3:48 An unexpected inheritance.

The sound of the hard working anvil and hammer sang throughout the shop and echoed down the bustling city street for another solid minute before its cause paused to cool the work in the water barrel.  About a minute later, there was another roaring of the furnace, then more banging.  When Stephen heard the silence after the second set of banging, he looked up to check his compatriot's work.  Noting the smithy's long gaze, Aleksei turned the developing blade in the daylight as though he himself needed more time to figure out his next move.

"I am thinking it needs maybe little more heating," he admitted with a strangely sheepish tone.

"Yup," the smithy agreed, catching the observant hazel eye just seconds before turning back to his workbench.

And on the other side of the anvil, the Dragonborn moved back to the forge, which began to growl and hiss as he pulled the cord that controlled the air supply.  Stephen, after briefly rotating his hammering wrist, put down the breastplate he had been working on and picked up one of the other two shields that had been returned to him earlier that morning, due to having been so badly dented.

"Anyway, we were all surprised," he continued.  "He'd never thrown a punch in his life, but there he went, off to the basics.  I was angry- thought my blind-proud father had sacrificed him because I couldn't leave the forge."

"But he is alive to return to you in the season that your other brother is becoming preacher," Aleksei answered as he tugged at the bellows' cord just once more before sticking the sword into the resultant blaze.  "Either he is not seeing battle, or indeed he is able to throw a punch."

"If it weren't for his commanding officer, none of us would've known either way," Stephen laughed as he spun his hammer in the palm of his hand before getting to work on the first dent.  "Now, understand that it's normal for all of Aaron's women to try to make him more social.  This one took him up when he was just a deck swabber.  At first, all she noticed was his talent, and she made him her 'tactical assistant,' or some such nonsense- probably some fool white beard agreed because he wanted her under male control.  Anyway, some years ago, he got some rank of his own, but now they've grown fond of each other.  Can't tell what he does for her, other than the obvious, but she makes him write to Ielena and I.  I can tell she means to stick around- and maybe she'll give me a nephew or niece, if she can go on tolerating that one-carriage road in his head."

"This is strange saying," Aleksei pronounced, turning the sword to have a look at his own progress.  "Why is everyone expecting him to make family when it seems he is not much wishing to do so?"

"He's got nothing against family, Al, that's not the problem.  Problem is- good instinct, man, go on and heat that steel again- problem is he sees a woman he likes, sets to her until he gets her, and then promptly moves on to some other matter as though she didn't exist.  A body used to have to remind him that Human women rather like to have attention paid to them every now and again- and that body was usually me."

"He is strange man," the Dragonborn said, turning quickly to put the blade back into the flame.  "Once some men are finding women, they are then needing reminder that other things also need attention."

"One carriage-way,"  Stephen laughed, striking the metal in front of him as he spoke.  "The man's goal oriented- to an absolute fault.  This woman- Taricia, her name is- is apparently the most demanding, vicious nag under the sun.  She managed to get Ronny to be only a few weeks late to write a congratulations to Leena on her first born by beginning to worry him about it four months before the baby was even born.  He came home to see Iona's bitch because she sent him home; wouldn't let him sail another inch with her until he'd seen what we all thought would be his future sister-in-law with his own two eyes.  I told him that sounded horrible, but he was grateful for it.  He thought the harpy was brilliant- and still does.  Nearly ten years now."

"Truly this Taricia is already wife to him," Aleksei laughed, pulling the sword out of the forge and readying the borrowed hammer.  "They are not needing any more ceremony.  They are one person."

Stephen moved an eye of appraisal over the shield before him, then turned around to notice the Dragonborn's work for a moment before returning to his own.  "You're good- I thought you said you were a goat herder.  In what field does a shepherd learn to work steel?"

"I also have a sister whose name is Yelena," Aleksei answered with a smile as he plunged the sword into the water barrel on his other side.  "It is maybe little different, the saying of her name, and I am calling her Yashka.  She is second-born of my mother's first mating, and that mate is coming from very different place, where dragons are being served as gods.  Already everyone is suspicious of my mother because she will worship none but Io, but then she is giving her mate Yelena.  Yelena is not able to speak, and does not hear well.  Her father is teaching her everything he knows of metalwork, because he is knowing that never will she mate, or even see battle, although she is very strong.  Many years after this, Yelena is teaching me what she can by what she does, because she is knowing that my father and brothers will not."

Stephen stopped pounding at the shield and turned over his shoulder to look at the Dragonborn.  "I don't see why she could never be married."

"It is strange to have problem speaking or hearing," Aleksei shrugged, moving to the grindstone with the sword.  "Yelena is suddenly having problem with both things at one time.  And so all of the clan is much fearing that either there is curse or sickness in her, and they do not wish her problems to go farther into the blood of the clan."

"Huh; something about that name, maybe," Stephen grunted, noticing the tinge of emotion in Aleksei's tone.  He got back to work, hammering at the dent nearly absentmindedly.  "My Ielena may as well be mute, for how much she ever spoke.  Somehow caught herself a man quiet as she, but nearly as big as me- Finn.  He's a logger.  They're out in the Tunlands, gods save them, with two children.  'Prattling boys,' she wrote me, although she probably means they say more than one word per day.  She's got a trade as well- tapestries.  Spends months on each one.  She sent us one when she heard I got the commissioning of the Dragons.  Radiant purple, with the family crest worked into the middle with grey, green, and black threading.  Perfectly done.  Not a single uneven stitch anywhere."

"That is all her words to you," Aleksei mused, putting the blade upon which he'd been working into the water barrel and looking over the crowded work table.  "It is as my mother is saying of her first daughter, that every piece she touches makes singing worthy to ring in the ears of the gods themselves."

"Suze said something like that," Stephen said again, pausing his motion to consider his work.  He shifted the shield a bit and began hammering again at another spot.  "Said that she'd have felt Leena's excitement and blessing upon us even though she'd not written a word to go with it.  When she held it, she cried, she was that moved.  I folded it up and put it at our family shrine, because I felt there must be something divine about it.  I don't know much about that sort of thing, but I watch Suze, and she notices stuff like that for me."

"It is because you also are one person with her," Aleksei nodded as he picked up a terribly bent sword.  "This one needs taking apart all the way and then bending back.  It's spine stretches up like a cat."

"What?" Stephen asked, looking up briefly before turning back to his workbench to finish up the last few strikes on the shield before him.  "Oh, I know that guy; chuck that in the dry barrel and make him a new one.  Inch point, double straight edge, no guard, full tang, and screw that pommel down very tight.  Don't waste too much time on it; that man's utterly inept, and will only ruin your work."

"Da, ser," the Dragonborn agreed, placing the sword that he held into the indicated barrel and moving toward Stephen's cache of steel ingots.  He considered each one closely, picking them up, turning them in the light, and even sniffing one of them before deciding upon it.  Stephen, who looked up only in time to see the chosen one get smelled, chuckled to himself and looked at the pieces left on the wooden table just in front of Aleksei.

"I swear, if I weren't commissioned- now, this piece with the sharpened bone- this one's yours, gotta be," he stated, crossing his arms.  "Commoners don't get pieces like that- what was your rank?"

Aleksei paused with the ingot in his right hand, and considered both it and the limb holding it with some distant emotion that Stephen found he couldn't quite name.

"Three hundred children of Arkhosia are at one time obeying my voice above all others they are hearing.  Is there a man or woman in Cormyr like this?"

"Almost," Stephen said as he truly looked at Aleksei's green scale patches.  "An ornrion- gender doesn't matter- commands about two hundred fifty.  That guttersnipe who had all the mouth for Lady Ranclyffe and my brother?  That's his rank."

"The ornrion of this Cormyr is then closest to the kapitan of Arkhosia," Aleksei sighed as he turned to find the tongs.  "My own sword is leaving me a few years ago, and I am taking this one because I am much missing her.  But I do not miss the war, or my rank, at all."

"I'd miss such a blade too, if I were you," Stephen insisted.  "On the other side of the- yup, you found 'em.  Your sister made this?"

"Nyet," Aleksei chuckled sadly, shaking his head.  "I carry nothing of my true family with me."

"Eh?  You're a shit liar," the smithy snorted, watching the ingot get fitted snugly into the tongs.  "Their blood is in your veins, their memory in your mind, and their love in your heart.  And mark; even if a body drained you dry and charmed you stupid, they couldn't take that last piece."

The Dragonborn nodded slowly, easing the ingot into the fire.  "Thank you, Tevya; you are waking me."

"You betcha."  Stephen, satisfied, looked back down at the table.  "Take care of it yourself, when you're done building that one."

"I am not having reason not to trust you," Aleksei replied simply as he tugged at the air supply cord.  "If she speaks to you, answer her."

The commissioned smith carefully took hold of the leather-wrapped hilt and tested the weight of the weapon just an inch above the table before truly removing it.  "Steel-work like I haven't seen, I'll tell you that much.  Different weight.  Wicked back edge, heavy curved point, entire piece curved in like a cutlass- is there a name for this style?"

"Kilij," Aleksei answered easily, even though his eye never left the reddening metal.  "There is none like it for your people?"

"Scimitars, maybe, but there's no back edge on those," Stephen mused quietly.  "What's the bone for, taking the tongues or eyes out after?"

Aleksei laughed, turning the left side of his face over his shoulder as though he could have seen Stephen with the eyeless socket there.  "It is not what it taking this one, but yes, it is seeing this use many times.  You are with this much sounding like someone who has seen some fight."

"Pfft, I don't know about that," Stephen answered, putting Aleksei's sword down and picking out a short sword whose tip had been bent.  "I certainly sent enough pieces of mine out to the front, but like I said before, I never went myself."

"Now it is you lying to me," Aleksei corrected, finally putting the metal into the fire to heat.  "Every time a piece of yours is drawing blood in the field, you also are there."

"Funny you say that," Stephen sighed as he considered simply making another short sword instead of trying to make the one he held usable again.  "Leena, Ronny, and Suze all said the exact same thing."

"Is it many times one must confess to your god in order to truly receive forgiveness?" Aleksei asked innocently, not pausing or turning around.

"Just once," Stephen shot back knowingly.  "But you know how it is, trying to actually accept it, eh?"

Aleksei only grunted in response, making a show of checking whether the metal he held in the tongs were hot enough to work with or not.

Stephen rolled his shoulders to get some weariness out of them, then decided to go ahead and straighten the sword.  "Anyway, about the rest of us.  Iona refused to join any of the Dragons, Purple, Blue or else, claiming that his place was with his monastery, and that the damnation of the gods would fall on us all if he left.  Our father couldn't give a rat's ass about the gods, but as of the age of fourteen, Iona was considered a man, and could do and say whatsoever he wished.  So no enlistment for him.  Adassa told Aaron that she wanted to on tour with him, because she was getting restless and annoyed at home- he left saying that he'd send her word back.  Now, this is how we all found out about Taricia, because on Ronny's description of her blade wielding ability alone, she pushed a drafting order up the ranks and recommended placement on some huge galleon, to protect the shipments and reinforcements, or whatever.  Well, my father sent the order back with a parental denial, which was his right, because Adassa was still his property."

"I am not understanding this," Aleksei interrupted, pulling the hot metal out in order to begin shaping.  "Why for boy it is age that makes him a man, when for girl it is marriage that makes her a woman?  Are there not old women who are still being girls because of this?"

Stephen stopped pushing at the sword long enough to tip his head sharply to the side with a shrug of admission.  "They're called 'aldermaidens,' yeah," he agreed.  "It's idiot, actually, but damned if there aren't hundreds of generations built on the idea of aldermaidens, and how terrible they are.  Pfft."

"Adessa is angry at your father's denial, yes?" Aleksei encouraged over the sound of hammering metal.

"Adassa, or 'Sassy Dassy'," Stephen corrected.  "And oh yes, she packed her things and left, just like Iona, only in the night, so she wouldn't get caught and dragged back home.  When I got what basically was her run away letter, I was blind angry again.  Mother wrote me that I had to come home, but I ignored her.  Anyway, Iordi wound up the only one left in the house.  The Dragons started sending drafting papers for him, and as I'm told, our father intended to send him as a swordsman, which would most assuredly have gotten him killed, so Mother said that she'd had a vision that he was going to be a priest of Lathander, or something.  The boy goes way up north- to Arabel, I think- joins up with the Order of the Bow, and the whole war goes by without him hearing a stray breath about it.  Now, I don't know what else our mother, or maybe Suze, did- but for some reason, about that same time, everybody decided that I was the patriarch of the family.  I had Saul and Sarai already, with Salone just born, but I'm still acting the idiot every night in the taverns with any lively woman that I want.  Well, suddenly, everything that ought to go to Papa Raibeart starts coming to me, and Suze said I had to start acting like it.  She said she'd leave me, and take my children with her, if I didn't.  Dry eyed too, like she was of a mind to pack her things that very night."

"That is serious threat," Aleksei interjected, pausing his work and watching the sword tip finally pull straight again in his Human companion's grip.  "If women in this place are not being women without having husbands, she is not having safe place to go without you."

"Exactly, and that's what scared me," Stephen replied, unconcernedly tossing the semi-repaired sword into a barrel of rejected weapons.  "The thought of her swabbing tavern tables, or begging, or whoring out in the streets, with my children?  Better to me than the threat of death itself.  I cleaned up.  Terrifying stuff, at first.  Sick every day, trembled like I had plague- but after about a month, I strengthened back up.  The Dragons suddenly dropped the commission in my lap, and I started making gold like I've never dreamed of.  And I started getting really used to being Papa Raibeart.  I'm a father, right?  And I've got this wife, and these kids who love me, instead of fear me.  Felt pretty damned good.  So Leena's in the mountains, Ronny's on the sea, Iordi's in the wood, and Iona's actually a traveling preacher with his fellow monks.  Half year ago, I get this letter from him that he'd seen a suspiciously familiar woman come in answer to a desperate call for help from a town that his brothers had decided to aid after most of it had been burned, salted, and looted.  This creature's a monster, he says.  Half shaven head.  Tattoos everywhere.  Drinks, belches, curses, and fights like an old pirate.  Commands this horrifying two-handed, double edged sword with a pommel in the shape of a skull.  The men of the town- them what she isn't dragging off to fuck, anyway- run from her shadow.  I read this to Suze, and we're both crying with laughter.  We take everything with a pinch of salt, mind you, because Iona thinks every woman should be in her husband's house, absolutely silent, with maybe eight children, a prayer book, and a modesty veil.  He thinks Leena's wicked for having a trade of her own, and that Suze talks and leaves the house too much."

"But is not your Yelena in her house making tapestries, and is not Susanna refusing to have trade?" Aleksei asked, confused.  "It is very good for him that he is not having wife.  He is maybe expecting too many strange things of women."

"None of us are good husband material, honestly," Stephen admitted as he considered the table of damaged pieces again.  "But Iordi's different- he's never taken up with a woman at all.  We're wondering if he prefers men."

Aleksei tried not to laugh, but failed.  "I do not much think this.  In very short time after he is meeting Rasha, he is thinking she is very pretty, even though he is not feeling well."

"As I hear it, your Silveredge is practically a witch, grabbing the fancy of any man she likes," Stephen shrugged, picking out a helmet that had been nearly crushed in.  "How is the man who wore this even still alive?  Bent like this, there should be blood on the inside of it, but no.  Probably got smashed during some training exercise, or just stepped on by some horse."

"This saying about Rasha is not true," Aleksei disagreed.  "Many times she is also having the fancy from men she does not like."

Stephen took his turn at attempting not to laugh at the way Aleksei had worded his rebuttal, but failed just as miserably as the Dragonborn had.  He chucked the helmet into the bucket along with the sword and the other assorted woe-be-gone pieces and mulled over the contents of the table between himself and the Dragonborn again.

"Anyway, I wrote Iona back, told him Adassa had left home years ago, so one fine night he stops this beast of a woman just as she's leaving the pub.  And to his utter mortification, it's her.  Little 'Sassy Dassy,' who ran out of the house in her night dress with one of my swords, her stuffed bear, and her sewing things, found some hellion mercenary crew and grew up to be a beer-swilling, blood-loving, blade-toting killer-for-hire.  Gets paid well, too; she dropped something to the tune of 100 lions out of her own purse, to get the monastery back to business.  Misses us, and intends to visit, Iona wrote.  Still loves us all well enough.  Just loves her freedom more."

"But she must be careful, because still she is not having husband," Aleksei grunted as he pushed the metal bar back into the fire to heat.  "Your father is losing all his children while they live, and this is very sad for him.  It is terrible thing to lose all the whole clan, only from not wishing to see what it is that it is."

"Mother seems to suspect that he's been going quietly mad since he came back from the war the second time," Stephen said.  He decided on a dirk that had somehow lost its pommel, and turned toward the barrel of ruined weapons to see if he had one that could easily become a substitute.  "I think she's right, but the others weren't old enough to remember.  He was a different man, an entirely different man, and for a while, I- well.  What about you- you have a woman, or children somewhere, Al?"

"Nyet," the Dragonborn answered simply.

The fact that there was a simple denial, without any explanation, made Stephen pause, but not for long.

"One day, big guy," the armorer said confidently, finally fishing out a broken dagger whose pommel was still tacked on tightly.  "Maybe you'll find a warrior woman- some huge, buxom, hearty bitch that can take it tough as you probably give it.  Give you another generation of kids that ain't made for shepherding."

Aleksei hummed thoughtfully, looking into the fire at the reddening metal.

"I do not know this, Tevya.  But if the gods will do this, then I will be content with it."

3:47 Recall of shipped goods.

"...and on top of it, he attached the full value of escaped taxes, with annotation," the Halfling finished quietly, looking up as she shuffled through the pages in her arms.  "The one for Illance is here, but... it's altered, because... you know."

Pohatkon, who had his back to the messenger that most in the fort-castle considered his personal paper carrier, scrubbed at the floor of the rat cage for a full two minutes in silence before saying anything.  The silence that he left was strange- no flies buzzed, no small animals screeched for food or attention, and no prisoners groaned in agony.  There was nothing but the hiss and scrape of hard bristles on the metal floor of the small cage, and the sound of the Halfling's blood in her own ears as she waited for a reply.

"Strange," the high captain finally mused in a distant tone. "Nothing wrong with that building before.  Couple of clerics stopped by, I hear, and one bone rattler... sorry, what is the value of those taxes?"

"Fifteen thousand, seven hundred, fourty two fivestars," Gwen managed slowly. "Enough to buy and sell the whole of the dark quarter."

"Yet I have to ask permission to do anything about it," Pohatkon snorted, turning over his shoulder to look at the young female behind him.  "Like I'm a hound he's training to heel."

The girl blinked- the response was completely opposite of what she'd expected.  "Should I leave it, or..."

"Read it again?" Pohatkon sighed, tossing the brush into the filthy water bucket.

Gwen didn't pause, even though it was rare for her to have to read a document all the way through one time, let alone twice.  " 'It is hereby resolved that the High Captain shall have to render report unto the Council before lodging charges or ordering arrests against the nobil-' "

"Bert's beard," the Human male interrupted suddenly, getting up and shaking the dirty water that was still on his hands into the bucket.  He moved toward his desk so that he could lean on the front of it, looking at them.  "Yes, leave it."

"I can take dictation," the Halfling offered in a very small voice.

"I know, Gwen," came the reply, as gentle as a good father's might be.  "Leave it; I'll take care of it.  Another?"

"Well, these are the arrest records for the Eastern Quarter Integration infractions," Gwen muttered, reading through the beginning of the text briefly.  "Oh- Lady Mimsa's taken occasion with this one.  She says-"

And at that moment, Gimago, who'd sustained three serious mage burns two weeks before, gingerly turned the corner into the room.  His right eye was swollen, he sported a crutch under his left arm, and there was a lump just above his right hip where the wide swatch of bandaging cloth had to rest.  Gwen, who spotted him first, made a face immediately.  Pohatkon looked up from the patch of the floor upon which he had been resting his eyes to notice the wordless contention between the two.

"Why wait for me?" he joked bitterly.  "Take him to task like an honest woman, hobbling around like that.  Won't heal properly, you know, if he keeps moving."

The words that the Halfling refused to let tumble out of her mouth stung the tip of her tongue, and although they went unspoken, Gimago seemed to wince at them anyway.  As he walked away from his desk, Pohatkon allowed himself to remember the first time his wife had to stare at him with such quiet frustration.  Knowing that some business was at hand, however, he moved back past the nasty bucket to the central chair whose barbed straps stood empty.  As blissfully unconcerned as if the thing had been a cushy throne, Pohatkon sat in it and leaned an elbow on one of the clean, but still bloodstained arm rests.

"Can't have come down here just to look sheepish in front of your dear heart," he urged.

Gimago blushed furiously, and stammered his message out.  "There... um... Master Ranclyffe, she- said there was... tampering?  That someone was... messing with the arsonist.  From somewhere.  Maybe mind control.  A bit more time?  Please?"

"Of course," Pohatkon replied, flapping the hand that had been under his chin at the young male Human.  "Go on back up and tell her she's got twenty four hours."

Gimago nodded vigorously and limped his way back around the corner.

"Remind me to ask the Council for three more days on that prisoner," Pohatkon suggested quietly as he and Gwen listened to the tap of his crutch on the stone.  "And he ought to have given you a peck before he was off, I think."

"We aren't... we... we wait 'til night," Gwen guiltily admitted.  "Because of work- he doesn't want either of us put out; we haven't enough money saved.  I... I wasn't 'sposed to tell."

"Well, you didn't.  But you have my word, Gwenydd, I will not put you out until you want to go, and if he's worried about Mimsa, I'm certain Master Ranclyffe will stand in the way of her, solid as a stone wall," Pohatkon replied seriously, getting up from the chair to consider the chain just to the Halfling's right.  "Four years as an wizard's apprentice, and all of a sudden he doesn't know what to do with simple mageflame?  Crone didn't believe a word out of that prancing fool's mouth.  And I certainly won't run to her to tell tales."

To enforce his point, Pohatkon put crossed finger over his lips and covered one eye with his other hand, the way his children would do for each other when promising that they wouldn't tell their tutor something.  Gwen recognized the sign for what it was, and smiled gratefully, giving it back to him.  Pohatkon nodded, and the Halfling female looked back down at her paper stack.

"Anyway, the request for arrest- Lady Mimsa says that her uncle has the right to refuse whatsoever apprentice he so desires, and that the boy in question-"

"Scrawl, right?" Pohatkon suddenly interjected.

"Yes," Gwen replied, slightly surprised.  "He's nearly too old for apprenticing, so Fae tried to place him first.  That's why she reported Lady Mimsa's uncle like she wasn't on the Council at all."

"Faera," the High Captain sighed.  "Everybody's got to get used to calling her Lady Faera.  People won't mean any malice, but they'll still think she's some kind of cast off.  Just... leave that one on my desk as well; I'm going to have to talk to Master Ranclyffe about it."

"Looks like she thought you might say that," the Halfing noted, speedily reading through a bit of paper that had been attached to the original document by a wax seal.  "She attached a note-"

"To save him the trip back," the high captain said, nearly to himself, as he pulled some stray brown hairs out of his face.  "Go ahead."

"Um...'There is no precedent for the arrest, accusation, or prosecution of seated Merchant Council members; therefore I recommend the-'... oh.  I... she said you're going to have to make something up," the slight girl said wonderingly as she read.  "She put it differently, at first, but then she actually wrote, '...make something up,' right here.  '...as per your right and duty as the first High Captain set in place by the will of the governed population.' "

Pohatkon chuckled bitterly.  "By the will of a bunch of freshly attacked Eastern Quarter residents, she means- but I'll take great pleasure in 'making something up,' see how the stonemuncher takes to me actually acting in accordance with the power I'm supposed to have.  Ask me, we ought to start with a no-confidence vote against the Mage Quarter seat.  Guaranteed the Witchrunners want her out, always treating them the way she does."

"But then what?" Gwen countered immediately.  "The only people more qualified than Lady Mimsa, Gimago says, are Master Ranclyffe, Master Semnemac, and Master Aric.  Master Ranclyffe wants nothing to do with the throne because she's... he's not sure... getting old, or sick, or something.  She doesn't say anything, but sometimes he says it seems as though she were getting two or three years older every day.  Master Semnemac is... um... not quite sane.  So it would have to be Master Aric-"

"But no one in the Elven or Temple Quarters will let it stand because he used to be a warlock- and he's right, too," the Human breathed shaking his head.  "Nevermind that the old man's been docile for longer than either of you have been alive.  It's ridiculous.  For fear of a docile warlock, they let a petty, useless yew branch witch work on her sewing sampler at her throne- gods!" Pohatkon consciously uncurled his fists and shook his hands in front of him as though he were shooing away a stray animal.  "Nevermind me.  Another."

"What if- what if they let Brother Svaentok be in charge of the Mage's Quarter?" Gwen dared very quietly.

Pohatkon looked at the Halfling female with surprise first, then some strange sort of wistfulness.  "Oh, little girl," he breathed after nearly a half minute of silence.  "The fear and hate you'd see for that monk in one hour here would spin your head like a top."

"Oh," the Halfling said, biting her lips and wishing she hadn't said anything.

"Maybe one day," the High Captain ventured, trying to be encouraging, even though he shivered with revulsion at the thought.  "Maybe your children, yours and Gimago's, they'll live long enough and peacefully enough to see fit to put one like him on that throne."

Gwen allowed a hopeful smirk to appear.  "I want that," she confessed.  "I want them to play with his grandkids, and your grandkids, and Master Ranclyffe's grandkids, and Dale and any of her children too, and I want them to be good, and happy, and not mean to each other, ever."

Pohatkon nodded slowly, thinking about how much easier the transition to the Dark Quarter had been for his children than for his wife, even though Luvec's wife, born and raised in that quarter of Urmlaspyr, was her good friend.

Yrel-Ades had no less Shadovar blood on his glaive than I had on my arrow heads when he burst into this place, yet still, I... well.  I am no better.  No better than any of these fools, at all.  Gods forgive me, I could not see him here, for I myself still fear the Shade in him.

Gwen, a bit puzzled at his thoughtful silence, turned her eyes back down to his papers.  "This is a letter from... um... 'the honor-knighted and thrice war-decorated Oversword Julian Garimond, of Suzail, in the name of King Foril the First, of Cormyr'."

"Laid it heavily," Pohatkon mused, his tone still weighted by his unspoken thoughts.  "Give it to me word for word, Gwen."

" 'To the High Captain Pohatkon Sakoda, I, ever-servant of the Cormyrean crown, do render the respect of a comrade-at-arms.  May the mighty hand of Pelor shield and guide you as you continue to press forward toward the Peace that was forged with your army, for your common people.  I do bring you report concerning two of the four foreigners who were passed on to Cormyrean soil, and request your most speedy Judgement in the cases of the other two.

I am well-pleased to at last inform you that Bahlzair Xuntrin, who is in my custody here, is in fact your original, if not only, Rooftop Reaver.  He had been so bold as to strike down a ranking Purple Dragon officer in full view of a reliable witness, putting himself into the path of Cormyrean judgement.  He is something Proud, as may be expected from one of his Race, and seems Happy to be punished not only for Crimes that he did commit, but also for a few that he did not.  As his sentence here would be Death by hanging, I had wanted to ask your Judgement of you, as he is also wanted by your people for similar actions.  He eschewed your laws prior to his arrival here, and I would be remiss in processing the final resolution of his Existence without at least considering whether or not you would like to assess some sort of restitution for the multitude of widows, widowers, and orphans he has left you in his wake.

Ser Aleksei Voyonov has been tried again and again by the retired Battlemage Ranclyffe, who claims to have gotten little farther with the matter than your Master Ranclyffe.  As last he told me, he apologizes to ask for a bit more time.  His wife has sustained some sort of semi-permanent physical damage, and he is not only a teacher for the College of War Wizards here, but also the master for an apprentice, both responsibilities that make great demands of his time.  I told him the charges against the creature were suspended at first, and now completely dropped by your orders, but being the methodical sort that he is, he has requested that your Will be put onto paper and sent him.

The gravest matter was not he, strangely, but the Tiefling who willingly came with him.  This Mi'ishaen Lucien-Azaroth has been charged with the facilitation the Murder of the Roadcaptain Shesua as well as collusion with Thultanthar through Sembia, and will go to trial for those charges by the end of next week.  There is evidence and testimony that indicates her Intention to sell both Ser Voyonov and Mistress Jyklihaimra Ceubel-pas-Naja to the aforementioned Powers.  I am aware that she did come into your custody prior to my own, and so I felt I must ask you what charges she had there, and how they were dispelled, if it is indeed that they were.  If they are serious, I shall delay our Judgement until such time as your own as been enacted upon her; she shall in no wise escape any form of punishment due her, as her Crimes are Grievous.

Mistress Ceubel-Naja has, for her gracious compliance under multiple forms of duress, been acquitted of any accidental or purposeful involvement with the schemes of the Tiefling, especially in light of the pending charges of Slavery that are still in process against the latter.  She would not lodge them herself, claiming that Mistress Lucien-Azaroth has a great distaste for Slavery (a claim that Ser Voyonov upheld), but upon that woman's own testimony, I lodged the charges on behalf of the sovereign state of Cormyr.  Any information that you might be able to render on this point would be much appreciated.

Now, the good Fortune of Tymora rest upon you, and the sharp Wisdom of Pelor guide you into all success.  I envy you not the task set before you in the shape of the reformation and reintegration of the Eastern Quarter, which- as I have heard from the Roadcaptain MacSairlen in his reports- has been lined with pitfalls and setbacks.  As I understand it, I may claim a few years on your experience, and many of my compatriots and I have had to deal with the reconstruction of Semmite-held lands; do not hesitate to call upon us for any assistance you may need.  Much Blood has been shed to buy your freedom, and we would not have such Precious Tender made void.  Were there nothing else to be done, I would ride out to you myself, with a clutch of trustworthy men, and make use of my own sword arm, that you and yours may remain at a long-awaited and much-needed restful Peace.

Your devoted compatriot, ever loyal to the Crown of Cormyr and the Right of Rule thereby bestowed upon your own Sovereign Merchant Council,

Oversword Julian Garamond.'

What does he mean, 'thereby bestowed,' like if the Council wouldn't be any good without his king's permission?"

"That's exactly what he means," the High Captain snorted, turning his head and resting his chin on his fist.  "But don't take offence; he's not too far from right.  It's the fear of Cormite armed might that keeps Semmites from outright trying to reclaim us- although it doesn't stop them from trying to hollow us out as though they were termites in a tree."

Gwen made a face, but remained carefully silent as Pohatkon thought.  Slowly, the brown haired Human got up from the chair and strode over to his desk, where an ornate, tightly sealed reagent jar held two coppery eyes.  He stood contemplating the eyes for a few moments before picking up the jar- delicately, as though it held some precious breakable thing, instead of two fleshy orbs out of someone's face.

"Esteem, and honor, and loyalty," the brown-haired Human began as he turned and held the jar up to the light of the extra torches that he'd brought into the chamber. 

Without a word, Gwen scrambled to his desk, rustling through the drawers that were all just as familiar to her as though they had been her own. 

"As though he could spare any of those lofty feelings and ideals for former Semmites.  We're all filthy rats to them, and they think of those in Daerlun no more highly.  Well, the honorable gent must have more time on his hands than I, since he's got time and opportunity to request additional confirmation for judgements I sent weeks ago.  If Bahlzair's the Reaver, I want him back- with about twenty guards, seeing as transporting that completely docile Dragonborn caused the death of about half that many.  And as for that raw handbag, as far as I am concerned, he's free.  In fact, since Master Ranclyffe finally cleared those records that the ladies reclaimed from the Stingers of whatever pestilence she suspected, I'd be happy to have Voyonov back on duty.  In the Eastern Quarter, where he was beloved and fit right in, illness and all.  What he's got to say about Mi'ishaen and Silveredge is just about lunacy, as when they were here, I am told they were openly amorous- that was part of what Nithraz locked the poor witch up for in the first place.  Between the public indecency of swimming naked with her obvious paramour, and repeatedly ignoring the strap law for that huge puppy of hers- clearly there's a casual disrespect for authority in both of them that Madam Horns only occasionally sharpens into an aggressive rebellion, and may Lord Wisdom pardon me, but I can hardly imagine her marshaling contacts and sales with Semmites or Shade people.  She detests slavery, and lets anyone who asks her know it.  If she's suddenly changing her tune, I wonder if she isn't just making idiots out of him and all his company, as she so loves to try to do with any-"

"Sakoda, did you get the- oh, Pelor grace you, Gwen," Luvec panted as he burst into the room.  "Looks like you're just about done with- Sakoda.  She said everything.  What are- are those- ?"

"Yes," Pohatkon answered, still focused on the copper-colored eyes trapped in the jar.  "I find them more enchanting outside her body, actually.  I should ask Semnemac; they're probably good for a potion or something, but-"

"That is disgusting, Sakoda," Luvec sighed.  "What about eyes torn out of a woman's face doesn't strike you as absolutely disgusting?"

The High Captain turned to face his second in command with a weak, tired smirk.  "Oh, come now; Ntoru wasn't that wicked.  Beauty is beauty, and here it is.  Besides, Ranclyffe knows I'm only going to start again fresh, cultivate the same sort of atmosphere, once given a few weeks.  I live down the street from a tavern in which I'm certain I could collect enough vomit right this mi- Gwen, have you been taking dictation?"

" 'Sir-

The grace of Pelor be with you,' " Gwen began immediately, not looking up from her work.  " 'I pray you pardon my brevity; I wish only to give you all needful information in the most expedient amount of time, as your people, as do mine, must sorely cry for justice.

I do request that the Rooftop Reaver be returned to Urmlaspyr, and would have him accompanied by no fewer than twenty of your best appointed guards.  Shed a bit of blood for the sake of your people, if you must, but it is here that he will die, and I will take any contrary decision from your hands as a declaration of hostility against the sovereign state of Urmlaspyr.

That self same state has formally dropped all charges of insubordination, dereliction of duty, abandonment of duty, assault, public indecency, intent to participate in prostitution, and murder held by her against Ser Stonecrusher Aleksei Petrovich Voyonov.  It is my personal opinion and official statement that whatever illness has beset him should be properly ministered to, and that he should not be held for any other purpose but that.  If at any time you should wish to be rid of him, you may safely point him in the direction of Urmlaspyr.

I cannot support the charges that you place to Mistress Lucien-Azaroth's account.  She has at no time in this land ever been convicted for owning Mistress Ceubel-Naja as a slave, although she has on two occasions been questioned for it.  At both times, she registered an absolute distaste for the practice; however, she is enamored of playing rather malicious pranks on any sort of authority that she may find.  While the soul is rare that would try at such games when his or her life is at stake, any news that Mistress Azaroth would, when compared to her other actions here, be nothing short of credible fact.  Be cautious, or you will play her game to the embarrassment of your judicial system.  Make use of your divination wizards, if any can be spared for the purpose, for I guarantee you there is little more in her mind than the bitter jibes and jests for which she is now here known.  Her paramour, Mistress Ceubel-Naja, is likewise resistant toward laws and authorities, although in a much calmer, more rational fashion.  You will be hard pressed to find any way of cajoling from her any word or deed outside that which she had already intended to give you.

Again I crave Pelor's wisdom for you, and your patience for me.

I, High Captain Pohatkon Sakoda, write to you in the worthy names of the ruling Merchant Council members of the independent and sovereign state of Urmlaspyr, long may they live.  Gods be with you, and your king.'  How's that?"

"You say 'gods be with you and your king' as though there were something wrong with them," Luvec noted quizzically.

"She's not too far from right- in that or any part of the missive," Pohatkon replied with a less weary smile, putting the disembodied copper eyes down at last.   "But your pen doesn't do me justice, Gwen; no one will believe I wrote that.  Peel the gold leaf back off the words; give them to him as brutally as possible."