame on shame, and he knowed it.”
“You said you found him?”
“Aye. Found ‘im and chased ‘im from Suthnas to Abarack to Igneous. Ye familiar with th’rock bridge just west of th’city?”
Din nodded.
“That’s where I caught ‘im. Had a little help from a mage buddy o’ mine in sealin’ off the bridge. We fought. If he’d’ve lived, there’d prob’ly be a song about it. Hardest fight I were ever in. He was faster, better trained, an’ desperate. I got th’idea, though, of breakin’ my lantern on th’bridge. He slipped in th’oil, I ran him through and shoved him down into that river of lava.”
“So you killed him.”
“Bloody well did, boyo. Ye don’t think he’d be survivin’ a sword through his chest, a hundred foot fall, and a bath in liquid rock, do ye?” Glim said, fierce pride in his eyes.
“Alright. So you killed the Marchioness’ son. I’m guessing that you left her employ soon after?”
“Aye. Though it were as much your mother. Elanoralana is not what they call th’sharin’ type, an’ it were clear by then that I was for marryin’ your ma.”
The bard leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “That explains a few things, anyway. But why would the Unseelie come after you now? It’s been eighty years, and they’ve already acted on the information they got from Electha-whatever. From what I know of the drow, they’re not much set on avenging comrades. Especially a defector.”
Glim shrugged. “Ye know more about th’Retroverse than I do, boyo. I studied killin’ and carvin’, and those’ve made a life I kinda like. I’m not ready to quit it yet. But you’re Gifted, and you’ve already seen more than I ever did. I can’t tell ye what th’dark elves might be thinkin’.”
Dinadan’s brow furrowed. “The woman. The sheik’s daughter. What was her name?”
“I don’t rightly remember. All these jinn here, they name everythin’ strange, and th’nobles like it enough to do th’same. Mazzeo? Azure? Somethin’ like that.”
“Al-Mazur?”
“Mazur. Aye. That were it. Mazur were the sheik.”
“You’re sure?”
Glim nodded. “Quite. Just needed m’brain jogged.”
Dinadan was silent long enough for Glim to resume his current project, a bowl in the shape of a four-winged bird. At length, the bard stood. “I’m not sure this explains everything, but it’s a start. Sit tight, dad. And keep your eyes sharp. There are folks out there who can sneak past that golem, and it wouldn’t surprise me if one of ‘em shows up with a knife for you.”
Slowly, Glim nodded. “I’ve been practicin’ again. Not much. I’ve put a lot of years between me and th’sword, but I’ve still got a trick or three up my sleeve if trouble comes callin’.”
Dinadan clapped his father on the shoulder. “Good. I’m off to Suthnas to see what I can see.” He turned in the door. “And maybe you shouldn’t tell mom that I’ve been in Anathaera. She might get the wrong idea.”
Glim grinned. “Or th’right one, which’d be worse. Be careful boyo. Ishtar speed ye safely back to us.”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:42:36 GMT -5
Blending in to Suthnas’ crowds was simple. Bards lived and partied in Nineveh, but when they needed money they hit the Sultan’s City. Nimbus was well and good, but Nimbites held their purse strings tighter than drums. Dinadan was just another adventuring minstrel looking for coin. The only change he made to his usual garb was a garish orange and green checked cloak. Sometimes the best disguise was something obvious.
Din started with the taverns. He didn’t spend much time in Suthnas, and any good investigation required knowing the lay of the land. Wherever he went, the bard talked up his latest opus in progress—a collection of ballads about the people of Suthnas. That he had no intention to write such a piece was beside the point. People loved to talk about themselves, and they let plenty of things drop while they did.
Things like a duel between a Dao courtier and a dark-skinned elf.
Things like Sheik al-Hamud withdrawing to his keep in protest of some action of Sultan Odie.
Things like a snaggle-toothed goblin asking around for satyr woodcarvers.
“Mmm. Handsome goat-bard still owes Hanada tricks, me am thinking.”
Din winced as knife he felt the knife at his back. “Ah. Lovely Hanada. I’d forgotten how wonderful your perfume is.” He didn’t turn around.
“Words are only words, goat-bard. Teaching tongue tricks, you promised.”
“Er, about that...”
The knife poked a little deeper. “No time now, Din-dan. Mistress Iqua wants to be talking to you, and me make sure that Mistress Iqua gets what Mistress Iqua wants.”
Joy. The goblin worked for Iqua. Dinadan did turn, then. “Perhaps you’d care to lend me your arm and we could walk to your place of employment like civilized beings?”
Hanada had grown no more beautiful--bird’s nest hair, sallow, flaking skin, and beady yellow eyes--but she took his arm as a debutante would, her nightmare grin showing wide and yellow. The bard swallowed hard to keep his ale down. Acting the gallant to a Hand was an improbable role, but bards specialized in the improbable. At least in theory.
The mismatched pair attracted plenty of strange looks as they meandered the streets of Suthnas. Hanada clearly knew where she was going, and just as clearly was not taking a direct route. She eventually stopped at a dead end.
“Hold out arm, goat-bard. This will only be hurting a moment.”
“I may not be a biomancer, but isn’t it more efficient to kill with a strike to the chest?”
Hanada chuckled. “For smart goat, you sometimes big fool. If Hanada wanted her pretty goat-bard dead, he be dead. Not for nothing did me learn to sneak and stab in the dark. Mistress Iqua be fond of her doorways. Feeds them blood of visitors. Doorway knows my blood. Not yours. Unless you want Mistress’s doorway to eat you, you be holding out arm.”
“How much blood does the door need?”
“Not much. You worry too much. Mistress Iqua wants to talk to goat-bard, not kill him. This just little scratch. Even tiny bard magic can fix.”
Dinadan held out his arm and rolled up his sleeve. “Let me do it. I am certain you are...adept with your knives, but I know Cyllyl’s fondness for poison, and it would be a shame if I were to turn green and choke to death.”
Hanada nodded idly, her hands somehow having sprouted a pair of long, jagged daggers without Dinadan noticing. “Whatever goat-bard wants, so long as blood be spilled for doorway. Hanada think Din-dan not so stupid as to try sticking her with dull decoration-knife.”
He hadn’t even considered it. Magic was Dinadan’s weapon, and it would be useless in a knife-fight with a Hand of the Black Rose. Gritting his teeth, Dinadan drew his borrowed stiletto down his forearm. The long, shallow cut immediately welled with blood.
Ending any hope Din had had of keeping the wound clean, Hanada stuck a finger in it and proceeded to trace a series of goblin vulgarities on the blank wall. Dinadan was impressed. He hadn’t realized she knew so many words. “Do you need to write those particular things?”
Hanada grinned. “No, Hanada likes these words. Doorway just wants blood. Doesn’t care if you draw with it.”
Dinadan opened his mouth for another question when the stone wall dissolved into a grinning, fanged jaw. The bard expected a creak as it opened, but the jaws were completely silent.
“Come come. Mistress Iqua is not so patient like Hanada.” She prodded him forward, into the gaping maw of doom.
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 17, 2005 21:43:02 GMT -5
Iqualanelle al-Mazur liked black. Liked black in the way that most people liked breathing. Her home bore occasional ivory or silver accents, but most of it was black on black on black. Obsidian set in ebony on the furniture. Onyx in adamantine for the fixtures. Black on black tapestries that had to have come from Crypt, just like the ones in Elanoralana’s council chamber. Even the light was dim.
Her chairs were comfortable, though. Dinadan muttered “vulna levis sana” one final time to close up his arm and waited. Hanada had disappeared into a shadowy alcove. Not even Din’s minstrel sight could pick her out, assuming she had remained. The bard had already tried to teleport away. Iqua’s protections against it might not have stood up to a full telemancer, but the more casual bardic approach was stopped cold.
So Din idly picked out tunes on his lute and waited. Doom seemed to be a long time in coming.
And when it came, it was not wearing much.
The satyr had found Iqualanelle stunning in a conservatively cut elven gown. What she wore now scarcely qualified as clothing. Though the garment clearly bore some enchantment, Din’s eyes kept sliding to its intersections with bare skin.
“I did not bring you here to seduce you, son of Whistler.” Her voice was a sweet, low alto.
“Well,” Din grinned, mustering his thoughts, “I could always do the seducing. I am, after all, a professional.”
“For Ishtar’s sake, spare me your charms, goat. Your motives are painfully transparent. And you are working for my grandmother.”
“It could certainly be seen that way—“
“Ten thousand gold. Transferred to your account at the Bank of Abarack two days ago. I sincerely doubt that your background music won you such a prize.”
The bard’s eyes wandered despite his best efforts. “You chose that outfit just to make me squirm, didn’t you?”
Iqua’s grin was not reassuring. “And if I take pleasure in seeing mortals squirm, what of it? Your distraction makes you vulnerable.”
“Are you –sure- you don’t feel like seducing me? I could definitely go for some seduction. Though I don’t like to boast, I could give you several ref--”
“Do you know why my grandmother needs you?”
Dinadan sighed, drew a few breaths, and began working his right hand up and down the fretboard. Even this long after his bout with reincarnation, it was odd to be left-handed. “Her agents here are too well-known by her enemies. I suspect that is because her enemies are you? How long have you been feeding her misinformation?”
“Ah. So there is a brain beneath the horns and posturing. That does not mean I will answer your question.”
“Then I’ll give you something else to chew over. Is it really so important that my dad killed your father? And why on earth did you send some blundering uruk when you had Hanada at your disposal?”
“Hanada was otherwise engaged. As for Glim, I seem to have underestimated him. Or at least you. Had I known that you had given up your wings and halo for a return to hooves and horns, I would have played my hand differently.”
Dinadan had been holding his focus well, but Iqua proceeded to stand and pace. She moved as beautifully as she reclined.
She continued, ignoring his renewed gaze. “There is more at stake here than petty vengeance against my grandmother. She cast my father out, and his death belongs at her doorstep regardless of who wielded the killing blade. I do what I do at the behest of the Queen of Air and Darkness. Her aims are not entirely beyond my ken, but I will not share what I have gleaned with you.”
“I assume it’s the usual ‘kill the seelie and enslave the worlds’ kind of thing? Because there are plenty of fallen already working on that, not to mention the jomsvikings.”
“It is also personal.”
“Why am I not surprised? If you’re hoping to use me to lure my dad here...”
“An interesting thought, but I doubt it. You are Gifted, and have friends who would come looking for you if you went missing long. No, I brought you here because I want you to give me your ‘dad’ and my grandmother besides. I have already prepared hutches for their preserved heads.”
“How droll.” Din muttered. “And why exactly do you expect that I’ll play the turncloak on my flesh-and-blood?”
She leaned over and stared into his eyes. “Because you find me irresistible and the chance to be my lover is too great for you to pass up. And I will soon be fabulously wealthy.”
Dinadan couldn’t help it. He laughed. “I thought you didn’t bring me here to seduce me. You should spend some time in Nineveh listening to the streetwalkers. Their come-ons are much more polished. I don’t deny that stripping those shreds of cloth masquerading as a dress would be the high point of my day, maybe even my week, but do you think I’m an idiot? Contrary to popular opinion, it takes more than a pretty face and a glib tongue to be a bard. There are women enough in the Retroverse for a dozen of me. You’re just one. I’m not some wild satyr, prowling the glens of Welstar for nymphs and farm girls to tumble. You’ll have to do better than that, Iqualanelle al-Mazur.”
Iqua glared at him. “So be it. If you don’t wish to ‘tumble’ me, then we shall re-negotiate. I will let your father live, and you will go tell my grandmother what I want her to hear.”
“Are the al-Mazur lands so important to you? You could not have been close to your mother, not as a bastard girl. I’m sure they promptly hid you away, especially when Ecthelidan disappeared.”
“This is not about my rights, this is about my desires. And I –will- have that land, goat. The al-Mazurs owned some of the richest veins of silver on Raji, and the largest quarries.”
“Ah,” Dinadan said slowly. “That would explain why everybody wants them. I assume that there isn’t an al-Mazur heir?”
“The scion of the house was killed in a riding accident two months ago.”
“Hanada?”
“You are too clever for your own good. I am the nearest thing remaining to a blood heir of the al-Mazur line. And I have proven it to the Sultan.”
“But he has other offers on the table. I’m guessing at least three. Including your grandmother’s. Al-Hamud?”
“Yes. And the Alchemists’ Guild, though their offer is weak. As the Sultan sees it, they must first take care of the land already granted them before they receive more. At the rate they blow themselves up, it is a wonder the Guild still stands.”
Dinadan sighed. He held no particular love for Elanoralana, but he had taken her money. No amount of money was worth his father’s life, though... “You don’t leave me many options, Iqualanelle.” He managed another sigh without much difficulty. “What is it you want me to tell your grandmother the Marchioness?”
The changeling grinned triumphantly. “I knew you would see reason. Tell her that the Sultan favors al-Hamud. Make up whatever details you please; I understand bards are good at that sort of thing. Let her waste her energies fighting his claim. In the meantime, I will see to it that Sheik al-Hamud knows where the interference is coming from. He hasn’t the resources to fight the Seelie Court, but he would rather see me on that land than the elves.”
“Very well. Aught else?”
“That will be sufficient.”
Dinadan stood, taking a long, wistful look at the half-naked woman. “You know, there’s still plenty of day left for seduction...”
“Furry legs give me a rash. And you’re rather too short.”
“Not where it counts.”
Iqua’s eyes narrowed. “Go. Now. And if I find you’ve betrayed me, I’ll see that you are shortened in every sense of the word.”
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Post by Molalzsath on Aug 26, 2005 23:13:26 GMT -5
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 31, 2005 20:50:36 GMT -5
Dinadan reminded himself that, up to this point, he was doing exactly what was expected of him. After a brief stop at the Drunken Wench, he had willed himself to Welstar. The satyr had then made a point of wandering around the city for a while, apparently lost in indecision, before resolutely hiking to Anathaera.
“You have returned quickly.” Lan said, his glare as intense as ever.
Din bowed to Elanoralana’s doorwarden, grinning slightly. “What can I say? I’m efficient.”
“I do not know why my mistress tolerates the likes of you, goat. She should carve your brazen tongue from your smirking mouth.”
“How, then, would I sing at her charming little parties?”
The elf grunted. “This way.”
Dinadan followed dutifully. He was familiar enough with Elanoralana’s estate that its opulence no longer astounded him, so he passed the time by making faces into the many reflective decorations. Lan pressed on, appearing to plod despite his obvious coordination.
“You walk like a goblin zombie.”
“And you smell like a drunken otyugh. Do not lean too heavily on your employment with my Lady, goat. The woods are full of brigands, and it would be a shame if you were to end up with a sword through your chest.”
The bard sighed melodramatically. “Bloodstains are so hard to get out of leather, too. I suppose I’ll hold my tongue for the nonce.”
“See that you do.”
The rest of the walk was eventful only in that Dinadan stopped making faces into the mirrors and began to make them at the back of Lan’s head.
Elanoralana met them in a drawing room that was her petty council chamber writ small. Instead of black on black tapestries, this room was hung with the vibrant reds and greens of Sosel. The Marchioness herself was the usual picture of elegance—a simple crimson gown and plenty of simply set but exceedingly large rubies and emeralds. Dinadan bowed, more deeply and more slowly than he had to Lan.
“Please, sit, master Whistler.”
Oh. This was to be a formal meeting then. Din did as he was told. “What would you like to hear first?”
“Tell me how lovely my eyes are.”
Perhaps not so formal after all. “Bluer than the deeps of Wysoom, clearer than the mountain skies of Welstar, and Crypt has never birthed a gemstone to equal their shine and clarity. Lovely is such a frail word, my lady. Your eyes alone require paeans I could never hope to compose.” Dinadan hoped he was managing to keep from rolling his eyes.
The elven noble’s mouth curled into that strange imitation of a smile. “This, Lan, is why I keep such creatures in my service. Coarse though the container be, it pours forth sweet words.”
“Only when uncapped by a beauty such as yours, Marchioness.” Blah blah blah. Dinadan could go on like this all night if he had to.
“Well, my honey-tongued goat, tell me what you have learned.”
Dinadan drew a deep breath. He’d been marched to the far end of the board and back. It was time to start moving some of the pieces himself. “I found out who’s been feeding you bad information. And why. And what she wants you to think about the current situation.” He gave her a moment, gauging her reaction.
“Go on.” She still wore the inscrutable not-smile.
“Iqualanelle al-Mazur is working for the Unseelie. She has been passing you misinformation for Sikkar knows how long in an effort to avenge her father’s death. She also wants the same land you do, and is claiming it through her mother’s line. She found me easily enough in Suthnas, had her goblin drag me to her lair, and told me to pit you against Sheik al-Hamud, the only Suthnasian with a strong claim to the land. In return for telling you this, she will call her assassins off of my father.”
Elanoralana’s eyes flashed and her voice grew dangerously quiet. “You came here to tell me such lies?”
Why couldn’t it have been easy? Why did the truth always make such trouble? “I assure you, m’lady-“
“I took her in. I granted her money and retainers and trained her. She has every cause for loyalty and no incentive to betray me!”
“Did your son have incentive to betray you? Didn’t you support him, too, train him, give him money?” Thin ice, but Dinadan didn’t like the flames he saw playing about Elanoralana’s fingertips.
“You dare mention my son, goat? I have no son!” Hints of smoke in the air now.
Dinadan swallowed hard and made himself speak levelly. “But you have a granddaughter who seems to have inherited your ambition without your allegiance to Oberon and Titania. You’ve given her a lot, I guess, but that doesn’t stop her from wanting more.”
He could tell that, on some level, she believed him. Iqua’s betrayal would explain many of the problems she’d had. But the bard could see just as clearly that it was not registering emotionally.
“Get out! Get out and do not come back unless you can curb your lying tongue!” She was weeping now, but magefire flickered dangerously about her hands.
“I am sorry if I have hurt you, m’lady.” And he was. Decadent, manipulative creature that the Marchioness was, Dinadan could not help sympathizing with her. Betrayal was betrayal; no amount of previous experience with it would lessen the pain.
The bard bowed and left.
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Aug 31, 2005 20:51:11 GMT -5
Sharp ears save lives. Somebody had scrawled that on a wall in the bard guild once.
Dinadan had barely a heartbeat to twist out of the way as he heard a twig snap behind him. It may have saved his life, but it didn’t save his shoulder.
“I told you I would kill you, goat.”
Din stumbled away from Lan’s voice. Something warm and wet trickled down his left arm. “I’m not dead yet. And are you really going to kill me just for making the Marchioness cry?” He turned around and squared himself up.
“No, I am going to kill you because I have wanted to for weeks. And because my mistress has finally given me permission. You should have done as she said.” The elf lunged, greenish blade flickering in the twilight of Anathaera’s woods.
“Iqua?” Dinadan ducked aside again, but Lan was fast.
“Iqualanelle al-Mazur, dog! Your betrayer’s mouth is unfit even to speak her name!” Lan feinted and slashed. Dinadan gave ground. “Faugh! You fight like a coward. Where is your bravado without a proper warrior to stand behind?”
That galled. Din had fought plenty on his own, and no stuffed shirt of an elven swordsman was going to call him a coward. The satyr curled his fist and, instead of ducking the next slash, stepped inside it. The bar brawls paid off. He managed to get most of his weight behind the punch and landed it solidly on Lan’s nose.
The elf stumbled backwards, cursing. Long enough for Din to unsling his lute and slip around a tree.
It was a bloody game of stab and shout beneath the trees. Din scrambled, strummed, and sang dissonance after dissonance. Lan was fast, though, and tougher than he looked. Spotted with bruises and bleeding from his nose and ears, he still chased the satyr. Dinadan took a shallow cut to the chest, then a deep one to the thigh. That slowed him down.
“You will die, goat.”
Dinadan struggled to catch his breath and skip backwards at the same time. The latter, at least, was successful. “You’ve told me that already. Have you forgotten that I’m Gifted?” Not that he relished dying, but Dinadan knew that it was not the end of his world.
“I haven’t forgotten. But if you die here, you will be too late to save your pitiful wreck of a father.”
“You haven’t read enough stories,” Din muttered, building dangerous resonance in his lute.
“What?”
“You haven’t read enough stories.” Din repeated, loudly enough to hear. “If you had, you’d know that you never threaten your enemy’s family or lover.” His bloody fingers slipped on the strings and he gritted his teeth. “It’s a sure recipe for his second wind.”
“Shove it.” Lan lunged, low and hard and too fast for Din to avoid. The sword took him full at the bottom of his ribcage. Dinadan felt an odd tug on his cloak and realized the rapier’s point must have caught it on the other side of his body.
“BBBBBBRRRRRUUUUUMMMMMMBBBBBBBLLLLLLEEEEE!”
Lan fell back, his skull oddly distorted. The elf spasmed a few times, then lay still.
“Never forget that bards tell their own stories,” Dinadan coughed, “even when we’re living them.” He blinked slowly several times, let his lute fall slack on its strap, then slowly pulled the rapier out of his belly, trying not to think about what was shifting on his insides.
“Vulna levis sana.” Not enough. He was almost passing out. “Vulna levis sana.” Slumped against a tree. “Vulna levis sana.” His arcane reserves were tapped. “Vulna levis sana.” He slipped to the ground and rummaged through his satchel. Bloodwort. Bandages. A four-leaf clover for luck. Some dried kelp harvested under moonlight to soak up the blood. Normally, he’d mash up some ginger and goodberry to hold it all together, but he barely had the energy to stuff the wound closed and get the bandage tied tight...
Judging by the sun, he hadn’t blacked out for long. He felt a little better, too. Still terrible, but not as if he was going to die anytime soon. His hands were sticky with blood. He hated that.
Wearily, he stood and summoned a floating disc. A biomancer wouldn’t have let him pick up Lan’s corpse and dump it into the translucent hemisphere, but a biomancer would have done a proper job patching Dinadan up, too.
[--*--]
“I believe this is yours.” Dinadan rolled Lan’s corpse onto Elanoralana’s thick carpet. Nobody had challenged him on his way in, or looked too closely at the contents of his disc. The Marchioness just gaped at the bloody satyr, her eyes going back and forth between him and the corpse on her floor.
Din had seen Elanoralana speechless. That was almost worth the aching wounds. “Or rather, he was pretending to be yours. He wasn’t happy with what I told you about your ‘niece.’ He tried to kill me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go save my dad.”
“There’s no place like home... There’s no place like home... There’s no place like home...”
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Dinadan
Storyteller
Making a Dangerous Din
Posts: 55
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Post by Dinadan on Sept 17, 2005 16:47:20 GMT -5
Dinadan literally flew from Nineveh to Satyrhome. There had been no time to bandage his wounds properly, and drops of blood hung briefly in the air behind him. Wind whistled in his ears. Spots dotted the edge of his vision. He caromed into one tree branch, then another before he managed to right himself and stumble to a stop in front of Satyrhome. He blinked a few times and burned the last of his flight spell in an improbable leap over the castle’s curtain wall.
The grounds of the keep were as verdant as ever, not that the bard noticed. A staggering run took him to the small cabin where his parents had taken up residence. He slammed the door open.
“Dina, you’re hurt...”
“Where’s dad?” Din panted.
“Out back—“
The bard didn’t wait for her to finish. Through the back door and fumbling uselessly with the stiletto at his belt. In time to see Glim with a dagger in his back, half-falling away from a garishly dressed goblin.
“Hanada! Enough!”
The Hand of the Black Rose turned, no trace of humor in her yellow eyes. “Goat-bard should have put his tongue to better use than breaking word with Iqua.” She produced a matched pair of obsidian daggers and ran straight at him. It wasn’t a charge; there was too much deadly grace in it for that. Dinadan turned sideways and slashed clumsily at her as she approached.
He lost the knife and nearly his hand.
Dinadan kept giving ground, but he was exhausted. An uncompleted chair tipped into Hanada’s path failed to slow her. A hurled bowl was easily ducked. Din scooped up a large mallet and did what he could to keep Hanada from closing.
Then, somehow, Glim was back on his feet, the pommel of his long sword slamming into Hanada’s skull. The goblin staggered and nearly fell. Dinadan caught his father by the shoulder and they lurched together towards the door.
Dinadan passed the old satyr off to his mother. “Get him out of here. Now. Make for the gates. I’ll be right behind you.”
“But...”
“Do as the lad says, Ylonna.” Glim mumbled. “We’re not t’be fightin’ what we left in the yard.”
“Go!” Din shouted. He could see Hanada coming. His parents made it out the front door about the same time the goblin came in the back.
“He be tough for old goat, me think.” Hanada spat as she circled around the kitchen table. “Where did goat bard get so bloody? Maybe found elf with sword?”
Dinadan shook his head and grabbed one of his dad’s half-finished projects from the table. “He found me, actually. Hope you weren’t attached to him. He’s a bit dead.” And Dinadan would be too, if he let Hanada get close. He tried to gauge the acoustic of the room. It was going to be tricky.
Hanada lunged. Din kicked a chair at her, then sang what he hoped was the right dissonance with the right magic behind it. The open back door shimmered, filled by a standing wave. An obsidian dagger flashed close enough to cut Dinadan’s already damaged cloak. That was enough.
The bard shoved the table and made a break for the front door. He heard a knife thunk into it as he got it closed. The goblin was shoving at it from the other side. Dinadan wedged the carving into the jamb and hoped it would hold long enough.
At the gates, his father looked very pale, and his back was soaked in blood. Ylonna looked at her son, about to speak.
“No time. He needs a biomancer. I need a biomancer. Unfortunately, we haven’t got the leisure to wait for a house call. We’re going now. Nineveh. I’d fly you, but I’m too tired.” He got his shoulder underneath Glim’s and set off at the best pace he could manage. “Quickly, now.”
It was slow going with two wounded satyrs. Dinadan pushed his parents hard, trying to ignore how shallow his father’s breathing was, and how much his own injuries hurt. Somehow, the wall of sound and the jammed door must have slowed Hanada down, because they made it to the gates of Nineveh without incident.
Dinadan looked off the gate guard and headed straight down Main. They had to get off Raji, and there was only one way for all three of them to do that. Into the Market, close now. The ruined transporter room...
And Hanada. Sitting casually on one of the broken kiosks that had once offered travel to other worlds.
“Goat-bard foolish. He forget cabin have windows. Hanada think ‘why not let fool goats tire out with fast run to city? Must want to get off world, me think.’ And here you be. Hanada maybe tell fortunes at Carnival.”
“Stay out of our way, Hanada. No need for you to get hurt.” It was an empty threat, and Dinadan knew it. But he was not about to lie down and die. He plucked a few notes on his lute, feeling it warm under his hands.
“Ylonna. Make fer that glow there. Let th’boy...” Glim trailed off, coughing. A bit of blood trickled from his lips. “Let th’boy handle th’gobbo.”
Hanada moved to cut the older satyrs off, but Dinadan was ready. He lashed out with his voice. A line of dust jumped into the air at the sound and the goblin slammed sideways into the wall. She was back on her feet in an instant, though.
Dinadan peppered the debris-laden room with small magics, kicking up clouds and clouds of dust. Then a mad dash for the portal and an instinctive twitch to the left.
[--*--]
“Quiet. Let me catch my breath, and I’ll make a light.”
“Your father won’t talk to me.” Ylonna’s voice was a thin veil for her panic.
Dinadan conjured a bit of light. It wasn’t much in the Void, but it was enough. Glim lay suspended, all the color gone out of him.
“Help me roll him over, mom.”
“I—I pulled the knife out. I thought I might need it.”
“Let me see it.” Ylonna passed Din the knife. He sniffed at it and was about to put it down when he noticed a bit of green just above the hilt. “Poison. Should’ve figured. Hold on, dad.”
Dinadan took a few instruments from his satchel—a thin tube, a tiny blade, a bit of wax and firemoss, a dose of conjured theriac. He poked and prodded at the wound, slipped a bit more theriac beneath his father’s tongue, and waited. Eventually, the old goat’s breathing stabilized, though he didn’t regain consciousness.
“That’s all I can do for him. The poison’s out of his system, but I can’t patch the bloody big hole in his back. We’ve got to move him.”
“Dinadan, what’s this all about?”
“Elves. Changelings. Old scores.” Dinadan shook his head. “A long story, and if you wait for me to tell it, we might lose dad.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, helping her son pick Glim up.
“Trouble showed up on our doorstep, so we’ll return the favor. We’re headed to Anathaera.”
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