By Beth Oldman

Chapter 1

At the Sign of the Smoky Skull

The brown haze of coal-smoke hanging over the city had been visible from the road since sunrise.

Johan had not been able to subdue a certain relief at the sight of it. The previous night had been a terrible one, despite the relative safety and comfort afforded by the drafty barn he'd been allowed to shelter in. It had snowed unremittingly for several hours, and the thin monk had been forced to cover himself with handfuls of prickling, dusty hay, just to generate warmth sufficient for a solid hour's rest. His robes were still flecked here and there with the dust of broken stalks, and his eyes were red and irritated, though the day was now almost past and the frost of the evening had returned.

He approached Arabel from the east. The early morning light had revealed a frozen, gray, and depressing landscape, and the road was vanished beneath a sheet of ice-encrusted snow. It had stopped snowing, thankfully, but was yet cold enough to leave him huddled for a moment at the edge of the farm field with no clear idea of where to go. The weak light of Lathander seemed watery, pale, and very far away, and Johan did not feel good or strong enough to bother with his daily katas. Instead he took a deep and weary breath, resettled his bag over one shoulder, and trudged out into the place where he last remembered being.

The ugly, blanketing haze was a surprisingly encouraging beacon, since it required no road to find. It did not recommend itself as belonging to a healthy or inspiring place, but the goal was at long last clarified. Slowly but surely, the monk's long stride had eaten up the remaining miles, taking him past the last of the high hills surrounding Bospir and leading him onto the endless rolling plain of the Helmlands. The twin hills that guarded and fed the Arabel Springs were companionable humps in the shortening distance, and close enough by midday that Johan vaguely supposed he could see the blocky ramparts of the Palace crowning one of them.

There was very little traffic on what remained of the East Way, though this was well to be expected in the deepening gloom of wintertide. Small wooden farmhouses, which had clung with increasing frequency to the trade-enleavening highway, looked to Johan like rather dingy and miserable affairs, especially set in context with the empty, frost-ridden harrows of their unlovely supporting properties. The tall elms and poplars planted as break-winds along the edges of these roadside holdings had long ago shriveled into hibernation, leaving no evidence to contradict the feeling that growth, warmth, or happiness had ever graced their neighborhood.

It was implacably deep winter in the Kingdom of Cormyr, and all life had retreated in the face of it.

Narrow drainage ditches sprung up on either side of the road, and here and there a resident or two came out to gather wood or relieve their bladders. The chimney smoke rising from the roofs of crowded farmhouses thickened aromatically, and occasionally an ox-drawn cart carrying hay or fuel rumbled up from behind to overtake Johan. In these situations the tall young man was invariably treated to a curious stare from either the drover, his animal, or (more often the case) from both. While merchant traffic made an endless parade along the East Way, ferrying strange goods and stranger people from places as distant as Deepingdale, far beyond the mountains, it was not nearly so often that lone travelers had the fortitude to endure Nightal's usual flurry of driving winds and snow, especially without the benefit of animals.

Johan did not mind the looks or stares. Tall, dark, and prepossessing, he was used to the curiosity of common people, especially those unaccustomed to the voluntary simplicity of his lifestyle. It was not normal to the Cormyrean mind that a person should lay aside the trappings of a decent, or at least comfortable, mode of living, in favor or poverty and self-denial; and while Johan was dressed hardly different or more poorly from themselves, there was something about his ardent perseverence, his energy, and the youthfulness he had rarified by years of foregoing unnecessary luxuries, worked strongly against an impression of his being one more tall, if undernourished, local peasant.

A deep blue dusk had settled over the Helmlands by the time the monk approached the eastern wall of the city. To the right of the roadside, set high up upon a muddy, sloping bank, sat a collection of ramshackle daub buildings, surrounded by caravan wagons and bounded by a low wooden fence half-buried in snow; and some twenty yards beyond the furthest of these rose the high, frost-encrusted wall, and above that the two immense stone turrets that guarded Calantar's Gate. In the swirling, stinking gloom of the coal fires and the deepening darkness, the city seemed an unconquerable, uninhabitable, and extremely forboding place.

* * * * *

Aina Kember shut and fastened the door to her tiny room, careful to avoid slipping on the icy stone of the threshold.

She immediately wished she'd brought something warmer to wear––though, considering her less-than-adequate wardrobe, it seemed unlikely that anything of proper thickness was still inside. The last light of the last day of the year was fading quickly over her head, blocked from view by the looming, colorless facade of Phaesha's boardinghouse, where Aina had resided for the past three months; lamps and candles had been lighted about an hour ago, but not so well that they bore any cheer for her, who was far too poor to afford the oil and without many friends better off than herself to go to.

Already cold and shivering, she stepped out into the street. It had left off snowing, thank Illmater; while far above her the girl could see a mottled, threatening winter sky, the weather had improved enough that Arabel's streets were churned now all to frozen mud and slush, with only here and there a deep flurry remaining where an eave or coal-bin offered the requisite shade and shelter. There were still a number of people out and about, some of them slightly familiar to her as residents of the neighborhood. Most were in a hurry, moving with hunched shoulders and stiffened limbs either to escape the biting chill at home or in a tavern. A few buildings down the street, outside the turreted garrison where the city's Purple Dragon contingent quartered, two men stood watching the street traffic from the relative sanctuary of expensive-looking rabbit-fur cloaks. Knights from the look of them, she supposed, though of course they could have been anybody. Aina might have looked a little closer––she had had some weapons training of her own, not so long ago, and admired the look of capable fighting folk––but it was growing later by the hour, and she had many things to do.

The first item on her agenda, Aina knew, was to fetch Maeus at his family's house. The flautist and orator was no great acquaintance of hers, but they had performed together on one or two occasions––he accompanying her singing with his instrument––and were mutual friends of the Naturalist. Elmdaerle had asked them both to his Important Meeting, and the two musicians had agreed to brave the darkened city streets together. With most of the Watch too cold and irritable to properly do their duty, it was much safer than going alone. Even Aina, who did not get along easily or well with light- hearted folk like Maeus, reckoned it was better to go with company on a wintery Arabel night.

Crossing the broad avenue, Aina slipped down a dimly illuminated side- street, her cheap leather boots crackling and crunching through the frost. She had only one weapon to bring along with her, in case of emergency: a heavy steel mace lay concealed behind the flap of her thinly padded coat, and was obvious enough to the experience eye that, with any luck, she would drive off trouble immediately. Despite her living in a relatively safe and well-patrolled neighborhood, far from the squares where thieves and mercenaries prowled, the slender young woman was far too conscious of her own small size and scant combat experience to risk leaving anything to fortune.

As she passed the famous tailor shop and approached wide Calantar's Way, Aina could see that the inn called "Wayscross", where she had first holed up after arriving in the city, was crowded near capacity and doing remarkable business. It could only be accounted for by the fabled excellence of that ancient establishment's signature winter applejack, manufactured directly on the premises (or so it was rumored); she herself had barely had the money to afford a decent room there, and could hardly afford a luxury like seasonal liquors. A few times in the past she had sang there for a meal, to the praise and encouragement of the management; they seemed to appreciate her voice and the change it afforded from the usual shouts and belly- laughter of the roughshod clientele. Once again Aina's innate curiosity tempted her to take a closer look, but she resisted, knowing full well that a Guildmaster as sober and considerate as Elmdaerle would never summon her halfway across town over minor trivialities.

Hurrying across the Way, which even this late in the day was a clamoring confusion of merchant wagons, fog-blowing animals and drovers, she crossed from the East into the South section of Arabel. It was here, on one of the district's important north-south arteriols, that Aina knew Maeus's family lived; she could even vaguely recall the look of the street itself, though the exact address was an unknown quantity, as most of the buildings were unnamed and numberless. Fortunately, the extroverted bard had provided a ridiculously detailed description of the place, and she felt confident of finding it. The only real question was what sort of Meeting required the attendance of two anonymous citizens, neither of whom was particularly knowledgeable of any subject the Naturalist held dear.

And the secrecy. He had given her firm instructions to discuss the location and time of their Meeting with no one; it was a request of little consequence to Aina, however, since despite having lived in the city for some time she knew hardly anybody well enough to discuss private business, and remained unapproachable as a matter of habit, if not policy. Perhaps Elmdaerle was planning a riverboat trip along the Springs, and simply needed someone of her experience to advise him––but in that case, why would he ask her to haul along a hopeless romantic like Maeus, who had probably never set foot in a river in all his life? And then again, why the pledge of silence?

Something was up, and Aina was very interested.

The sight of Bhaliir's brightly painted auction house brought Aina back to the present. The bard had specifically mentioned this building, and said that his own house was located across the street, four buildings down and on the left. It was part of a multistoried, multifamily complex, and had a pair of rain-barrels on either side of the door. Peering through her frosty, billowing breath, she spotted the building with very little trouble. There was pale light beckoning from the tiny, rectangular first-floor windows, and occasionally someone's shadow passed on some business well within––but the solid, larch-wood door remained quite firmly shut, and looked, at least to Aina's lovely dark brown eyes, surprisingly inhospitable. She supposed that Maeus must still be inside.

* * * *

The tap room of The Smoky Skull was an ancient and retiring affair, constructed in the main from live oak boards and beams of polished black walnut. At first glance, its antiquity conjured visions of the King's Forest in its prime, when a man could walk from the Stormhorns to the Thunder Peaks and never leave the safety of the dusken weald; even the fire in the flagstone hearth, which burned robustly, seemed somehow reduced to an ineffectual orange glow by the rich, chocolatey darkness of the timbers.

It was a spare room, dominated by a long bar running along the wall to the left, with tables in the front, the rear, and crowded against the opposite wall. The tables in the front were small and round, while the handful in the back were long, trestle affairs, lined with benches for the use of larger groups. The fireplace was in the front of the hall, to the left of the entrance, and had a number of hooks on which customers could hang their cloaks and capes to dry. There were no windows.

It was very dark. Beside the fireplace, there was only one other light source of any consequence in the hall: this last came in the form of the tavern's namesake, an enormous, soot-streaked, and hideously deformed skull set atop the far end of the bar. The top of the skull had been broken out and replaced with a wide bronze dish, shallowly inset, and into which someone had poured a small shovelful of smouldering reddish coals.

There were only a handful of clientele to trouble the tavern's two employees, despite the relative earliness of the evening. The Skull catered mostly to aging locals, men and women who prefered the quiet and company of a few familiar faces, and serviced hardly any of the merchants or travelers so common to Arabel's busier and better-known establishments. It was so relaxed and peaceable that even the tavernmaster felt comfortable enough to leave the management of the place to his handsome, dark-haired nephew, who leaned boredly against the counter, trading jokes with the pretty young barmaiden in a mellow, subdued voice.

Balthazar Lazarus, called Taz by his friends and family, sat alone at one of the tiny, squarish tables pushed hard against the right-hand wall. A quiet, weathered-looking young man with long, wavy yellow hair and a tired expression, Taz looked far too large for either the table or the half-emptied mug of warm beer resting on it; his broad left shoulder extended out into the narrow aisle seperating the tables from the bar, and his long, muddy-booted legs were crowded in against the opposite chair.

He had no companion, but faced a lumpy, much-abused leather pack and matching set of variously-sized swords, all of which looked nearly as stained by grime and the broken-down weariness of travel as he himself did. Taz wore vaguely the appearance and dress of a man foreign to the country, or at least less comfortable with the broad Cormyrean accents and expressions tossed casually on occasion around the tap room. There was something about his discomfort, and also his strength––which was quite in evidence, irregardless of his obvious fatigue––that seemed to forbid conversation. He stayed alone, rubbing his great brown hands together for warmth occasionally, and made studious circumspection of his drink.

At some point in this lonely interlude, the broad plank door swung open onto the street and admitted a pair of talkative men, both of whom might also be considered out of place in a tranquil neighborhood tavern like the Skull. They were both dressed very warmly in heavy cloaks, gloves, and hoods, and their faces were flushed by the cold. One of them in particular looked decidedly well-off. A tall, grey-haired man with chapped, craggy features, and pale eyes obscured behind a set of curious round glass lenses, he wore dark clothing expensively embroidered and lined with silver fox fur. He rubbed his gloved hands together with an energy belying his seniority, and quickly made way for his companion, to whom he was speaking in a strong and sonorous voice.

The large man seated by himself took note of the arrival of the two newcomers, though by the tone of their discussion they did not seem to warrant his undue attention. Taz had been seated at his table for quite some time now, at least a couple of hours by his reckoning, and he was quite proud of the fact that he had managed to keep a good handle on the quantity of ale he'd imbibed. He was only on his second drink, and thankfully, the ale was not having an overly deleterious effect upon his senses...yet. He needed to keep his wits about him, he knew full well. The kind-hearted caravan master had assured him this was the tavern to find good work, the kind of work that was tough and perhaps even dangerous, but ultimately very rewarding in a variety of ways.

In his youthful and inexperienced heart, Taz was absolutely convinced this was what he had to do with his life. Well, may be not quite 'absolutely' convinced. He'd cast his die, though. The caravan master had offered him employment as a caravan guard. The work would have been well-paying and stable, and offered up the prospect of interesting travel. Being in the employ of a decent and honorable employer would have been an added bonus. But he had, with some regret, turned down the caravan master's offer. Something deep within his heart, nay, his very soul, compelled the runaway-turned-warrior to seek out a different path for his life. There was no turning back now.

For what seemed like the one hundredth time, Taz ran through in his mind the words of the caravan master naming and describing the tavern he was supposed to find. This was definitely the right place. It had to be! The large man swore under his breath at his inability to read the written word. Knowing that he was at the right establishment would be that much easier if only he could read. With a snort of disgust, Taz drained the last of the contents of his mug and slowly raised himself to his feet.

The blond youth's muscled body rippled as he stretched the kinks out of his six and a half foot frame, before he stepped smoothly over to the bar directly in front of the bartender. Sliding his empty mug across the top of the counter, the man rummaged through the pouch at his waist in search of the coin he would need to pay for a third mug of ale. Then, with an embarrassed cough and a sheepish smile, he asked the bartender "This is the Smoky Skull, isn't it?"

"I hope so, sir," said the other, jerking a thumb toward the back of the tap room. "Otherwise Bog must've come to the wrong place."

Glancing up from his pouch, Taz saw what he was pointing at––the gigantic, jawless specimen sitting on the edge of the bar. It glowed eerily, its coals scattering a bit of weak orange light toward the remote rear section. He could see someone sitting at one of the long trestle tables––a man, perhaps, and alone as he was––but little else was visible.

So which one was Bog?

Only momentarily taken aback, the large man quickly regained his sense of humor, and guffawed at the bartender's adroit observation. "Yes, of course it is. That was rather silly of me," he admitted, with a grin.

"Having another?" asked the handsome barman. He could not have been much older than the giant warrior was, and he wore the sort of tough attitude a young man sometimes will when suddenly faced with a strong contemporary. "Give us a poke, then."

That last was Cormyr-speak, Taz now knew––the fellow had used it twice before. He owed them another copper penny.

"Yes, please," Taz answered the question put to him as he placed a copper on the countertop. Following a bit of obvious hesitancy, Taz continued, "It's just that I was informed by someone with knowledge of this place that this was where one might find...er, 'interesting' work. You know, employers... reputable and honorable employers with use for my swordarm. Anyway. Please forgive my rambling, and thanks for the ale."

Taz stepped back to his nearby seat and carefully eased his overly-large frame into the crammed quarters of his table, taking great care all the while to not spill any of his ale. Once safely ensconced in his seat, the large warrior drew a draught of his drink into his mouth, and sighed contentedly as the flavorful liquid slid down his gullet.

The second man was smaller, darker, and considerably younger, and he alone of the two bore any sort of weapon: a long, slender rapier hung sheathed from his belt, its artfully crafted hilt a sparkling flurry of reflective curves. He was not so obviously charismatic as his friend, but possessed an attentive expression and a careless grace that made him interesting. There was something about his short stride and wide-legged stance that made him seem unusually poised and balanced, as though he'd spent many hours walking along a narrow path.

"Unless she was entirely mistaken," the old man said in his deep, finely accented voice, and taking a moment to enjoy the warmth of the fire while his companion saw to the door, "Wessa saw a comfortable-sized assembly here this evening, and had a strong impression of good fortune. I take great comfort in that, you know. I know you Starmantlites play host to many more elves than Cormyr does, and are rather better used to seeing magic than we are here -- but all the same, the Six are very powerful, and loath to share their power without good cause. Much less their students." He glanced swiftly around the room, and settled long on Taz's broad back before moving on. "I do not think he is here, yet. We must be the first -- ah! Haburnaum! Delighted! How are you?" This last was spoken to a paunchy, balding old man, who sat alone, smoking a pipe in a chair beside the fire.

"Just foine, Guildmaster," said Haburnaum. "A happy New Years to you. I recommend the cider, saer, if you're having something." He grinned widely, lifting his thick, woolly arm to display a mug of amber liquid.

The old man laughed, clapped him comfortably on the shoulder, and turned again to regard the dark young man he had entered with. "Haburnaum, this is Vetch, a friend of mine from the south. He and I are hosting a small party at the Skull tonight. Vetch, this gentleman is one of the finest tailors in all Arabel, though to our lasting regret he has recently retired."

Haburnaum shrugged apologetically, and squinted up at the newcomer with open curiosity. His eyes were small, sly and glinting in his wrinkled, fleshy face, but the smile beneath his large white moustache was a friendly one. "How'd you do, ah––Vetch, was it?"

"Yes, 'Vetch,' that is what my friends call me and I pray you will, too, sir." he said with a respectful nod and a controlled smile as he took in the decades of experience showing through the eyes above the grand moustache.

"It is my misfortune, however," Vetch continued, "to have arrived in Arabel too late to benefit from your finely-honed craftsmanship, Mr. Haburnaum."

"Nonsense," the old man laughed, waving him off––though his smile broadened considerably. "That's just the Guildmaster's way of telling me he's got new holes in his shirts. But you've got a queer accent, Mr. Vetch––sounds like one of them southern accents, if you ask me. Where did you say you were from? I'm not sure his honor mentioned it."

"I did mention it," said Elmdaerle, as he tugged on the fastenings of his cloak, "though perhaps you weren't familiar with the name. Mr. Vetch, as you call him, is a native of Starmantle, which––if you don't already know, Haburnaum––is a remarkably long way from here. He has been staying at my home for the past few days, because his friends in this part of the world are few. On a divan, unfortunately, but there you are."

"Hoy, Elm!" came a shout from the bar. The owner of the voice, which sounded very amused by the old man's arrival, was the pretty young barmaiden. She was leaning against the counter beside the barman (who also looked very much amused) and toying with a festive holly wreath that entwined with her glossy black curls. "Still havin' your party, are you? Couldn't stay away from me long!"

The Guildmaster looked over, and smiled kindly over his odd glass lenses. "I'm afraid you have overthrown my resistance, Malou," he said. "But I see you've been playing in the forest this afternoon. Have you brought me anything as nice as that hat of yours?"

"Yes, I have," the girl said stoutly. "Come over here and get it." Then she winked, rather prettily, at Vetch. "I see you've brought me something as well, though. I didn't know you had any friends, Elm."

"Just this one, I'm sorry to say," warbled the old man, and he swept off his cloak. His robes were all of dark, embroidered velvet, and he carried a rolled-up leather scroll case beneath one arm. "But I can think of worse ones to have, than this fellow."

"How'd you do," said Malou, curtsying briefly to Vetch. "And happy New Year's. What'll you two have to drink?"

Vetch looked at Elmdaerle, looked back at Malou, and blushed furiously. "I-I-I will have what Mr. Elmdaerle... I have my own mug, i-i-if that will help––" Vetch managed to stammer out before whirling around, dropping his pack and digging through it frantically––his face growing redder and redder all the while.

The Guildmaster chuckled. "Very proud of his mug, you see," he explained.

"It must be a big one," said Malou, and the place errupted with laughter. There were only a few people around to hear it, but even old Habernaum looked like he was about to cry, merrily slapping the arm of his wooden chair.

"Don't worry about it," said the barman, once the noise had subsided enough to be heard. "We've got our own, here. Sometimes I think we've got too many––this place gets less business than a graveyard." He reached behind the bar for a pair of tankards.

"Let us hope it continues to, Jacob," Elmdaerle said, hanging his cloak on one of the brass hooks above the grate, "lest our city suffer more than it has, these past few winters. But, in that case! I will take a cup of your best applejack, my lad, assuming there is some left. It is nearly the Year of the Shadows, after all, and with a name like that, it may be best to enter the season feeling rosy."

"Good," said the barman. "I'll join you, if y' don't mind."

"How about you, sir?" Malou asked Vetch; her voice was tender, as though she might have regretted making sport of him so quickly. He was new, and might be sensitive about such things. "Would you like one, as well?"

Vetch swore the tavern shook to its dark wooden rafters when the place exploded in laughter. Still bent over his pack, he bit his lip in frustration. So much for remaining quiet and unnoticed! Who brings their own tankard to a tavern? Idiot! Well, now you know, he admonished himself silently. He stood up, took a deep breath to compose, and turned to the barmaid.

"Yes, yes––please," Vetch said, entirely too nervously, his face still a bit flushed.

Say something witty! She's still looking at you, you know! his adolescent conscious screamed at him. Bowing to bravado rather than forethought, Vetch added with a straight face, "And any mug will do––although you are correct, Miss: I am more comfortable wielding ones of large size."

"In that case," said Malou, "I'll have to charge you double." The lass grinned, winked again, and went half-skipping to join Elmdaerle, who had begun to make his way past the tables and was now crossing to the bar. Feeling her hand on his sleeve, he leaned over for a moment so she could give him a light peck on cheek. "Make it two, Jacob."

* * * * * *

There was a steady stream of merchant wagons crowding past the buildings on the northern bankside, and leading up to the turrets and the gate; and there were cloaked and mittened people milling everywhere. Johan was soon surrounded by rough and shivering men and women of every age description, and all of them muffled in every sort of clothing conducive to retaining warmth. Many of them bore knives at their broad leather belts, or brutal-looking metalshod clubs, or occasionally even swords (these last were clearly trail guards, and mercenaries of one kind or another). The amount of hoarse and callow talk, and the mysterious chatter of many unrecognizable languages, was nearly overwhelming. Nobody so much as looked at him.

It had been a long time since Johan had seen or listened to the sorts of people he was now encompassed by, and for a moment his usual composure was threatened. The stink of shivering oxen, horses and unwashed bodies was heavy in the air, and the way to the gates was seemingly blocked off. It was evident to the monk that Arabel was soon to close its gates for the evening, and the last of the stragglers and merchants were making a bottleneck of traffic. He had no choice but to take up a place in the line, standing behind a pair of men––or were they women? It was impossible to tell, since their faces were well cloaked behind large dark hoods and matching thick woolen scarves––who stood quietly talking and, occasionally, clapping their gloves together to keep up the circulation in their fingers. They both ignored the quiet young man behind them as nothing more than another of their type.

"Elfstone's full," the man on the right grumbled; the expression in his dark and downcast eyes was unmistakably sour. "They say there ain't no more room, for anyone -- even Misrim's men. If we're caught out here, it's gonna be a long and innerestin' night. At least the wind ain't up."

The other only nodded through his scarf, though he looked no happier than his comrade. Both of them glanced longingly over the heads and backs of the horses, where the trio of daub buildings clustered on the bank. Many of the windows in those buildings were lit, and glowing a cheery orange-yellow; puffs of pale smoke billowed upward from enormous brick chimneys. A small mass of people were gathered at every door, and from these the occasional sound of hard or mirthless laughter floated out into the evening haze. The unpleasantness of the sounds made Johan shiver––though it may only have been the increasing cold.

"We better start thinking about how we're gonna manage, if we don't get through," said the sour-eyed fellow. "There ain't nothing closer by than them Red Ravens barracks, and those fellows sure ain't puttin' us up." He nodded off toward the south, where another set of tall stone buildings, slighty further from the road, were half-hidden from Johan's sight by the frosty breath of a miserable-looking team of oxen.

Doing his level best to cover his lean body with his simple robe as well as possible, Johan listened to the man's words and sneezed. As good as it was to get out from the monastery and see a bit of the world, the young monk was beginning to regret he hadn't waited until spring to make this journey. He hadn't thought he could get so cold while still being on this side of death's door, but the winter had proven him wrong several times during these last few days.

And now he might not even get inside for the night? If this was Lathander's way of trying my discipline, He's doing a very good job at it , Johan thought sourly. Even his usually sunny disposition couldn't take every setback with a smile.

Beginning a simple novice exercise to flex his muscles to generate some warmth, Johan considered his choices. It wouldn't do to try to sneak forward past other in the queue; he had more discipline than that. Even if he had to admit the thought brought a fleeting touch of guilty hope with it. No, he'd accept whatever befall as his due and adapt. He still had enough food for a day––perhaps two, if he ate sparingly––and he could go without sleep one more night if he had to. Note to self: next time arrange to arrive early in the morning, if you can manage it .

Mouthing a silent prayer for Tymora to smile on him and let him through the gates before they were closed for the night, Johan cleared his throat and directed his words to the two strangers in front of him. "Excuse me, sirs––do you know how much longer the gates will remain open?" he asked politely, his voice deep and calm. "Surely the guard will make some allowances because of the cold weather?"

The man on the left turned to look blinking at Johan, his pale and watery eyes looking near exhausted above the ragged edges of his loosely-wrapped woolen scarf; he said nothing, as he had said nothing before.

The other man, on the other hand, barely turned his head to indicate he'd registered the question, apparently deeming Johan an uninteresting and unimportant nobody (which perhaps he was). "Surely an' the guard'll throw a bucket 'a cold shit on us, if we ask 'im 'bout allowances," he answered mildly. He seemed in a much better humor than his companion, at any rate, weathering the cold and dark with casual understanding. "Gates 'ficially close at sundown, me friend, an' that's the way it usually 'ficially goes. They say it's New Year's, though, so p'rhaps our friends on th' Watch will be more, eh...accomodatin'. Leastaways, that seems the Cormyrean thing t' do."

The quiet fellow, who had taken in Johan's ill-dressed and ill- equipped appearance with some interest, suddenly spoke up thickly through his scarf. He had a deep voice, faintly accented, and unexpectedly curious; and somehow he turned his questions into statements. "You've nevah been here befoh, 'ave you––longshanks. But y'look C'myrean, don't you. Where 'bouts you from."

“Hmm?” Johan replied, momentarily lost in thought at the possibility of actually getting inside tonight. “Oh, sorry. Boghap is where I was born––that's near the Fearsea Marches, not too far from Eagle's Peak––or, it was, until a plague passed though. A curse from the swamp, the old women claimed, and who knows? Wasn't much left of the place once the disease had ran its course.”

The watery-eyed fellow nodded sympathetically. His uncouth friend, who at first had not been listening, turned his head when the subject of plague was mentioned. They both regarded the monk with a mixture of interest and uncertainty, as though they weren't quite sure whether to listen further or to find someplace farther off to stand.

“My mother moved east and remarried, so I grew up around Thunderstone,” Johan went on, giving the men a friendly smile. “Johan Winterglade, a monk of the order of Sun Soul at your service. And yes, this is my first visit here––or at least, the first since I was a toddler.”

The man on the right smirked, drawing a querying look from his companion. "Right talkative lad, this," he said. "Reckon we could 'ave 'is whole life story in a candlemark."

"Leave off, you," said the other, and frowned. "It'd do you good to hear somebody's voice asides your own, once in a while."

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, Johan kept flexing his muscles to ward away the cold. He might not be athletic by any true measure of the word, but the monks at the Dawn's Reach monastery had showed him how to use what he did have. Leaning on his simple quarterstaff, Johan gave the slowly shortening line between them and the gate a wishful look before turning his attention back to the two strangers.

He had offered them his name, but he wouldn't ask them for theirs. After all, it was for them to reveal if they so chose. But there was one thing he did intend to ask. “From your words, I gather you are regular visitors here––or near enough. Could you possibly give me directions to an Inn? The Smoky Skull, it was called––I believe. I know it's somewhere in the southern part of Arabel, but that's about it.”

The two men looked at one each other, as though together they might arrive at a suitable answer. The talkative one pulled down his scarf sufficiently to reveal a thick nose, bristly black moustache and drooping mouth.

"You know?" he asked his friend.

The other shook his head, leaving his own scarf in place.

The first frowned slightly and, reaching up, dabbed his nose with the back of a leather glove. "Well, might be easiest if you ask––"

A sudden shifting of the crowd interrupted him. Many of the folk gathered about them raised their voices in to cheer or shout a blessing, for wagons were now proceeding through the massive ironbound gates and disappearing beneath the shadow of the barbican. Immediately the three men were forced closer together, as people crowded in for a chance to enter the city and hopefully escape the worst of the coming evening's weather.

Johan found himself pressed against the broad, woolen-cloaked backs of his new aquaintances, as new bodies squeezed forward from the back of the line. He heard a shout go up from the inn-yard high on the northern bank; it was followed by many others. Soon travelers who had been looking in vain for a room or space in the taproom came streaming back down into the road to join the press. The scene was one of minor, yet cheerful, anarchy.

"Looks like your bad luck's left you, sonny," grinned the fellow with the black moustache. "They're letting people in. Right decent of 'em, you know, with a new year comin' and all. Must be some good celebratin' goin' on, tonight."

"You'n come with us, if y' like," said the watery-eyed one, with unexpected friendliness. The reversal of fortune had much improved his mood. "We're off for the evenin'. We know all th' best cider-shops in Arabel, Av'rus an' me––if y're lookin' for an evening's entartainment. Don't know nothing about that Smokin' Skull, or what-have-you, but there's plenty proper places here for food, or smoking, or a decent night's rest––if you want it."

Smiling warmly at both the sudden good fortune and the unexpected friendliness, Johan gave the men a quick bow. "I thank you for you kind offer, but I fear I have some business in the Smoky Skull that needs to be taken care of today ––provided I manage to find the place in the first place. May Lathander smile on you both, and may we meet again––hopefully somewhere where we don't have icicles growing from our beards." The last words were accompanied by a warm chuckle.

Giving the two a final nod (thus giving them time to say their parting words if they had such intentions), the young monk began making his way towards the gates. Since he was still without directions, he needed to find someone to ask. Perhaps one of the gate guards would be inclined to give him a moment of his time. And if not, he'd just take the first major street south and ask along the way. And while he was at it, he might ask where the local temple of Lathander was located as well. The priests might let him sleep in one of their monks' cells since he was a fellow believer.

The guards did not know, and were too busy to bother with him anyway; they were too busy shoving through the river of incoming visitors in search of known criminals, the very ill, and other unseemly types.

Fortunately, a tiny, middle-aged halfling passing through the gates not far from Johan did know the tavern's name, and not a moment after the last guard had shrugged apathetically and waved the monk forward, sidled up to Johan and tugged at his voluminous sleeve.

"You're looking for the Smoky Skull?" the little man piped in his reedy voice, his neck craning far back to meet Johan in the eyes. "You're in luck, mate. I know where it is."

Together they passed beneath the dank, lichen-infested barbican, which was large enough to resemble a tunnel. It was nearly pitch dark, and the smell of wet wool clothing, horse hair, and shivering bodies was many times stronger.

"Skull's in South-district," the little voice continued, and Johan could still feel a little fist gripping on his sleeve. He realised that the halfling was keeping near him because he was comparatively huge, and offered a bit of protection from the bumping mass of immigrants. "Not far from the arena. All you've got to do is turn left on Ride Street and follow it until you come to a fork in the road. If you see the city wall, though, you've gone too far. You follow all that, mate?"

"I do indeed––and thank you, sir, for your help," Johan answered with a smile, drawing back his robe's hood enough to reveal his face; a bit too hard and narrow to be called handsome, but Johan's warm smile and the gentle look in his brown eyes made him appear approachable and sincere. A moustache covered his upper lip, curling down to join the goatee decorating his chin. His skin appeared deeply tanned for a Comyrean, a testimony of long hours spent under the sun.

As soon as he realized the halfling was counting on his size to win him room in the throng, Johan set his pace accordingly, so that the little man wouldn't have to run to keep up as he passed through the gate and took the left turn into the slums. Johan wasn't overly afraid of being mugged; with a night like this, there were surely many more tempting targets for the city's pickpockets––and besides, even if someone attempted to lift his purse, they'd be sorely disappointed at what it held...

Using his quarterstaff as a walking stick, Johan walked deeper into the city, marveling at the strange sights even this less-than-prosperous neighbourhood offered. Having been born and raised in little villages and then having spent a considerable amount of time in the Hullack Forest before moving to the monastery, Johan had found few opportunities to see such things as a large city could offer.

"'Fraid it doesn't look like much in the wintertime," remarked the halfling, as they emerged from the darkness of the wall. "Castle looks nice, though. Impressive."

Indeed it did. Johan could not see many other landmarks, because the buildings lining this street were so tall––they loomed coldly, a series of great grey cliff-sides frosted with snow––but far off the road suddenly swooped, then rose again, and he had a fair glimpse of the palace. It was large and splendid, and seemed to be built almost entirely of enormous domes, each set with banners so large and heavy that even the winter wind could not stir them; and beyond it, crowning the far hill, was Arabel's mighty fortress, her high stone walls shimmering with new-kindled bonfires and strong enough to fend off any army in the world -- or so it seemed to the monk.

The city was already quite dark, but lit with torches and lamps uncountable. A pale mist of crystalline ice had crawled up from the lower city, obscuring many details of its architecture, but Johan could see that most of the buildings were roofed with slate tiles and built at least partially from stone. These were mostly very tall, and on average two storeys high (but many were twice that or more). Here and there in the far distance, especially on the rightward side of the street, the gloomy shades of isolated towers sprung up far above the other houses. He could not guess who these belonged too, since they were hardly visible in the chilly fog.

As a strange contrast to this vision of a calm and implacable city, the street Johan and his diminutive guide had entered was jam-packed with wagon traffic, swinging lanterns, and a snarl of muffled folk conducting loud business. To their immediate left, just across a narrow side-street, a terrific deal of the activity had converged upon a bulky, three-storey daub building with large, multipaned windows and a busy courtyard opening out onto the street. It was practically spilling over with people, and so many of them standing near the entrance bore tankards that the monk could plainly see it was an inn.

"Irriphar's," said the halfling, having followed Johan's gaze. "Not a very interesting place, mate, I assure you. But––let me just see, now..." His attention shifted sideways, to the side-street lying between them and the inn.

The route this second street took passed south through a much quieter-looking neighborhood, with far fewer lights and only one building near at hand which seemed to be doing vigorous trade. It head straight for a long way, then curved gently to the left, finally disappearing out of sight.

"You see this street, mate?" piped the halfling. He pointed. "If I remember rightly, this could be a nice proper short-cut for you, at least compared to the Ride. I'm not from this part of town, and haven't the fortitude to show you the whole way––not in this blasted muck, at least–– but unless I'm far wrong, it'll take you straight to the Skull.

"Sorry 'bout this, but I've no intention of going into the smelly old South district today -- if you'll pardon me for putting it that way. Just too many puddles, at least for a bootless man."

“Certainly. And thank you for your help, sir,” Johan said, giving the halfling a quick bow and then turning to follow the indicated street, lengthening his stride. Weaving left and right to chose the least slippery and muddy path he could find. But care for the state of his boots made way for haste; after all, he had been on the way for quite some time, and finally his goal was almost within sight.

Yes, it would be interesting to meet his father's old friend. After the letter had arrived he had spared no words expressing his regret he couldn't make the trip at that time, and when Johan had volunteered to take his father's place, he had been given a good enough description of the Guildmaster. Although it had been a few years since the two had last met...

Still, Johan felt confident that he'd find the Smoky Skull with the instructions he had received––and when he got there, how hard could it be to find an elderly herbalist who, at least according to his father's tales, was almost some kind of local celebrity? And if the Skull was his favourite haunt, surely the people there could point out the man to Johan.

A happy smile touching his lips, Johan walked down the road towards his goal.

* * * * *

When the knock on the door sounded, Maeus leapt up from his place beside the iron stove and went to say goodbye to his mother, who was putting the final touches on a heavy knit scarf in her bedroom.

"Try not to stay out to late, May-oh," she entreated him. "It's New Year's eve, I know, but your father and I will worry if you're gone all night. And don't drink too much––you know how you get. Say hello to your friend, that kind old gentleman, for us. Don't pester him unreasonably; he's an important man."

Maeus nodded impatiently, waved an arm, and swept back out into the living area.

Theirs was a small dwelling––only five rooms if you counted the bath––but neat and tidy, and in a heartbeat the quick-footed musician was across the room and gathering up his things. A fashionably cut hood for walking, a light steel dagger for defense, and his family's prized rapier for an added touch of style and respectability. He figured the blade would probably serve little practical purpose on such a benign and convivial occasion as the old year's turning, but it might serve to boost a first impression.

It was getting late already, he knew, and more snow was probably on the way. Tugging on his cloak, Maeus wondered whether he ought not bring along his flute––it was a night for high spirits, after all, and everyone said he had a gift for a cheering tune––but soon decided against it. The instrument was his most precious possession, far and away the most valuable thing he owned and, if he did have a little too much to drink, to leave it somewhere on the far end of town would be the defining catastrophe of his life.

Having dismissed the idea, Maeus let his clever fingers play quickly over his carefully washed and pressed clothing, setting it to the angles he felt were most complementary to his less-than-impressive physique. At a little more than five and a half feet, and hardly more muscular than his mother, the reedy young bard had nevertheless learned to make an art of his appearance; that extra bit of trouble taken could often make the difference between a patron's carefully attending or casually dismissing the actual performance of a song or tale, and while he might not be called upon to do so this evening, long habit had made it a property of easiness.

Finishing up in the blink of an eye, he flipped the latch and swept open the door. There was a short step leading down from the portico into the street, and at its base, Aina Kember, the singer who lived uptown, was standing shivering in her worn leathers. Maeus could not help tsking in his mind at her dreadful appearance; she might have been a pretty girl, really, if she would leave off wearing baggy trousers like a common beggar, or––for Sune's sake!––at least let her dark brown hair grow out further than a few inches.

She bore something under her jacket, he could see; perhaps Aina had bought a flute of her own? If so, it could not have been a good one; everybody knew she was literally poor as a churchmouse. He nodded politely, just the same, and wondered again if he ought not fetch his own (very beautiful) instrument.

"Hel-l-o," Aina said, her teeth chattering a little. She bobbed her head in greeting. "Good even', Maeus. You look ready to go. Are you? I hope so; it's getting cold out here."

"'Evenin', Aina!" Maeus answered, pausing only briefly to carefully close the door behind him. Then he skipped off the stair and around her. "I am! Let's go! It IS cold!"

Always on the balls of his feet, as if always ready to run, or perhaps start dancing, Maeus took a few steps down the street and Aina followed. A window opened with a squeak in the house next to Maeus's.

"Oooohh, Maeus! Leaving off with a lady friend!" a thin, blonde, pouty-lipped girl scolded from the window. Her lips got even more pouty as she went on, putting an arm to her brow as if feeling faint, "You're breaking my heart! Stay with me!" Belying her theatrics, the girl broke into giggles, shot a wink at Maeus and slammed the window shut.

Maeus's shoulders slumped and he winced as if in pain. "You're a woman, Aina -- perhaps you know: why does she do this to me? Why does she mock me so?" he asked, but the question must have been rhetorical because he did not wait for an answer before continuing. "Heeeey! Perhaps this is not mockery. Perhaps these are her real feelings and the other ones are just a joke... I have to think about that..."

"Say, Aina," Maeus changed subjects as quickly and as easily as he moved from one side of the woman to the other, "did you bring an instrument? I left my flute at home. Does Elmdaerle want us to leave somewhere tonight? It's New Year's, you know? Picking berries, p'r'aps? If he does, I'll have to swing back home and get my other gloves and the bracers. Last time I got scratched all the way to the elbows. And, boy, let me tell you, I got a lot of yelling for ruining the shirtsleeves like that."

Aina opened and closed her mouth comically each time a new question came up. Once the final pause came, she waited an extra moment to speak, as though wondering if he was really finished speaking or not. "I don't think we're going to pick berries, Maeus," she answered evenly, "seeing as how it's winter, you know, and there aren't many berries around to pick. I'm certainly not going to dig around in the snow for them, that's for sure.

"And no, I didn't bring a flute." Aina reached into her worn old coat and produced the mace, which was heavy enough that she cradled it in both hands. "I don't have a flute. But I don't have a nice sword like you do, either. I must say you're looking rather dashing in it. Is it new?"

As they spoke, she followed Maeus down the street. He seemed to know where he was going well enough, and clearly had no fear of the nighttime shadows; it made her feel a little better. The bard was too light-hearted, and too light-footed, to bother her the way so many men did. As an added benefit, he was far too distracted by another girl to take any notice of her, even if he could get past her shabby appearance to do so.

"Do not take me for a fool!" Maeus frowned in obviously mock anger, took two quick steps forward, turned, and started walking half-backwards to keep facing Aina. "How long have you known Elmdaerle? Haven't you picked up anything from him?"

"I've known him long enough to learn that he doesn't like to be kept waiting," Aina said mildly. She twirled a half-circle in the air with her finger, indicating that he should turn around. They had to make good time. She could not imagine what could cause Elmdaerle to issue a summons on the eve of the New Year, but it had to be important.

She was beginning to doubt her wisdom in leaving so late. As a street singer (although truthfully she sang in taverns and inns more than on the streets, especially in the winter), she had a passably good knowledge of the city. She was confident that she could have made the meeting on her own. What she had not taken into account in her calculations was Maeus' company. His jokes and antics made him a most entertaining companion, but they could easily set them back ten minutes or more.

His tone changed to do a fairly close impersonation of the old man. "Purpleberries are tart and bitter until touched by frost, when they get much sweeter. Wild rose - also called sweetbriar or eglantine - hips stay on the bough long after the leaves have fallen off...and the damn thorns ALWAYS stay on the bough...and are sour, but smell good in jams or teas. Then there are the juniper berries, which only ripen late in autumn and work great with vinegar or dry wine to tenderize tough meat...

Aina watched him curiously, her eyes softening with amusement under her woolen hat. At the end of the impromptu performance, she gave him a cautious grin. "You're good," she observed. "I didn't know you could do impressions. Did you spend a lot of time with Elmdaerle? You sound just like him."

Given that we're all..." Maeus changed back to his normal voice, then paused to take in again Aina's ragged clothing. "Given that many people in the city will have roast meat tonight, I wouldn't be surprised if it WAS about juniper berries."

Feeling his scrutiny, and suddenly aware of her own shabby attire, Aina self-consciously pulled down her hat until it almost covered her eyes. She rarely went without her hat in the winter. While not the handsomest of hats -- in fact, it was downright shapeless -- it was how she earned her bread. That, and the generosity of patrons who would throw copper coins into it in appreciation of her singing.

"Say," he continued softly and shyly, "if we have time for a snack at the Skull, would you be offended if I bought...if we had something juniper-flavored for dinner? Just to show you what it tastes like?

"And thank you about the sword. No, it's not new, it's last been used by my grandfather. 'Used' as in 'worn to show off,' kind of like me."

Aina raised her eyes, only to meet Maeus' gaze squarely. She quickly lowered her head, staring down at the filthy icy sludge that covered the streets. "I -- I don't know," she murmured. "Perhaps a bowl of potato soup instead?" she suggested, naming a much less expensive dish, and one she thought she could afford, even with the few coppers that jingled in her pockets.

She was instinctively wary of charity, knowing that ulterior motives so often underlay it. And although Maeus was charming and, to all appearances, the perfect gentleman, years of habit were hard to break.

As they trudged through the wintry streets, Aina shivered. Once again, she regretted her inadequate winter attire. If she came down with a sore throat, she might be unable to sing for days.

She should have brought a scarf. Granted, she didn't have one, not as such, but she could improvise one by twisting one of her threadbare old cloaks upon itself and throwing it around her neck. She tried to envision this. Yes. Perhaps it would not look especially nice, but it would keep her warm.

"Pfft!" Maeus huffed. "I wasn't merely offering food. For get that it's food––think of it as a new experience. I was trying to show you something new, like sharing a new song.

"My father says that if I have a copper, and if you have a copper, and then we exchange them, we still have a copper each; but if I have a new idea , and you have a new idea, and we exchange them, we'll have two ideas each."

Maeus paused and turned to walk beside Aina again. "But if you don't want me to, never mind." Barely able to hide a grin, he shot her a glance from under his hood to see if this little bit of reverse psychology worked.

Either Maeus' stratagem had worked, or perhaps Aina had merely decided that to persist in her refusal would be rude. "Well, all right," she said, relenting. She gave Maeus a guileless smile. "It would be a new experience. I don't think I've ever tasted anything with juniper."

As they rounded a corner, laughter and hearthlight spilled out from behind the half-open shutters of a nearby public house. This gave Aina an idea. "Did you bring your flute with you?" She scanned his clothes, but could not see the instrument. "Perhaps we could work the Smoky Skull together, if our business with Elmdaerle does not take too long. There are likely to be many patrons there tonight." And they would likely be toasting the New Year to general merriment, and perhaps freer than usual with their coin, but Aina did not think it appropriate to bring up that particular point.

Before the bard could reply, the pair suddenly came to the end of the long darkened row, and were faced with a narrow intersection littered with refuse and sooty piles of snow. They had reached the edge of the slums, and would have to proceed more carefully: even a well-armed, practiced young man like Maeus might make a welcoming target to the desperate or the very drunk. The Watch came here less frequently, and the Purple Dragons not at all.

They would have to angle right, Maeus knew, and proceed south past the partially-derelict pub––it was called the Rolled Roast, as he recalled, or something similar––until they came to the end of the block. Across that street, he could see only the dark, lumpen silhouette of the building he recognized as the Smoky Skull.

They were almost there––and just in time, too, since their exhaled breath was looking more and more like dragon-smoke, and their thickest woolen garments were beginning to feel thin as threadbare sack-cloth.

Clutching her cloak about her, Aina hurried her stride, falling into step beside her companion. She disliked this part of town, and avoided it whenever possible. As a newcomer to Arabel, she had once made the mistake of trying to sing at a street corner not far from here, and was instantly beset by gangs of grimy adolescents, who had teased and harassed her mercilessly.

Now it was nighttime, and the treacherous streets––though seemingly silent––held dangers far graver than mere taunting youths. She generally did not travel alone after dark, and if it had been up to her, she would have chosen a more circuitious route, avoiding the slums altogether. Still, that would waste precious minutes, and Elmdaerle was waiting.

She hitched her baggy trousers up a bit, to avoid dragging them on the sooty snowdrifts. With her free hand, she gripped the haft of her hidden mace. She was glad for Maeus' company, but would feel decidedly relieved once they were out of the streets.

"No," Maeus sighed, once they were on their way. "I thought about it––then decided to leave it at home. I figured there were two possibilities: either Elmdaerle wants us to leave the city––in which case, I would have to run back home anyway, to pick up my forest gear––"

Aina's lovely eyes, now reddened from squinting against the freezing wind, widened. "Do you really think he'll ask us to leave the city?" The thought had not occurred to her. She felt a quick surge of excitement, vague visions of thrilling journeys leaping into her mind.

Then she squelched the thought. After all, nothing interesting ever happened to her . She had learned long ago not to cultivate unwarranted hope. It could lead to nothing but disappointment.

"––or, he'll want us to stay at the Skull, and then I can go back at my leisure and bring it."

"Ah." Aina nodded. "I understand. It is a beautiful instrument. It would be a pity if it were damaged or lost. As for me, I am fortunate enough to carry my instrument with me wherever I go." She lightly tapped her throat with her finger.

"Watch out, now! Try to look big, and let's walk faster," Maeus said, switching topics yet again. "It's not very likely, but still possible that some beggar will try to harass us on this particular alley."

Aina's hands tightened around the handle of her mace. She glanced at her companion's not-especially-imposing frame, then down at her even smaller one. It would take a vibrantly active imagination to consider her 'big.' "Perhaps I should have starched my clothes before going out," she joked nervously.

As the Skull rose in silhouette in the distance, she ran over songs from her repertoire in her head, already assembling the outline of a performance for the night, just in case Elmdaerle's business should turn out to be boringly mundane after all.

* * * * *

After a short bit of argument, Elmdaerle agreed to let Vetch pay for the cups of applejack––for the first round, anyway. The dark young man also offered to pay for the barkeep's, but the gesture was politely brushed off. "Price goes down a lot when you're stuck at work on the Drawing Down," Jacob explained.

"In that case," Malou said, from her usual place beside the counter, "you'd better let me have one, too."

Jacob snorted. "You? Criminy, 'Lou, you're not even working."

This started off a fresh round of arguing, cut short only by Vetch's offer to pay for it. Malou gave him a kiss for that––"This holly is working wonders for my love life," she remarked, while her victim blushed under the amused looks of Elmdaerle and the barman––and in the end, it cost him only four bits of copper.

His small loss was defrayed well enough by the excellence of the drink, which was not terribly strong and had been flavored with something unusual––clove, Vetch guessed, though he had not tasted the latter for at least two years.

Having closed his purse (which was looking rather short on copper, at the moment), he looked up and for once took notice of the big, leonine fellow crowded at his own table beside the wall. Interestingly, the man had weapons propped up on the chair across from him, including a long blade with a finely-wrought hilt that made Vetch's own rapier look rather flimsy and cheap in comparison. It looked frankly incongruent next to the bedraggled appearance of the outsized owner.

Beauty! Vetch thought to himself after letting his gaze settle on the object d'art. A man of that size who is nimble on his feet would be a formidable opponent, indeed. With that sword, almost invincible.

From behind him came the dim sound of Jacob's lowered voice. "I think somebody's already here to see you, Elm."

"Mm?" the old man said, and followed Vetch's gaze to the tall stranger. "This young gentleman here? Is he really! I don't recall meeting him."

"No," Jacob said, and shook his head. "I'm not talking 'bout this fellow––though he's been askin' about work as well, now you come to it. But I'm talking about that man, there––in the back."

Taz leaned forward and swiveled his head around to better acquaint himself with the person that the bartender had just addressed. The man in question turned out to be the older of the two men who had walked into the tavern only a few minutes earlier. The large warrior was about to say something to the older man, apparently named 'Elm', when Jacob directed Elm towards the other fellow who had also been sitting in the tavern for as long as Taz had been there. Though a bit disappointed, Taz morosely accepted that he'd have to wait his turn to speak with this 'Elm' person. He settled back into his seat again and raised his mug up to his mouth, waiting for Elm to be done speaking with the other stranger.

Elmdaerle turned, and so did Vetch and Jacob; and as they did, so too did the dark shadow that Taz had seen sitting at the trestle table. They all straightened a little as he came forward, since it was still early, and the meeting was supposed to have been secret.

"Well, the Powers bless me!" said Elmdaerle. "It's you, Tynan. What a relief––how are you, my dear boy?"

Tynan had spent the last three-quarters of an hour quietly nursing a tankard of applejack in the shadows along the back wall of the Smoky Skull, watching the orange light from the hearth at the far end of the room gently dance across the beamed ceiling and trickle towards him until it soaked into the dark wood of the tavern. Having been there for nigh on two hours, the warmth of the place had already settled comfortably into Tynan's bones and banished all thoughts of the icy winter wind prowling just beyond the tavern door. Even the swirl of flurries that trailed in after the infrequent arrivals had done little to disturb his comfort, their chill touch unable to penetrate so far into the room.

His early arrival at the Smoky Skull had been driven more by anxious nerves than any particular foresight. Tynan had invested much meaning and hope into Elmdaerle's invitation and was determined that the actual event live up to his expectations. His obvious distraction had forced his uncle to send him off from the forge hours earlier than usual, lest Tynan ruin some important piece of work, or worse yet cause himself or another injury. But the extra time had merely gnawed at Tynan's gut, giving rise to uncertainties the young man could not banish. Finally in frustration Tynan had dressed in his best clothes and headed directly for the tavern, determined to wait out his worries there.

That was some two hours past. Since then he had eaten a simple but hearty meal of stew and bread, and watched as a handful of regular patrons had wandered in from the cold or wandered out to find their families and greet the coming of the new year. Malou had been attentive when needed, the pretty barmaid whisking away his dinner dishes and delivering the applejack when he was through but otherwise respecting his need for privacy, clearly sensing his anxiety. For that Tynan was grateful––he hoped the lass could sense that as well.

Finally Elmdaerle had arrived, along with a young protégé. There was some small talk between the herbalist and what appeared to be an associate already toasty by the fire, and then between that trio and the Skull's staff. Tynan missed the exact words that sent all but Elmdaerle's companion into fits of laughter, but could have made a good guess based on the young man's red face and Malou's subsequent look of chagrin. Tynan smirked in the shadows, glad the sharp barmaid had spared him similar embarrassment.

He had tried to rise right then, to go and greet the herbalist with confidence, but nerves wrenched at his stomach and he froze with hands still clasped around his tankard. An image of Bryndel and Fiala huddled close around their small fire at home, patched blankets draped about their shoulders for extra warmth, had come unbidden to his mind and stolen his will. What if Elmdaerle turned him away? How could he face his siblings with such a story, on the eve of a new year no less?

But when the barman pointed him out directly to the herbalist, and by association to everyone else in the tavern, Tynan had no choice but to come forward. Rising slowly, he left the darkened depths of the back wall and emerged into the relative brightness of the room's centre, stepping with a confidence that was at odds with the turmoil in his gut. It was the moment of truth at last.

"I am well, Guildmaster," replied Tynan in a steady voice, surprising himself. "Thank you for asking. I trust by your hale appearance you are keeping well yourself?"

Exposed now in the light of both skull and hearth for all to see, Tynan no longer appeared a shadowy mystery. Tall and athletic, the young man's light complexion, straight nose, wide mouth and deep-set, smoky grey eyes formed a pleasant if unremarkable face. His dark, wavy hair was somewhat raggedly cropped short, and the faint tracings of youthful whiskers lined his jaw. He was dressed in the simple clothes of a tradesman, and clearly not a wealthy one at that. His white linen shirt sported a hint of thin embroidery at the collar as its only embellishment, and while his dark woollen breeches were tucked into freshly polished boots, the scuffs of regular wear still showed through to the observant eye. The only weapon he carried was an unremarkable dagger sheathed alongside his right hip, itself bearing signs of regular use.

Though he paid it no heed himself, Tynan's most distinguishing feature was quite apparent to any who spared him more than a passing glance. And that was his maimed left hand, half his ring finger and the whole of his pinkie missing. What caused the damage was unclear, but the wound was long since healed and pale scar tissue puckered over the remains of his missing fingers.

"I apologize if I am too early," he continued, his grey eyes flicking briefly to Vetch and Elmdaerle's old tailor, "and have interrupted your other pursuits. But the weather was looking dour, and a warm fire was beckoning."

"It beckons indeed," Elmdaerle nodded, and set his mug down onto the bar. Coming forward, he clapped a slender, large-knuckled hand onto the young man's shoulder. "But you should not apologize for being early, since it is you who had to wait. Come, now––come and meet a friend of mine.

"Vetch," the old scholar said, turning to regard the still-cloaked swordsman, "Vetch, this is Tynan Silvermoor, a very decent and dependable person, a blacksmith whom I have known for many years––since he was a boy, almost, though there was little of the boy left in him, even then ––and someone I have asked to be here tonight. Tynan, this curteous gentleman is visiting our country from the far-off South, and seeking employment; and he is a very capable fellow also, unless I am no judge of character. You will very likely make some good and practical use of each other this winter, so do try and make fast friends!"

The dark-haired youth nodded agreeably to Elmdaerle and then listened attentively as Vetch was introduced by the naturalist. Tynan was impressed, and not a little intimidated, that Elmdaerle had drawn someone from so far away for this meeting. He was honoured to be a part of such august proceedings, but also anxious that he live up to such obviously high expectations.

"Well met, Master Vetch," said Tynan in greeting, offering his good hand to the southerner and smiling broadly. "It is always a pleasure to welcome visitors to the Overland City of Cormyr. I hope you are enjoying our hospitality so far?

"Well, except for tonight's weather, that is," he added, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

"And to you, too, Mister Tynan." Vetch replied quickly, taking his extended hand. "I had no idea about Arabel's plentiful hospitality or I would have made my way here sooner! Everyone has been so––"
Unexpectedly, and with another long squawl of protest, the tavern door cracked open. Vetch interrupted himself and whirled––maybe a bit too quickly––towards it.

Two people, both of them small and shivering violently, stomped their boots upon the threshold and shoved a way into the tap room. Despite their similar size, they could not have been more different looking: one was a girl meagerly dressed, pretty in a boyish sort of way, and hardly better clothed and shod than a beggar; the other was a boy, handsomely arrayed and equipped––he wore a brightly-polished rapier, Vetch noted with interest––who, despite his grace, was hardly less fragile or delicately-featured than the girl. They stood for a moment in the entryway, breathing clouds of fog and staring wide-eyed at the gathered assembly, and then the girl reached back and pulled the door closed with a slam.

Elmdaerle peered at them over his glasses. "Ah-hah! And who should now appear out of the misty evening, but my two young allies and adventurers! Come in, Maeus, Aina––the both of you!"

Aina was accustomed to such effusive greetings from the naturalist. She smiled back at him, though her gaze continued to linger on the strangers. "Winter's tidings to you, Guildmaster," she replied in a soft voice that nonetheless carried well. This greeting, though a commonly heard one in the outlying northern parts of Cormyr, was a bit out of place in a civilized place like Arabel, and thus marked her as an outlander. Certainly no native Arabellan would utter it, for fear of being labeled a country bumpkin.

Maeus shook and stretched like a wet dog, huffing, then slapped the snow off his shoulders.

"Good evening, master Elmdaerle," he started, then went "Oops!" as a dagger slipped out of his sleeve. Snake quick, he reached down and caught it before it hit the floor. "There were some ruffians outside," he shrugged by way of explanation and sheathed the weapon, "but we managed to pass them by."

Aina pulled off her woolen hat, but instead of tresses classically spilling out onto her shoulders, this gesture merely revealed brown hair jaggedly cut short. She had probably cut it herself––with a knife, by the looks of it, and without the benefit of a mirror.

She made as if to go next to the hearth, but it seemed too crowded already, so she settled for a chair not far from it. Cupping her hands, she blew into them, and felt tingling sensation return to her frost-numbed fingers. She turned to regard the guildmaster expectantly, but resisted the urge to ask what this was all about, knowing that he would tell them soon enough.

"Looks like we'll be needing another couple of mugs," said Malou, looking them over (especially the girl) with a kind but critical eye.

"Thank you, I'm not thirsty," Aina told the barmaid in the pleasant, automatic way she had developed whenever someone suggested spending money on luxuries. Perhaps Maeus had talked her into accepting a bit of food, but she couldn't accept charity drink as well.

Oh, no! I'm never going to get a word in with him at this rate , Taz thought, with a flash of despair. Then, more determined than ever, the eager young warrior nimbly gained his feet and strode over to Elm's side.

"Please pardon my interruption, good sir," he began tentatively, "but I was told by Caravan Master Arliss that this here tavern would be an excellent place to find employment in the service of honorable masters and goodly causes. Master Arliss seemed to be particularly knowledgeable of this establishment and its patrons. My name is Balthazar Lazarus––or 'Taz', as my friends like to call me. I hail from Selgaunt, and believe I am ably skilled in the use of my blades. Perhaps you would have use for one such as I in your current ventures?" The question with which Taz ended his words to Elm was tinged with desperate hope, and was as much a plea as it was a question.

Surprised by the unexpected politeness of the man––who stood a handswidth higher than even himself, though he was considered a tall man––the guildmaster followed the entire spiel in silence. His eyes, which were a remarkably vivid blue, regarded the warrior seriously over his strange lenses, sizing up the warrior's sincerity as well as his great size; and there was a certain troubledness in the old man's expression as he did so, though the reason for it was unclear. Perhaps he expected some kind of spy?

Whatever he read in Taz's face, it must have been positive enough to warrant further talk, because he once again patted Tynan companionably on the arm. "Tynan, would you be kind enough to show these other three back to that table where you were sitting––the long one, in the far corner? Thank you. I will need to speak to this good fellow for a moment."

"Jacob," Elmdaerle continued, raising his voice and turning to the bar, "I would very much appreciate it if you would give these young folk whatever they asked for in the way of food, and place the expense to my account. If they are patient enough to listen to my droning for the next hour, let them at least be given compensation for it. And that goes doubly for the rawboned girl; she will need to be a little more rosy in the cheeks, I think, to properly endure the evening's exposition. Aina, if you wish to argue, I shall first turn you into a toad––so be a good lass and eat something, before you fall over."

Giggling, Aina hung her head in defeat, thereby signaling her acceptance. Foiled twice in one night! she thought bemusedly as she stared into the crackling hearthfire. Apparently, her friends were determined to feed her.

Raising her eyes, she sought out the barmaid, attempting to catch her eye. This proved to be difficult, since she appeared to be busily engaged with Maeus. The young minstrel was whispering in her ear and––Oh!––had just planted a kiss on her cheek. Aina blinked. Then she averted her eyes, not wanting to be caught staring.

After a brief moment, when she sensed that the flirting was done, she raised her gaze again. As it turned out, Malou had caught her eye and was heading her way. Aina gave her a smile. "A mug of ale," she requested. She knew from experience that once the winter chill had gotten into your bones, it could take a long time in departing, even when one is sitting next to a blazing hearth. A good stiff drink, on the other hand, could warm you up in no time––from the inside.

"What about yourself, Master?" Jacob asked, rubbing his hands against his leather apron. Malou stood up a little straighter, and also looked expectantly at the old man.

"Jacob, I will take whatever it is you keep back there that smells so strongly off potatoes," said Elmdaerle, "and also a new loaf, and perhaps a bottle of wine, as well. I fear my throat will be quite worn down before this long, wretched year is finally finished with." Gathering his voluminous dark velvet robes, he stepped behind the chair on which Taz had piled his belongings, so that the others could move more easily along the aisle. Taz hastily did the same.

"Coming right up," said Jacob. Nodding toward Malou, who dusted clean her own hands in response, the handsome barkeep turned and pushed through the swinging plank door behind him. It must have led into the kitchen, because a cloud of fragrant steam billowed out into the taproom.

"Anybody?" Malou asked, by way of invitation. "Mr. Vetch, shall we start with you? I can tell you what we have, if you like."

"Ah, it's just 'Vetch,' m'lady, and I'd like..." Vetch trailed off, considering.

"Malou, dear," Maeus began, walking toward the serving girl, "I need something special."

Leaning in––not that he needed to lean in very far––he whispered an order for some-meat-seasoned-with-juniper-marinaded-venison-would-be-great-but-beef-and-sauce-will-do-thank you, then stole a peck of a kiss on the girl's cheek and smiled a smile that threatened to take in his ears. She blinked in surprise, but patted him fondly on the cheek, having long grown accustomed to the bard's advances.

"An' I'll have a piece of meat this big," Maeus continued in his normal voice and showed his small palm to indicate size, "rare and spicy, and a drop of Master Elmdaerle's wine, if he'll allow me, watered down. Nothing else."

Nodding toward the bard, Vetch picked up where he had left off. "...What that gentleman is having. Only, I'll continue with the applejack, please."

Malou did a little mental math and nodded.

"Please forgive my errant eavesdropping, good sir," Vetch said, following Maeus toward the table, "but one cannot keep a description of such culinary delight a secret for very long in front of this famished man! My name is 'Vetch,' sir." He extended his hand. A look of friendly expectation had replaced his previous apprehension and Vetch seemed, for the first time, genuinely happy to be where he was.

Maeus reached out to greet Vetch, but rather than stopping to shake his hand, he moved further in to grasp the man's arm near the elbow, at the same time placing his own arm within easy reach for Vetch's palm. "My name is Maeus, and if master Elmdaerle reccomends you, you must be either a good man, or a very skillful one, or, most likely, both. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Leaning in a little further, Maeus dropped his voice for a quick conspiratory whisper "The juniper meat is sort of a surprise for Aina––the girl I walked in with. We had a chat about berries and herbs and things outside, and I think she's never had anything like that before."

Maeus let go of Vetch's arm and looked to see if the others were already walking towards the long table. Seeing that everybody present was still milling around, he slowed down. "I guess master Elmdaerle will fill us in on the purpose of the meeting soon enough. Until then, where did you say you're from? Starmantle? Where exactly is that? Ever been to Suzail? I hear that there's a whole family of halflings over there called Shortstaff. Talk about an unfortunate choice of a name. Not that I'm the one to talk about short, but..."

The back of the tap room was very dark and warm, its closeness illuminated only by the eery, faintly shifting glow emanating from the bright orange coals in the giant's skull. The timber ceiling was very low, and a thin, vaporous smoke hung over the long polished tables and benches, and Maeus could see a small assortment of belongings piled against the wall at the foot of one of them. The naturalist's quiet blacksmith friend shifted hesitantly behind them.

"It would be the table there, in the back shadows," Tynan said, stretching an arm out to indicate his old haunt. "The light may be dim, but it is pleasantly warm and free of prying ears. I'll join you there in a moment."

Once the two smallest members of the company had been allowed passage, and Malou had also had worked her way past the counter to the enormous round tuns on the eastern wall where the tavern's ales were stored, Elmdaerle moved back out into the aisle and leaned lightly against Taz's table. His eyes once again regarded the tall hiresword with a discomforting closeness, as though he were trying to see clear to the depths of the young man's mind.

"So," he said, pleasant but sober, "You are a Sembian, Mister...errehh, what was it? Balthazar? I would have guessed as much from your accent, surely––which is strong but not unpleasant, don't worry over that––but also that you've not long been in this country, either. Well, your people do not carry a reputation for timidity or for overpoliteness, and I am pleased to see that at least the latter is not quite true."

Adjusting his spectacles absently, the aging man said seriously, "I have never met this caravan master of yours, and wonder that he singled out this place, and this evening, of all places and all evenings. The business I am about to conduct with those young people is, for all our jesting, no foolish or laughing matter, and an extra sword––or two swords, I should say––and two strong arms to use them might sit well enough with the others before it is all over and through with. Certainly you have the size for an adventure, and perhaps the fortitude as well.

"But I am somewhat hesitant to bring in an outsider, especially one who for all purposes (if not intents) has been waiting here for me. Also Sembians are well known as a crafty and tricksome lot. Tell me, has anyone approached you about the name or reputation of Elmdaerle the Naturalist? For that is my name, Balthazar, and I should answer quite honestly if I were you. Cormyreans do not lie, and so can tell a liar easily -- and also there is more to me than perhaps at first appears." This may have been a bluff, it occurred Taz, since in his country Cormyreans were often regarded as untrustworthy and double-dealing -- yet there was something in the man's cool blue eyes and craggy face that bespoke wisdom, a keen intelligence, and perhaps a touch of danger as well.

"No, Master Elmdaerle, I have not ever heard your name nor anything about you before this moment," Taz responded quite honestly and matter-of-factly. "As for who I am and how I've come to be here tonight, I am from Selgaunt, as I said before––for that is where I was born and raised, though my parents are–– were–– originally from the Moonshae Islands.

"The caravan I traveled with was on the road many tendays, heading from Selgaunt to Ordulin and then across the Dalelands before arriving here in Arabel this afternoon. And caravan-master Arliss merely recommended this tavern as a good place to find employment, generally. There was nothing in what he said that was special to this day or this hour. So, I was not waiting here for you in particular, kind sir. It just seemed to me that you might be the sort of person I could be happy working for, is all."

"Ordulin, across the Dalelands?" the old man softly ruminated. "Well, that is quite a journey, sir, quite a journey indeed. And the Moonshaes––I have heard of that place only once before, and know less of it than I do even of Sembia. I think to many people that would sound like a fanciful tale, though I have done some wandering myself in former times, and recognize a traveler when I see him. And then again, you are unusually tall and fair for an easterner, and all men know how tall the westerners are.

"If you are comfortable on the road, then, sir," he said, more briskly, "and also comfortable with difficult tasks, then by all means join us at our table. I had not thought to employ more folk than I knew, or to truck with caravan guards; but winters can be long and difficult in this part of the world, and I fear the worst part of it has not yet befallen us. From what I understand of caravans, there is not much money in protecting them, so perhaps it will not be worse for you under my contract, or in my service––if you prefer. But there shall be many stout people to go, probably, so if you guard some mischief from me, my young friend, think twice before agreeing to the task.

"What are your terms?" he asked.

"T-terms?" the tall youngster stammered, an incredulous look spreading across his face. "I...I have no terms, sir. I merely wish to do right by people who could use some help...and earn a bit o' coin along the way. Oh, an' maybe find some adventure, also."

Taz smiled sheepishly, and the old man nodded, his expression grave. "I see. A reasonable enough request, as these things usually go. But in some circumstances, it is necessary to cut all ties...especially when danger looms. In that case, you should be made of stuff as stern as you look, or be prepared to let you companions know just how far you are willing to continue. It would not do, young Sembian from the Moonshaes, to give them a false impression of courage, only to flee at the first sight of trouble.

"Have you anywhere to stay tonight? Or are you happiest in the cold, and snow?"

Taz straightened up sharply upon hearing Elm's words. "I swear to you, Lord Elmdaerle, that I will stand and fight...to the death if that's what it ever comes down to," Taz insisted firmly to Elm. There was not even the slightest hint of doubt or fear or apprehension in the young man's voice. "I have no home to ever return to, and those I travel with will be like family to me. My loyalty to you and to them will be beyond question."

Taz paused for just an instant before he addressed the questions that Elm had ended with a moment earlier. "As for a place to stay tonight, Lord Elmdaerle, no...I don't have any such place..." he muttered forlornly.

"Well, that can be amended, easily enough," mused Elmdaerle, and he scratched his cheek thoughtfully. While he was not bearded, Taz could see that he had the kind of hoary silver bristles no old man could entirely conquer. "I would caution you not to address me as 'Lord Elmdaerle', however, since it is usually a title men assign to themselves, and people would think I've gone senile. Which I have––but that's not the point. Master Elmdaerle will do, if that can be allowed, considering how little I am the master of."

He smiled kindly at the swordsman. "As for the rest, you will not need to give me your word on it, Master Balthazar. One can see immediately that you have the size to hold your own, and––given the state of the world today––I can't imagine you made the journey west without a problem. They say there are dark elves in the eastern mountains, you know; and that the rest of the elves are in league with those. I don't know that I believe it, entirely––but if your people in Ordulin thought it true enough to warrant a 'dispersion' of elves from Sembia, perhaps there is some truth there. Perhaps we can speak of these things later, however.

"In the mean time, why don't you gather your things up! I don't suppose they're any danger, staying here, since nobody but Master Arliss considers the Skull a place for mercenaries––I chose it for that reason, more than anything else––but the sight of a sword, and especially a pretty one like that, might help to lend this meeting a little added...gravity."

Taz nodded his head vigorously and smiled happily. "Thank you, Master Elmdaerle," he gushed. "You'll not ever regret taking me on."

With that, the young man gathered up his belongings and strode over to the corner table, where he stashed his gear in an out-of-the-way corner. The Guildmaster followed more slowly, wearing a bemused smile that did not quite touch his thoughtful blue eyes.

* * * *

Moving quickly now––as much from the biting cold as anything else––Johan slipped down the side-street, occasionally using his staff to sound out the larger puddles (some of which were alarmingly deep). His long stride took him past the only well-lit shop he could see, which turned out to be another inn: The Wild Goose.

There were not so many people chatting gaily outside this one as at the last, but the ones that were looked entirely different. For one thing, they were dressed more strangely, with brightly-colored robes, deep hoods, and many bejeweled rings; one or two had tattoos of unbelievable complexity. A greying woman not far from Johan cradled a big domestic cat in her arms, stroking it absently while she whispered to a friend on the doorstep.

The cat stared at him as he neared. It occured to the monk that this was the first such animal he had seen since entering Arabel––which struck him as unusual, since cats were as common in Cormyrean communities as rats were rumored to be elsewhere. They were the good-luck symbols of the country, injured or despoiled only at one's own peril, and their sudden absence could only be explained by the bitterness of the weather. If this city were like any other in the kingdom, warmth and sunshine would bring them out to play; as it was, Johan suspected that more than a few families played winter hosts to the lovely creatures, as the brotherhood of his own monastery invariably did.

As he slowed to smile at the cat, a curious thing happened.

Johan noticed––or thought he noticed––a sudden blurring of movement at the corner of his right eye. Glancing over and upward, he saw that the signboard above the inn's doorway was swinging gently, and in large bold letters read: The World Serpent .

That was odd. Hadn't it just read something else, a moment ago?

It seemed ridiculous to wonder, since inn names came a thumb for twenty fingers, but the wind had died sufficiently that Johan doubted it was strong enough to move the sign. Plus, he possessed a pretty good memory for things like that, since many of his katas bore names like 'Rising In The West', or 'Lark Above The Wall', and learning poetic phrases had become practically second nature to him.

He was about to say something, but the door suddenly opened with a lurch; from it emerged a sober-looking man alone, dressed well but no older than himself. Johan was surprised to see that the fellow not only bore a haversack on his shoulder, but also a very large and healthy-looking crow, which took one look at the cat and burst out croaking:

"Wicked! Nasty, wicked thing!"

Slightly less astonishing than this outcry, which was pronounced in a nearly-incomprehensible, but nonetheless impressive imitation of Common, was the reaction––or more precisely, lack of reaction––on the part of the oddly-accoutered bystanders. Hardly a one so much as glanced over at the disagreeable bird, which continued hurling abuse in a distressingly loud and unctuous tone; the only exceptions to this were the owner, who looked understandably unhappy and defensive, and Johan, who was so surprised that he stopped in the middle of the street without realizing it.

The cat, for its part, hardly batted an eye.

"Off already, Ozander?" asked someone, made unrecognizable by an unnecessarily large hood, swaddling robes, and a voice hardly audible over the rackety raven. "Not feeling poorly again, I hope––night's just beginning."

"You've forgotten already, Corphos!" ribbed the saggy-jowled man who'd been listening to the cat-owner. He was obviously attentive, and spoke in a friendly, but cultured voice. "Oz is being loaned out by the Hall for the evening. Some business to do with whats-his-name, you know––the collector from Suzail. El-something. There, I've forgotten myself."

"Ohh, yes," laughed a scrawny woman in a rust-red cloak that neatly matched her hair, "off to see Elminster. Can't be seen hanging about with this sorry lot." She had an expensive accent, as well, though it was displaced enough by a high, nasally timbre to cut clearly through the bird's voice (which had finally begun to subside).

"I thought you'd left hours ago," said the saggy-jowled man to the young fellow, who was fussing with the fastenings of his cloak. "Going to be late, aren't you? Unless Professor Swanwing's asked you to stay, of course."

At this many of the people laughed; it was clearly an inside joke of some kind. A few puffs of pipe-smoke, rich and pleasant, curled up over the heads of the company.

Blinking his eyes in confusion and bemusement, Johan was led to wonder if the talk of the old women back home was really true after all. Perhaps city-folk were mad. Or at least strange. On the other hand, Johan had met some pretty borderline insane people back home as well, so perhaps it meant people were much the same all world over. Mind you, he'd be greatly surprised to meet anyone weirder than Uncle Mathew...

And now even tavern signs played with his mind. Either he was faint from hunger––possible, but still unlikely; he had fasted often enough during training with no ill effects––or there was magic in the air. Arcane magic.

Having grown under the watchful eye of a druid––his stepfather Michael––and then living for years in the monastery where several of the brothers enjoyed the grace of Lathander or Selune enough to be able to perform divine miracles, magic wasn't completely alien to the young monk. Indeed, even his own esoteric training promised him abilities that a commoner would label as magical (though Johan would be quick to point out the difference). But arcane magic, the power of a wizard, he had had little experience with––barring Uncle Mathew again. How many kids were given a zombie for a birthday present? I cried for hours after Mother made it clear in no uncertain terms what the old hermit could do with frightful things like that. He had thought the stumbling corpse had been rather neat.

Shaking his head to rid it of the image of her mother beating his uncle with her broom and yelling him to get rid of the 'gift', Johan turned his attention to the young man and his rude raven. Tame animals were another thing Johan was comfortable with. At least focusing on the raven and its owner was better than keeping an eye on the blasted sign!

Giving the young man a curious smile, Johan continued on his way, although slower. The people had been interesting enough that he wouldn't mind hearing a bit more of what was said, even though he felt a small guilty bang for eavesdropping. Although since they weren't attempting to keep their voices down and were on the street it might have made it all right. But it wouldn't be polite either way.

And besides, the man had looked pleasant enough. Perhaps, should he take the same way as Johan, he might strike a conversation with him. Ozander, hadn't the others called him? Johan was a social soul despite the solitude that his chosen profession often called for, and it appeared the people of the big city weren't quite as free with their tongues than the folk back home. But, come to think of it, they could be pretty reticient when confronted by a stranger too...

"Shush, you," Ozander said, giving a halfhearted swat at the loud-mouthed bird on his shoulder. The bird, in response, took off from his perch with a squawk and a flap of wings before setting down again. This time finding a grip on the haversack on the man's back, out of harm's way. Settling his feathers, the crow let out with one more outburst before falling silent.

"W-i-i-i-i-cked!"

Ozander turned his attention to the others standing in the street, and responded lightly. "It is no secret I'd stay as long as she asked me. At least, not to her it isn't." He raised his right hand and wiggled the fingers dramatically. "In any case, she quite abruptly decided that she'd had more than enough of my company and shooed me off." He shrugged. "Probably as well, since––as you pointed out––I'm easily on my way to being late."

Feeling the biting cold, Ozander took a moment to pull his cloak more tightly around himself. He had a good recollection of the path to his destination, but confirming details was in his nature. On a night such as this, and with a meeting of such import, he was hesitant that anything should be left to chance.

"The Smoky Skull…" He looked both ways down the cold street, and his eyes met with Johan's. He gave a quick nod of friendly acknowledgment before he turned back to the others, "Straight down and to the left. Do I remember correctly?"

Corphos shook his head. "No––more like straight down and dead center. I think."

So, the man is going in the same way I am , Johan mused, returning the nod warmly and clearing his throat. "As it happens, I'm heading that way myself––though I'm a stranger to this town. Perhaps we can make the trip together? Two sets of eyes––ah, allow me to correct myself ––three sets of eyes," Johan chuckled, as he glanced at the rude crow, "will find the place all the faster."

Waiting for Ozander to make his farewells to his friends, Johan began walking along the man and gave him a warm smile. "Johan Winterglade, a monk of the Sun Soul order, from Longford––at your service."

Still facing Corphos and his associates, Ozander heard Johan speak. Flashing a quick look of intrigue to his fellow arcanists, Ozander turned to examine the man addressing him. His initial suspicion––that this was some roustabout looking for an easy mark––was diminished when he more thoroughly appraised the man. Certainly he was dressed as a foreigner, and even then his clothing would suggest that he was a man of sacrifice. Definitely not your typical ruffian looking to make some coin with the quick stab of a knife.

Be that as it may, Ozander was still a cautious man and decided to test the monk's story. "Yes, yes, of course. Six eyes are better than two. Ozander Yisborne, and I'm pleased to meet you." Stepping inline with him in the street, Ozander spoke while walking slowly. "The Sun Soul Order, eh? I believe I've heard of it. Your reputation reaches even here, from your faraway community in Longford." Still walking slowly, Ozander waited for the man's reply. Ozander had in fact never heard of the Sun Soul Order, but knew there were no such monks in Longford.

Giving Ozander a puzzled smile, Johan decided not to question the man's words since he had no knowledge about that particular matter. "Really? That's news to me––but then again, what would I know of what's spoken of in a city like this? Usually we tend to keep to ourselves, but I guess someone did something important to become the talk of the city. So, what are they talking about us?" Johan asked innocently, apparently having accepted the claim as fact. After all, he had no reason to doubt Ozander and was trusting by nature.

"And might it be too much of a coincidence to believe you were looking for Elmdaerle the Naturalist as well?" Johan asked. Perhaps this meeting was fate after all, a nudge from Lathander to tell him something.

"You know of Elmdaerle? He's a fine man, you know." As has happened many times throughout this past day, Ozander found himself thinking back to the caravan journey that lead him away from home, and of Elmdaerle's kind words and friendship. "I owe him a debt to this day," Ozander added.

Satisfied to some extent that he was relatively safe in the company of this foreigner, Ozander offered a final wave to Corphos and the others and then turned his full attention to the street in front of him. "We should proceed with a reasonable amount of haste, I do not care to be too late." Ozander picked up his pace, watching to see if Johan would do the same. The sudden change in speed temporarily upset the raven perched on his pack, who responded with a flap of wings and a quick squawk before settling again.

Ozander didn't ask Johan's business with Elmdaerle, if the monk chose to speak of it, he would. In any case, Ozander had a feeling he would know soon enough.

"Agreed," Johan said and matched pace with Ozander, eager to seek the solace of a warm inn after several cold days in a row. "I think I haven't been warm since I left Thunderstone, and that was the better part of a tenday ago." But it had been good exercise, Johan had to admit. Though he had no wish to try it again in a hurry.

"And I don't know Elmdaerle all that well... It's my father who's close friends with him. I think I have met the man a few times when he came by to meet my father, but I was too young to remember much about it," Johan went on easily, trying to nudge Ozander into sharing something of himself by leading by example. "But father said the Hullack Forest was too restless for him to have made this trip, so I decided to take his place."

"Thunderstone, eh? I had not been aware that Elmdaerle made it out to those parts, but in review, I am not surprised." Thinking back to his own journey with Elmdaerle, Ozander wondered exactly how much travelling the man had done, and if he were still capable of doing so. "I wonder if he still travels as he once did."

Ozander glanced sideways at Johan and noticed for the first time that he had the chapped look of someone who had been bitterly cold for days. "Gods, man -- you look chilled to the bone. The inn shouldn't be much further, keep a look out for the sign if you can read."

“That I am and that I can,” Johan chuckled, giving Ozander a warm smile. “The senior monks back at the monastery often made fun of my inability to master my body enough to ignore the elements. You wouldn't believe just how many hours I have spent dancing the katas out in the cold to learn the trick. But I never did. Guess that proves I still have a long way to go, eh?” he chuckled.

Yes, life in the Dawn's Reach was good and interesting enough, but Johan was a man who greatly appreciated company, and no matter how pleasant the other monks were you could get enough of them. Particularly as the trails leading to and away from the monastery often crew impassable during winters and the monks were left with only each other for company until spring. On the other hand, the heavy snow also ensured the various beasts that inhabited the more distant valleys and caves also stayed away from the monks' paths.

The row they were on ended rather shabbily. They seemed to have come to an area of Arabel used mostly by the building trades: to the right sat a large hardware shop that looked more like a squat, outsplayed barn than anything else, and to their left was a fenced lumber yard and fuel supply. Everywhere about the street were strewn great drifts of sawdust, lumps of coal, and broken boards,and there were a number of impoverished, mist-blowing people in rags casting about in the lampless blue darkness for spare things to heat their meager homes with.

As the blight of the neighbourhood's inhabitants caught his eye, Johan's smile wilted slightly. A look of pure sympathy took its place as he watched the rag-clad men and women scavenge firewood. True, Johan himself owned nothing more than the clothes he wore and had made vows, holy vows sworn before Lathander's altar at Midsummer dawn, to never ask for or accept more, even if it was freely given. But these unfortunates were not poor by choice... and there was nothing Johan could do for them. At least, not yet. But perhaps some day.

A few yards ahead, there were two tiny ,two-wheeled wooden carts in the road. One was made for men to pull, and the other for a beast; but there was no sign of any animal large enough to do the job. Ozander's raven scrambled this way and that upon his shoulder, looking curiously around the intersection for more cats, and occasionally ruffing his feathers out for warmth. "Nasty place," it grumbled, giving its master a dirty look.

The wizard was inclined to agree. A pair of stinking men, shivering and clutching badly-split cedar boards, wer