The Silenced Tale

by J. M. Frey

  The hotel stands on top of a large conference center that is two stories high and stretches the length of a city block. The second level consists of floor-to-ceiling glass—an unfathomable expense in my world, but standard urban architecture in the Overrealm—but the ground floor is clad in white blocks and tiles that create an interesting mixture of glossy and matte textures. The main entrance of the center opens into a large, paved courtyard bordered by a park filled with grassy knolls and potted trees. Alternately, one may enter the conference center through the hotel lobby. The center’s foyer is circular, a small glass dome perched above allowing a flood of morning light to filter down through the curved banks of escalators that curl up to the balcony-floor above, and down into the windowless underground storey below. A small fountain with a single jet of water that spurts upward like a playful kelpie’s spout on a timed interval lends the otherwise glass, chrome, and concrete space a grandiose air.

  “According to the map, the upper level is going to be the dealers’ room and vendors’ tables, the space on the ground floor is for ticket line-ups and photo sessions, and the basement will have the food court, gaming tables, the signings, and the ballroom for the Q&As and dance,” Pip says, staring up at the poster hanging from the ceiling next to the main entrance.

  Through the glass doors to the outside world, I can see that the convention is already setting up the long, snaking entry queues with black retractable barriers. A small handful of dedicated geeks sit or stand patiently a few meters back, some already in costume; others mill about, chatting, or playing card games, or chasing augmented reality monsters on their smartphones across the parkland.

  “Great,” Elgar grumbles. “Another weekend spent in a lightless, airless hole in the ground. Looks like the Green Room for guests is downstairs, too.”

  “I would much rather we were downstairs, to be honest,” I say. “Easier to defend.”

  “But harder to escape,” Pip points out.

  “Oh, don’t be a complete ball of sunshine or anything,” Elgar grouses. Pip chuckles and pats his arm. “Come on, I have to meet Abby in an hour, so if we’re going to go snooping, we have to do it now.”

  “It’s Ahbni,” Pip corrects as we head for the escalators.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Pip groans and pinches the bridge of her nose as we step onto the moving stairs. “You explain,” she says to me. I try as we ascend, saying that it is impolite to deliberately mispronounce someone’s name, or worse, to “whiten” it without being invited to do so. Elgar looks chastened and promises to do better.

  The security volunteers at the top of the escalator are happy to let Elgar browse before the crowds arrive, and we make a tour of the room, stopping to chat with artisans and merchants, checking eye colors and looking for signs of the Viceroy’s influence. I scan the high corners of the booth spaces for runes and spell bags, peek as unobtrusively under tables and within merchandise as I can. Our walk through the Artist’s Alley is woefully brief, and I take a moment to feel sorry for myself that we probably won’t have the opportunity to peruse it properly this year. Last time we attended a convention like this, I found a lovely, hand-embroidered bunting to hang over Alis’s crib, the artist’s rendition of my family’s emblem picked out in gold thread on Turn-russet brocade.

  “I don’t actually know what I’m looking for,” Pip says eventually, hands planted on the small of her back, frustration twisting at her mouth. “If there are spells here, lying in wait, I can’t feel them. Everything looks fine. But I know it’s not, and it’s driving me bananas.”

  “Here, then,” I say, pulling Pip over to where a vendor is laying out a selection of swords and daggers. The man is twitterpated by Elgar, reaches out to shake his hand, and shows him a sword he says he patterned on Elgar’s description of Foesmiter.

  “And this!” the young man says eagerly, fumbling a sheathed dagger out of its leather casing and brandishing it proudly in the sunlight.

  Pip sucks in a deep, horrified breath and backs up so quickly that she crashes right into my chest.

  “It’s not sharp,” the young man scoffs at her. “I’m not planning on stabbing you.”

  But it’s not the blade that has Pip flummoxed; it’s the hilt. It’s the recognition. “Chailin’s dagger,” Pip breathes, eyes wide and glazed with painful memories.

  “Actually, it’s Kintyre Turn’s dagger,” the young man sneers, then turns back to simper at Elgar, showing off the glass gems set into the hilt, the intricate floral designs on the cross guard. “Fake geek girl.”

  “God grant me the self-confidence of a mediocre white man,” Pip grumbles, but straightens herself and screws up her courage to approach the table and take a closer look at the dagger. The young man doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t protest when Elgar hands it to Pip. My fingers twined casually with my wife’s free hand, I whisper a Word of Revelation, but the dagger is only what it appears to be—a collection of glass, and steel, and wood, and leather. There is no danger here.

  It feels good to be certain, to have access to my arsenal as a spymaster and, yes, adventuring hero. It’s not quite like having a limb once thought forever lost suddenly regrow on a stump, but it does make me feel whole and confident in a way that I had not expected to experience again.

  “Do you like that dagger, Elgar?” I ask my creator. “Does it fit well in your hand?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess. Why?” he asks, taking it back from Pip to test the heft and weight.

  “We need to get you both armed,” I say, low enough that the young man—now trying to take a stealthy selfie with Elgar in the background, instead of just asking one of us to take a photo for him—cannot hear us. “With more than lamps.”

  Elgar chuckles, allowing the gentle tease to cover the nerves we’re all suffering under.

  “These are props,” Pip points out.

  “My whetstone is here,” I whisper, patting the small pouch on my sword belt where I keep the items needed to maintain Smoke. “Though they will not be strong, they will at least be sharp.”

  Pip nods thoughtfully, eyes skimming the wares, and selects a sword not unlike mine. It’s too long for her, though, and she keeps testing the swords until she finds something that I’m certain is meant to be a replica of a weapon used by one of the hobbits or the children who traveled to Narnia.

  “We have katanas,” the young man says as he watches Pip. “Or a ninja star? Something more anime.”

  Pip’s mouth twists and her eyebrows come together in a dark V, and I can see her biting back the tirade about Asian stereotypes. As much as I enjoyed watching her take to task the Schrödinger’s Rapists in the tavern, we both know that now is not the time and place to do the same with this lad.

  “No, I think this sword will do,” she says, raising it to point the tip at his ear. The man takes a startled step back, suddenly realizing that perhaps condescending to an armed woman, even one armed with a blunted length of steel, is a bad idea.

  Elgar distracts the man from his foolishness by waving his credit card under his nose.

  “I wish you hadn’t picked that one,” Pip says to him as the young man wraps their purchases in bubble wrap, cardboard boxes, and mountains of packing tape to make them acceptable to carry in public. Little does he know his work is wasted.

  “But it’s Kin’s knife,” Elgar says, eyes dancing with glee. “Seems appropriate!”

  “And it was Bootknife’s before it was Kintyre’s,” I remind him gently, and Elgar’s face does something complicated when it’s clear he’s not certain how to feel about this reminder. “And it was at King Chailin’s tomb that—”

  “I remember,” Elgar says sharply, the joy drained from his posture. He accepts the boxes from the young man, signs a battered copy of The Serpent of the Sleeping Vale that the vendor had under his table, and then we make our way down to the lower levels of the convention center. This area is easier to investigate, as there are fewer people setting up the various rooms for p
anel discussions. In the grand ballroom, technicians are running the final sound and light checks on the stage, while volunteers set out what, by my rough estimate, appears to be about five thousand chairs.

  It is here that Ahbni catches up to us.

  “Mr. Reed,” she says. “I thought I was meeting you in the hotel lobby?”

  “Yeah,” he replies casually. “But I wanted to get a little shopping in first.”

  Ahbni frowns at the boxes in his hands. “I wish you’d waited for me to escort you.”

  “I had Syth and Lucy here.”

  Ahbni turns to face us, her people-pleasing expression firmly back in place. “Morning.”

  “Good morning,” I say. “Elgar, let me take those up to the room for you. Pip, you’ll be fine tagging along without me for a while?”

  “’Course,” Pip says, grinning at how I make it sound like she’s only sticking with him to keep from being bored.

  Ahbni frowns again, but doesn’t say that she can’t go with them. “There’s a hospitality suite on the second floor of the hotel,” Ahbni says. “I was thinking we could head up there, grab you some breakfast, and review your schedule for today?”

  “We’ve eaten,” Elgar says. “But I could always do with more coffee.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Ahbni says, mentally realigning her plans. “Coffee we can do.”

  The four of us head toward the escalators, and Ahbni, I notice, falls into step with Pip.

  “I like your outfit, by the way. I wanted to say it last night, but, well, you know,” Ahbni says.

  “Oh, thanks,” Pip says, happy to take the offered conversation, and the leisure to get Ahbni warmed up to her. Any ally we can cultivate is worth the work of it.

  “Is it homemade?”

  “In a sense,” Pip allows. “I like your outfit, too.”

  Ahbni grins, and it’s like a sunrise. We step onto the moving stairs, giving Ahbni the opportunity to turn a little circle and show off. Today, she is wearing a knee-length skirt patterned with glittery pink-and-lilac cherries, skulls, and tubes of lipstick. Her blouse is another long-sleeved, flowing one made of a creamy gauzy material, and topped with a violently pink muslin scarf whose tails hang gracefully to the hem of her skirt. She wears leggings in the same shade of pink, and sneakers in the same lilac that is on her skirt. And, like yesterday, her makeup is impeccable and intricate, and her long dark hair is pulled back into the most complicated braid I have ever seen.

  “I’m in fashion design. I made this all myself.”

  “Color me impressed,” Pip says.

  “I really like your shirt. Did you sew it yourself?” Ahbni asks, touching Pip’s sleeve to investigate the fine stitching around her cuff. “This was done by hand. It’s excellent work.”

  “Nah, not me. I don’t do that useless girly stuff,” Pip says, clearly thinking back to that afternoon in my mother’s rooms when she kicked the basket of sewing and embroidery supplies onto the floor, rejecting all the symbols and trappings of what it meant to be a woman in Elgar Reed’s world.

  She levels a mischievous grin at me as we share the memory, but between us, Ahbni’s mouth twists into a bitter smirk.

  “Oh, I see. You’re not like other girls, then?” Ahbni asks, but there’s a note of mocking in her tone.

  “What?” Pip asks, turning to look at Ahbni full in the face, startled.

  Ahbni shoves her hands into her skirt pockets and radiates ire.

  Pip looks down at her own feet, her brain chugging along to follow what just happened in that conversation, where the wrong turn occurred.

  “Um,” Pip says at last, and looks up to me. I’m afraid I am no help, however, for I am too amused. We step off the escalator, and Pip is so befuddled that she just stops in the middle of the marble floor. Pip smacks her forehead with her palm and groans. “Oh my god. I did it. I fell into a trope again. It’s just like you said, Syth. Aware, but not immune. Fuck me.”

  Elgar looks her up and down, and frowns. “What trope?”

  “Strong Female Character Who Disdains Femininity and is Not Like Other Girls,” Pip says, running her free hand through her hair. She looks mortified. “Ahbni, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”

  “’S okay,” Ahbni says. “I just . . . I can’t stand that kind of crap. I call it out when I encounter it.”

  “As well you should,” Pip says, nodding firmly.

  “What my wife meant to say is that she doesn’t enjoy many of the traditionally feminine pastimes naturally,” I explain, dropping a kiss onto her cheek. “Which I think is best for us, all told. I can’t imagine what a disaster our wardrobe would be if I left you to do the laundry.”

  “Hey,” Pip protests, affronted. “I cook!”

  “And beautifully, bao bei. But what I am saying, dearest, is that the average Chipping Estate would utterly fall apart without ‘women’s work.’ It is not worthless.”

  “I’m not denying that,” Pip says with a frown. “I’m just . . . I don’t do that stuff.”

  “And that’s fine,” Ahbni says. “Just don’t call it ‘useless’ because it’s female coded when we all know it isn’t actually useless.”

  Pip groans and runs her hands through her hair again. “No, you’re right. I’m not—never mind, I’m an asshole. I’m sorry. Can I take it all back?”

  “Yes,” Ahbni says, with another one of those sunrise grins. “As long as you admit that you’re a bad feminist who needs to work on her intersectionality.”

  Pip laughs, and slings her arm over Ahbni’s shoulder, grinning blindingly at the young woman. “That’s it. It’s official. I’m keeping you forever,” Pip says. Ahbni tries to protest, but she’s smiling too much to get the words out properly. “No, nope, nope. I’m adopting you. You’re coming to live in Victoria and you’re going to be my new TA and I’m going to supervise your PhD and you’re part of the family now. No point in resisting.”

  “Okay,” Ahbni says, head ducked, scuffing the toes of her shoes together, blushing madly. I don’t think Pip’s obvious glowing approval and proximity are doing anything for what appears to be Ahbni’s budding crush on her. Poor dear.

  “Now,” I say. “Off with you all. I’ll meet you in the hospitality room once I’ve rendered these, ah, props to be safe for the convention hall.” Ahbni probably thinks I intend to zip-tie the blades into their sheaths, as other cosplayers must do if they want their props to pass a weapon’s check. I have no intention of disabusing her of that notion.

  Elgar

  As the former Shadow Hand of Hain, Elgar figures Forsyth can appreciate the need to protect information. But what Forsyth actually says when he sees the briefcase with the combination lock handcuffed to a nervous-looking techie is: “There’s protection, and there is excess. It’s just a film.”

  Elgar knows what Forsyth means—in the grand scheme of things, someone getting the short film out into the world a few hours ahead of Flageolet doing it at the con is a relatively minor disaster. It would announce the series too early, but the series is still going to be announced today, one way or another. Because Flageolet Entertainment fears this very kind of leak, they’d even arranged for the teaser short to be among the first block of the con’s programming.

  But compared to getting horribly murdered by the Viceroy? Yeah, it seems excessive.

  “Come into the washroom with me, Elgar,” Forsyth says, rolling his eyes. “I wish to fix your hair before your panel.”

  “You do?” Elgar asks, startled. Forsyth fixes him with a telling stare, and Elgar scrambles to his feet and follows Forsyth into the hospitality suite’s large washroom.

  “Honestly,” Forsyth says, closing the door behind them and locking it. “You would never have survived in the court of King Carvel. Subtlety, Elgar.”

  “I can never really figure that out,” Elgar says with a shrug.

  “Yes, and my brother is proof of that,” Forsyth replies, but it’s with a smile, at least. “Here, turn to face the mirror so I may attach t
his.”

  He pulls the replica of Kintyre’s dagger out of the back of his leather jerkin. When Elgar turns, he can feel Forsyth tugging on his belt and tucking in his shirt, but he can’t actually see what he’s doing. The press of the sheathed knife against the small of his back is strange and alien, and at the same time, a huge comfort.

  “Try to grab the knife,” Forsyth says, and Elgar reaches back. He can get his fingers around the hilt well enough, though he got some of his shirt with it, too. “Ah, you’ll have to be wary of that. Lucky for us you have lost as much weight as you have, and have not yet replaced your shirts. This will cover the hilt. Try again.”

  Elgar does, and then again, and again, until Forsyth is content that he can grab and unsheathe the dagger quickly, easily, and without cutting himself. Elgar has to keep wiping his palms on his pants to keep the handle from getting too sweat-slicked.

  “Now, when you stab,” Forsyth says, reaching across his shoulder to position Elgar’s grip behind the guard, “do so like this. Up, from under, not over like a horror-movie villain. If you must stab, attempt to position your arm like so, or like so.” He tugs Elgar’s arm through the motions a few times, then steps back to watch in the bathroom mirror as Elgar copies him.

  “I wish we had more time,” Forsyth says. “But I think you are as prepared as I can make you. Now, allow me to actually fix your hair.”

  Elgar turns to Forsyth and lets him fuss with water and a bit of the product someone’s left on the bathroom counter that smells strongly of verbena and coconuts. In a way, Elgar is reminded of Juan—fussy, fastidious, and picky about projecting the correct image. But Forsyth has grown up in Hain, in Lysse Chipping, in Turn Hall, where power and strength and virility are more prized than intelligence and manners. Forsyth has learned to wear his clothes as a weapon, to make a shield of a perfectly knotted neckcloth; to behave so appropriately and so correctly that Algar Turn wouldn’t be able to find any fault in him to exploit or harm; to be so good to the people under his care that the citizens of Lysse had no reason to rebel or oust him. Fear fueled his every action, his every practice, his every stride toward perfection. And still he was never valued above Kintyre—brash, rakish, windblown and road-soiled and bad-mannered. Save for by the Pointes, and Pip, and now, after a long time, Elgar.