Rendering Nirayel-Stepping on Arbitos

by Nathan P. Cardwell

  "Fine, Colonel, that's just fine. However, I'm really quite busy at the moment. If you could just make an appointment with my office, I'm sure we can take care of whatever business you have."

  "As milord wishes," she agreed resignedly.

  "I say, Krue!" admonished the Magistrate excitedly. "You military types certainly are a tightlipped lot. The entire city's a veritable buzz with stories of ferocious Gnolls, wicked Wognix, dancing Tarot girls, and who knows what other derring-do. What a bounder you are for making me wait to hear your report!"

  "I sincerely apologize, milord."

  "Oh, nonsense, old boy," snorted the Magistrate loudly.

  While the Magistrate struggled to recover from his self-inflicted sense of good-humored fun, Reginald ventured his own good-natured glance in the unhappy Colonel's direction.

  "Tell you what, Regi. Nuesilla's made up a batch of those little carp cakes you like so much. She'd simply never forgive me if I didn't drag you back home."

  "Jericoe? If your wife doesn't retard her progress, my Blacksmith will be forced to let my armor out again!" the Captain intoned with a serious glare.

  There followed a short silence wherein the Magistrate appeared taken aback, and then suddenly burst out laughing, along with Reginald.

  The Colonel did not appear amused.

  ***

  Directly following the announcement of their decision, there ensued a long moment of silence. After a time, wherein he continued to exhibit no indication of rendering at least some token rejoinder, there began a restless murmuring amidst the august body of Elders.

  When at last it appeared that the Squire was so inclined as to offer no response at all, Amara finally decided to break the silence, herself. "This is really quite a rare honor."

  "Oh, yes, absolutely," included Elder Hardwood. "And a most unprecedented privilege for one who isn't even a member of the Council."

  "Well…that's just the point!" Jester implored. "I'm no sort of politician. I'm a Druid."

  "My dear Squire! There are currently eight Druids on the Council!" Amara intoned reproachfully.

  "No, no! I didn't mean to imply…"

  "Are you perhaps under the influence that you are above such duties?" inquired Elder Grizzlier.

  "No! You're twisting my words about! I meant…"

  "What exactly did you mean?" Amara inquired stiffly, the intensity of her glare suggesting a cautious answer.

  He had meant to say that he was far too young for such duties. He had meant that the mundane responsibilities of an Ambassador are for old Druids who can't deal with the real world anymore. He had meant to say that they were sentencing him to a fate worse than Proscribe. He had meant many things, all of which would only worsen his position were he to actually speak them aloud.

  He looked about the room, bombarded by all the old and withered faces and their expectant glares as they fell back upon him, as if to say, Go ahead. We know what's on your mind. Go ahead, and we'll be only too happy to withdraw our magnanimous offer. Oh, by the way, we have this other assignment. It's a wonderful post in Norwinds. We need someone to tutor underprivileged Barbarian children there for the next two or three eons. And don't worry. You'll get used to the cold, and to their smell, eventually.

  "I would be most honored to accept the Council's exceedingly generous offer," he concluded quickly, though with a most unhappy expression.

  ***

  Even now, Crumly wasn't quite sure of the circumstances surrounding his current predicament. He dimly recalled one of those Wizard types standing just outside the jail when they finally let him out. He had approached the fellow in hopes of a few coppers. He only wanted enough for a tankard or two-just enough to ward off the chill of night. The fellow had seemed pleasant enough, but hadn't taken the first few subtle hints. After following him about for a half hour or so, the chap actually began to appear a bit agitated. Quite abruptly, after the fellow's eyes had flashed to a bright red, Crumly found that it was even colder on the North Arbitos drawbridge.

  That was about all he could remember, save the outraged vendors on the bridge itself. How was I supposed to know that wine belonged to someone? It looked as if it had been abandoned on that vending cart.

  He tried to explain, but the guards wouldn't listen. Mayhap he should have stopped after the third or forth bottle, whilst the vendor might yet have been reasonable.

  And as if returning so quickly to yet another confinement wasn't bad enough, now he found himself in a cell that was right next to one holding an actual Wognix.

  "Wench! I'll tell you one last time! Dark elves can't make ale to save their blasted blue hides!"

  The creature was relentless, droning on and on. Oh, how she yearned for silence. It would have been so pleasant to feel the little drunkard's neck snap. Unfortunately, she had promised Jesterwolf that she would behave herself. Perhaps this is some form of torture, she surmised as her thoughts raced. Mayhap they expect me to crack under the pressure. No! She would not let them see her falter. She would simply sit quietly, and smile back at him. I won't cry! You can't make me cry!

  "Did you hear me, you blue harlot? I said I would rather drink poison than ale made by a filthy Wognix!"

  "Regretfully, they have taken my entire drachnid stock," she replied as her lower lip began to tremble of its own volition.

  ***

  The entire predicament was just so bizarre. The Council members had supplied Jester with documentation of their extended authority, along with indoctrination as to the specific responsibilities of this assignment, which included an entire tome on the subject of Diplomatic Conduct and Ethics in the Political Arena. Gwaurdenbog! It's two fingers thick!

  Finally, he was instructed to report immediately to Captain Krue for both orientation and instruction in parliamentary procedures. Their need for such expedience was due to his formal Ceremony of Appointment, which was apparently to take place inside of two days.

  What could they possibly gain by this? How was he to come to terms with it? And why were they moving so quickly? These and many other questions ran through his mind as he entered Arbitos proper.

  He had just crossed the drawbridge as some prior commotion was settling down. What exactly caused the commotion was a mystery, although several guards could be seen dragging someone toward the garrison. Just then, as he was passing through the front gate, it finally struck him, at which point he stopped dead in his tracks. Could it be that they fear another Assassination?

  Oh, Troll spoor, that's it! They do! They think there could be another Assassination, and I'm the bait!

  "Blasted thieves!" exclaimed a flustered vendor as she and her cart unceremoniously shoved a yet dumbstruck Jester out of the way. "It's getting to where a body can't even take a moment to go relieve her bladder anymore!"

  I need a drink.

  ***

  "You sure you won't come with us, Borin?" Marcus prompted.

  "Yes, Krue, do come," Selina added. "I understand there's a new style of weighted halberd in from Brinehaven. It's said to be even lighter than…"

  "Thanks anyway, but you know I've never really taken to halberds. I'll just hang out here for a bit, and then head home. I really am quite exhausted."

  Their concerned expressions indicated a probability of continued, albeit well meaning interest.

  "Exhibitions are more for those who have need of supplemental instruction. You two Round-ears should fit right in," he smirked.

  Selina eyed him with a wary countenance, and then glanced back toward the bar. "I know why you're staying," she announced with a sly smile.

  "Selina!" Marcus intoned reproachfully.

  "He's infatuated with the barmaid," she grinned evilly.

  "No, really. I've not had a fitting night sleep in weeks," Borin offered defensively.

  "Why must you always do this?" Marcus lamented.

  "Do what? You know he's got a crush as well as I, and don't you even try to deny it, Krue."

  Borin looked down, embarra
ssed.

  "Now you've done it!" mumbled Marcus angrily.

  "I've done nothing at all, and neither will he, for that matter," she chortled.

  "Hush up, Selina!"

  "Ouch! Marcus! I do believe that you stomped my foot on purpose!"

  "Nonsense," he retorted, while pulling her chair out from the table. "I believe it's time we were going."

  "Oh, all right!" she agreed reluctantly as he dragged her toward the door. "But if you ever do that again, I'll squash you like a…"

  "Barkeep! Another stout for our wayward friend!" Marcus shouted on his way out.

  Borin looked up as he tossed a coin to the barmaid, who, upon catching it with well-practiced ease, dropped it in the till with one hand, while drawing off another tankard with the other.

  As he shoved Selina out the door, he offered Borin a casual salute. He actually outranked Borin, although this was the sort of good luck gesture offered informally among comrades. He closed the door behind him, and then pushed Selina before him like a reluctant plow beetle until they had passed in front of the tavern window and out of Borin's view.

  As the barmaid started in his direction, Borin quickly glanced down before she could catch him watching her. She put the stout on his table, and then returned to her post. Borin never even looked up.

  I really haven't the time for this, Jester thought. I have my own problems. He needed to see how Delphi was faring before reporting to the Captain. Still, he looked so miserable. Sheesh! Just look at him!

  It had not crossed his mind before, especially after how Ezy had gone after him. Of course, now that he thought about it, Ezy wasn't exactly a difficult proposition. A bashful Warrior? Is such a thing even possible?

  He let the invisibility drop, and then stepped out of the shadows. "Hail, Borin," he called while walking over.

  Oh gads! Borin thought in rising panic. Not him! Not Now!

  "Oh, hell… Hello, Jester. Won't you have a seat?" he asked, since Jester was already seating himself.

  When almost seated, Jester exclaimed, "Ow!" and then rose half way up again.

  Borin's mind flashed back to Jester's minor injury, and a half-crooked grin formed briefly as he recalled the great fuss made over what had been naught but a scratch. Such trivia had hardly been worth the Cleric's trouble.

  Jester smiled, and then went ahead and sat down while thinking, How easily some are entertained. He hated to resort to such a cheap form of humor. Still, it served to ease any lingering apprehension.

  "Say there, Borin, If you're not gonna drink that stout, I sure am thirsty," he hinted.

  "As a matter of fact, I…" Borin began, and then stopped on seeing that he spoke too late. The fleabag already had it halfway down his gullet.

  "Oh, my!" commented Jester while leering above the tankard, conveniently in the direction of the barmaid. "Now, she's got class."

  "A lot more than you, Druid," Borin shot back with only the slightest agitation in his voice.

  "What? You don't believe that I could win her affections?"

  "I don't think anyone of your ilk should even try," he replied, his agitation advancing.

  "Well, now. There's a challenge if I ever heard one."

  "No! I mean, I really don't think you should…" but Jester was already up and on his way to the bar. Borin could only watch in dismay as he stepped up to the bar and motioned her over.

  When she got there, he began speaking to her in hushed tones. After a moment, he pointed in Borin's direction and she glanced over at him with an obvious look of concern. Out loud, she said, "I'm afraid I can't allow…"

  "No, you misunderstand," Jester insisted, returning to more hushed tones.

  Borin recalled the whopper Jester had told the Dwarven guard while breaking him out. He quickly began to gather his things, intending to make for the door before he found himself in jail again. But just as he stood up, the barmaid tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Excuse me, milord," she intoned with concern as he looked up and froze.

  Not again!

  "As I told your friend, we don't allow animals in the tavern."

  Borin's mind raced. "Huh?"

  "I'm afraid you'll have to take your pet outside, please."

  "Pet?" he asked in a cracked voice while inching his way toward the door, and then freezing in position when from behind his chair there came an almost pathetic whimpering, as if something were in extreme agony.

  As he turned, a ragged-looking wolf with reddish fur limped out, almost fell, but with great effort managed bravely to gather itself together as it continued to limp toward its master, its head down and its tongue lolled out to one side while favoring its right foreleg.

  "Oh, my goodness!" cried the barmaid, rushing to the ailing creature's side as it had apparently gone as far as it could. When she reached the wolf, it suddenly collapsed in her arms.

  "He's been injured!" she cried with alarm.

  Borin raised one speculative eyebrow while dropping the other in a half scowl, half wary expression as he once again commenced to inch toward the door.

  "Was he in the battle with you, milord?" she asked while frantically searching the animal for wounds.

  "Ummm…" said Borin intelligently as the wolf winked at him.

  "There's a room in the back," she announced confidentially while glancing about to confirm they were alone. She seemed to have forgotten about the "no pets" rule.

  "There's really no need…"

  "Follow me. I have a few Clerical potions," she said seriously while gingerly lifting the poor, brave, now unconscious beast.

  "I really don't think he's…"

  "Please, milord!" she pleaded. "We must hurry before the owner sees him."

  Borin hesitated.

  "Please, milord?" she asked in a softer tone. "I am but a simple barmaid. I haven't much, and will never possess the incredible courage to do what you and this valiant creature have done for our people. I implore you to at least allow me the opportunity to offer what meager appreciation I can."

  Borin followed, trying to think of what to say. What could he say? Excuse me, but that's not a brave and injured battle beast. In reality, it's a conniving tree-hugger. No, that probably wouldn't help.

  ***

  A few minutes later, Jester exited into the back alley, and then removed the sling from about his foreleg-arm and neck. "Alas and woe is me. A Druid's work is never done," he lamented to no one in particular, then continued on toward the Garrison, and his own problems.

  ***

  The door to the outer cells opened.

  "Mind you now, only a few minutes," warned the guard.

  "I'll not take long," spoke a familiar voice. Then he came through, and the door closed behind him.

  Delphi immediately stood and moved to the edge of the bars.

  "I regret these poor accommodations," he offered sincerely, glancing about the dismal set of inner cells.

  "I expected no less, milord."

  "I'm just a Squire, milady," he corrected her elevation of his lot. It had slipped his mind that said station was soon to change, regardless of his preference.

  Her expression didn't alter. His correction appeared to carry no particular sway over her opinion. In fact, her opinion had seemed to take on a decidedly strange alteration ever since their rescue. Though he found this turnaround somewhat disturbing, he couldn't quite articulate what it was that bothered him.

  "Well, I just wanted to assure you I intend to stay true to my word," he intoned seriously.

  "I do not doubt you in the least."

  "Oh? Yes…well, that is a great relief to me."

  A long moment of silence.

  "Well…" he continued, and then paused uncomfortably. The way she was staring was beginning to make him feel quite uneasy, as if he were the prey to her predator. "Umm, how's your eye doing?" he asked in the absence of anything better to say. Then he remembered. It wasn't doing anything. It was absent. Gads, what a buffoon! he cursed himself.

 
"It feels much better since you healed it, milord."

  "Oh, wait!" he exclaimed, reaching inside his jerkin, and quickly glancing over his shoulder to make sure the guard didn't see. Presently, he pulled out a long strip of light blue silk. The vendor had called it sky blue. It was thin, except for the midsection, which had been doubled over a flat lining of soft cotton and leather padding, and then sewn. He handed it to her through the bars.

  She took it, examining it for several seconds before realizing he was offering her some sort of gift. "Thank you," she offered humbly, then almost as an afterthought, clutched it closely to illustrate how much she valued it.

  "You do know what it is, right?" he asked.

  She held it up, turning it this way, then that. It did bear a vague resemblance to a certain article concerning personal hygiene, although she found it difficult to believe anyone would construct such a thing from silk, much less offer it as a gift. Warily, she returned her attention to the gift's bearer. "I'm not currently in need of a…"

  "It's a patch," he informed her expectantly.

  "A patch," she repeated with a grateful smile, and sighing with relief that she had not told him what she had really thought it was. "Well… I'm sure it will come in very handy, if ever I find myself in need of…patching something…with a patch," she concluded, clutching it even closer.

  There followed another long moment of silence, wherein he seemed to be considering something while she simply tried not to look unappreciative, though he still noticed her casting the gift several perplexing glances.

  Finally, "It's for your eye," he informed her.

  At this, she instinctively reached for her hood, and then remembered it was with her other confiscated possessions. In its absence, she covered her right hand over the disfigurement while casting her gaze to the floor.

  "Forgive me, milady. It was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable," he offered. "On the contrary, I only offered the patch because I thought you might find it appealing."

  She did not respond. She continued to evade his eyes.

  "Most of the women I have known possess a certain…ornamental pride, especially when it comes to matters about the face. In fact, I know a Lady who makes it a regular practice to pluck the hairs from her brow, before adorning her face with both paint and flour," he told her, while thinking of Ezlea.