4:18 The Great Wash.

Beyond the stone three-quarter wall that separated the forge in the Suzail Raibeart manse from its back yard, Silveredge knelt behind two small wooden buckets while Sarai and Salone sat on short stools behind two large metal basins.  It was hard to hear anything over the whoosh of bellows and the pounding of metal, but some how or another, Sarai had managed to strike up a conversation, as was her custom.

"...then you take the clothes out of the lye and rinse them, which is what we're doing now," she explained matter-of-factly, shoving the tunic that technically belonged to both of her brothers into the water with just a bit more exuberance than was really necessary.  Salone patiently leaned slightly to her right to avoid the resulting splash.  "When we're done with this part, we're going to hang them all up on the line over there behind us, and then we take them down tomorrow.  Me and Salone, anyway.  Mama usually does all of this with us, but she's trying to get Uncle Iona an appointment with a better healer.  Not saying that Urmlaspyr healers aren't good, it's just the ones here are probably better."

"My mother also did her own washing," Silveredge noted, moving Mi'ishaen's battered cotton dress from the urine-filled bucket to the basin of fresh water.  "In fact, she, her good friend, my elder sisters, and I all washed together, even though she and my grandmother had help enough to never have to touch any of the menial chores."

"We've never had 'help'," Sarai said, scandalized.  "Poor people try to be hired on, or to get their children apprenticed to Papa, but Saul's already Papa's apprentice, and Mama doesn't hire outsiders."

"Ser Aleksei is doing repairs for Papa.  Miss Silveredge does housework, when she's not working, and Mi'ishaen is making tea satchels for Mama," Salone objected.  She picked up the trousers with which she was working, discovered that they had a hole in them, and tied a piece of ribbon to them to remind whoever would touch them next to mend them.  "They're not family and they weren't hired, but they're still helping."

"That's not 'help', Lona," Sarai said in her best parenting voice.  She pulled another skirt out of the lye basin and sloshed it into the rinsing basin, causing Salone to pull back again.  "The 'help' we mean are hired workers, or servants, or slaves.  And Mi'ishaen is a Tiefling.  It's not her fault that she is, and it's highly commendable that she knows how to make tea for Humans, but it might not be safe."

Salone sighed in a way that couldn't be mistaken for anything but disappointment.  "You're right," she said, allowing her hands to sit in the rinsing basin for a moment.

Sarai nodded and turned back to the lye basin.  "I know, and-"

"Uncle Iona feels that way," Salone continued, as though Sarai hadn't begun to speak again.  "Uncle Iordi too, and I don't know why.  You're right; I shouldn't tell anyone what she does."

"My first beloved distrusts any gentle words for your uncles, even if the words are mine," Silveredge noted quietly, her own eyes pinned just as firmly to her own pair of buckets.  "Their distaste for her infuriates a wound already very deeply struck within her spirit.  But, it is hard to change old beliefs and fears.  Sometimes those closest to us surprise us."

Sarai looked from one to the other, planted on either side of her, astonished and embarrassed.  For a few moments, the Shadar-kai and the younger Human girl rinsed clothes in silence.  A few questioning barks came from the living area that was set at street level, barely audible above the roar of the forge, the pounding of metal, and the rushing of water.

Here I am, little brother, Silveredge thought.

The elder Human girl took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry I implied that you and Ser Aleksei were outsiders, and that Miss Mi'ishaen might be dangerous," Sarai said.  "If Mama and Papa trust them, then they're to be trusted."

"I forgive your words, and thank your intentions," Silveredge soothed as she moved her tunic from the urine bucket to the rinsing bucket.  "Surely your love and concern for your mother are great.  Just as a warrior trains against one who is stronger than he, so that his warcraft is forced to improve, so our minds must train against those whose backgrounds, opinions, and beliefs differ, so that our minds are forced to grow in knowledge and understanding.  May you find greater challenges to your mind and soul than Aleksei, Mi'ishaen, or I can present you."


The barks grew louder as they came closer, mingled with shouts and laughter.

"Wait, wait!  Niku, wait!  They'll have you in a pen, if you don't wait for me!"

But the girl's hollers were to no avail, and Niku barrelled into the back yard, heading straight for Silveredge.  Fortunately, Aleksei and Stephen simply laughed at the dog's excitement.

"Don't worry, Dellie," Stephen joked as the little girl hustled down the steps as quickly as her petticoat and lovely dress would allow.  He stood up and put the dull knife with which he'd been working a taut skin on the work table in front of him.  "We know Niku wasn't trained like Valeria, who'll sit down at anyone's command.  Takes a certain lady to tell him what to do, and she's out washing.  Come past me and turn sharp right- I know it sounds strange, but you're underneath the shrine room and the bedrooms.  Come past me so that you're back on the street, then go as though you're returning to the front door.  Pass it, and you'll see that you're starting to go down a slight hill.  And you'll find Miss Silveredge and Niku."

"Thank you, Ser Raibeart," Amadelle said, dropping a neat curtsey.  "Mama and Papa say hello and that they hope Lady Raibeart is keeping well with the new baby."

"She hasn't borne him yet," Stephen replied, "but thank you- and your parents."

"Lady Raibeart told me to tell you, 'cause Mama hasn't had time to send a proper letter as yet," Amadelle noted.  "She's writing it right now, but Niku wanted to play with Miss Silveredge, and so he just got up and left, and I had to follow him right away, 'cause he left without any strap or anything.  I was in the middle of stitching; Mama was so mad.  I tried to ask him to wait, but stitching takes me a long time, and Niku doesn't sit like Krumiri used to.  He doesn't even listen to Papa."

Stephen pressed his lips between his teeth to prevent himself from laughing aloud, and nodded.  He took his knife back up and turned himself back to the half-worked hide.

"Niku is still puppy, and is not having much patience," Aleksei explained as seriously as he could while he inspected a badly dented breastplate.  "When he is on long hunt, and must be still to track prey, also he will learn to be still for stitching."

A strained sound pushed its way out of Stephen, who immediately afterward squeezed his eyes shut and waved his free hand above his head for a moment, to indicate that he was fine.

"Thank you, Ser Alexis," Amadelle said politely, giving the same curtsey.  "Mama didn't say anything for you; she maybe doesn't think you're still here.  I'll tell her again."

"It is my privilege to speak with you," Aleksei smiled, lifting his gaze from the breastplate and bowing his head slightly.  "Many times Ser Stephen is calling me Alex; you also can call me this.  Please to thank your mother for teaching such a polite and considerate daughter.  Perhaps you are going around Ser Raibeart to look for Niku?"

"Yes!  Bye!" Amadelle enthused, hustling past Stephen nearly as quickly as Niku had gone some minutes before.

"A dog who'll sit through a stitching lesson?" Stephen finally managed when he was sure the child was out of earshot.  "Y'know, this is why people claimed you were mad, when you got here."

Aleksei shrugged, and turned the breastplate upside down to look at it from that angle.  "I do not much mind this claiming; perhaps these people are right.  I am thinking this will not again be good breastplate, but perhaps it can be good shield for young person, if I am finishing the shape it wants to have now."

Stephen looked up at the breastplate and scowled.  "Whose is that?" he demanded at once.  "Did I make that?"

"There is painting inside it here, but the kiss-print of the weapon is making it more difficult than normal.  I am thinking this glyph is 'H'," Aleksei answered.  "But sometimes I am thinking that 'B' or 'K' also is 'H'.  This is often frustrating Sylvester so that he must go away from me for a time."

"Sly's temper is my doing," Stephen scoffed.  "That boy has more of my spirit in him than any of us imagined.  But that way of getting himself away from what's making him angry is at Lona's request.  She's younger than he is, but she has his heart in her hand.  I used to think it was a problem, but... wait, what the... no, that's an 'H' alright.  I think 'Ha', but maybe 'o', and who knows what that used to be- 'L' or 'F', maybe.  These are a 'K' and an 'E'.  Anyway, it's not local work.  It's foreign, or apprentice-made; lay it aside and I'll ask the poor bloke that brought it what it's worth to him.  I know back home, you'd make it something else and then trade within yourselves to get the man a proper breastplate in return, but Suzail folk don't think like that.  Hells, Humans don't think like that, full stop; there's no such thing as communal ownership."

"Then is it that only one person is owning the well from which water is drawn?" Aleksei asked as he ambled over to the repair table to select another damaged piece.

"It belongs to whose ever land it's on.  We draw from the one that belongs to the city when we have to, but it belongs to the city, and we have to pay for it," answered Stephen.  He put the offending breastplate down and returned to working with the hide.  "Now, you might melt that horror down and re-make it, if the man's willing to pay for that.  Don't cheat yourself for the time, if that's the route he takes.  Or, you can just smith and sell him a new breastplate, which would probably be better for him in the long run.  If you don't know how to make an 'A' or a 'V' yet, now would be a good time to learn, so you can at least leave an intelligible mark in your own original work.  Whose ever work that wreck is, it's shit; you couldn't pay a rogue to steal that off you."


Out in the yard, Amadelle had traded her beautiful dress for a dirty bedsheet tied firmly under her armpits.   The dress lay folded atop Niku's back, and the young girl was helping Silveredge to rinse the few remaining garments.  Niku, who had been so antsy during her stitching work, laid absolutely still opposite the Shadar-kai and the Human girl, and was watching their actions with what faintly approximated interest.

"...and then Mama said again that she didn't like how Samaire's mama was talking to her, and then Samaire's mama said, 'Well, if you don't like it, you can leave too,' and so Mama told me to take my things, and we did.  We left.  And I'm glad too, because I didn't like any of those girls anyway.  All they ever talk about is what other people are doing, and how bad or good it is, and it's boring.   Nobody ever talks about stars, or animals, or magic, or anything good.  They don't even talk about what they're actually doing; it's so stupid.  It's like they went there just to complain about other people, instead of to do any mending at all.  They could at least talk about what they're doing, but no.  It's just complaining.  About people that aren't even there.  It's stupid."

"That's gossipping," Salone corrected.

"I thought that was bad!" Amadelle objected, leaning forward so that she could look past Silveredge at Salone.  "Don't aldermaidens do that?"

"It is bad," Salone answered, looking up from her rinsing to pin Amadelle with a knowing look.  "But lots of people do it."

Silveredge wrung out the shendyt that she'd made out of Aleksei's old Urmlaspyr uniform and got up to pin it to the line with the other clothes without saying anything on the matter.  Sarai felt so convicted about the way she'd had no problem with the very conversations that had so annoyed Amadelle that she couldn't say a word herself.

"Anyway, Mama finally told me I could stay home and learn stitching with the servants; it only took her two whole seasons.  Papa said she had been glad to get me out from underfoot, but now that I go with Niku wherever he wants all the time, it's confusing, because it seems like Mama wants me back in the house.  Papa doesn't care, as long as I'm back before prayers, but I want Mama to make up her mind.  I don't like upsetting her over and over, when I don't even always know why."

"Niku is a dog," Sarai piped up.  She slopped a worn pot holder cloth from the lye bucket to the wash bucket, then continued.  "Your mother probably wants you to be with a Human grown up, and not just running all over the city with a dog.  You could be kidnapped off to Sembia."

"Niku wouldn't just let me be kidnapped to Sembia," Amadelle replied as she leaned back to hand Salone a damp crimson dress.  "He's a fighter dog, Ser Howler said so.  He would fight the Semmites and make them leave me alone.  Grown ups would let me be kidnapped; Mama said they almost got somebody right in the market, and nobody even saw them."

Sarai looked at Amadelle incredulously for a few moments, then frowned and returned to rinsing the long, dingy white pot holder cloth.  "Maybe Niku would fight them, but you have to scream for the guards.  They'll stop the Semmites; Niku can't fight them all by himself."

Amadelle thought for a moment, then nodded.  "Okay, I will.  But I think you can fight them, Niku.  Krumiri was mean to people who didn't belong in the house, and I bet you can be really mean too, when you have to."

Niku snorted, and none of the girls had any question as to whether he was responding to Amadelle's affirmation of his abilities or not.

"It's just I bet Krumiri didn't have to fight a lot of Semmites at once," Sarai emphasized, wringing the pot holder out and handing it off to Salone.  "One Semmite is different than fighting a bunch of them."

"It's better than not even finding any of them," Amadelle replied.  "Mama said the guards didn't find anybody in the market at all.  All the guards came, and somebody even got shot through by archers, but they didn't even find that person.  They all got away.  Niku wouldn't let that happen."

"Uncle Iordi only got one target from Lathander," Salone noted as she walked over to Amadelle and picked a tunic up out of Silveredge's rinsing bucket.  "Whoever he hit wasn't supposed to be found.  Just stopped."

Silveredge closed her eyes momentarily, remembering the terrifying scar in Mi'ishaen's shoulder that persisted despite two different Coalwater-sponsored healing mages.  The dark enchanted armor seemed to have healed itself, somehow, but its owner was still slightly tender in that spot.

"Oh," Amadelle said, watching Salone wring the garment out.  "Well, it's only sense to do what the gods want.  That's what your uncle had to do.  Niku, you have to do what the gods say, too."

Silveredge opened her eyes and chuckled to herself, and the dog grunted again.

"I don't have any more in the pee bucket or the water bucket, Miss Rasha," Amadelle reported, looking around to find Silveredge.  "Lona just took the last shirt you had.  What do I do with the buckets?"

"My young mistress might leave them where they are," Silveredge answered over her shoulder as she began pinning some of the Raibeart wash to the line.  "I thought I might dump them in the river, as I have in other places, but I'm unsure of any Suzailian customs, and don't want to offend anyone.  I was planning to ask Lady Raibeart when she and her brothers returned home."

"I don't know what the servants do with the wash water," Amadelle said firmly.  "But where did Lady Raibeart go?  She has a baby inside her; she should stay in the house, or demons could take it."

"She went to take Uncle Iona to try to get an appointment with some healers, and Uncle Iordi has to come with her because... because he has to," Sarai answered uncomfortably.  "He's not allowed to not be with her, when she's out of the house."

"Mama has a servant that goes with her everywhere, even inside the house," Amadelle noted.  "How come you're saying that like it's not supposed to happen?"

"Uncle Iordi's not a servant," Sarai objected at once.

"I didn't say he was," Amadelle sighed, exasporated.  "I'm saying, how come you're saying your uncle has to go out with your mama every time she goes out like if that's not supposed to happen?  Your mama's an important lady, like mine, and so they have to have people to help them not get robbed or taken away.  Your mama can't even fight, 'cause the baby.  So your uncle makes her safe, and Mama's servant makes her safe, and Niku makes me safe.  That's normal.  You're making it sound weird."

"You're rich; we're not," Salone replied.  She pulled another table runner out of the lye bucket and began rinsing it.  "Mama is the one who almost got taken in the market, so now Uncle Iordi has to be with her."

"Oh," Amadelle said, with the benefit of all the concern an eight year old could muster.  "That's terrible; I hope she feels okay."

Salone nodded wordlessly, picking up the table runner and walking it back to Silveredge.

"Thank you," Sarai answered, painfully aware of Salone's silence.  "I hope you won't tell other people, though.  I don't think we're supposed to tell."

"Okay, I won't," Amadelle said seriously.  "Not even Mama; I promise on Bert's beard."

Salone giggled, but Sarai was aghast.  Silveredge ducked her head and chuckled as quietly as she could, and Niku began making small noises of soon-to-come barks in response.

"You're not supposed to say that!" Sarai finally cried, realizing that she alone was the bearer of good morals.

"Why not?" Amadelle demanded, undaunted by Sarai's judgemental look.  "Papa swears things by Bert's beard all the time.  If it's really serious, he'll swear by gramma's grave, instead; what do you say to that?"

"That's awful and he shouldn't do it!" Sarai pronounced immediately, wrapping her hands firmly in her weary apron.

"Well, I'll bring you to the house and see if you can tell him in his face that he's awful," Amadelle replied hautily.  "You're weird, Sarai Raibeart."

"That's unkind to say, my young mistress," Silveredge corrected, picking up her head and turning over her shoulder to do so.  "Please be gentler with each other."

Niku did bark, just once as if to reinforce the point, then put his head back down on his paws.

"Okay, I'm sorry," Amadelle said at once.  "But look, I won't tell about your uncle, and I won't swear on Bert's beard.  I don't think it would hurt if I did, but since it's so important to you, I won't.  Cross promise with me instead?"

"What's that?" Sarai asked.

Salone, who had been continuing to move items out of the lye bucket to rinse, simply scooted her stool back away from the rinsing basin and crossed her fingers over her lips with her right hand while covering her left eye with her left hand.  Amadelle, seeing her, leaned back so that she was sitting on her actual behind instead of on her knees, and echoed the gesture.

"That," Amadelle explained when the two broke position.  "How come Lona knows and you don't?"

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Sarai charged, fully focused on Salone for only the second time since the wash had begun.

"I can't tell you that; I'm cross promised not to," Salone replied as she arose with the last few pieces of rinsed linen.

Beyond the drying line, as though summoned, Sylvester appeared and leaned on the stone foundation that also served as one of the shop's side walls.  Silveredge was the only one to notice his presence, and made no comment on it.

Amadelle giggled and shook her hands in the rinse water before drying them off on the sheet she was wearing.  "My hands still smell like pee, and I forgot about this bedsheet on me," she told Silveredge.

"Yes, it's custom that one garment remains unwashed so that the Shadows and Shades don't notice that everything else is clean," Silveredge replied.  "If they do, they'll try to dirty everything.  We of Sunderhope had to walk a half day- sometimes longer, if the appropriate battles were not won- to draw water at all.  It's unpleasant to have a Shade make you waste water, or the effort it took to get it."

"How come they didn't just dig a closer well?" Amadelle asked, undoing the knots under her arms.  Salone quickly wiped off her own hands on her apron and moved away from the drying to help Amadelle, knowing that the fine dress was a job for more than one person.

"None of the elders could find water any closer," Silveredge replied.  "Had they been able to do so, certainly they would have commanded a closer well."

"That's an awful place; I'm glad you're not there anymore," Amadelle said frankly.  Behind her, Salone was knowlegeably tugging at the lovely ribbons that held the back of the dress closed, and Sarai looked at her younger sister with surprise.  "Not even a really mean servant should have to walk a whole day, and fight a whole bunch of people, just to bring water back to the house."

"It was home; we thought nothing of it," said Silveredge simply.  "And fighting comes naturally to us.  Is that everything that needs to be hung up?"

"Yes," Salone said without even looking up from the knot she was working on.

Sarai had to look in the lye and rinsing basins to confirm the truth of her sister's single word.  "Thank you for hanging it up," she said sheepishly.  "I should have helped."

"You would have had to use the stool to do so," Silveredge noted.  "I am tall as your mother is tall, and do not need help to reach.  But, what do we do with the wash water?"

"I'm right here; I put myself on the far side of the forge so I could hear you," Sylvester said as he walked down toward the gathering of girls.  "Saul really is busy, but you sounded almost done, so I just looked busy.  If I dawdle over the paper with my quill in my hand, Papa assumes I'm working."

Salone smiled, and Amadelle outright laughed.  Beyond them, free of the dress, Niku got up and bounded over to Sylvester, sniffing for his hand.

"Hi, Neeks," Sylvester murmurred, giving Niku a good scrub behind the ears.  Niku responded by sitting down and panting with his mouth wide open.  "Running free as a wolf- Ria's probably jealous."

"Pens and straps make Valeria feel safe," Salone replied.  "Niku's freedom makes her nervous."

"Simple stuff," Sylvester shrugged.  "A clap of thunder or a carriage wheel hitting a bump makes her nervous."

"Who're you talking about?" Amadelle inquired.

"Valeria- Ria for short," Sylvester explained quietly.  "She's my Uncle Iordyn's dog."

"Oh," said Amadelle.  "Thunder's scary, but carriage wheels aren't.  Valeria should go free with Niku more often, so she can get used to it."

"Good idea, but that's not like Uncle Iordi," Sylvester smirked.  "Straps and pens make him feel safe, too.  Anyway, you're done, so I'll dump the water."

"Please be cautious," Silveredge advised, deciding to store away Sylvester's opinion of Iordyn for later pondering.  "You soak in lye, but I use urine.  If you tell me what your customs are, then I will follow them."

"So that's what happened to the chamber pots.  Thanks, I guess, for doing my chore by accident," Sylvester smirked.  "It goes to the midden about a mile outside of town; I'll get you a cloth to cover your face, and we'll go."

"Get a weapon," Salone piped up.  "There are thieves near the midden.  They'll rob you and push you in."

"I have my knife," Sylvester said seriously.

"Take Niku too; I'll wait with Lona," Amadelle interjected.

"If Niku would like to walk with us, he can," Silveredge answered.  "Whether he will or will not, I will bring my chain."

Niku got up and galloped off as though he'd been commanded.

"Oooooh, I like your chain; it's so pretty!" Amadelle enthused.  "I want one, when I grow up."

"You mean you want a belt that looks like it," Sarai corrected.

"No, I mean I want a chain like Miss Rasha's chain, that's pretty and can choke thieves," Amadelle shot back.  "I know what I'm saying; I'm not a baby."

Sylvester turned experienced eyes upon Sarai, who blushed furiously and stormed off.

"How come she's like that?" Amadelle inquired immediately.

Salone shrugged- a short, sharp movement that seemed out of keeping with her normal, more sustained movements and gestures.

"Yes, you do," Sylvester said, raising an eyebrow at Salone.  "You can't be Dellie's friend if you're going to lie to her."

"My young mistress Sarai knows what it is to have a young brother and an even younger sister, but does not yet realize that they cannot remain as young and unlearned as she remembers them," Silveredge answered.  "My eldest sister, Byta, was very similar.  I'm not sure she believed that Ketrin or I could remember to breathe, without her."

"Gods," Sylvester muttered under his breath.

"It is well," Silveredge comforted.  "My mother's good friend often reminded her that she was older than all of us, yet found a few of the languages that we spoke daily to be great challenges for her.  Age does not automatically give knowledge, and knowledge does not automatically give wisdom.  On the first day of wisdom, Sarai will realize that you can, and must, have your own knowledge and experience.  I pray that the day is more delicate with her than it was with Byta."

Salone wordlessly and briefly gestured toward Silveredge with a flat, open hand, as if to tell Sylvester, "See?"  Sylvester, in response, shrugged and nodded, admitting that Silveredge's explanation had indeed been better than one either of them could have managed.  Niku, dragging Silveredge's chain in his mouth, ran back around the corner of the house and dashed toward Silveredge, who gratefully received the weapon.

"I hope you didn't make too much mess in its retrieval," she cooed.  Niku rolled over, and she scratched his belly and sides.

"I left my stitching at home," said Amadelle as she twirled one of her waist-length ringlets between her fingers.  "What else do you have to do today?"

"I have to scrub the floors, probably, and burn sage in the shrine room, but we'd have to bind your hair and take your dress off again," Salone answered.

"All of my dresses are like this, except the temple ones- they're worse," Amadelle noted.  "You're my size; can I borrow one of yours?"

Salone nodded and turned around to begin walking toward the house's front door.

"Wait; I want to hold hands," Amadelle insisted.

Salone stopped moving forward and held her left hand about a foot away from her body, palm open upward.  Amadelle smiled and hurried to her age mate's side to take it in her own.  Niku, somewhat unwillingly, rolled off his back and trotted after the two girls.

"It was wise to introduce them, my young lord," Silveredge commented as she and Sylvester watched the girls round the corner.

"It's selfishness, really," Sylvester admitted.  "I'd rather Lona be in a good house, than in some dark temple I'll never see the inside of, or married to some halfwit who'll try to change her.  I'm hoping Dellie takes enough of a liking to her to hire her on as a permanent lady-in-waiting, or something.  Lona never visits her, but every time Dellie comes here, they're right next to each other."

"My young lord must play chess from time to time," Silveredge smiled as she began wrapping her chain around herself.

"Not as much as I did before Sarai told Saul I was letting him beat me on purpose," Sylvester replied, moving to dump the lye basin into the water basin.

"Were you?" Silveredge asked, amused.

"Sometimes, yeah, but sometimes he actually really had me," Sylvester answered.  "He thinks he's dumber than he is; Sarai's telling on me didn't help.  Now he won't play at all with anyone.  Do you want to dump your water bucket into this basin?"

"I'll be just fine; thank you."

"Alright, to the midden, then," Sylvester proclaimed.  "Here, this is a perfumed cloth.  Saul gives it to me every time, and I haven't used it for a while, but you might want to.  The midden smells awful; everybody from this area of the city dumps their waste there."

4:17 Of closed doors and unguarded windows.

Dani Laurelson, with her shopping basket in hand, spied the offering bowl on the left side of her doorway before she'd even made it all the way up the street.  Her heart beat faster in her chest, and felt as though it had been set on fire.  With her lips pursed and her free hand pressed firmly upon the bread, eggs, leeks, and tomatoes she'd just purchased moments ago, she marched up to her door and kicked at the bowl.  An agonized shriek escaped her mouth before she even felt the pain shoot through her foot.

The bowl, made of heavy stone and filled with spiced wine and rose petals, didn't move.
Dani realized, too late, that she'd tried to kick over a solid stone mortar the size of a serving bowl.

Suddenly, a huge animal made of grey smoke came charging down the street, thoroughly terrifying the few passers-by that were to be seen on Dani's quiet side street at that hour of the morning.  Dani screamed again, this time with purpose, certain that the creature would leap upon her and tear her apart.  Instead, about two bounds away from her, the creature- an identifiable wolf- slowed down and began sniffing around her.  It padded gently up the two steps that lay in front of Dani's door and began gently pushing at the top of her reddening foot with its nose, which felt as cool, damp, and solid as any canine's nose should have been.  Just as Dani began to realize that the thing meant her no harm, and got the strange, overwhelming urge to reach down and pat it, she looked up to see a very familiar Purple Dragon.  Although she knew he'd been suspended, it was still strange to see him outside of his well kept steel armor, or at least his dress uniform.

"I apologize," Cimaretto panted, his own trot coming to a breathless halt at about the same distance that his spectral companion's had.  He bent at the waist just slightly and reached out his hand, and the smoky grey wolf turned away from its inspection of Dani to return to him.  Once it arrived at his side, the smoke that made it dissipated as though it had never existed.  "That's Vici; I sent him ahead of me.  I just wouldn't have been fast enough, if you'd broken it.  Your foot, I mean- that mortar's not going anywhere; now I regret using it.  Are you alright?"

Dani pulled in a long breath, partially due to the residual pain and partially due to the emotions hurling themselves against her better sense.  After what felt like the longest moment in eternity, her emotions won, and silent tears pushed their way out of her eyes.

"I'm not alright at all," she finally managed, slowly sinking down to her doorstep.

"I do apologize," Cimaretto replied, turning away to start toward a temple.  "I'll get a healer and-"

"No," Dani said firmly.  Cimaretto halted at once, as though he'd been given an order, and turned around.  "I can bandage myself, but... I could use a hand, I... I don't think I'll make it, with the basket."

"I've got it," the officer said quietly, returning to balance the basket on his right forearm.  He offered his left arm to Dani.  "And you too, if you need."

Dani wordlessly reached up and took hold of the man's deep olive, hairy right arm.  Although she was self-conscious about putting all her weight on him, he squatted down to allow her to rise with him, and she found that the pressure didn't seem to bother him at all.

"Thank you," she said once she'd gotten to her feet.  "It hurts, probably is swelling, but I can feel and move all of the toes.  So, nothing's broken.  Bring the basket with you, please- and that mortar, if you can manage it."

"Right away, my lady," Cimaretto replied, ducking down to pick the mortar up.  The solid piece of carved and smoothed stone was easily picked up and managed, even with the basket still balancing on the other forearm.  The wine and roses gave off a pleasing smell as they rocked and sloshed, and Dani came to herself scant moments before Cimaretto could realize that she was watching him.  She opened her door and limped slowly inside, waiting for him to enter before she closed and locked it behind them.

"Put the basket on top of the water barrel and the mortar on the mantel- they're both straight back."

"The hearth fire's out," Cimaretto noted as he moved to do as he had been told.  "I can light it while I'm over here.  Morning's got a chill to it."

"Hard to believe the ice broke weeks ago, isn't it?" Dani smiled painfully, limping her way to the sitting room, which was to the left of the entryway.  "I keep the flint over the fire, but the kindling on the opposite side- it's... my mother used to do that.  As though the kindling would somehow light itself, if they were kept too near each other.  Silly, isn't it?"

"Customs are customs," Cimaretto replied.  He found the flint easily, and hunted around the other side of the hearth until he spied a round metal canister with rough hewn rods of kindling wood inside.  "My mother would bless a piece of wood, and then have my brothers and I carve the dishes and forks that we would use for as long as possible.  If they broke, or were for whatever reason unable to be used any longer, we would hold a short ceremony and burn them.  Still do it today."

Dani listened to the scrape of the stones and sighed deeply.  "A foreign manner, but likely intended to cultivate respect for crafting, or for the time it takes- possibly even for the wood itself.  We- Michele and I- studied similar customs in preparation for her basic training in the Hermit's Wood."


"She told me about Hermit's Wood," Cimaretto smiled as he urged the small fire to grow by poking at the cold log remnants around it.  "Said there was some sort of wind dance down there that was similar enough to some of my rituals as to make her wonder.  She mentioned your studies as well- said some of them were done personally."

"Yes," Dani frowned.  "Unlike her, I wasn't blindly sent to some barbarian outpost, but... it seems her time there was more useful than either of us could have known at the time.  Please look near my sewing basket, next to the rocking chair, and you'll find just behind it some cloth that will do for binding.  That and a quarter piece of kindling will do."

"Straight away, my lady," Cimaretto said.

Dani listened again as a piece of kindling wood was broken.  There was a gentle scraping of wood on stone- likely the rocking chair being eased aside to allow the man to reach beyond it- and the rustling of some soft goods.

"Look for a strip that's about as long as your forearm," Dani instructed.  "That'll give me enough slack to knot it on top."

Cimaretto appeared moments later with the wood and the exact piece of cloth that Dani had in mind.  Without saying anything, he handed the materials off, then turned around and sat on the floor.

"What are you-?"

"So that you can rest it however you need on my shoulder, and reach it better," Cimaretto explained.  "My eldest brother did this for me when my ankle was bitten up and twisted after a fight.  The pain was spectacular- I couldn't think straight.  I didn't even realize I needed him, until he was there."

Dani pressed her lips between her teeth for a moment, but decided to take the help.  Resting the back of her heel on the man's solid, wide shoulder, she placed the piece of wood under her flat foot and bound it there with the cloth.

"Well, it's certainly swelling," she noted grimly.  "And it's certainly painful.  It'll be interesting to walk for the next two or three days."

"There's a cane leaning in the corner of the room," Cimaretto noted as Dani took her foot off his shoulder and tried putting it down on the ground.  "That should help keep the pressure off."

"That's my late husband's cane," Dani said, sitting back in the chair and feeling the feather cushions as if for the first time.  "He's been gone for years, but I could never bring myself to throw the old thing away."

"He must have gently turned your eyes and heart away from it, knowing this day would come," Cimaretto said, getting to his feet and heading for the corner.

"Is that what happens to the dead?" Dani asked, only half expecting an answer.  "They simply become the wardens of the living?"

Cimaretto brought the beautifully carved, iron reinforced cane back and leaned it on the side of Dani's chair, then sat down on the ground facing her.  "At first, they merely watch.  They can't do anything on their own; it's too difficult, even for warriors or mages who were powerful while alive.  Through rememberances, no matter how brief, and offerings, no matter how meager, they gain strength.  They can, over generations of even the briefest prayers and poorest gifts, become great defenders of the household, and sometimes even of an entire clan or village."

"How... comforting... such a belief must be," Dani breathed, thinking of all the mornings she'd kicked every vessel left near her door over, spilling the contents onto the ground and into the street.  "The priests of Lathander told me Michele was with him, of course, and I believed them, of course, but... the idea that she may be... closer... would be nice."

"Wherever she is, she isn't alone," Cimaretto comforted, keeping his voice quiet and his body still.  "Her very last thoughts sounded as though she were recognizing and speaking to someone close."

Dani's chest tightened again, but not with anger or bitterness.  She closed her eyes and felt them sting for a few moments, and let the tears fall again, just as quiet as they had been before.

"I apologize," Cimaretto whispered, sliding himself backward in preparation to rise.  "I can go-"

"Sit down," Dani whispered, the feather light sound as much a command as if it had been hollered.  "In a chair, like a human being.  I don't know how northerners raise their children, but here in the heartlands, children do not depart their parents' company without being duly dismissed."

4:16 Reflections.

With eyes closed and her head tilted back, Mi'ishaen leaned back on her palms so that it looked as though she were sunbathing.  What she was really doing, however, was listening.

"Turn your face westward, children of eternal cold;
Cast down your dark gaze, lest the sun ye chance behold.
The sun sets in rising, all light fades into the darkness;
So we die living, find song in foreordained silence."

Which is ridiculous, Mi'ishaen thought, since these pageant prancers don't even sing this bullshit at all.  At least the old man got that part right.

"If you don't mind," she said aloud without moving any other part of herself, "there are differences between this verse and a similar one I've heard.  If you'd quit shuffling around back there, I could perhaps actually hear this version properly.  You know I can't just ask them to write it down for me."

Greyscale stopped moving and stood up straight immediately, casting an imposing shadow down on both the Tiefling as well as the various satchels and clay dishes that were neatly organized behind her.  Again, the monotonous chant arose up out of the building across the street from the roof upon which Mi'ishaen sat and he stood.

"Turn your face westward, children of eternal cold..."

"I didn't think you were religious," Greyscale noted quietly, purposefully trying not to overpower the tuneless chorus below.  Mi'ishaen didn't bother answering him.

"The sun sets in rising, all light fades into the darkness;
So we die living, find song in foreordained silence."

Mi'ishaen sighed deeply, as though she were inhaling incense or some other pleasant smell, then sat up off her hands and turned around so that the bits of cloth and clay plates were in front of her.

"I'm not religious," she confirmed, dusting her hands by rubbing them together, then purposefully poking through various pouches that were attached to one of the cross-body shoulder straps that belonged to her armor.  "You do realize that it's dangerous to rehire a 'mercenary' accused of mental manipulation and high treason, right?"

Greyscale watched the Tiefling portion out various herbs, spices, and other ground up specimens.  "We thought you were just angling to escape.  Your returning to the Dragons was a stroke of genius even I didn't expect.  The meddling of the Drow was unfortunate."

"Fuck you.  The 'meddling of the Drow' is what sold a package deal that the judges wouldn't have otherwise bought," Mi'ishaen corrected.  "Next time I see Bahlzair, I'll promise to kill him faster; he'll appreciate that.  But you ought to pay him on top of it; he finished your job, and is too skilled to have to work for free."

"If you thought I was lost before, I'm really turned around now," Greyscale admitted.  "I've always been a simple lizard."

"You were supposed to be playing the game to win, even if the rules changed in the middle," Mi'ishaen clarified, looking up from her satchel stuffing momentarily.  "Bahlzair, for whatever reason, likes me enough to want to end my existance himself.  So when he believed that the court was going to beat him to it, he came out of the prisons specifically to claim his kill.  He murders for love and fun, but he's not a novice; the only reason he didn't get satisfaction was because the prison chewed him up just as bad as it did me.  And all the whole time, who knows where you all were?  I didn't even see any of you at the fucking trial."

"Had you seen me, what would you have done?  What could I have done?" Greyscale countered.  "What would just seeing each other have accomplished?"

"Don't fuck with me; you know what I mean," Mi'ishaen snorted, looking back down at her work.  "I dislike being on the 'acceptable loss' list."

Greyscale gave a single small nod, an admission either of defeat or at least uncomfortable impasse.  "It wasn't supposed to be you at all.  Gnomes, like Shadar-kai, are able to nearly disappear before an assailant's eyes.  When you subbed in for Cloud on that rooftop- well, it wasn't just the rules that changed.  From that moment onward, you were playing a whole different game, and... I'll be frank, I never caught up.  I waited to see what you could do.  Salvaged what we could on the face game, especially since Silveredge was still visibly in play.  And as you can see, complete name and all, she very much is still in play."

"Yeah," Mi'ishaen spat.  "And you've got her reading your bullshit to me, now.  As if I didn't hear you the first two goddamned times you asked- go on, ask me again."

"You forgot to call me a raw handbag," Greyscale noted.  "I'd take it; you're well within your right.  But you're dealing with the raw handbag instead of the childeater or the cave crawler because I have more intel than Cypher or Cloud.  And I'm asking you repeatedly because you're just as much fighter as rogue- you just proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that you're not a scaredy-cat sneak."

"If you have incompetent people, then fire them," Mi'ishaen shrugged, tying off one of the satchels.

"Funny," Greyscale smiled.  "That's exactly what Cloud said when I told her you couldn't read."

Mi'ishaen looked up from her work and stared at Greyscale with a lava red glare that he knew should have terrified him.  Instead, he simply nodded again- just once- acknowleging her impasse for her.  He took a few steps toward her, then sat down.  It didn't fully fix the shadow that he cast, but it at least stopped her from having to crane her neck to stare up at him.

"Look, Cloud is a fourth generation rogue," he reasoned.  "Most of what she does is well-advised.  But cowardice is not born of experience; it's not wisdom.  Hell, it's not even intelligence.  Cowardice is what happens when baby fears grow up, just like rage is what happens when baby hate gets big."

"That sounds like an apology," Mi'ishaen said, her tone flat and unimpressed.

"We both already knew your hearing's good," Greyscale shrugged.  "What else is in the way?"

Mi'ishaen refocused herself on the satchels and the portioned herbs.  "Doesn't make sense to save the same asshole we just sold up to the Pillars."

"You didn't hear he got out of that?" Greyscale asked, genuinely surprised by the Tiefling's lack of awareness.  "Anyway, he's not the mark- just an unfortunate beneficiary.  Look at it this way- the more resources hemmorhage out of this country, no matter the actual recipient, the worse everyone will have it.  We're not saving any specific person's skin; we're just keeping Cormyrian gold in Cormyr- you know, where it's easier to steal it."

Mi'ishaen sighed with some degree of annoyance and looked up again, the tips of her fingers soiled by some freshly cut and crushed flowers.  "Were you ever, at any point, just normal rogues?"

Greyscale laughed.  "No; speaking for Coalwater as an operation, we've been not-quite-right from the start.  We got a little more interesting when I met Dark, but so does everyone- singular little lady.  Personally, I'm a proud third generation merc.  The only reason I got into the stealth business was because, well, once upon a time, no one would openly hire a homeless Dragonborn child.  Cloud used to be a run-of-the-mill messenger, but over time, people began using her solely to get to me- you know, 'cause she can just poof on you.  So, that's how it started.  Once upon a time, Coalwater was really just us.  Cypher is a turncoat from a defunct company; she joined up later."

Mi'ishaen turned her head very slightly to the right- a movement as sharp and sudden as a response to a needle prick.  "Say that again."

Greyscale raised the scaly equivalent of an eyebrow- a potrusion of scale that crested the bone of his eye socket.  "Which part?"

"The part about you, personally," Mi'ishaen said with quiet intensity, closing her eyes.

"I got into the stealth business," Greyscale repeated with some degree of suspicion, "because the people around here wouldn't openly hire a homeless Dragonborn child."

Mi'ishaen opened her eyes again, and looked, unwavering, into Greyscale's face with an expression that defied his ability to interpret.  The two searched each other momentarily- at first, with the Dragonborn not truly knowing what he was looking for.  Then some wordless certainty, too delicate to withstand the exposure of an outward affirmation, took firm root in his mind.  Mi'ishaen broke the contact first to get back to the stuffing of her satchels, and after a few moments of watching her, Greyscale got up and left as unceremoniously as he had come.

In a stone, Mi'ishaen thought, somehow angry and amazed at the same time.  In a stone.  Well, I guess I sat still long enough, huh?  Yeah.  Guess I did.