4: Old Friends

"He wouldn't stop dancing! We had to pin him down to put out the fire!" Laughter rang off the brickwork walls of the Dog and Peonie, out the second-story windows and into the streets of upper Corak. Tad had heard his master tell this story so many times in the last few moons that it failed to embarrass him. Now he just ran his fingers through his much shortened hair for emphasis, which got more laughs. Even after three moons in Corak, it still hadn’t grown fully back.

Nolan Brightstar was breakfasting with old friends. From what Tad had gathered, the six of them had gone West out of the kingdom some years before, and never since their return had they all been reunited. Like so many, they had come to the city to see Old Ludo pass his title down to his son, the new Duke of Corak his Royal Grace Fredick of the Line of Harrell, Striker and Guardian of the Coin of the Realm, Protector of the Southern Reaches, and many-other-titles-few-could-remember. They had all connected to their old friend Nolan through incidental run-ins with Tad, who thought the whole affair to be craftily arranged.

This morning's breakfast was a typical example of his boss' work. Tad doubted that he had run into any of them by accident. Rather, he had been placed where they would inevitably encounter him and ask after his master. The broad and bearded dwarf in Arcanist robes wearing several (possibly magical) thick golden rings was attached to the local arcane campus, but he was no teacher. Arcanist Minzerec Granitehelm, that was the dwarf's name, had seen Tad's medallion in passing and stopped him in the campus courtyard on his way to lessons. On another day Bishop Ambrose, a white-haired but hale man, discovered Tad while inspecting the small shrine where the boy learned history. The sisters, one darker and more stern, the other more blonde and outgoing, he met through his fighting school. They were former students of the elderly swordmaster in residence there. The only person Mr. Brightstar had to go looking for was Earkey, who was apparently some kind of priest. During the day he taught religious studies in the gnomish community in the middle city, and at night he was a bouncer at a bar in the Bottom.

The sisters were bickering. They hadn’t seen each other for months before the coronation, so naturally they had a lot of bickering to catch up on.

“Are you still feeding your horse apples?” Asked Aidan, the dark-haired one.

“There’s nothing wrong with apples. She likes them,” countered the fair-haired Nadia while transfering several strips of bacon and two boiled eggs from the central bowl onto her own wooden platter.

“You should feed her leva-fruit. A much more fitting treat.” To press her point, Aidan scooped a generous portion of expensive fresh fruit onto her own plate and took possession of the ceramic carafe of unfermented grape juice.

“She doesn’t like leva, she likes apples. And since I love my horse I know what she likes.” Nadia punctuated this by dropping a huge amount of thick oatmeal onto her plate and poured syrup over everything.

“If you really loved her you would teach her to enjoy more suitable treats. She’s an Arducian charger, not some plough horse.” Tad noticed that, even though she seemed to eat daintily, Aidan’s food was disappearing at an alarming rate.

“Just because you insist on cramming expensive morsels down Grassfire’s throat doesn’t mean you love him. He might hate them for all you know.” Nadia scooped a giant spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth triumphantly.

“He likes them just fine. He eats them doesn’t he?”

“Maybe he just eats them to please you,” countered Nadia, jabbing at her sister with her fork. “Horses can be dumb that way.” Her plate was nearly empty, and Tad ran off to tell the innkeeper to bring a lot more food. Women or not, these Riders were hungry. By the time he returned, the conversation had shifted.

“The donations have been very generous,” said the bishop beatifically, “especially from those in the working classes.” He had a face like a prince of Soubous: narrow and fine with clear blue eyes. Aspera’s own nobles often had the same features, thanks to centuries of intermarriage with the Soubous nobility. “Saint Engel’s message of hard work and zelous faith appeals to them, as it should to all of us.” The holy man put something into his mouth and chewed slowly, knowing full well he had the attention of the assemblage. When he was done chewing and swallowing he resumed speaking, “We’re even taking over the old stronghold of Myngar Harrell the Younger, and we’re turning it into a basilica dedicated to the Saint. A bastion for the faithful.”

“I’ve been by there before,” pronounced Aidan. “That part of the Yeron silted up a century ago, and the river is a mile away now. It has no strategic value!”

“Not a worldly one, but battles of faith take place in hearts and minds as well as strength of arms. The basilica will have great spiritual value, with Saint Engel’s blessing.”

“I see you are more superstitious than ever,” rumbled the dwarf, “and I am surprised. You must realize by now how foolish it is to ally yourself with forces that exist only in your mind.”

“I however am not surprised that you insist on closing your eyes.” retorted the bishop, “You’ve been touched by divine powers more than once, and if that didn’t change your mind five years ago then I hardly expect you to have changed since then.”

“I talk to my god all the time,” shrugged the gnome. “He even talks back some times. Hard to disbelieve when you feel his presence in you every day. AND they give us the power to help people. I don’t understand why you have to be so obstinate, Minzy.”

Some unpleasant expression moved on to Minzerec’s face and set up residence there. Dwarves excelled at scowling like no other race Tad had yet encountered. Not only did his eyebrows seem to knit themselves together, but as he worked his jaw muscles the black hairs of his beard seemed to flex. “You’re the obstinate ones. At best, you have a divergent form of innate magic which you attribute to non-existent dieties. At worst you gain your powers from powerful entities beyond the Veil, which have their own agendas and can not be trusted.”

“They certainly are powerful entities, and they certainly do have their own agendas.” Ambrose had switched to the kind of voice he might use while carefully explaining the facts of life to a child. “And what scares the Academy so much is that they can’t control that agenda.”

“Same old arguments,” sighed Earkey hapilly, “just like old times.”

Conversation stalled while everybody tried to think of a new topic. Tad wondered if he should redirect things by asking Earkey why an empowered priest was playing security guard at night, but discarded the idea as too likely to provoke Minzerec. The conversation was saved by, of all things, a very drunk elf who burst into the room as if he had been invited. He was dirty to an extreme, and his fine elven hair hung lank and oily over most of his face. These displays of untoward hygiene being insufficient, the real offense was the odor that proceeded him: a breath of sewer tinged with bitter lemon.

He was also very loud. The elf pulled up a chair and squeezed himself between the Bishop and the halfling. “My old friends! My dear old friends! I’m shoo glad to shee you,” he slurred at the top of his lungs. Tad had the odd sensation of burning in his nose and eyes, all of which began to water. “Itsh ben sooo long. Howya ben, guys?”

The strange elf’s clothes looked like he had been sleeping in a ditch after a hard day of cleaning gutters. He had conveniently brought several of his own bottles of wine, which he produced from inside his tatty traveling cloak. “Wine anyone? I wash just telling shomeone yesherday ...” and here the elf took a long pull direct from an open bottle. As he did so his hair fell away, and Tad recognized, with a complete lack of shock, that this was the very same elf he had seen only a few days before. As was his habit, Tad had reported this elf’s curious circumstances to his master.

Momentarily satisfied, the elf put down the bottle with an earnest sigh. There was an awkward pause while the assemblage waited for him to finish his thought, but the elf instead leaned over until his cheek touched the table. “Oh, thas nice and cool,” he murmured, and began to snore.

Thaddius was feeling woozy in the the head from the elf’s many fumes, and would have fallen over if Mr. Brightstar handn’t put out a hand to steady him. “Tad, meet Avra Basil. He is a student of secret martial lore, and faller-on of hard times. Nadia, give me a hand will you? Let’s move him to the divan.”

It was in mid-elf-movement that Tad noticed a discoloration on Nadia’s otherwise flawless skin, a smattering of tiny bruise-like dots had crept up from her shirt collar while no-one was looking. Tad was sure it hadn’t been there when she arrived, and against her cream-like flesh the spots struck him as unwelcome. “Are you feeling well, lady Nadia?”

“Too much rich food since coming to the city, I’m sure.” The tall woman dropped Avra onto the divan with all the care one would give to a sack of flour. The elf groaned some, then rolled away from the window’s light before resuming his musical snores.

“You haven’t had a bad food reaction a single day in your life, or I’m not your sister,” insisted Aidan. “Maybe Avra is sick, and you got it when he sat down. He’s dirty enough.”

“Well he didn’t sit anywhere near you, and you have the same thing. Look at your arm.” Aidan stuck one arm a little farther out of her sleeve to examine the inside of one wrist. “And if you’ve been sick a day in your life then I’m not your sister.”

Ambrose stretched out his hand to Nadia, “Let me have a closer look. It doesn’t look like anything common. You haven’t come into contact with anything strange lately, have you? Eaten anything unusual? Get bitten by any monsters?”

“Doesn’t look like any poisons I know,” offered Nolan. Every head turned towards him, which for some reason made him mumble into his cup. “Not that I’m an expert or anything.”

“How do you feel?” Resumed the priest. “Any fever? Pains in the belly, sore joints? Lightness in the head? Anything like that? Nothing at all?” Nadia and Aidan both shook their heads repeatedly.

“What about your mental state,” inquired the dwarf, “any strange thoughts? An unexplained sensation, or compulsion?”

The sisters looked at each other, but Aidan was the first to admit, “I’ve had a weird feeling all day, like I’ve forgotten something.”

“I keep wanting get in the saddle and ride,” added Nadia, “but I have no idea where to go. Does that count?”

The dwarf stood suddenly and strode to the chamber door to close it, then turned his impressive breadth around. Tad had not noticed before how broad the wizard was. Minzerec’s kin usually wore clothes that made them seem even broader, but even in simple arcanist’s robes he was as wide as two men. “If someone has put a compulsion on you without your knowledge then the Academy would take it very seriously. With your permission, I would like to examine your auras.”

Having received an assent from both women, the wizard said a word and made a small motion with one finger, and then for a few minutes it seemed like he wasn’t doing anything at all. “I see. You are indeed the subject of a kind of geas, but not the usual sort.”

“There’s a usual sort?” Aidan sounded irritable, as if at any other time she might entertain magical meddling, but just now wasn’t a very good time.

“Of course. The usual sort is the kind your mother used to force you to go looking for your grandmother.”

“No ... I didn’t need magic to make me go look for grandma Issyren,” corrected Aidan. “The spell forced me to take Nadia with me, which was completely unnecessary.”

“I would have looked for her too,” protested Nadia, “I love her as much as you do!”

“We were lucky we didn’t kill each other before we found grandma.”

“As I recall,” smiled the dwarf, “that was also part of the geas. If you had shirked your duties or tried to harm each other then you would have become very ill for quite some time. I think this little rash is just the beginning.”

“That’s not fair, we don’t even know what we’re supposed to be doing,” pouted Nadia.

“And I don’t remember anyone casting any lengthly spells around me. I think I would have remembered.” Aidan caressed the the handle of her dagger as she said this, and Tad got a small sense of dread. The sisters were trained Riders, daughters of the Baroness of Ardengard, and each had accomplishments to their names. But it was Aidan who had a reputation as an implacable enemy, and just then she looked every bit the part of a vengeful warrior.

“There is more than the usual degree of thaumaturgy in this magic. And it is stronger than even a Magi could accomplish alone. There is a more extensive binding at work,”

“Which we need to find out about because we don’t want to get sick,” interjected Nadia, “It would be bad for my complexion.”

“Indeed. I recommend you move around the city for a bit. A magical compunction will let you know when you’re going in the right direction.”

“Tad, clean up here will you?” said Mr. Brightstar, “We’re going out for a bit. And don’t leave the inn. There might be work later.”

Hours later Thaddius was in the chambers he shared with his master, practicing finger exercises and weapon draws. The simple repetition failed to keep his mind off the thought he might be leaving Corak so soon. He felt like he had barely settled in, and he was getting to know the city in ways he hadn’t known was possible. It was a living thing, the city on the Sauvine, and it’s people were like its blood. If something was out of place, or if someone wasn’t acting right, Tad could tell. A hundred people knew his name: more people than lived in his whole village back home.

When Mr. Brightstar swept into the room and started packing, Tad’s disappointment settled in his belly like a pot of cold porridge. The halfling tossed a bag of coins at Tad, “I need you to restock our supplies. One week should be enough for a start, but don’t forget feed for the horses -- there’s not much grazing left this time of year. And don’t forget a bottle of decent brandy. Some Old Baron if you can find it.”

Tad didn’t move immediately, but stood there feeling unhappy. Mr. Brightstar put one hand on his shoulder in an uncharacteristic fatherly way. “Hey, we’ve done dangerous things before... haven’t I always kept you out of serious harm?”

“It isn’t that, sir. It’s just that ... well I was starting to really like being here. I’m learning so much, and...” Tad didn’t know how to say the words. It was stupid to say that he would miss his friends or that he liked living in the city. What did it matter, anyway?

“We’ll come back Thaddius, I promise. Probably in time for the winter festival. And just think -- you might have some really good stories to tell your friends when you get back.” His master smiled then, “I have gifts for you when you get back. Now move those legs of yours and get going. We have to travel west tonight or else the sisters’ geas will start to really kick in. We wouldn’t want to mar sweet Nadia’s skin any further, would we?” His master’s smile chased Tad out the door and down the stairs.

Nolan’s gifts were practical and very well received. First was new leather pants and jerkin, because Tad had outgrown the old ones. Second, and a little less well received, was “Geranicus’ Pocket History of Aspera”, printed on pages so thin that Tad could see through them. The best gift of all was a new short sword. It wasn’t enchanted or bejeweled like the arms that Mr. Brightstar carried, but it wasn’t a bent old piece of black iron either. It was brand-new, it was sharp, and it was shiny. Tad couldn’t stop from grinning.

“I still want you to avoid fighting whenever possible. But if you get cornered ... well you can’t be an adventurer without a dependable weapon. Get your new things on and bring down the bags. We’re leaving now.”