5:5 Watching our language.

Dark ran her fingers through Stitches's hair.  Although she enjoyed the sensation, she couldn't help but wonder why he had neither bound his hair himself nor allowed her to do so for him.  She could touch his hair- that was greeted with purrs and pleasant gurgles- but she was absolutely not permitted to gather it up at all.  Pushing that thought to a back corner in her mind, she continued working on the letter spread before her.


I commend you on the genius of having your ship so thoroughly torn down and rebuilt that even our shared contacts could only recognize it due to their familiarity with the crew.  Further, it is greatly commendable that among sailors, who are all well used to being shunted from one ship to another like so many detestable sacks of living refuse, you have somehow managed not to lose a single man to wanderlust or dissatisfaction since command was wrest from Wernvuuld.  Such loyalty may be expected from landlubbing soldiers, but is exceedingly high praise among seafarers.  I look forward to the gossip that will herald your docking and casting off from here forward.

Now, as touches your latest offer
 

A bristly headed Human man stuck his face around the corner of Dark's study.  He called Dark's attention simply by doing so, but since she pretended at not noticing him by keeping her head down, he knocked a knuckle on the bare stone of the doorway.

"Allo, Miss; are you for it?" he asked carefully.

Dark, hearing a strain of discomfort in his reedy tenor, threw off her pretense at once.  "Of course, Fuzz; what have you got for me?"

Fuzz, who was still unused to his outside name, gave a half smirk as he pulled his full self into Dark's office.  "A bit of writ, and here's from the Witchrun hit, what've snagged us a few snatchers."

"That goes to Dragon, although I appreciate what you mean by bringing it to me," Dark smiled genuinely as she accepted the letter that Fuzz handed her.  "Think of me as more of an administrator.  You owe me nothing but respect, hmm?"

Fuzz stood away from the desk and scrubbed at the back of his neck, where the light brown hair that was growing back in was irritating his pale skin.  "Awright," he managed, when he realized the question hadn't been as rhetorical as he'd thought it to have been.  "To boot, it's two big tubs come in.  One of 'em's Cormite, and t'other's Hawke's.  Crews're right cozy, like they've been a good spell together."

"Interesting- and she's home early," Dark mused.  "Well, I thank you for your time and your work.  How about finding a few locks to pick, to keep your fingers... sweet?"

"You're a practiced pox, Miss," Fuzz chuckled.  "Let you be home, and yer shine'd turn blacker'n a devil's arsehole."

"Pen that up, will ye?" Dark smiled wickedly.  "Being foreign sometimes has its... advantages."

"It's full idjit thinks yer foreign, innit?  But it's salt twixt us," Fuzz shrugged, smiling in a vacant sort of way.

But Dark knew that his lack of intelligence was just as false as was her misunderstanding of the patter used in the Dark Quarter.  Its origin, like hers, could be traced right back to the Pirate Isles- if anyone had the brilliant idea to attempt to research either of their murky histories.

Dark cut through her own thoughts with the remembrance that Fuzz's news meant that she had another item on her to-do list.  "Well, yer one's salt o'th'locks; off to't."

With a sly wink, Fuzz made his way out of the office.

Dark reached her pale, slender fingers toward Stitches to get his attention, but looked down seconds before her fingers would have made contact with his head.  Finding that he had closed his eyes and settled into a sitting position worthy of a religious statue, she got up with intention to blow out her candles.

Stitches hissed immediately- a loud, open mouthed reproach.  Even in the dim candle light, the needle points of his teeth could be seen- and they were all clean.

"Oh!" Dark said, startled in spite of herself.  "I thought you were- well, I suppose not.  But I don't want to disturb your..."

Stitches opened his eyes and looked up at her, unflinchingly gazing into her bright green eyes as though there were nothing else important in the world.  For a few moments, Dark lavished her attention on him just as graciously, then remembered and collected herself.

"Well, since you're sitting here doing nothing, go fetch Hammer for Mama," she commanded imperiously, turning back to her letter.

The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at Stitches's lips, looking more like one of his twitches than a voluntary expression.  Without a sound, he unfolded his legs, furled himself onto all fours, and scrambled out of the room.

Ye gods, but that is difficult, Dark huffed to herself.  Whoever heard of a subservient partner training the dominant one?  I had to try, didn't I?  Well, let's see, let's see... ah, yes, this part.  '...if my mistress will pardon my weakness in the use of Common...' Now that is either an artless lie or an admirable display of subterfuge- the Jackal most certainly does not have any such weakness; his wordplay is magnificent.  But the Westgate docks are certainly monitored, by College-trained divination mages no less...

 

Stitches returned first, but waited just inside the portal to Dark's office until the slow-moving Dwarven woman stumped inside.  When she did, he returned to his place next to Dark's desk and resumed his meditation position.  A gentle caress swept from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck, then disappeared, and he pulled his lips into a smile tortured with the little zaps and jumps as a response.  He sat as quietly as his twitches would allow him, wading out into the middle distance of meditation with the most confidence he'd had since the-

He stopped himself from thinking about that time, deciding instead to merely observe that it had been a long time.  Longer than he would have preferred.  Just the effort it took to knock his thought off the route that the whole truth would have taken caused a full body tremor to rock him.  How long would spoken Undercommon take to regain?  Spoken Common?  The houses would pay for every moment, every minute, every month.  They would pay.  They would pay.  Stitches's body relaxed into the meditation of his vengeance.  Delicious, well-deserved vengeance.  For his body, that they weakened, to the point that it was physically painful to stand upright.  For his mind, that they tore to unrecognizable shreds, which they knew would effectively destroy his ability to cast the mind-altering spells that they so feared.  For his soul, which they had tried- unsuccessfully- to crush.  The soul that had been sheltered, been strengthened, been loved by the one young Tiefling woman who had been considered harmless enough to suffer as another slave to the Drow mistresses.  They, like so many others, mistook her for a Human, and treated her as miserably as they would have treated a Human woman.  And he would avenge that bewildered Tiefling who honorably stumbled where they unworthily strode- yes, his precious thistle.  Beautiful wildflower, who- when she had first come from the Isles- used her wiles mainly for self-defense.  Only when she took close note of the matron's organization did she learn that her skill set was suited not only to survival, but to profit.  In the darkness, without words, the two had strengthened each other, merged into one another- with her, he had sired the rebellion that split the coterie in half.  Sweet thistle.  Dear thistle.  Drow blood would run for her.  For his vengeance, and for hers.  She had become a mistress who deserved to harness and direct his rage, even though it was older than she was.  He would be her perfect monster, the disaster that rolled in like the fiercest of storms only when she commanded it.  He would teach her how to command him, and together, they would annihilate the offending houses entirely.  Not a babe of their twisted lineages would survive them.  Ah, most beautiful and sweet revenge; revenge worthy of the glorious spider goddess, who could bless or curse as she saw fit.  Even a curse would be in order; yes, even a curse from that wondrous goddess would be accepted with joy.  Stitches could almost feel the cold of the Underdark breathing over his skin as he meditated.

Above Stitches, Dark looked up from her letter as soon as Hammer thumped into her presence.  "Ah, wonderful; I was hoping you'd stop by."

"Bullshit," Hammer growled.  "Working on a short sword.  Talk before the coals go cold."

With a half-smirk, Dark nodded.  "I wonder how confident you feel about working with jewelry?"

Hammer grunted in response.

"A Shadar-kai master ring specific to the Darkreach region of the Shadowfell- a piece that could belong to a master of the tiarnai daor."

And predictably, the Dwarf raised her eyebrows at the Tiefling.

"Masterwork," she finally spat.  "Ain't cut out for it.  Detail so specific as to blind a body.  Would take ten days even if I had patience and all the makings of it.  Which I don't."

Dark planted her elbows on the stone table before her, then laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them.  "What if I told you I could have a sketching of the precise pattern I needed and at least half the materials to you in... three or four days?  I'm sure I can get the non-precious metals to you nearly immediately."

"You want a set, then?"

The Tiefling could nearly feel the suspicion rising from the old Dwarf woman.  "No," she replied evenly.  "I only need a master ring.  One that can be worn on the finger, or strung upon a chain, mind you, not one that requires a piercing."

Those words absolutely did not solve Hammer's suspicions.  She stroked her braided beard slowly, obviously trying to think her way around what was being said.  "Need to see the slave, then."

Dark smiled grimly, satisfied at having fully predicted where Hammer's principal concern would lie.  "No, you don't- because I have no intention of getting the magic between the two synced.  You see, your ring is going to enable us to play a bit of shuffle with a dunce who is in danger of selling the very real ring to someone who knows what to do with it.  When we swap the goods, we'll free the slave."

Hammer's face cracked into a terrifying grin, putting what was left of her worn down, blackened teeth on display.  "Can get behind that.  Gimme those sketches quick.  Need every angle.  Masterwork."

Dark's freckled face visibly lightened at Hammer's tacit agreement to the plan.  "Absolutely.  Our dear idiot is sailed abroad, so some of our delaying work is done for us, but when he comes to port, whatever discreet artist is near at hand will be politely requested to give me the best rendering they can, done?"

"Done," Hammer nodded.  "Back to work."

Dark simply nodded at the Dwarf, and watched her stump back out of the office much more quickly than she'd come.  Deciding to delay her reply to the Jackal just a bit longer, she opened the wax seal of the note that Fuzzy had brought her.

Oh my, she thought as she scanned it.  Nearly a third of all Semmite ships?  They'll likely retract to their home ports, then build back stronger; the surge next icebreak-tide will be much worse.  I'm sure the Blue Dragons thank every god that Hawke isn't a corsair, or whatever it is they're calling themselves these days- freemariners?  Yes, freemariners, that's right.  Since 'corsair' is synonymous with 'pirate' for the older captains.  I wonder how long it'll take for 'freemariner' to go the same way, how many sunken galleons it'll take.  Awww, Qualyn, look how peaceful you are just now.  I suppose you'll have to go kill someone soon.  Yes, Mama will give you some fresh meat... hmmm... I wonder if you can't get a good, tough Cormite to chew on?  You've not had that yet, have you?  Although... hmm... better tender Cormite or tough Cormite?   Yikes, is this what the mistresses had to think of?  How far are we?  Tieflings from Drow?  Drow from Orcs?  Orcs from vampires?  Vampires from any of us?  How much distance, how much difference, between any of us is there?  Or are we all creatures, just as Baba Kafil said?  And if, for all our languages, our dreams, our inventions and intentions, we are all creatures, then....

5:4 The unexpected gift.

 No sooner had the small, plain coin purse touched the center of the wind-chapped hand than the owner of the latter hand tried to tug herself out of her companion's grasp.  Bright brown eyes bolted open and stared daggers at the boy who swore he loved their gleam.

Sylvester, undaunted, folded his fingers around the coppery hand he held.  "Keep it, Manny, please?" he purred.  "Maybe get something pretty for yourself.  To look at, or to wear?"

"What'll I do with something pretty to wear, you idiot?" Manny hissed, only accepting the coin purse so she could throw it back at Sly, who winced when it hit him in the chest.  "You think I have somewhere safe to put pretty things?  Where's that?  Huh?  Where is it, the big, beautiful house you think I live in?"

"Well, bury it under a tree for all I mind, but keep it," Sly urged.  "Keep something I give you, please?"

"I can't keep what you give me," Manny growled back.  "Frocks, and jewelry, and those little noxious jars of ointment or salve-"

"The creams will soften your skin," Sly interrupted.

The girl all but punched him in response.  "So I can get sliced open and burned hard every time I step into the sun, move a barrel, or bring in a sail?  Is that what you want?  You fucking idiot- take your stupid money, will you?"

"What I want, Imanjat, is for you to keep something of mine," Sly argued.  "To have while you're away."

Manny frowned at the way Sly used her entire name.  "Fine, you wimbly fool- gimme that purse.  Keep the coin, but I can use the purse, satisfied?" she fussed.

Sly sat back a bit, surprised.  "This... I made... it's not a..."

"It's the only thing you've brought in the past four days that looks like it should belong to me," Manny cut in.  "Do I have to explain this to you again?  I cannot lotion and potion myself up, putting on pretty, shiny things, unless you want me to take up prostitution as a trade?  'Cause I'm sure I can line some johns up quick, if that's what you want."

Sly pulled his own coin purse up over his head.  Unlike the plainer one, which he had made specifically to give it away, his was made of better quality leather and wrapped with decorative cord.  It had been a gift from one of his aunts- Sly couldn't remember which, and at the moment, he didn't care.  He dumped out the purse's contents, stuffed them into the purse he'd made, and held both purses out.  "Now, you either take mine without any coin, or you take yours, with all of it."

"What're you going to tell your parents when you come home without any coin at all?" Manny countered, trying to call his bluff.

"My mother's head's all foggy; if I didn't tell her how much was due out to who, the house would've gone cold and our cupboards bare weeks ago," Sly said frankly.  "I'll just tell her she never gave me any coin at all, and she'll believe me."

"No, don't lie to your mother like that- look, give me your damned purse- gods, Sly.  Sometimes I could almost hate you," Manny spat, astounded.  She snatched the purse so savagely that at first, the two of them could do nothing but bristle at each other in silence.  "Why would you do something like that to your mother?"

Sylvester pushed out a frustrated sigh as he watched Manny throw the worn, but handsome strap of his purse over her dredlocked head.  Putting the coarser purse down so that he could reach forward and tuck the soft material of his purse into her loose peasant shirt, he lingered at her neck.

"I... I don't know.  I just... I could do anything.  For you.  Any mad thing that popped into my head, I could do it, for you."

"And that's why I have to take care of you, you great knob," Manny said, her face melting into a more pleasant look.  "Otherwise, you'll commit some fuckery that'll doom us both, only probably me faster than you.  What're you staring at?  See something you want?"

Sly gazed at her form until it went blurry to his eyes, his head spinning.  "I..."

And his mind leapt into another existence altogether, a strange plane of imagination where the force of his feelings alone could blast the clothes, salt and sand off of her, soak into her hardened flesh, fill every crevice in her being until he began pouring out of her, melting down the dark spaces between her body and the earth until he was nothing but a pool beneath her-

Manny sighed, watching Sly see her entire body without having to really look at it.  Sometimes it seemed impossible that she was older than he was, because the quickness with which he'd gained familiarity with every part of her that he could get his hands on embarrassed, frightened, and excited her all at the same time.  Describing Sly- his looks, his actions, and his words, especially the ones he didn't say-  to her ship's cooper, had caused that already world weary teenager to believe that the young Raibeart boy was his age mate, instead of a full seven years his junior.  Since he had his eyes on Manny himself, he never missed an opportunity to remind her that not only was Sly much softer than the men she'd grown up knowing and working with, she'd have to wait years for the relationship to be countenanced by either his parents or her ship captain.

Manny took hold of Sly's floating hands, pressed them to the loose binding on her chest, leaned forward, and gave him a kiss worthy of the touch-starved mariner she was.  The small surprised noise Sly first let out was quickly followed by soft moans of gratitude.  The space between their two bodies contracted until it could no longer bear to exist.  As interesting and inviting as all the sensations were, it took a few minutes for Manny to realize that Sly had begun to instinctively grind himself against her and was sliding his feather-soft hands under her clothing. 

"Hey!  Wait- I have to get back to work," she panted, rolling him away from her with the strength that it normally took her to push a full barrel.

"Right, right," Sly mumbled, suddenly ashamed of himself.  "Sorry."

"Fuck sorry," Manny smiled wickedly, forcing herself to recover quickly from her own confusion and embarrasment.  "I have a gift to keep while I'm away.  The feel of you.  Your scent and taste.  My secret.  No one can take it."

"Here," Sly said quietly, holding up the cloth tie that normally bound her breasts down.

"Put it on me," Manny commanded, pulling her shirt up to her armpits and turning around.  "Make it tight as you can get it."

"I still don't understand why you need this," Sly grumbled, breathing in her sharp, seawater scent.  "They show anyway."

"You're looking for them, is why," Manny said firmly, trying hard to be the voice of reason.  "This makes it harder for someone who isn't.  Tighter, Sly, or it'll come off with any old tug."

"Well, can you blame me?" Sly shot back, only mostly joking.  "Why are you putting me in charge of hiding two of my favorite things about you?"

Manny reached a hand back to swat at Sly, who easily leaned back to dodge.  "Because if you're going to be that close to me, you have to have something useful to do, or- tighter, for fuck's sake!"

Sly finished tying off the cloth behind her back and took advantage of his position to simply wrap her in a hug from behind.  "I hate it.  I hate your leaving, I hate your work, I hate that you always come back with some new scar or bruise.  I hate waiting.  I hate not being able to-"

But there was no one good way to finish that sentence, and the tirade, short as it had been, stopped entirely.

Manny didn't say anything, but instead simply leaned her head back, allowing her arms to fall over Sly's arms, pressing them close against herself.  Her silence was sufficient, and they both knew it.

"Alright, gimme it," Sly finally sighed. 

"The satchel's over there- take it careful; it's heavy."  Manny scooted forward and turned around to watch Sly recover the package, which seemed to have been both padded and wrapped firmly to prevent people from sorting out what it was.  He fingered it gingerly for a few seconds, then took hold of it with both hands and pulled its full weight out of her messenger bag.

"Be careful," Manny admonished again as she watched him get up.

He didn't turn around.  "Fuck careful; I'm a goddamned scribe.  You be careful."

Manny covered her mouth with both hands to keep from shrieking or laughing.  It was unusual to hear him curse, and it sounded out of place, granted his constantly quiet tone.  The purse against her bound chest trembled with the force of her heartbeat.  She wished just as hard as he did that she could make the work easier, the wounds fewer, and the years shorter.  But the cooper had told that it was better this way, better to give herself time to save money, and give Sly time and space to mature- although she couldn't imagine him being somehow more serious or constant than he had always been with her.

Sylvester didn't respond to anyone or look anywhere but down at the street until he'd made it all the way home.  Reproaches for rudeness were ignored.  Requests after his health went unheard.  A few rumours about him caught fresh wind, and zinged around behind him, from shaken head to shaken head, entirely without his knowledge, attention, or care.

Stephen, who was sitting quietly in his shop, as was his midday custom, actually heard more about his son than that son himself did.

"Stop," he commanded, his thick, steel-hard tone hitting his younger son like a hammer to the face.

"Huh?  Ahh!  Yes, ser," Sly stuttered, standing still where he was, still about five feet away from the shop's sign.

Stephen purposefully made his tone of voice much lower and quieter than normal.  "Turn around.  Bid those ladies good day.  And apologize for walking past them so coldly."

Sly cringed, but did exactly as he was told.  "I'm so sorry, ladies, I didn't mean to do that, I... um... hope you have a pleasant day."

The pair of "ladies," who were in truth a pair of rich, idle girls just a few years older than Saul, nodded to Sly, then giggled to each other as they turned and walked quickly down the street.  Getting a blush out of the little Raibeart boy had been a wonderful addition to their plan to gawk at the grown Raibeart man, whose adulterous reputation, years cold in practice, was still red hot.  Susanna had never told tales, but Stephen's infamy endured because far too many well-born Suzailian mothers had sharp memories, access to good wine, free time to remember old adventures, and unfortunately nosey daughters.

Sly, who wasn't new to watching teenage girls try to catch his father's attention, ground his teeth and turned back around.

Stephen looked at his flushed son, who was slightly more disheveled than he'd left barely an hour before. "Good enough.  What did you bring me?" he asked, deciding to allow his son's behaviour to go without additional comment.

"This parcel," Sly replied, quickly stepping forward to give the thing over.

The unwieldy thing, which took Sly both hands to manage with any degree of dexterity, only needed one of the blacksmith's knowledgable hands.

"This is a weapon," he muttered, almost to himself.

"It'd have to be in pieces," Sly countered before he thought better of answering his father's thoughts.

Stephen scoffed gently at his second son.  "And here I thought you had no feel for this type of work at all- yes, it's in pieces.  Did it come with any sort of written word?"

Sly shook his head first, then began to speak.

"Don't worry about that," Stephen said as he turned around and got about the business of taking the wrapping apart.  "Your mother and I had a good, long talk about what I ought and ought not to be expecting out of you and Lona, and... well, as usual, the woman's right."

Sly slowly walked around his father's work table, surprised at his father for taking counsel from his mother despite the fact that she had been so ditzy lately.  He watched wordlessly as first a scuffed blade, then a battered hilt, then a skull shaped pommel appeared.

Both Raibearts marveled at the sight, for entirely different reasons.  Sly broke the spell first, pointing to a tightly bound, square shaped something that hadn't been revealed just by undoing the outer packaging.  Without any comment, Stephen picked it up, weighed it in his hand, then handed it over to Sly.

"What is it?" he asked, partially continuing the guessing game and partially wanting to delay the discovery of what he feared was inside.

Sly gently squeezed the package with both hands.  "Parchment, I think?  But not just a letter- or rather, not just one, probably.  Should I-"

"Go ahead," Stephen nodded.  Within himself, he felt the beginnings of the unwelcome cold nip at the center of his chest.

Sly found the cut ends of the twine and, unlike his father, who had ripped through the thick butcher's paper that held the weapon, carefully took the knot apart so that both the twine and the thinner wrapping paper came away whole.  Released from its binding, a thick piece of parchment at once began to unfold itself, revealing a smaller square of paper inside of it.  Sly finished flattening the large piece of parchment first, staring at the image it bore.

"It's Aunty," he said breathlessly.  The parchment, now very clearly a wanted poster, had 'Dass the Bastard' written in big bold letters beneath the portrait of a smiling woman with a half-shaved head.  The family resemblance- the height and width of the cheekbones, the thinness of the lips, and the thickness of the hair that hadn't been shaved off- was damning.  The shoulder length brown hair on the left side of the woman's head had been braided and laid flat over her wide shoulder.  Intricate tattoo work of some kind swirled up both muscular arms and even stretched delicate tendrils up underneath the sleeveless shirt to the swan like neck.  Inasmuch as Sly knew he was looking at his aunt, for some reason, he thought of Manny- her calloused hands, her lean belly, her forceful thighs.

Stephen reached out and collected the poster, sliding the smaller paper onto the table in the process.  With a slow, quiet sigh, he nodded.  "Yes, that's her.  I suppose this is the first you've really seen of her- first I've seen in years, but... I'd know that face anywhere."

Sly looked at as much of his father as the poster would allow him to see, since nothing about the way he'd said what he did betrayed clear approval or disapproval of the situation.  Stephen put the poster down and looked at his son, catching him in the act of trying to divine his reaction.

"Give me that bit of thing over there, please," Stephen said, his tone still completely flat.

"Are you angry?" Sly asked, deciding to try his luck.

Stephen simply looked at his son in silence, practically smelling the fear off him.  The core of cold inside him hardened and grew wider, claiming more of him.  "I'm not happy," he answered after a few moments had gone by.  "Is that all you worry about?  Whether or not I'm angry?"

Sly was too confused to even begin to put together a defense.  "Sort of... yes.  Ser."

Stephen tried to think back to how old he was when he first realized that he couldn't recognize the man that the Purple Dragons sent back home the second time.  He found that the years and experiences blurred together in a way that made enumerating them just as impossible as forgetting them.  Swallowing hard, he picked up the small paper on his own and opened it.

Dear Beastie,


I'll never forgive you for sending me a weapon of such prodigious quality and formidable design that my beloved broke his work in pieces, insisting I use yours instead.  I had to rescue the bits and sneak them out of his hand's reach, or I'm certain he'd have pitched them into the sea.  What am I going to do, now that you both have solid proof of each other?  Don't fill your head with illusions of domestic bullshit; my dearheart is already married, just not to me.  Try not to judge us- or his smithing work!- too harshly.

Don't fear this portrait; the artist is a friend, and painted it specifically so that you might know what sort of creature the years have made of me.  You might feel free to laugh openly at whatever mockery she put on other scraps of canvas, should you chance to see them; they are so dissimilar to reality that I'm even made a man in a few of them.

If Iordi's in your arm's length and you haven't pummeled him for lending credibility to Lionar Raibeart's case against him, I'll be much deceived in you.  I'm of course glad to read that he's survived, but you know that no one would have believed that battlemad blockhead's accusation of murder- murder!- if Iordi had only kept quiet about it.  Pack that boy in a crate and send him back to Arabel so fast as you can do it, or at least keep him out of Marsember.

You won't believe it, but I've seen Ronny in a dock's dive in Westgate.  His crew had come ashore by late evening, but mine was to cast off that night.  At first, I couldn't believe it was him; I had to hear 'Captain Raibeart' a few times to remember myself, and keep out of sight.  From the vantage of a shadowed porch, I watched him play domino with his crew, with his lieutenant sitting on his knee like a paid coquette while pretending to help him cheat.  Now, I don't know what that woman might write you, but this is the truth; a band of Blue Dragon commanders has cut a deal with a few of the freemariner captains, mine included.  In exchange for their blind eye, we're to take down whatever pirates we come across.  Cormyr reserves the right to hang us if we're caught, but we keep all the spoils we win, no begging please before or pardon after.  The arrangement suits me fine.

As for the family saint's fears of being related to a pirate- so far as I'm concerned, I'm blood neither to him nor Lionar Raibeart.  There's no quitting Leena, who must bite deeply into anything good she can remember like a rusted bear trap, but the hills and her silence will keep us both safe.  You and Iordi are neither so distant nor quiet, so decide carefully for yourselves whether you want to claim The Bastard or not.  The Bastard herself loves you no less, and supposes she ought to write and tell you so more often from here forward, seeing as Iordi can't be relied upon to stay off the noose or the block, and you write me about everyone else but yourself.

Carry on smartly, or I'll come ashore and steal your wife, to give you all a good scare.

-Dassy

In the time it took Stephen to read the letter, with the letters smaller, but more properly formed than one would expect out of someone who hated handwriting classes as much as Adassa had as a child, Sly had gone upstairs and brought Iordyn down to the shop with him.  Iordyn took Sly's place on the other side of the work table, leaving the child to stand a bit uncomfortably off to his left, close to the grindstone and the relatively cool forge.  Once Iordyn noticed that Stephen's eyes were simply staring at the paper without moving, he slowly and gently reached forward to take hold of the top of it.

"May I?" he asked, when his elder brother looked up at him.

Stephen grunted and let go of the paper, and no sooner had he done so than he folded his arms over his chest as though the shop were bitterly cold.

Sly shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his mind wandering between the solid statue that was his father and the turbulent tide that was Imanjat.

"Where did this come from?" Iordyn asked, when he'd finished reading.  "Well, Dassy, obviously, but-"

Stephen reached his arm across the table, palm upward, obviously wanting the letter back.  "Shut that up; no questions.  She knows you're alright, and now you know that she is, too."

Iordyn looked up at the stone hard face of his elder brother.  "So Leena is allowed to know where she is, but I'm not?"

"Leena is safe," Stephen reasoned.  "But for her good, I have to allow her to write to whomever she pleases, and count it a blessing that she even wants to do so."

"Stephen, I'm an adult," Iordyn complained, utterly confused.  "And if Papa is so far from his senses, why are he and Mama still in Marsember on their own at all?  Shouldn't they both be here, instead?"

Stephen closed his eyes and rubbed them with the fingers of the hand that he had extended.  "Leave that here and go upstairs; I'm tired."

Iordyn gave a single cough-like sound that wasn't quite bitter enough to be a scoff.  "How could you be tired?  It's the middle of the day.  You're just avoiding my questions."

"Iordyn, I am tired; go upstairs and let me think," Stephen rumbled, sounding strange even to his own ears.

"No; absolutely not," Iordyn shot back, insulted.  "Talking of tired- I'm tired of being commanded here and there by people who are older, who know better, whatever- so, no.  No, Adassa is my sister too, and I'd very much like to know where she is, so that at least I can make the decision she herself asked me to make, if you don't mind, Papa Raibeart."

Stephen speared Iordyn through with a look so sharp that a lightning bolt of fear went through the archer's body.

"You're right.  You are an adult," Stephen managed through clenched teeth.  "I could no sooner or more safely move our father out of Marsember than I could lift a whale out of the depths of the sea.  Mama manages him because he remembers her, and because both of them consider Susanna a false, loose priestess of Chauntea.  I have the pleasure of thinking through all the possible outcomes of all the choices I make- like the choice to tell you the ports in to which this woman tends to call.  I've loudly and repeatedly claimed for years that our sister must have been kidnapped or sold as a slave, mostly to keep both of our parents from suspecting that the woman whose image they see on posters like this is their daughter.  Like our father, you are sworn to the Purple Dragons; unlike him, you probably wouldn't willingly betray this woman to them.  That means it would take some college mage to find out that you were hiding information about her, and when, not if, they did so, they would then rightly accuse you of treason.  I imagine you remember what the penalty for that is.  Even if I weren't also suspected of treason, I couldn't pay this bounty even with my soul, so I would be put to hard labour for life, at best, or hung, at worst.  Either way, our father, who couldn't be suspected of aiding or abetting this woman, would gain custody of and power over you, my shop, my wife, and all of my children.  Ronny would be dishonorably discharged.  Unless some other captain found the time to marry him and Taricia at sea, he would lose her too- and even if they stayed together, they'd have to choose between being destitute or becoming pirates, since the seafaring life is all either of them know.  Even Iona could be suspected, especially since he was just recently in the Pirate Isles.  He could be put out of his brotherhood, and he has no trade at all.  Only Leena is truly safe, since not only is she so far in the northwest of the country that it would be very difficult for a court to believe that she could have anything to do with this woman, she is no longer a Raibeart, but instead a MacCreigh.  You know who this woman is, that she is alive, and that she's glad that you are too, and trust me, that's much more than Yeshua Raibeart knows about her.  You can argue with me about it all you like; I've survived many a temper tantrum over the years."

Sly, who knew his presence had all but been forgotten, felt something tickling his cheeks in an unpleasant way.  He rubbed at them, only to discover that the irritants had been tears. 

The child's movement, small though it was, caught the blacksmith's attention, and inexplicably enough, was sufficient to return him to himself.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed it out.

"I'm not angry," he said quietly, opening his eyes and looking directly at his crying son.  "I sound angry, but I'm not.  I..."

"You're tired," Iordyn mumbled, wounded by his brother's response.

Sly nodded wordlessly, unable to make his voice work.

"Come here, boy," Stephen murmured, stepping away from his table.

With great effort, Sly forced himself to span the distance between himself and the monolith that was the Raibeart patriarch.  To the boy's great shock, the giant man knelt on the ground before him and allowed his large, calloused hands to simply rest on his thighs.

"Splash your face with some water from the barrel there, and dry it.  Then go to the shrine room, and pray for my soul, will you do that for your father?"

Sly's eyes blurred and burned, but he nodded forcefully, although otherwise standing as still as a frightened deer.  The blacksmith wrapped his solid arms around the comparatively frail waist of his son.

"Pray hard, boy," he whispered, the small words heavy in his dry mouth.  "Go and pray that I be saved."

Prayer was the absolute last thing on Sly's mind. It took a few moments for anything to cross his mind at all, but an idea occurred to him after a quiet bit of time had passed.

"You can come to evening prayer with Mama, when we all go with her."

"I... might," Stephen puffed in a way that was supposed to be a chuckle, but wasn't.  He patted and rubbed his son's back in a way that reminded both of them of when he was much younger.  "But, pray for me now anyway- take Lona, wherever she is.  Probably the sitting room, eh?"

"Probably.  With Sarai," Sly said, allowing himself to melt into actual comfort.  He couldn't move his arms to return the hug, but he laid his head on his father's chest.  Another moment of silence passed.

Iordyn turned his attentions to the broken weapon on the table, staring at it as though he could burn its image into his brain.

"Good enough."  Stephen uncoiled himself from his son, looking down at him with eyes that had softened since last his son saw them.  "Go tell your mother all you saw and heard.  Don't leave anything out.  She and the gods will sort me out, won't they?"

Sly nodded again, now very much shrunk into the mere ten years that he claimed.  He went and splashed his face with the water barrel that had a few long-cooled weapons in it, then made his way quickly up the stairs without sparing a word to his uncle, who didn't mind the absence of sound anyway.

After what felt like a very long time, Iordyn finally looked down at his brother, who was still kneeling on the ground of his shop with his hands flopped on his thighs.  

"Do you want me to leave?" the younger brother asked.

Stephen sighed deeply.  "No.  But..."

"Don't," Iordyn interrupted.  "Don't.  This has been... going on for a while, and... I can't help but feel foolish.  For not seeing- not letting myself see, I suppose.  I want to help, but..."

"Help how?" Stephen scoffed softly.  "There's nothing to help with."

"Maybe with our parents?" Iordyn asked, knowing that he sounded as unsure as he felt.  "I am the youngest... I'm not a woman, but... but perhaps I should... just go anyway?"

"Iordyn, what brought you back down from Arabel to Marsember in the first place?" Stephen asked wearily.

"I was sent," Iordyn replied.  "I didn't understand why, but I obeyed anyway.  Well... no, that's not entirely true.  There was a guardswoman..."

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Iordyn saw a small, thin figure get larger and larger, clearly coming toward the shop, and then entering it.  The figure was wreathed by a cool aura, strong enough that Iordyn almost felt as though he should see it.  It took an inordinate amount of time to realize that the figure was Salone, and by the time he did, he was too embarrassed about not having recognized her sooner to call her name.  He allowed her to silently walk up behind her father, who had his back turned to her, but as it happened, paternal senses are sharper than those of archers, even those favoured by gods.

"I just sent your brother to fetch you to the shrine room, Lona."

"But I have to be here," Lona said firmly, moving in front of her father and sitting straight down on the ground, bottom in the dirt, as though her dress didn't matter one bit.

"Did your mother send you?"

"No."  And without any further ceremony, the girl leaned forward and put her entire upper body into her father's lap as though she were much younger than she actually was.

"Did someone tell you I was angry?" Stephen puffed, trying to make a joke.

"No," Salone replied, turning over so that she could look up at her father while still lying in his lap.  "Grandpa Raibeart comes to visit a lot, and tries to stay."

Stephen, struck directly for the first time by an experience that Susanna had only told him of, found a new and unusual chill in his chest.  Behind Iordyn, the forge had gone suddenly and completely cold.  Overcome both with a strange fear and a desire to protect that seemed out of place at the moment, Stephen sat his youngest daughter up and wrapped her in his arms.

"Your grandfather's in Marsember, Salone.  With your grandmother, who's taking good care of him.  Everything's fine, both there and here."

"We'll help you keep him out," Salone said simply, an answer that only raised more questions.

Stephen remembered Ielena, who had received merciless punishments from both parents for 'behaving moodily' or 'pretending at witchery'.  He held his daughter tighter, as if he could shield her.

Iordyn reached under his shirt and took hold of his split arrowhead, which again was very cool to the touch.  And despite all he'd said to his brother and sister-in-law about Salone's temperament before, he found himself a bit concerned about who precisely was 'we'.