Michael Sullivan - Percepliquis

Mauvin’s face answered the dwarf. The count slowly drew it out. The blade shimmered in the lamplight like glass.

“Oh yes, she’s an elven blade, boy, drawn from stone and metal, formed in the heat of the world, and tempered in pure water by the First Ones, the Children of Ferrol. No finer blade have I laid my eyes on save one.”

Mauvin slipped it back and frowned. “Just don’t touch it, okay?”

Wyatt heard the dwarf grumble something about having his beard cut off; then Magnus moved to the bed on the other side of the room, where he was too far for Wyatt to hear. Mauvin still held the blade, rubbing his fingers over the pommel; his eyes had a faraway look.

They were strangers to Wyatt. Mauvin, he knew, was a count of Melengar and close friend of King Alric. He had also heard that he was a good sword fighter. His younger brother had been killed in a sword fight some years back. His father had died recently-killed by the elves. He seemed a decent sort. A bit moody, perhaps, but all right. Still, he was noble and Wyatt had never had many dealings with them, so he decided to be cautious and quiet.

He kept a closer eye on the dwarf and wondered about the “misunderstandings” the empress had spoken of.

How do I keep getting myself into these situations?

Poor Elden. Wyatt had no idea what he made of all this.

“How you feeling?” Wyatt asked.

Elden shrugged.

“Want to go down for the meal, or have me bring you back a plate?”

Again a shrug.

“Does he talk?” Mauvin asked.

“When he wants to,” Wyatt replied.

“You’re the sailors, right?”

Wyatt nodded.

“I’m Mauvin Pickering,” he said, putting out his hand.

Wyatt took it. “Wyatt Deminthal, and this is Elden.”

The count looked Elden over. “What does he do on a ship?”

“Whatever he wants, I should think,” Magnus muttered. This brought a reluctant smile to everyone’s lips, including those of the dwarf, who clearly had not meant it as a joke but gave in just the same.

“Where are you from-Magnus, is it?” Wyatt asked. “Is there a land of dwarves?”

The dwarf’s smile faded. “Not anymore.” He clearly meant that to be the end of it, but Wyatt continued to stare and now Mauvin and Elden were doing likewise. “From up north-the mountains of Trent.”

“Is it nice there?”

“It’s a ghetto-dirty, cramped, and hopeless, like every place they let dwarves live. Satisfied?”

Wyatt regretted saying anything. An awkward silence followed until the tension was broken by a pounding at the door and a cheerful shout: “Meal is ready!”

The knock came to their door announcing supper and Hadrian and Myron were first on their feet. Royce, who sat on a stiff wooden chair in the corner by the window, did not stir. His back was to them as he stared out at the dark. Perhaps his elven eyes could see more than the blackness of the glassy pane, perhaps he was watching people moving below, or the windows of the shops across the street, but Hadrian doubted he was even aware of the window itself.

Royce had not said a word since they had left Aquesta. When he bothered, he communicated in nods. Royce was always quiet, but this was unusual even for him. More disturbing than his silence were his eyes. Royce always watched the road, the eaves of the forest, the horizon, always looking, scanning for trouble, but not that day. The thief rode for over nine hours without once looking up. Hadrian could not tell if he stared at the saddle or the ground. Royce might have been asleep except that his hands continually played with the ends of the reins, twisting them with such force that Hadrian could hear the leather cry.

“Hadrian, fetch me a plate of whatever they are handing out down there,” Degan told him as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Upon first entering the room, Gaunt had immediately claimed the bed nearest the fireplace. He had cast off his houppelande and chaperon, throwing them on the floor. Then he had flung himself on the mattress, where he sprawled, moaning about his aches.

“And make sure it’s lean,” Gaunt went on. “I don’t want a bunch of fat. I want the good stuff. And I’ll take dark bread if they have it, the darker the better. And a glass of wine-no, make that a bottle, and be sure it’s good stuff, not-”

“Maybe you should come down and pick out what you want. That way there won’t be any mistakes.”

“Just bring it up. I’m comfortable-can’t you see I’m comfortable here? I don’t want to mingle with all the local baboons. An emperor needs his privacy. And for Novron’s sake, pick up my clothes! You need to hang those up so they can dry properly.” He looked quizzical. “Hmm… I suppose that should be for my ancestor’s sake, now wouldn’t it? Perhaps even for my sake.” He smiled at the thought.

Hadrian rolled his eyes. “Let me rephrase. Get your own food or go hungry.”

Gaunt glowered and slapped his mattress so that even Royce looked over. “What bloody good is it having a personal servant if you never do anything for me?”

“I’m not your servant; I’m your… bodyguard,” he said with reluctance, the word tasting stale. “How about you, Royce? Can I bring you something?”

Royce didn’t bother even to shake his head. Hadrian sighed and headed for the door.

When he descended the stairs, Hadrian found The Laughing Gnome filled to the walls. People packed the common room. Considering their numbers, the crowd was keeping remarkably quiet. Rather than being filled with a roar of conversation and laughter, the room barely buzzed with a low hum of whispers. All heads turned expectantly when he and Myron emerged from the steps. That was followed quickly by signs of disappointment.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” Ayers called, pushing forward. “Clear a path! Clear a path!”

Hadrian caught a few muttered false knight and joust champion comments as Ayers escorted them from the bottom of the stairs around to a large table set up in a private room.

“I’m keeping them out so you can eat in peace,” Ayers told them. “But I can’t kick them out of the inn altogether. I have to live in this town, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

Wyatt, Mauvin, Magnus, and Alric already sat at the table with empty plates before them. Jimmy, dressed now in a stained apron, rushed about filling cups. He held a pitcher in each hand and danced around the table like a carnival juggler. The room was a small space adjacent to the kitchen. Fieldstone made up half of the wall, along with the corner fireplace. Thick milled timbers and plaster formed the upper portion. The room’s three windows remained shuttered and latched.

“Are they all here to see us?” Myron asked. He paused at the doorway, looking back at the crowd, mirroring their expressions of awe.

Hadrian had just taken a seat when a cheer exploded beyond the closed door in the common room. Alric drained his glass and held it up to Jimmy, shaking it.

“Are you all right? Where have you been?” voices, muffled by the wooden door, called out in the common room. “Were you kidnapped? Will you resume your office? We missed you. Will you drive out the empire again?”

“Forgive me, dear people, but I have traveled long today,” Arista said from the other room. “I am very tired and cannot hope to answer all your questions. Just know this: the tyrants that once controlled the empire are gone. The empress now-and for the first time-rules, and she is good and wise.”

“You met her?”

“I have. I lived with her for a time and have just come from Aquesta. Evil men held her prisoner in her own palace and ruled in her name. But… she rose up against her captors. She saved my life. She saved the world from a false imperium. Now she is in the process of building the true successor to the Empire of Novron. Show her the trust you have given me, and I promise you will not be disappointed. Now, if you will allow me, I am very hungry.”