Watho: A Novel of Gal ... by Bob Nelson - Episode 18

§      §      §

The meal was superb, but in fact I do not remember its details. I was concentrating on Brother Djokor's questions. He was remarkable. He would let me recount for a while, and then he would notice some particular point that I did not present in quite the same manner as previously. He would have me back up, to compare the "two versions". Sometimes he would flip back through the pages of notes that he had taken, but most often he would simply remember the differences between what I said now and what I said then.

At first I wondered if he was still trying to trip me up, but he explained that on the contrary he was reassured by my using different words. "If your story was always identical, I would wonder if it was rehearsed," he said dryly. "Comparing two versions of the same story often helps to fill in gaps and details. No one ever remembers everything the first time through. If they seem to remember everything... it's a sure sign that it isn't the first time. They have 'prepared' for the interview."

I laughed lightly. "So all my false starts make me more convincing?"

"No," he answered matter-of-factly. "I was already 'convinced'. Your 'variations' allow us to develop a fuller image."

We were finishing the meat course as my story reached that fatal Dinner. So I do remember that the dish was a platter of mutton chops, grilled over an open flame from the taste of it, and heavily spiced. They were both big and tender, so I suppose that they had been marinated for quite some time. The sides were yams and soy-steamed veggies. Small servings, because there were still two courses to come. The wine was a Shonit red, for which the description "full-bodied" had been invented. I felt my usual pang of regret at knowing nothing about wines... but as always I shrugged it off: I was not going to take the time, so there was no point in regret.

Brother Djokor led me back through my chatter with Lady Ackala. Again and again, he would hear a slight discrepancy, and would use it to pry ever more detail from my memory. I would never have imagined that I could reconstitute such a long, haphazard conversation with such precision.

We went through the cheese and desert courses without my even noticing them. A terrible waste, I imagine... Then coffee. Three times, at considerable intervals. The restaurant was open all day, and people stopped in during all the afternoon.

I was exhausted. Drained. Except for a couple of trips to the head, I had been sitting down, doing nothing but eat, drink, and talk. But I was shattered! When Brother Djokor indicated that we had finished, and should leave, I found myself wondering if I could make it back to my quarters without falling on my face.

"We are not far from our apartments," said the monk. "You look too tired to do anything this evening – perhaps not even make it back to your own lodgings – so I propose that you stay in our guest room. We will have a light supper, and I promise that I will not ask you a single question."

I was exhausted, but I had spent most of the day paying very close attention to words. " 'Our'," I repeated. "The Brotherhood?"

He laughed. "No! My family. My wife and children."

I suppose my face must have shown the bewilderment I felt, because he went on, "The clergy is not celibate in Watho. We have a fairly conventional family life. There are many aspects to the celibacy question, and some of our people choose to dedicate 'all' their existence to their tasks... but most of us consider that the risks of a truncated personality – inherent to celibacy – are greater than any benefits. It's not a settled question, though... and probably never will be."

Thankfully, it was only a short walk to Brother Djokor's apartments. His wife, about ten years younger than he, showed no surprise at my arrival, leaving me to wonder if the monk had been sending messages during my visits to the restaurant’s head. He presented her as "Linia Harreter", and explained that while a clergyman used only his adopted first name – Djokor was named for a martyr for justice – their spouses followed normal Wathot naming conventions, with the wife taking the husband's patronym.

Lady Linia wore a garment that was not frothy and impractical enough to be called a gown, but was too fine to be called a dress. My vocabulary concerning ladies' garb is quickly exhausted. It was a dark green, close to her slim body, showing her womanly charms but somehow without the vulgar "advertising" aspect of some women's clothing. For example, the squared-off neckline was low enough to show some skin, but not low enough to show any hint of the breasts that were prominent a few fingers lower. A lace border both drew the eye and limited what the eye might see. Her blond hair was gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck.

She had a small round white lace thing on top her head, pinned to her hair, too flat to be called a hat, and not as wide as a scarf would be. Mistress Katrin later explained to me that it is called a "coif". It meets the minimum requirements for a married woman to always keep herself "covered" in the presence of men other than her husband. When a stupid "morality" rule meets fashion...

Her outfit was sophisticated... and surely expensive.

We had not yet left the little foyer where our cloaks were hung, when a boy of about ten hurried to join us. I had the feeling that he would have come sliding in on the mirror-finished stone floor, but was restrained, barely, by the thought of parental retribution. His arrival was nonetheless intrusive, as he stood foursquare in the passage from the foyer to the rest of the apartment.

The looks on the parents' faces told me that the boy's behavior here was not exceptional.

"Are you really the Ambassador's Messenger?" The upper case letters were clearly audible in the boy's excellent Gallian accent. His accent was much better than his father's, proof that he had learned it as a small child. "The one who killed that brigand on the highway?" He bounced. "Really?"

Brother Djokor sighed deeply. "Master Fochen, I have the sad duty to present my youngest and most unruly child, Haran." He turned to the boy and fixed him with his best beady-eyed stare.

The boy was clearly not impressed by his father's glare, but he bowed very properly nonetheless. "I am most honored to make your acquaintance, sir," he said with a formality that did not prevent further bouncing. "Will you tell us all about your adventures?"

I returned the boy's bow politely, but with a grimace. "I am very sorry young Haran, but I am currently forbidden to speak of any of my actions as a member of the Embassy."

The boy returned my grimace. "But why? You have talked to everyone except us! Why has the Ambassador changed the rules?"

"Not the Ambassador," I corrected. "There has been a terrible crime, and my 'adventures', as you call them, may be involved. I have been requested to speak no more, until all is resolved... by the Inquisitor who is handling the case."

The boy was no fool. He turned a scowl on Brother Djokor and screeched, "Father! You can't do this!"

"Haran!" said Lady Linia, quietly but sharply... and the boy subsided instantly.

Then she addressed her husband. "We shall take pre-dinner refreshments in the sitting room. Bireth is making things ready." And to me, "If you will follow, please, Master Fochen?" She turned without waiting for a response and swept down a corridor. Open doors on the left led to the apartments' common rooms – sitting rooms, library, and so on. I assumed that bedrooms were behind the closed doors on the right.

The wall hangings here were not the simple geometrical patterns found elsewhere in the Palace. These were pictures. Landscapes, portraits, and "events" that probably spoke to Wathot but which left me perplexed. All very fine work. There was a great deal of wealth here.

We were almost to the end of the corridor when she stopped and opened a door on our left. She gestured us in. Haran charged ahead, drawing a quickly suppressed scowl from his mother. Brother Djokor had slowed just a half-step, leaving me slightly ahead, so that I would precede him. I expected something impressive, and I was right.

"Beautiful" is so woefully inadequate.

Medium height, with a dramatic silhouette. Her dress / gown mimicked her mother's, but their different figures produced wildly different results. The color, a light yellow-green, set off her nearly white blond hair, falling in two wide, loose braids that showcased a spectacular neckline. It was not that much lower than Lady Linia's but where the straight, narrow border of dense lace of Lady Linia's bodice played down her bosom, here the lace was wide, loosely woven, and nearly transparent, showing rather than hiding the round flesh beneath. It was cut in arcs that drew the eye and kept it. Her half-profile stance showed her figure to greatest effect.

The criss-crossed lacing at her waist was decorative rather than truly restrictive, but it forced the observer to notice the great difference between the slim waist and its... more ample... upper and lower neighbors.

It took me an instant... well... a very long instant... to wrench my eyes away from her body up to her face. Fine and regular, with a full enough nose and mouth to accompany her full body; and all very pale. Her eyebrows were of the same white-blond color as her hair. She might have been cadaverous, but her subdued make-up (eyes, lips, cheekbones) was just vibrant enough to fascinate. Her eyes were a very pale blue, in keeping with her skin, but a light coat of green on her eyelids made the eyes themselves seem green, too.

The girl was a masterpiece.

And I seemed to be the only guest...

Lady Linia glowed with pride. "Master Fochen, please meet our eldest child, Bireth. Bireth is currently studying at the college."

The girl curtsied – a bit much for a simple ensign – and said "I am very pleased to meet you, Master Fochen" in accent-free Gallian. I thought I heard a slight lengthening of the word "Master"... but that was surely just my adolescent imagination getting the better of me.

I bowed and presented myself, without slobbering. I was inordinately proud of that, so it took me a moment to register Lady Linia's words.

"How impressive!" I gushed, surely excessively. I told myself to calm down. Difficult, with Bireth's eyes on me... "I wasn't aware that there is a college in Vaisilo." I managed to get my vocal chords under control as I addressed Bireth, "Are there many students? What subjects do you study?"

Brother Djokor handed me a tumbler. The laughing glint in his eye told me that he was accustomed to seeing young men crumble in the presence of his daughter.

"I have arms training every day!" broke in Haran, who undoubtedly was also accustomed to his sister's effect on guests. Male guests, in any case. The role of uninteresting bystander did not sit well with the boy. "I'm going to be Commander of the King's Guard!"

I nodded "please pardon me, but duty calls" to Bireth, and answered the boy, "Indeed! That is a very fine ambition. But you have a few years to go, yet, before you can join the Guard, I would guess... and even more if you want to be an officer. An officer of the Guard must be able to represent the King in all circumstances, not just battle." I mock-scowled at him. "For example, an officer in the Guard would know when a member of a foreign Embassy may speak..."

The boy frowned at being manipulated so blatantly.

"But if you wish," I went on, "we shall find a moment one day to spar a bit."

His eyes lit up like a spray of candles. I felt a bit ashamed to be playing the great hero, but a glance at Bireth told me that she understood, and that I had done the right thing. I suddenly felt much, much better.

"I am afraid that my days will be quite full, until your father resolves this case, but I promise that as soon as I have time, we shall spar." I looked to Lady Linia. "If you are agreeable, of course, my Lady..."

She studied her son for a long moment. He began to wilt. I could hear him thinking about neglected studies, pranks, ... "Well..." she said finally. "We shall see. Haran has very little free time, because he does not manage his time at all! He wastes time on frivolities – not to say on mischief – and then he has to rush his schoolwork, with the poor results that are inevitable."

Haran colored. "But Mother..." he began, but she cut him off.

"We shall see, over the next week, just how much Haran wants this. It is time that he learns to choose his priorities. It is fine to say he will be Commander of the Guard – he has all the requisite qualities – but that won't matter if he never grows up."

The boy's lips pinched. Ten years old. Still a playful puppy, but already learning that it cannot continue...

"Now, Haran... you will behave yourself, and not monopolize the Ensign." She pointedly turned away from the boy, and back to her daughter.

I followed her lead, and my breath caught once again. Gods! The girl was spectacular.

"You are a student, Mistress Bireth," I said, resuming where we had left off. My voice did not crack. My eyes did not pop out of my skull. These were significant accomplishments.

"Yes I am," she answered. "Well... you must understand that "the college" is only now being assembled. It has nothing like the stature or the tradition that your Duke's College has. But it seems to me that it is important for at least one girl to be enrolled right from the start. If ever the college started operations as a "men only" institution, it would be another century before we women could enroll."

She looked up at me, and it seemed to me that her bosom stood out even more splendidly. Gods!

"Certainly," I said, using all my strength to keep my eyes on hers. "The College at Galdiff has been open to women for many years already. The Ambassador is still enrolled at the College, unless I am mistaken. She does extremely well when she finds the time to attend for a few months... but that has become rare. I think she wonders now if she will ever graduate... despite a reputation as the best student there ever was."

"Your Ambassador is a very impressive person, I have heard," said Bireth, her lips pursing in annoyance at this competition from an absent female. She braced her shoulders, and my heart lurched.

"She is brilliant..." I said with a throat gone dry.

"Do you mean that she not as pretty as me?" asked Bireth, her tight lips easing out into a smile.

I was saved by Lady Linia, who wore a knowing – and long-suffering – smile. "That's enough, Bireth." She turned to me. "I understand that you and Djokor had a good meal at lunch. So did the three of us. In such circumstances, we usually have "dinner snacks"... if that is alright with you? Bread, cold meats, cheese, fruit, ... Each of us takes whatever we please."

She gestured to open double-doors, which led us to a table laden with the foods she had listed. The table was much too long for the five of us, so as Brother Djokor took the end seat – obviously "his" every evening – Lady Linia gestured for me to take the seat to his right. She herself sat to my right, with Haran opposite her. And therefore... Bireth opposite me...

The young woman leaned far forward as she seated herself. And again, several times, as she passed platters. In a fairly short time, I found her blatant manipulation of my pulse rather annoying. And just like that... I was free of her spell! She remained an aesthetically magnificent creature... but she no longer stopped my heart whenever she wished.

"What subjects do you study, Mistress?" I asked. Every time she tried to shift the conversation to "social" topics – balls and hunts and such – I pleaded ignorance, and came back to the college. She gradually became petulant and annoyed.

Haran asked about Hawk, which allowed me to spend long – very long – minutes on that subject, while Bireth fumed. As might be expected, the ten-year-old had the best appetite among us, so when he finally flagged, Lady Linia called for after-dinner liqueurs, and sent her children to their homework.

I don't think I sighed audibly as Bireth left the room, but I certainly did inwardly... so it seemed quite natural to hear Brother Djokor whisper, "Well done, friend Garid..."

§      §      §

We spent the next several days interviewing Lady Ackala's family and servants. That was a lot of people! We began with the family. Apparently, Brother Djokor could not imagine beginning with anyone else, which brought home to me just how little I knew about nobility – both Ackala's family and Brother Djokor.

I had led a very sheltered life: born to an artisan family, and only Haran's age when I was sent to the closed world of Dart.

(I don't know why innkeepers are considered "artisans" – they don't make anything, after all. My parents bought ale and wine and food, and resold them to customers. That made their activity more similar to the merchants, it seems to me. Perhaps innkeepers are "artisans" because they aren't "peasants", and their profession is as old as peasants' dirt. Maybe there were only those two categories – peasants and artisans – when the first innkeepers began serving their customers. There had to be innkeepers to serve travelers on foot, even before the first blacksmith shod a horse or the first wheelwright made a cart. Maybe bakers came before innkeepers, but I can't imagine any other "artisan"...)

Then I learned life aboard ship – a very different life from most people's. We never had a nobleman as one of our officers, in either Dart or Hawk. Nor had I met any at O.C.S. – there were probably a few in most promotions, but there were none in mine. So the first – and only, really – nobles that I had known before arriving in Vaisilo were Lady Wubi and Lord Lorrent, whom everyone told me were not at all typical of their class.

And Brother Djokor? He was friendly and perfectly polite... but there was always a feeling that he felt superior – right down to his bones. Then again... when I tried to identify whatever it was that gave me that impression, I could not. He and Lady Linia were impeccable. Of course, they were undoubtedly impeccable with animals, too. And then I was ashamed of thinking something so unkind to people who were good to me... and the whole cycle began again...

As a child, before going to sea, I was part of a "family". I had a mother and a father and a little sister. (She's gone, too.) We were intimate. I had hugs and kisses from my mother all the time, and hugs – occasionally only – from my father. But I could feel that his love was just as intense as hers.

Like everyone, I had heard that noble families were different. The Tomin family – Lady Ackala's – was indeed very different...

We met first with the head of the household, Earl Londen Tomin. (I remembered the title of "earl" from histories of long-ago Gal. Brother Djokor later explained to me that Watho's nobility was less ... permanent... than Gal's – that nobles might move up or down the pyramid, sometimes through alliances and marriage, sometimes through outright warfare. An "earl" might be a fairly minor personage, or a fairly major one. Apparently, Earl Londen was at the upper end of that scale.)

Earl Londen greeted us very formally. He nodded acknowledgment of my existence with an inattention that made it very clear that he would forget me the instant I left his presence. In particular, the earl noted that his family was honored that the loss of their daughter merited the personal attention of the High Inquisitor himself. He then listed the people in the household who had the closest relations with his late daughter. They were all servants.

When he named Lady Ackala's First Servant, he mentioned that the servant's mother had been the earl's lady-wife's First Servant, until the servant's death from fever a few years earlier. As he recounted this, Earl Londen exchanged a glance with Brother Djokor... and I had a vision of two families, noble and servant, entwined through the generations. In my mind's eye, I glimpsed Willen Lodent, Lord Lorrent's manservant and almost-brother, and imagined Count Paldon's man – for over fifty years – whom I had never actually seen.

In that moment, I realized that nobles' lives were profoundly "different", and that I would have to be wary of my own preconceptions.

Lord Londen told us that his contact with his daughter, since she turned twelve, had been limited to the short period before dinner when the family gathered in the parlor, and to a longer sequence – a few hours – every weekend when the family "did something together". She was a highly marriageable young woman, present at all the social activities in Vaisalo. The earl felt a duty to follow her progress there. (I had the impression that this probably should have been his wife's duty, but that the earl did not have much confidence in her.)

I had spent several hours with Ackala. She had been pretty and charming. Her conversation had been limited to "society": who was doing what with whom, but she told her tales well.

We then met Earl Londen's wife, Ackala's mother. To put it bluntly, she seemed to me to be a brainless cow. Or a great actress. She told us nothing, because she knew nothing. Brother Djokor wasted no time on her, so apparently he agreed with me.

Ackala's two younger siblings – a brother and a sister – were tight-faced. They did not seem to have been very close to their late sister: they knew little of her activities. But their stable and comfortable world had been badly shaken. I did not feel all that much sympathy: at least they had had that stable and comfortable world for a while. I have known too many kids who never did.

Before we met with the servants, Brother Djokor showed me how he takes notes during an investigation like this one. He draws a line – a timeline – down the middle of each page of a notebook. On the left he notes where the interviewee says Ackala was, with whom, doing what, ... On the right, he notes his own reflections and inspirations – whatever will need further inquiry.

The fact that he had not bothered with this, when interviewing the family, spoke volumes about his opinion of the family's utility to the investigation.

Lady Ackala's First Servant was a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. In Gal, I think that would be "Companion", like Dame Katrin was when Lady Wubi was younger... but what do I know about Ladies' servants? She was nondescript: medium height and build, brown hair and eyes, wearing a plain gray servant's dress. (She probably wore fancier garb before her mistress's death, but now she was just one among the household's numerous staff.) Her complexion was rough and red. She had wept a very great deal. As soon as Brother Djokor began with her... ever so gently... she collapsed into deep, grief-filled sobs. We took our leave without insisting.

The other servants were much more helpful. It took some time for each one of them to relax enough to speak coherently; they were near paralyzed in the presence of the High Inquisitor. That said a great deal to me.

Brother Djokor took the time needed to reassure these people, and then to extract whatever they could tell him. His solicitude was so evident that his interviewees showed deep gratitude, and fell all over themselves in their efforts to give him everything they had.

"What do you imagine, friend Garid?" he asked, when I remarked on the servants' behavior. "I am a thoughtful man, and an honest one. I must pursue those two ideals, or betray what I hope is my intimate nature.

"Furthermore, I am intelligent. I think it is inevitable that an honest, intelligent, thoughtful man come to the conclusion that 'nobility' is a farce." He watched my decomposing face, and then let a smile reach his eyes.

"But I was born into the world that I was born into. I cannot change it significantly, regardless of my opinion of it. For most nobles, 'do as little harm as possible' is the best we can hope for."

You can imagine my stupefaction.

Ackala's women usually knew whom she would be visiting, because they had to choose her garb according to circumstances. The relative social standing between Ackala and that other person was an important element in the choice. On the other hand, they had no idea of Ackala's conversations with those she visited. In fact, the servants' surprise at being asked such questions showed that while their Lady's clothing was of interest to them, her activities outside the home were not.

The coachmen and the footmen were also quite useful, knowing where and when they delivered Ackala and where they collected her. Their indications of "when" were more precise than the servants'. I supposed that they had other family members' needs to meet, too, and therefore needed to be precise.

We spent three full days at Tomin House. On the third evening, Brother Djokor invited me to dinner again. I was a bit worried about Bireth, but she had apparently assimilated my "rejection". She was friendly and charming. She talked of college. In particular, she recounted stories about her Teachers, both complimentary and... less complimentary. In short... this time I was captivated.

"She is innocent, Friend Garid," said her father. "She experiments different modes of behavior. She means no harm, either to you or to herself. She simply lacks the experience needed to imagine the consequences of her acts."

I thought about that for a moment.

I said, "She is of a great family, and I am an orphan ensign in the Duke's Navy."

"Exactly."

After a long moment, I changed the subject. "Whom will we be interviewing tomorrow?"

"No one," he answered. "Now I shall unleash my 'dogs' – my assistant Inquisitors. They will encounter all the people Lady Ackala met over her last days... and because they are a fairly impressive phalanx, it is my hope that no one will discern precisely whom I am most interested in."

That surprised me, because I had noticed nothing worthy of particular notice, over our days of interviews at Tomin House.

"There are timeline discrepancies, Friend Garid. Twice, the time she spent with a particular person was not the same, depending on whether our source was a servant or a coachman."

I had noticed nothing... but then I am not the High Inquisitor of Watho!

§      §      §

I spent the next couple of days catching up on my training with the Security Detail. I went to both the morning and afternoon sessions, since I had missed several days. I was easily the worst blade, but among the best with the arbalete. I got along in hand-to-hand. I felt like I was somehow letting everyone down – an officer should be the best! The second evening, I was already exhausted.

Lord Lorrent called me to the little reading room he used as his office. I came to attention, of course... but he did not release me to "At ease".

After a moment, he said, "I spend some thought on the Security Detail's training schedules, Ensign Fochen... as hard as it may be for you to believe. I want all of the Detail to be at their best... but I don't want any of you too exhausted to be able to fight. And then some idiot decides he needs extra work, and instead of coming to me, he simply doubles up.

"Do you want to fall over in exhaustion, Ensign Fochen?"

He fell silent, forcing me to answer.

"No, Sir." This was not going to be fun.

"Do you consider yourself more competent at setting up training schedules than I, Ensign Fochen?"

Again, he waited.

"No, Sir." Nope. Not fun.

"Do you consider me to be aloof, Ensign Fochen? Am I too 'distant' for conversation? Do you not dare come to me for advice when you have a problem?"

I grimaced. I had gone to him several times for explanations of how to manage some conflict between Troopers, or to shift a schedule item, or whatever. He was always accessible and patient. "No, Sir."

He sighed. "Do you think I am less attentive to my officers than to my Troopers, Ensign Fochen?" He held up a hand to forestall any answer. "Then don't be stupid, Garid! ... Dismissed!"

The next morning, I found myself scheduled for double blade training, but no arbalete. In the afternoon, I took a section of Troopers out on a ride. Or they took me. Or... I accompanied them. Or... something. The horses needed a workout, maybe... The Troopers were all better riders than I, but they seemed to find it acceptable to have a shore-stranded sailor "lead" them. It was gratifying, but confusing.

Lady Wubi had me sit next to her at lunch that day, to tell her about the investigation. She told me that she had been involved in several investigations, so she was curious to hear about Brother Djokor's methods. I was embarrassed to tell her that he had noticed a timeline discrepancy that I had not seen.

"But then... you're not the High Inquisitor!" she said.

That evening, I received a note saying that Brother Djokor would collect me after breakfast, and then we would go interview "the suspect". Unnamed.

§      §      §

Over the days we had interviewed the staff assigned to the Tomin family, Brother Djokor and I had walked a lot of corridors. Personnel such as coachmen or table servants were Palace employees, not family employees. Only close personal servants were family employees. The Palace people had their leisure time, but the family had to be served at all times, so there was necessarily a rotation. There were many more servants than servant positions. The servants' quarters were scattered all about the Palace, since they might serve Lord X one week and Lady Y the next.

Brother Djokor considered that an interview was more productive when conducted in the person's "native habitat". So we walked the corridors. We spoke or not, depending on the High Inquisitor's mood. He acknowledged more or less of the people we encountered according to his mood – he had lived in the Palace for twenty-five years, so he probably "had met" half the people who resided there.

This particular morning, he had greeted me dourly, saying little, and not smiling at all. He strode the corridors in silence. His beard hid his countenance, but the whole set of his body radiated contained energy. Perhaps anger.

As always, we encountered many other people. Servants, mainly. Also clerks and guards and soldiers and an occasional noble. The servants were mostly women, the others mostly men. Brother Djokor acknowledged no one.

I followed his lead, of course. I knew only a few people in Vaisilo, so there wasn't much chance of bumping into any of them, but I had decided to acknowledge no one in any case.

The Inquisitor's silence left me free to observe the people we met. My eyes flicked from one to another – there were quite a few. I realized that I hadn't noticed their numbers before, because I had had to attend Brother Djokor.

I fell into what seemed to be everyone's practice: my eyes flicked to a face, registered the fact that this was not someone I should acknowledge, and went back to looking straight ahead.

There was nothing about the clerk that should draw attention. Average height and build, modest beard and mustache, collar-length brown hair, and the black clothing appropriate for a clerk. He had a folder in his left hand.

Perhaps it was that fact: that his left hand was occupied while his right was not – that drew my eyes to his right hand, just as we were about to cross each other... and see the glint of metal. He and I began moving at the same instant.

His hand, and the knife, had not yet reached the Inquisitor when my shoulder slammed Brother Djokor sideways. My right arm was just rising when it encountered the blade, and a bright flash of pain raced from my forearm to my brain. I continued my movement, bouncing from the monk to the clerk, grabbing the man by both lapels (worrying about what he was now doing with the knife, somewhere down there, near my innards), and slamming him back against the wall.

His head made a dull thud rather than a sharp crack, thanks to the ever-present tapestry, but he was stunned all the same. I took advantage of the instant to step back a half-pace and grab his right wrist in both of my hands (registering with relief that my right hand seemed to be working properly despite the blood that already seemed to be everywhere. I might be bleeding to death, but there was no damage to all those complicated tendons and things). I twisted and lifted with all my strength, shoving the clerk's arm far up behind his back. Too far up, apparently, because there was a loud "pop" and he screamed as I slammed him to the floor with a knee in his back.

The fight was over and here came rescue! Guards came running, with their blades drawn and pointed... ... at me!

A foreigner was demolishing a Wathot...

They gabbled loudly at me, undoubtedly telling me to release the clerk, but since I don't understand any Wathot, I just sort of crouched there, knee still in the clerk's back, and looked stupid.

A thunderous bellow, surely the Wathot equivalent of something like "Stand down!" wrenched all their eyes to Brother Djokor... They all paled... and seemed to transition to a perfectly rigid "Attention" without ever moving their bodies.

The High Inquisitor shouted something further, and suddenly half of the guards were piling on the clerk, while the other half vied to get at my wounded arm.

Then a different voiced barked even louder than Brother Djokor.

Bosun!

My days as a midshipman weren't that far away... I almost went to attention, myself, at the snap in the man's voice. His sentences were short, obviously composed of one or two names, and then a specific task. Instantly, most of the bumbling guards stepped away. Two grasped the now whimpering clerk, and jerked him to his feet. One of the guards stayed with me, signaling me to remove my jacket. From somewhere I did not notice, he produced a bandage roll and as soon as my arm was free of sleeves, it was neatly wrapped.

By then, then the Bosun – more likely a "Sergeant-Major" or somesuch landlubber rank, but I don't know them very well in Gal, so in Watho, I had refused to even try – the Bosun was waiting patiently at Brother Djokor's side for my first-aider to finish with my arm. The monk's face, or as much of it as I could see, through the beard, wore a bemused expression as he, too observed the bandaging of my arm.

The Inquisitor and the Sergeant-Major came over to me when the bandage was in place.

"You saved my life, Master Fochen," said Brother Djokor.

"Saved you from injury, Brother. His knife was too small to do any real damage," I answered, raising my arm as proof.

He translated for the Sergeant-Major who grunted a laugh and muttered a response.

"Group Leader Lordin does not agree. He says I should be dead."

I suppose that my adrenaline high wore off just then, because I suddenly felt weak... even about to faint. The guard who had wrapped my arm was still at my side, so I grabbed him in an effort to remain standing. He pulled my good arm up over his shoulder and put an arm around my waist. I murmured my thanks – in Gallian – and he murmured something in return. I'm pretty sure it was "you're welcome".

Brother Djokor and the Group Leader – dizzily, I thought that I must try to retain that rank; it sounded so very stern and martial – exchanged a few sentences, and then we separated. I do not remember the walk to the Inquisitor's apartments, but at some moment later in the afternoon, or perhaps evening, I awoke in a strange bed with Jaime and Maëlle Ahern sitting at my side. They were as always: Jaime was reading and Maëlle was sewing. It felt very good to see such an everyday scene.

"Maëlle?" I whispered, or croaked. My throat was very dry. "Is there water?"

"Oh! There you are, Garid! We were becoming impatient." She leaned forward with a tumbler of water and a straw. "Brother Djokor sent for a very excellent Healer – he seemed to be insulted to have been called for 'just a scratch', as he said. Brother Djokor said something very quietly that I did not hear, and then the Healer was much more friendly. He stitched and re-bandaged your wound. He said that even if you had bled a great deal it isn't really dangerous. Just keep it clean. He'll remove the stitches in about a week."

I was having trouble waking up. "Bled a great deal?" I remembered a fight, but no details. I looked at my arm. My expression was surely that of an idiot. "What happened?"

"You saved the High Inquisitor's life. You were wounded," said Maëlle. Then she clapped her hands and said gaily, almost squealing, "You're a hero again, Garid... You must tell me every detail of your adventure, before anyone else can hear it!"

Jaime smiled at Maëlle beatifically.

§      §      §

The next day I was transferred back to the Embassy's apartments. I was able to walk, but a couple of Troopers stayed very close, just in case. I was put to bed, with Maëlle as my primary nurse. I slept.

The next morning – I had not lost an entire day – Lord Lorrent visited me. "The Healer says you will be a bit weak, maybe have dizzy spells for a while, because you lost so much blood. But there was no significant damage to your arm, so when you get your blood supply built up again, you should be fine."

"Yes, Sir," I answered. What else should I say? There was surely something, but I was muzzy. My brain refused to function. The Lieutenant sat there, grinning at me, waiting for me to think of whatever it was that I should have thought of much sooner...

"The inquiry!" I cried with some relief. I had remembered!

"It's mostly over, already," said Lord Lorrent with an almost apologetic grin. "The clerk-assassin's timing was damning for Brother Djokor's primary suspect. The High Inquisitor leveraged the attempt on his life into a confession."

"So... Who killed Ackala?" My imaginary image of her, with a wide, ghastly smile on her throat and blood everywhere came back to me, and again I wanted to be sick.

"A nobody," said the Lieutenant. "A petty criminal hired for the job, through a minor noble -- the man Djokor was about to interrogate. Somebody thought Lady Ackala talked to you about a 'salon' where she occasionally met the person who hired the assassin. The assassin and his recruiter will hang. Watho justice is harsher than Gallian. More interesting than the man with the knife or the man who paid him is the man who supplied the money."

"Yes?" I asked.

"A diplomat from Donor, who had already taken ship for home before the attack," said Lord Lorrent. He smiled a small smile. "Lady Wubi is at this moment discussing the implications with King Garandin's senior staff."

"The king is not there?" I asked.

"He is out hunting," said the Lieutenant, pursing his lips.

"Thank you for telling me all this, Sir," I said, as my eyelids crashed down, and I slept again.

Maëlle again took care of me when I awoke the next morning, although I was feeling much better. My memories of the attempted assassination had returned, as the Healer had said they would.

I was only slightly surprised when Lady Wubi came to visit, late in the morning. She asked the perfunctory questions about how I was doing, and got the perfunctory answers.

"Good," she said with a firm nod. "How soon can you travel?"

"Uh-h-h-h-h..."

"You've been pretty much out of service for two and a half days, Garid, and a lot has happened. Following the attempt on Brother Djokor's life, the Inquisition and the King's intelligence services got their heads together, comparing notes on Donoran activity in the kingdom. It appears that some of the 'unrest among the nobles' has been financed by Donor."

She sat silent for a moment, letting that information sink in.

"Stir up trouble on the Duchy's borders..." I said, "... maybe get a few Gallian nobles to over-react, like that hothead at your dinner in Dukesport... start a war between Gal and Watho..."

"That is how it looks. I must send letters to the court of Donor immediately, to tell them that we are aware of their maneuvers, and that we will hold Donor responsible for any trouble between Gal and Watho."

"And you want me to be your messenger, again," I said with a small laugh. "We almost got killed last time..."

"And this time will also be very tricky. Dangerous." She shrugged. "You succeeded, last time. Your story has surely been reported back to Donor. You carry a reputation as my 'messenger into danger'. You being the messenger is an important part of the message, Garid! I need you to go."

Adrenaline flooded my brain. I sat up. "I can leave tomorrow, my Lady. We may have to travel slowly at first, but it will be good for any Donoran spies to see me on my way." It was stupid... but I felt an elation... an excitement... I suddenly wanted very much to be the Lady Wubi's "messenger into danger".

"Excellent!" She clapped her hands in pleasure. "Now... you need to rest as much as you can, today. Corporal kinVoren will see to the preparations, with Warrid supervising."

"kinVoren?" I asked.

She grimaced. "News travels faster than sound, in my Embassy!" She sighed deeply. "Lorrent and I were still discussing possibilities, when kinVoren came to us, saying that 'Fochen's Squad' wanted the job of accompanying you."

"They already knew about Donor?" I asked incredulously. "How?"

The Lady laughed. "No! But they had heard about the assassination attempt, and rumors are flying all around the Palace about 'a foreign power'. So they figured that I would need a messenger, and that you would be 'it'."

"kinVoren is pretty sharp!" I said with a grin... very proud of him... and of myself...

§      §      §

The ride south from Vaisilo to Chendan was very different from the ride north! This time the route was cleared by the full squadron of Wathot cavalry that accompanied us. Captain Kindred, a young noble who clearly considered this mission to be a feather in his cap, regaled us with stories of the bravery of Wathot soldiers fighting against raiders from the West: Koruni and Vasillii. Everyone politely ignored the fact that those nations had not been neighbors for a few decades... ever since Gal had conquered Lithia, and then a morsel or two more...

We were a bit slower than we had been on the previous ride. I could hardly complain, since my own condition – slightly lacking in blood – was one of the motives for taking our time. But still... we reached Chendan in one week. Only to find that Hawk was at sea...

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