Changes in Perspective

Last modified: 1 January 2023

The ride to Paris is easier in the daylight, and they would be making good time, except Farwind isn't much of a rider. Regenlief wants to let him follow at his own pace. If he's motivated enough to come with them, he's motivated enough to catch up to them. Eventually.

Their discussion concluded, Corwin's scotch bottle finds itself returned somewhat lesser in capacity than when it was previously acquired.

While awaiting Cordelia's return, Jerod switches out his silvered blades for a single blade that is concealable since they do not know the norms of their destination and where the open carry of weapons may be frowned upon.

He will also obtain more reasonable clothing, though for sure once they are in Shadow should the need arise for a change, as is known, Shadow will provide.

He will be finishing up a note to Carina when Corwin and company return.

Love..

I'm hoping this finds you in Xanadu and well recovered from your recent adventures. I would prevail upon you to remain there for a reasonable time until my return as I have family news that I would share with you personally as I feel it will require some discussion. Your clarity of insight into some recent events as always is of great benefit.

Not to mention it has been far too long since we've spent any time together.

With you always,

Jerod

He seals up the note and passes it to Corwin for transfer when he gets ahold of whoever will be in Xanadu to receive the latest news on the monks.

Once that is done he takes a look at Cordelia and how she is outfitted.

"Monks await?" he asks, his way of asking even though he has no doubt she will be ready to proceed.

Jerod thinks that there were firm discussions with dressmakers more used to dealing with Flora than with half-vampires. Her clothes seem to have come from a formal mourning set, and have been tailored to suit her style. She’s carrying both a parasol and a rapier. The hanger for the sword seems to have been recently dyed.

She nods. "It will be anticlimactic if they don’t want to give us a fight. We should give them what they’re waiting for."

"Or what they're dreading." Jerod says, a slight wolfish grin passing across his countenance.

Vere has changed into sensible travelling clothes, and has left the bag containing dungeon-diving supplies somewhere. If he is armed the weapons are not visible.

Cordelia steps up to the big painting, well lit by the beeswax candles that Corwin's staff have helpfully provided. "So, I've gone through these, but how do you initiate the transit? Do I just click my heels and wish I was there?"

"If the trump is usable, it should be cold." Jerod says, reaching out to it. He does not activate it when he touches it but verifies its function. "See the image and make it your focus. A real place trump will give impressions of conditions on the other side, temperature, wind, even smells. If it doesn't come up don't be worried, it may just be practice for the moment. The ones we are chasing don't have the family gift so they would have had to be trained to forge a passage through."

Jerod pauses a moment to collect imagery and data through the contact if possible. Assuming nothing is untoward, he turns to Vere. "I'll go through. If she can't activate herself, pass her through." he says, before activating it and stepping through.

Jerod goes through the trump. The air is bitingly cold, and the scenery of the mountain clearing is breathtaking in its own way. Below lie miles of virgin evergreen forests, marching down the mountain and flanking what may well be waterways. There are a few places that might be roads, or might once have been, but there are few signs of habitation in the valleys below.

Here, though in a high mountain clearing, Jerod sees a collection of buildings nearly identical to those in the painting he'd entered. There are 5, and all have smoke rising from various chimneys.

The meadow is at the tree-line, and the mountain peak above is snow-covered. There is no one outside to greet or notice Jerod's arrival.

Vere nods and watches, alert for any signs of something going wrong.

Cordelia steps up to the painting, where he father was. "It was like he became two-dimensional, and all the color was squeezed out of him." She doesn't say this in a way that seems surprised or disturbed by the prospect. "So I just...". She stops, and laughs. It's a short sound, and disappears with her as she steps forward into an dazzling coruscating wave of color and light.

She appears aside Jerod, looking less pale than usual in the sunlight. "That was exhilarating!" she tells him. "I will definitely want to do that again."

Meanwhile in Paris, Vere sees nothing wrong.

Vere steps through immediately after Cordelia and immediately scans the area around them, looking for any sign that their arrival has been noted.

Jerod smiles at her comments, and the abbreviated laugh coming from her arrival. "There will be opportunities in the future. We have personal Trumps for Family that we can use to communicate with, or to travel to and from that person with their help."

Jerod has made note of her complexion and will be continuing to do so. Whether this might be due to an interaction with the Trumps, or perhaps a change to her personally since they are no longer in extreme proximity to a Pattern would be something to consider.

"Once we get some time we can see about having a Trump made of you, with your approval. I would like to have one available. I'll need to get one of me made for you as well. I think I know enough to try to make one." he says, taking the opportunity now to check the buildings in the distance.

He also takes a moment to sift the Shadow to get a feel for its composition as well as its time flow. He wants to know, in comparison to Paris, how much time the quarry has had available to continue running. Also things like whether magic is prevalent, the chaos of tech and such would be useful to know if it is readily apparent. He's not blatant about doing it by pulling up the Pattern directly...he's not sending up a flare for a local watcher, but he uses enough that Vere is likely to feel it for sure. And if someone is close enough to detect it, that can also be useful.

"Impressions?" he asks, for both Cordelia and Vere, pointing to the buildings.

The City never sleeps, not truly.

Even beyond midnight, restless phantoms and angels shift through shadow and light.

Back amongst the night and neon, one such phantom finds itself above the streets. Lost, even though it knows the path it treads.

Tricksey ignores the void beneath her, cat-feet carrying her over the ruin's metallic skeleton. Carrying her home through its plastic skin and bamboo ligaments. She knows the building's secret ways, scared paths. Places the foxes and bully-bois dare not walk. Instinctive, familiar. She needs that familiarity.

She scuttles up a lone fire escape, cresting the rooftop. The Rookery. Her home once. Yet, after meeting her kin--her blood?--she feels like a stranger here.

After parting ways with them, she'd gone to collect some of Bailey's things. Now, she needs to collect her own. Tyrell, it seems, would soon be behind her. Kalifornia calls. Her family calls. The Crow Girl wonders which would accept her.

The Rookery stirs; the rooftop sanctuary sensing her approach. Sec-cams watch her with invisible eyes, recognizing her ID. With a soft crime, a door slides open, letting her inside the apartment. Once inside, she busies herself, showers away the tunnels, changes her look. Finding normalcy, even though that's gone forever.

Finally, she sits down in front of her rig--a collective of mainframes and interlinked bots. For the final time, she checks her messages. Looking for her own, the one she sent from the Pyramid. If it even survived the interruption.

There's an incomplete, corrupt file that will take some effort to recover, and probably more computing power than she has currently got on-line. But it's not a total loss, which was what she feared.

As she goes through her messages, Tricksey texts on her burner phone, sending out the all-clear to Brita, Conner, and Fletcher. They seemed to adapt well to the tech she'd given them, despite their apparent reliance on pointy-metal-things and esoterics. She adds in the GPS coords, so they can find their way through the city's multiple levels from wherever they might be. Finally, she sends out their images to her fledglings -- street rats and taggers -- who pay homage to her. They can guide her cousins here, if necessary.

As far as Tricksey can tell, no one is looking for her, specifically. It looks like this new person had the ability to order them to release all prisoners and the lack of concern for consequences to actually do it. It's all over the news, and there are plenty of rumors. One is that they're shutting down the hospital. Another is that they're preparing for a war, and they're sending the prisoners to fight. None of them make sense.

Some of the released prisoners have been in the cells for a decade. No one has invaded her lair, but there are a lot of people who don’t have things worked out. People who never expected to see their first spouse alive again.

Some of them are people who really shouldn’t have been let out of the cells.

It's going to be a rough night.

Stretching like a stroked cat, Tricksey leans back in her chair. "Stupid Foxes!" Knowing she'll need help, she sends out the call through the Sub-Net, requesting access to some server time. It'll cost her more than the usual Kibble, but it's worth the price. She wants to impress her new - bloodkin?

The servers spin up, although demand-based pricing is in effect and power and routine maintenance are in short supply. Tricksey sets various jobs running and can look back at the results later.

The releases both thrill and trouble her. A Crow Girl never judges, but some of these bullybois could do some damage. Time to head that off.

She leans forward again, fingers dancing over the keys. She sorts through the undesirables, looking for records and rap-sheets. Any that might have a grudge or cause trouble get flagged and tagged. She sends their bios out to the local sniffers. Maybe mitigate the damage.

Tricksey sends out her information-- the police are overwhelmed, dealing with everything from opportunistic violence and theft to panicked calls for help and/or protection. Lots of people are heads-down tonight, just trying to make it to the morning.

Some people do rise to the occasion. There's a soup kitchen to feed people. And a bunch of people who are protecting the soup kitchen.

The hospital isn't closed, but it's not exactly open for normal operations, either.

Tricksey rubs the bridge of her nose; a long night for the Crow Girl. She reroutes some pilfered creds to the soup kitchen, help take some of the strain off. She does the same for other groups and gangs that'll likely be dealing with this influx of people. The corps won't miss them and she doesn't need them. Not as much as she did before.

She gets up to make coffee, and feels a strain on her heart when she discovers Bailey's cup on the shelf. She holds it for a moment, feeding upon the memories left in the ceramics. The touch of her fingers. The softness of her lips. The hint of warm joy. All lingering behind like an unfinished letter.

She wonders what her lover is doing. Where she is. WHO she's become. Would she even be alive when she gets back to this Earth...place. The Bloodkin might know more. They talked in foxy riddles. But seemed...somewhat genuine.

After filling Bailey's cup, Tricksey settles back down in front of her rig and goes back to work. Using the phones' GPS, she pings the trio. Reminding them that they have a safe roost, even in this city's growing madness.

Tricksey works until dawn, or what used to be called dawn before they ruined the atmosphere. They sky gets lighter, marginally, through the clouds, and some places in the shadows of buildings see more illumination than usual. It's not pretty, sunrise in Tyrell, but it is familiar.

The news feed lights up. The priests who make up the ownership of the hospital are giving it as a gift to the city. They're seen shaking hands with the mayor, who looks mightily confused.

Abel is not amongst them.

Tricksey gets occasional texts from Conner throughout the night. He sent several ruffians accosting the soup kitchen to go seek medical attention while setting up a makeshift clinic in the soup kitchen to provide it to those behaving themselves. He arrives at Tricksey's bolthole around dawn. Conner has lost his suit jacket somewhere so the jade-hued sword at his belt is quite obvious. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and there are bloodstains here and there though none of it seems to be his.

"Morning Crow Girl." Conner's smile has the brightness that the morning sky lacks. "Interesting night on your end?"

Tricksey bonelessly leans back in her chair, looking at Conner upside-down. She is dressed in an old netrunner's jumpsuit; its tightly fitting duraweave hugging her like a crimson shadow. She's put a bulky t-shirt on top of this, from the band, Decomposition Rodeo.

"Ohayō gozaimasu, Connor-sama. Refresh," She points to the coffee-maker. "Cups on shelf. Cream in cooler."

She continues watching him from her odd position, "Tricksey managing. Conner helping? Your blood?"

"Others' blood." Conner clarifies. "I convinced some thugs that threatening the soup kitchen was bad for their health." Conner pours himself a cup of coffee and adds a healthy glug of cream. "Then I set up a makeshift clinic for the hungry wounded." He takes a sip of the coffee. "Any other excitement in the city?"

"Servers overloaded," Tricksey pouts. "Hard to move data. May be lost." She sighs, "For City, Crow Girl shift money. Help released. Helped families. But many foxes and few Crows. Thank you, Connor-sama. You go Crow work."

She slides out of the chair, moving to fetch another cup of coffee. "Feel torn. People free. But not know why taken."

With birdlike movements, she moves to a perch atop one of the numerous couches decorating the studio. After a sip from her cup, "Explain. What monks want? Why blood-kin fight them? Crow Girl thinks blood. But not explain all things. Like stairways to other worlds."

"Well, it's a long story but I will try to give you the brief version." Conner replies. He moves to one of the other couches and sits down. "If there is already a link between worlds, what we call a shadowpath, then anyone can walk from one world to another. My family, our family," Conner corrects himself, "don't need those paths to walk between worlds. Once we have survived the most difficult trial you are likely to face, we have the power to walk between the worlds freely. We also have some ability to manipulate those worlds in ways big and small." Conner holds up his hands to show they are empty and that there can't be anything up his rolled up sleeves. He then reaches under a couch cushion and withdraws a state of the art tablet computer that Tricksey knows wasn't there before.

Tricksey sees a tablet that shouldn't be where it was, but might plausibly have been there, if someone else came to her nest while she was in Ossining with Bailey. It would be useful for the CPUs, at least.

She considers this for a moment. But having witnessed Fletcher's 'magic,' spontaneous CPUs doesn't seem too far-fetched. Her fingers steeple under her chin, watching the shiny with corvid yearning as Conner continues.

"Only members of the Family can harness this power and it is tied to our bloodline." Conner goes on. "If you are too distantly related, then you are unable to wield these abilities. Even some who should have been strong by blood were somehow ill suited for the trial." Conner's face clouds with a memory and his hand drops to the hilt of sword for reassurance. "The monks are trying to determine by means scientific and sorcerous to determine what is special about our blood. We presume their aim is to harness that knowledge to give themselves that ability to obtain these same powers or perhaps to find some weakness in us that they can exploit. They have kidnapped several members of our bloodline who were unaware that they were Family but somehow the monks figured it out. They have also either killed one of our eldest cousins or desecrated his body after death to take their precious samples. Brother Abel claims it is a rogue group of monks doing this and he does not condone their actions. Even if that is true, it does not make the rest of the monks a benign influence."

Tricksey cocks her head, "So Family come here and Earth to stop Monks. Tricksey understands. Foxes shouldn't have such things. Too much power. Why not trust Abel. Too much fox in him."

Her head cocks to the other side, pausing. Then her eyes ignite, sparkling. "If Tricksey have this power. She find Bailey in Earth without Shadowpath? And make shinies?"

"Yes." Conner answers simply. "But it comes with rules and conditions and enemies of the Family like the monks. You will need to convince a king or queen of our family realms to let you try. It would help if we had some idea of your parentage. Brita's nose is good enough for most but we do like to pin down what branch of the family tree you perch on."

Tricksey blinks. Blinks again. "Kings? Queens? Is autocracy?" She raises her chin, smirking regally. "Duchess Tricksey. Viscountess Tricksey. Crow Girl the Third and one-half." She snickers, splaying out along the couch's headrest. "Need tiara, yes? Frillies and servants."

Another pause, then a serious look at Conner. "Will Tricksey get sword?! Want sword." She jabs at the air, one-two-three. "Sticky, stabby Tricksey."

Conner chuckles. "Yes, you can have a sword and training in how to use it." Conner smiles. "As for tiaras and frillies, that is up to you. You've met my sister and while she can certainly turn heads in a designer dress when she wants, you are far more likely to find her in practical clothing to explore dangerous forests or sail the shadow seas. Eventually you will have the time to explore any subject you wish. With everything going on right now, we have to go with a crash course in things that might you survive and make sense of the whole Family role."

"Brita pretty. Smart. Tricksey like. Same for Conner," she pronounces. "Fletcher. Maybe. Too much fox under smile."

Tricksey turns over, balanced perfectly on the couch's worn headrest, as she looks at Conner. Grim. Harsh eyes. Crow's eyes. Her change in demeanor as sharp as knives. "Not just Monks, yes?" she asks. "More enemies on horizon. Foxes nipping at heels. Before Crow Girl join. She need know what she agrees to. Crow Girls do right thing. But not clip wings."

There is a brief, aborted ring from Conner's phone. After a few minutes it rings again.

Assuming Conner answers, he hears "Brother Conner? ...What? ...oh ...Brother Conner? I am With Bridge. They Say They are One of Cousin Tricksey's Chicks. We are... Up High? I was Searching for Purity to see If I could Clarify this Shadow. Where are You?”

Conner holds up a hand in apology to Tricksey and answers the phone. "I am with Tricksey in her nest. You are most welcome to join us."

Tricksey raises a brow and then smiles. She gets down from the couch. "I make tea," she announces.

"It May Take a Bit. Chick Bridge has Told me Cousin Tricksey's Roost is Far Down from our Current Location. I Will See if there is Something I Can Do to Speed Up." Brita's voice is a little muffled with wind noises as if she is moving. There is a rustling as she handles the phone. "There are Three Pack-a-Monster Stops Nearby. We Will Collect the Lightening Llama and Then See if we Can Join My Brother." The last does not seem to be directed at Conner.

Brita disconnects the phone with a brief "See You Soon" to Conner. She and Bridge do a quick Llama recovery at a local hot spot (mine is Pink with Purple Stripes and Creates Lightning Shocks when you Rub its Fur the Right Way!). She assures Bridge she can reach her brother, quickly.

Brita starts to Part the Veil that, but recalls her mother saying that Parting the Veil can damage the universe or the shadow that it's in; and Fletcher's review did show that the fabric of Shadow Tyrell is already unstable. It occurs to her that it might be better and safer for the Shadow to use her Trump of Conner as a shortcut instead.

Brita pushes gently on the Shadow but draws back as she realizes the parting will just make things worse. She draws out her Trumps and pulls up Conner, concentrating on his image as she recalls his tinny voice through the phone so she has a slight wistful smile on her face when the connection comes through.

Conner can feel the contact open.

Conner accepts the contact and smiles when he sees Brita on the other end. He offers his hand. "Coming through? Or is there something you do not want overheard?" Conner thinks at Brita.

"Coming Through," Brita says as she reaches for Conner's hand. She is on a balcony somewhere in true sun. "I Am Trying to Find a Way to Right This Shadow, but it is Difficult," she says as she fluoresces into existence in Tricksey's nest.

Tricksey is returning with a Japanese tea set, pausing as Brita comes into existence in the middle of her eccentrically decorated home. It's a cultural mishmash of trinkets and shinies, laced with wires and computers. Yet functional and strangely comforting. A line of birds has formed along the foggy windows, as if drawn to the activity.

She sets the set down and proceeds to make tea. "Welcome, Brita-san. Sit. Drink. Have noodles, if hungry. Biscuits, if not."

With a wave of her hand, "Also clothes. If wet. Need change? Both Conner and Brita. Tricksey has many things."

Conner shakes his head no at the offer of new clothes and settles back into the couch. "We were just discussing what it means to be Family," Conner explains. "And what the Monks mean to us."

Brita has a biscuit already in her mouth and a bowl of noodles in hand. She swallows and notes to Tricksey, "As Goddess of Clear Waters from My Shadow Asgard, I do Not Need to Worry about Being Wet." She smooths her now free right hand over her damp braid and jacket and she appears to be perfectly dry and clean. There is a small ball of dirty colored ice in her hand. "Is there a Place to Dispose of This? I Would have Misted it, But I Understand Water Vapor and Computers do Not Mix Well."

Brita then responds to Conner's inputs. "The monks Are Troublesome. Cousin Able does Not Appear to be the Source of Our Troubles with them. Do You Think He would Direct Us to monk chew?"

Tricksey watches with bright eyes, wrinkling her nose. She cocks her head to the left. To the right. Then back to center. Picking up a metal container, she holds it out to Brita. "Put here. Will dump later." A sly smile. "Too beautiful for kappa. Must be Suijin Child. Crow Girl like."

After setting the container aside, Tricksey returns to her roost atop the couch's headrest. "Data corrupt. Bandwidth slowed. Meantime, blow up monks? Like others who come to Tyrell? And Earth? Will Tricksey get sword? Pokey-pokey foxy monks."

Brita points at Conner's sword. "You Do Not Want That Type of Blade -- the Constraints to Someone So Free would be Untenable, But we Could Get you a Normal Sword. However, Your Talents Might lie Best in Sneaky, Subtle Attacks that Trip Up their Foxy Paws through All of Shadow."

"Sword Tricksey. Stabby foxes," Tricksey purrs, tasting the words. She likes their flavor.

"Moreover, what we've learned here might change things." Conner adds. "Our King should be informed of the presence of Able and his threat before we proceed."

Tricksey sits up, leaning forward with avian interest. "King? You call him? He choose what to do with foxes?"

Brita notes to Conner, "I do Not Have a Trump of Our Uncle. I Have a Sketch of Cousin Folly who is Most Likely to Be in Reality Xanadu. I could Ask Her to have King-Uncle Random Contact Us."

Conner nods. "That sounds like our best bet."

Brita pulls out a small pack of cards from a hidden pocket and quickly selects one. She leans it towards Tricksey so she can see it is a small painting of a young woman with dark hair and an elfin smile. Then Brita turns her attention back to the card, concentrating on her cousin.

Tricksey presses forward, eyes bright. She hasn't a clue why her so-called-blood would use a playing card to contact someone, but she's seen several miracles tonight. "Sim Card?" she asks softly, not wishing to interrupt the call.

There is no answer. Folly is busy or perhaps asleep.

Brita frowns, "Our Cousin does Not Answer. Perhaps she is Busy." She responds to Tricksey's question, "It is More of a Window or Door." She fans out some of her cards for Tricksey to see, pointing to Conner's image. "It is How I Came Here."

Tricksey cocks her head, examining the cards. Their design. Their contents. "Cards fold space?" she asks, lightly touching one - if allowed. "So much magick. Specific to world? Or person?" She looks up, "This also in Blood? Crow Girl learn?"

Brita hands Tricksey Conner's Trump to examine. "Concentrate on My Brother's Image and We'll See."

Tricksey carefully takes the card, flips it over, examining it.

The card deck is strange, and more complex than most people or corvids. The deck is cold to her fingertips, like an unexpectedly deep pond. She looks at the people depicted on the cards. The trumps are men and women in fancy historical cosplay outfits. None look like the stories of her father, but that doesn't mean he isn't amongst them. They look like powerful people who do large things. More like lions than foxes.

Trying to use 'The Touch' feels like drinking from a firehose, but Tricksey does get some surface impressions. Strong emotions are the easiest to pick out—rage and fear come through clearly, but it's unclear whose. Tricksey gets the uneasy impression that the cards are acting like a mirror, somehow, and those impressions were directed to her personally.

Tricksey flinches back from this deluge of information and emotion, trying to hone it down into something comprehensible. She cocks her head back and forth, nose curled up in animal suspicion. "Weird," she announces.

The overwhelming impression of the cards is one of a decision point. The top card when she looks at the deck is called the fool, and if the cards are, indeed, using The Touch on her, than it seems a warning to Triicksy of the dangers of isolation. Whatever is sending her a message, it's not a subtle one.

"Weirder," Tricksey adds. "Strange cards. Talking cards. But thoughtful. Crow Girl not sure if likes."

And then she does as Brita requested, concentrating on Conner's image.

Conner feels the touch of the Trump.

Conner moves so that the background behind him is non-descript wall and accepts the call. "Who calls?"

Tricksey's face lights up, holding the card closer to her face, as if it is a cellphone screen. "Tricksey! Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?!" This she chimes aloud, not realizing she can speak with her thoughts. Not that she would anyway.

"I can hear you fine," Conner thinks at her. "The communication is mental. As long as you hold the call, you will be able to hear me." The echo that Tricksey might expect talking to someone on a device who is in the same room is absent and if she turns to look, she can confirm that Conner's lips do not move.

Tricksey glances over at Brita and then back to Conner. She thinks "Very clever. Strange. So many magics. Crow Girl must think on these things."

She flips the card over, speaking aloud. "These can speak through distances? If cousin. Is one of Tricksey?"

"There is Not One of You, but If You Allow, I can Make One." Brita notes. "It Takes Time and Knowledge of the Person to Instill the Essential Link into a Trump. I Could do a Quicker Sketch, but it Would Not be as Durable. If you Would Like Either, I can Begin by sketching you." Brita pulls out a small sketchbook already partially filled with images of various people which she shows to Tricksey.

Tricksey flops down beside Brita, still holding the connection to Conner. "Is why so many emotions in cards?" she asks of them both. "Too many to hear. But felt. Not all pleasant."

She cocks her head and then runs her free hand through her hair, making it billow. "Yes. But remember. Get Crow Girl's good side."

To Conner, she adds silently "Can refuse card? If so. How?"

Brita smiles slightly at Tricksey's antics and starts to do some quick sketches of her in preparation for a Trump.

"The cards capture our true essence. That brings a lot of emotions with it." Conner replies. "You can block a trump contact by focusing on ignoring it and you can end the call by releasing your attention on the call and passing your hand over the card."

Tricksey considers this for a moment, her thumb playing over the card. It'd be rude to press further with the Touch. And Crow Girls weren't rude. Curious. Inquiring. But not rude. "And you pull people through card? Like wormhole?" she thinks to Conner.

Still maintaining her amazing pose, she glances at Brita. "You not only artist, yes? This blood trait? Or taught?"

"It is Taught, but Some have an Affinity for the Skill which May Come from Specific Blood Traits," Brita says as she continues to sketch. She smiles slightly, "You can Also Relax, Cousin. My Sketching is to Help Me Capture You -- Your Vibrancy and Life -- Into the Image. Interacting with You Naturally is Best to Accomplish That."

Tricksey nods to this, smiling softly. "Sound like omamori. Mother made them. For family. For crows. For papa. Tricksey never learn. She like papa. But wish to know more. If can learn, she will."

In answer to Tricksey's question, Conner reaches out his hand. "Try it and see. Take my hand."

Curious, Tricksey does exactly that, reaching out and trying to take Conner's hand.

Conner takes Tricksey's hand in a firm grip and pulls. "Step towards me." He instructs.

Tricksey does so, gently taking his hand. Her grip belies the immense strength there, juxtaposed against her waifish appearance. When she steps forward and appears opposite Conner, she blinks once. Blinks twice. And then, in pure elation, performs some odd celebratory dance, akin to a magpie in a blender. "Again! Again!"

By the time Tricksey has reformed next to Connor, Brita has shifted to get a view of her from across the room. She continues sketching as she watches Tricksey's interaction with her brother. "Tell Us about Your Papa," Brita encourages.

The dervish spinning stops. Warmth floods her cheeks, as Tricksey hops over to rejoin Brita. "Tricksey was chick. Not see much. But remember. He dark. Bright eyes. Brighter smile. But also love. Love too much? Felt it in things he held. The Touch spoke. But Tricksey too young to understand. Emotions tough."

She quirks a smile, "But understand why mama lay with him. And why she cry when not return."

Conner hums. "I've similar stories from other cousins. Not enough of a description to place him of course. Well, that's nothing new either." Conner shrugs. "So, we are back to where we go from here. I don't know that we are done here. I have a ship of Parisian saliors I should really check in on, and Tricksey should really have a chat with the King."

"Bright Eyes and Brighter Smile Could be You, Brother." Brita teases with a sly smile. "Still, we can Show Cousin Tricksey Images of the Uncles to See If She Remembers. Which King are you Suggesting? Uncle Corwin or Uncle Random?"

Tricksey glances between the two, mildly confused, yet infinitely excited. "Meet Kings? Tricksey want one who give her sword." She jabs at the air again in quick succession, making her way toward the computer rig. "Ho! Ha ha! Guard. Turn. Parry. Dodge. Spin. Ha! Thrust. Sproing!"

She flumps into the chair, spinning, spinning, until finally settling in the forward position. "If leaving, Tricksey need prep-time. Has dishes spinning. Want them to keep spinning. City hungry. Hurt people, if Crow Girl let it. And keep eye on Monks. Not trust Abel." With a single gesture, a dozen monitors blaze to life, sparkling with data feeds, new reports, questionable anime, and several interfaces. She grabs and pokes at the air, working through the rig's transparent display. Music fills the air as she works, punctuated by her own rhythmic, "Unce, unce, unce..."

A thought strikes Tricksey and she leans back in her chair, "Meeting King. Should Crow Girl dress up?"

Brita gives a bark of laughter. "Depends on The King." She glances at Conner with a raised brow. "For the King of Paris, I Would wear Something Formal but Not Revealing. For the King of Xanadu, One Can be More Informal... Comfortable Clothing, Perhaps with a Quirky Band Name Prominently displayed."

Tricksey fires off her cornucopia of instructions to the 'Net and gets up. She prances over to her wardrobe and begins rummaging through the plethora of clothes. Much of it is dark, leathery, and questionable in appropriateness and fashionable merit. Stockings, straps, a revealing blouse, and shorter skirt take shape. At least, there's a stylish tie... a vexing concession on her part.

"Yes?" she asks, looking at Conner.

Conner takes in Tricksey's look and turns to Brita. "Random definitely. If we get her within range of Aunt Flora, she'll be forcibly made over."

Tricksey puts her hands on her hips, pouting. "She has no taste? Crow Girl no like already."

Her head leans back, as she taps her chin in exaggerated thought. "If there King Random. Is also Queen Specific?"

Conner chuckles and if Tricksey is watching close she might catch the shift in his smile. "In another time, that would be a joke I'd enjoy sharing with His Majesty." Conner sobers. "There is a Queen Vialle and that situation is complicated to say the least. The Queen is currently possessed by an enemy of the Family both in the supernatural sense and the fact she was kidnapped. Rectifying that is on the to do list, but the one who has her is mighty indeed. This is why I am hunting monks and another missing Queen."

Tricksey wrinkles her nose. "That very specific. Sad for King. Crow Girl help. No like Ikiry&omacron;. Bad spirits. She hit them for you."

She pauses at his other admission. "Another? You lose Queens alot? Are they like keys?"

"Well, a lot of things fall through the cracks during an invasion and civil war." Conner shrugs. "I'll happily tell you the full story later."

Trciksey grins brightly, "Like stories. Crow Girl collect them." She points to herself. "City's memory."

Brita has pulled out a new card from her stack -- this one of a road leading to a castle built into a cliff with a waterfall cascading beside it -- and hands it to Conner with a "All I Have is a Place Trump of Reality Xanadu. Would you Want to Go There or Remain Here to Continue to Address our new Cousin Abel?" She has flipped to a new page in her sketchbook and continues to quickly sketch this new look of Tricksey's while she talks.

Ever the stylish corvid, Tricksey resumes her fashionable pose for Brita - somewhere between regality and circus act. Bending paranormally back, she retains her gaze on Connor, "If stay. Crow Girl has nests through City. Connor may use. And Fletcher. Tricksey like him. Even if little stiff. She make sure you both safe here. And have noodles."

Like a ballerina in her music box, Tricksey rotates around to look at Brita. "Pretty Brita take Tricksey to King Arbitrary?" She bats her dark eyelashes, hopeful.

Brita smiles wide at Tricksey's antics. "I Can." She notes to Conner. "If We Wished to Continue Here, I Could Return to Reality Xanadu with Cousin Tricksey to Introduce Her to Uncle Unpredictable and Then Return to Aid You."

Tricksey gives a happy giggle. "Yes! Queenly Brita wise. Knows things Crow Girl wants learn." The smile quirks up. "And want see Tricksey card."

Conner nods his assent. "I look forward to hearing all of the new nicknames Tricksey will bestow on our Family." He chuckles. "We'll figure out how to proceed once His Majesty is apprised of the situation."

Tricksey spins again, deft and swift. Returning to a more presentable stance. "Tricksey talk to Non-specific King. Then help Brita and Connor. Whatever need. She give. Blood is bond. Family is all.

"Help find Queen. Crow Girls good at finding lost things."

Brita retrieves the Trump of Conner from Tricksey and stores it back in her small set which disappears into an inner pocket of her green dress (because - pockets!). She hands the Place Trump of Xanadu to Conner. "If You Would hand us Through, You can Keep That Trump Until we Return."

Conner nods and concentrates upon the Trump. Provided it opens as intended, Conner will pass Tricksey and Brita through.

Conner watches Brita and Tricksey leave and decides this would be a good time to check in on those he has not seen in a while. He takes out the Eye and focuses upon Commodore Garlic to see how the Parisians are doing.

The good news is that Commoodore Garlic did not get jailed, released, and caught up in the general rioting last night.

The bad news is that the Lorraine seems to be having a heated discussion by megaphone and signal flag with a fast, modern, Coast Gaurd cutter. It has the same logo as the hospital had on it. Depending on how much territorial waters they claim here in Tyrell, it may be that the Lorraine is actually illegally in Tyrellean waters.

It is hard to describe the way time passed as "night", not with the way the sky wheels or the short periods between "dark" and "light". It's likewise hard to get much rest, but it isn't as if they are going to get more here. The knights and the moon riders are both eager to travel, and the camp is quickly broken down and left behind.

The path they take does not backtrack, but it does go towards more ordered places. Or at least less disordered ones. Even at Fiona's tower, there are rules and principles. It isn't out of the question that the Moonrider method of travel involves a certain amount of wandering around and hoping they get where they're going. Or so it seems.

The sky shifts back to something more akin to Amber's blue, but richer and more velvety, somehow. Even in the day, it is dark and close. The moon hangs low and looks as if it's always on the horizon, huge and orange-hued. Slowly the trees becomes less temperate and the forest becomes a jungle.

The moon riders are more animated as they cross a path with a sign near it. "Just a few hours more," says Argalia.

"Oh, and don't worry about the natives. Even if they ambush us, they're not much of a threat to anyone who isn't traveling alone."

Sir Unsheathed laughs at that. "You're more at risk from wild animals than wild people."

"Like the Gheneshi thing you were talking about before," Raven guesses as she looks around. "The natives trying to ambush people something that happens a lot around here, or is that one of those 'just in case because you'll see 'em in the trees, but it'll never happen' kind of warnings?"

Brennan is mostly quiet at the mention of ambush, but he does maintain a posture of alertness.

If that gives him warning of an ambush, so much the better, but his main purpose is absorbing all the unique qualia in all their unique combinations that make up the place-- the Shadow-- called Ghenesh. Part of this is visual, and part of that visual is the moon: Brennan wants to be able to sketch it later with his usual mechanical, draftsman-like precision. Not to create a Trump, which he can't do, but because it might be the best way to communicate to others how to get here without taking them here directly.

But he does not neglect his other senses. He wants to remember the heaviness of the humid air on his skin, the clouds of insects (even if conjury keeps them from bothering him too much), the sounds of foliage rustling in the breeze, the sound of birdcall from the trees and the air, the smell of the vegetation cloying all around him, even the look of the markings on the signs whether or not he can read them.

Brennan is resolved that nothing will prevent him from returning here again, should he decide to do so. Not by Pattern, not by Sorcery.

Brennan's efforts befit a person who can walk through shadows; he teaches himself how to bring himself to this path in this jungle in this place in this season. He invests in the knowing; the color of the sunlight, the way the air smells of plants all speaking in their slow fragrant language, the way the water moves over rocks in an unseen brook. Brennan could return here at least as reliably as the moon riders, or so he thinks.

Sir Unsheathed nods. "They wouldn't ambush a party this large. But don’t get separated. It can lead to incidents."

Argalia replies, "We may see them in the trees, but Sir Unsheathed is right. It would take more than they are capable of to take on nearly a dozen armed knights, some of whom are Riders."

Lorides adds, "I can smell them. We're being watched." Nevertheless, he (and the other horses) continue on.

Brennan hears Lorides' comment, and quietly signals the rest of the Knights to pull back and adopt a slightly more defensive posture. They'll know what to do-- nothing overt or threatening, just alert, in reach of each other, and ready to form a mutual defense if necessary.

He also silently works Space to provide himself with a brief overhead view.

It's hard for Brennan to get much of a view, since they are on a path through a dense rainforest. The vantages that are high enough to see a distance around them are above the treetops and the one that are below that level are obscured by growth. He can find the watcher Lorides smells with some effort. There's a lone man in a tree. He has a bow, but he looks more like a hunter or a scout than the leading edge of an army.

Raven, for her part, keeps to where she's been riding, but with half an eye on the trees now. "We talking about the stabby kind of incidents?" she asks. "Or the 'disappear into the woods and never come back' kind, or something else?"

Unsheathed shrugs, in a way that accentuates his weirdly fluid joints. "Whatever they can get away with, I imagine. They have less use for us than we do for them, and we have none."

"Ah." Raven doesn't sound entirely impressed - the irony of riding with people who were basically boogiemen a week ago through a forest of people they're telling some of the same vague stories about is not lost on her - but she drops the subject. "Anything else we ought to keep an eye out for while we're here? Besides great beasties at festivals."

Argalia shrugs. "Normal jungle concerns. Snakes. Heatstroke. Flying insects. I suspect you'll be engaged by priests when we get to the temple who want to talk your ears off."

Brennan takes no overt action. This entire original reason for this little jaunt-- before it became a diplomatic mission-- was reconnaissance.

So Brennan gets as good a look at the hunter, or scout, or decoy as he can just for future reference. Never know when you might need to stir up trouble on someone's flank, and Brennan has a pretty vicious imagination in that regard. This fellow probably isn't the uniformed combatant type, but if he has any markings or ornaments that look like a group affiliation, Brennan will take note.

Aside from that, Brennan mostly studies the Moonriders' response.

The scout has a necklace of what look like miniature tusks. Brennan thinks they're carved rather than remnants of a hunt.

The Moonriders seem to be looking forward to reaching their destination, and not particularly worried about the scout or the dangers of the road.

After a subdued ride of several hours, most of it under observation by the silent scouts in the trees, the jungle ends abruptly at a field. Below is a gentle sloping valley, which looks as if it has been carved out of the raw jungle and which still seems to be the subject of sorties and attacks by the foliage to get back what it has lost. In the middle distance there is a wide silver river like a ribbon laying across the croplands.

Beyond it is a walled city. It looks almost alien to the landscape below, or at least very separate from the town and people below it.

When the group stops, a little past the break between forest and field, Brennan gestures to Tenacity to raise his banner: A pale, slender tower on a pale, slender spire of rock, against a night sky. Out of that night sky, a stylized lightning bolt strikes the top of the tower, setting it ablaze and throwing a shower of embers across the sky. The tower-top blaze is cunningly stitched, appearing sometimes-- if vaguely-- as a human shape jumping to safety, sometimes as a bird with wings out-stretched, other times as simple fire as the drifting winds catch the cloth. The whole is differenced with the symbols of the Order of the Ruby.

The tower is not Fiona's Tower, of course, nor the Silver Towers of Avalon, but carries motifs of both and of neither.

As this has been deemed a diplomatic mission more than a military one, Brennan is armed, but not armored. Instead, he wears a traveller's variation on his typical court garb: Black riding pants tucked into black boots, along with a cardinal red shirt. Over that is a long riding jacket, black on the outside with cardinal red inner lining. There are the occasional silver highlights and threads of silver in the garb, but Brennan has never favored the kind of ostentatious finery that many courts do; he's always preferred to subvert those expectations, converting his status into an exception from that sort of finery.

The only jewelry he wears is the signet ring of the Order of the Ruby on one finger, and a moonstone ring he'd made for Cambina on a fine chain around his neck, under his shirt.

The other Ruby Knights have smaller banners and personal emblems flying as well.

Sir Firumbras nods in approval at the banner. "The Tower," he says, as if the symbol is well known to him. "In the traditional tarot deck of the franks, it was a card of sudden change or an imposition of chaos."

Unsheathed nods. "Not always, of course. It could mean the shift from one ordered modality to another."

They do not have banners, but are neither surprised nor unwilling to ride with knights carrying such.

"The sudden flash of insight," Brennan says. "The disorientation and pain of a new perspective. The will to act on it."

Raven is just listening at this point, and absently still fidgeting a little with the fit of her fancy clothes to get everything settled just right.

Sir Argalia nods. "A fitting motif for the first children of Amber to visit us in a generation or more. No matter how lightly you enter our society, it will seem to be all those things, except we will retain the choice on how to respond to the new information you bring us like a lightning bolt."

Sir Unsheathed looks a Raven's banner. "And I know what your emblem represents, but if we were to assign your banner's symbology as a part of the theme, I would suggest a correspondence to the Wheel of Fortune, which is thematically related to Sir Brennan's"

Sir Firumbras laughs. "The Tower Knight and The Wheel Knight. Most appropriate. A pair representing change as both hopeful and terrible."

Lorides laughs as well. It's a slightly disturbing sounds.

"Well, it wasn't picked to be thematic," Raven says, with a snort of amusement, "but I know my story and there ain't a way to claim that the Wheel of Fortune wouldn't fit some of it with a straight face, so I'll take it."

Brennan hasn't got much to say about the Moonriders' interpretation of his banner-- he originally adopted it, the particulars based around the card lore that Brand drilled into him, as something of a personal aspiration, rather than a message carried to others. But if the Moonriders want to apply it to themselves, or take it as a message, he won't take issue with it.

He does approve of Raven's banner and garb, and maybe even of the Moonriders' interpretation of it. He nods that approval when she can see it and they mostly can't.

Brennan starts the group forward at a measured pace, letting the inhabitants of the walled city get a good leisurely look at them. This place, too, Brennan invests in being able to return.

The city is in service to the monastery, which is surrounded by outbuildings and plazas. The city seems somewhat detached from the monastery, as if they have different purposes.

"Cobra's Hood Temple," says Sir Unsheathed. There is a party riding out from the monastery. They have no banners, but each bears a shield with a unique blazon on it.

"We have a welcoming committee," replies Sir Argalia. "I see the Eldest's Shield amongst them."

The welcome party approaches, and stops far enough away to speak freely. "Hail, travelers. Who comes to Cobra's Hood Temple?"

Before anyone can answer, Firumbras stands tall in his saddle atop Lorides. "I yclept Firumbras, son of Balam, brother to Floripas, and friend to Orolando the Mad. I am told you consider me your long lost ancestor, but have a prophecy of my return."

"Rejoice, my Kinsmen, in the fulfillment of prophecy."

The one named 'Eldest', bearing as his shield a simple ladder leading to a cloud, is momentarily surprised.

"How can this be? No, we will discuss it at the Temple. Who, then, Sir Firumbras, are your companions? We know only our kin amongst them."

Firumbras nods. "Please friends, introduce yourselves."

Brennan likewise stands in his stirrups. "I am named Brennan, son of Brand, grandson of King Oberon and Queen Clarissa, nephew and ambassador of King Random of Xanadu, Knight Commander of the Order of the Ruby, sometimes called the Tower Knight. If I am also called friend by Sir Firumbras, then that too is an honor worthy of note." Brennan doesn't call out with his battlefield voice, nor does he augment it with sorcery. But his voice has a way of carrying when it is necessary.

Raven will follow suit with standing up in the stirrups - and the volume, since this isn't exactly the time to shout like she's yelling at someone on the other end of a deck. And if it's a little on the deliberate side because she has to think her way through how to say what needs saying, well, so be it. "I am named Raven, of the family of King Oberon of Amber and King Random of Xanadu, and kin to Sir Brennan. I am an ambassador for King Random, captain of the Vale of Garnath, a ship in Their Majesties' Navy, and sometimes called the Wheel Knight. I am also humbled by the honor of Sir Firubras's friendship."

"And I am Lorides," says Lorides. "Sir Lorides, the Horse Knight," he adds, giving himself a previously unknown promotion. No one contradicts him.

The knights amongst the welcome party bow, from the saddle, moving in ways that backs just generally don’t, amongst less plastic humans.

"I am Sir Hydrargyrum, eldest of the knights in service to the Temple, and master thereof. We extend hospitality to the Ambassador Knights and all in the party of Sir Firumbras, the progenitor."

"I am humbled by the honorific, Eldest, but I must tell you I have not yet progenitated. My descendants here have some hope that you can send me back to my own time."

Sir Hydrargyrum blinks. "I think we will need to discuss this more fully. What you ask is not a thing we have done before."

"Well met, Sir Hydrargyrum. We accept your most gracious hospitality with thanks." Brennan says. "It would seem, then, that there is much to discuss. To this, let us add the skirmishes near Xanadu and Avalon, and certain other recent events. The details, I think, may wait for a more formal setting."

"Aye," Raven agrees. "Or at least one more formal than the road."

"Then, you are well-come to the Temple. It has been some years since your kith and kin have visited us, but it is not an unheard of event." He looks at Firumbras, who is. "Your friendship with our progenitor is an auspicious sign."

He looks across at the battlements of his castle. "Not all will be pleased to see you, but as guests of the Temple, you have our parole of the grounds and the town. Flying Dagger, please return and prepare for our arrival."

A knight with a dagger on his shield nods and rides off. He is definitely taking liberties with space and time to move so fast.

The castle is composed of arches that would be graceful if they didn’t seem to loom over the town. Brennan and Raven get the feeling that the castle is more to protect the army from the inhabitants more than it Is to protect the inhabitants of the town from invaders. It’s the kind of castle invaders build, not the kind they invade. It is very tall.

Sir Hydrargyrum seems most interested in talking to Sir Firumbras. The younger knights mainly stay back, and are polite, but will defer to Sir Argalia and Sir Unsheathed.

Brennan imposes additional restrictions on the Knights of the Ruby, as well as Sir Severity and his people: They are not to travel to town without either Brennan or Raven accompanying them until further notice. And even in the castle, they are not to venture out in groups of less than three. He does not tell them to remain on their best behaviour because he does not need to-- it is understood.

Raven was maybe only listening with half an ear to Brennan's instructions until her name was mentioned, but once she clocks that she might have to escort a group at some point, she quickly scans faces and counts heads to herself and then gives Brennan a quick nod of acknowledgement.

The knights are all on alert and Brennan thinks they're likely to sleep in shifts. Brennan does not think they are at all comfortable with going into the heart of the Moonriders' most holy site.

Turning back to the Moonriders, whichever seems likeliest to answer but hoping for Sir Hydrargyrum, Brennan asks if there any special customs, etiquette, rituals, etc that they need to know about as visitors.

And Raven is very interested in that information as well.

Sir Hydrargyrum nods. "As honored guests, we will provide for you, and attempt to meet your needs. If you visit the town and there are any issues, just ask for me and we will sort it out. I am your sponsor. As you are ambassadors, we will treat with you as we would with your Kings."

He doesn't elaborate on what that means.

Ever Practical, Patience asks "Do we need to extend the same rules to 'Sir' Lorides?"

Brennan addresses Dame Patience and 'Sir' Lorides both: "An excellent question. Sir Lorides has neither submitted to our authority nor asked for our protection. What say you, Sir Lorides?"

Raven turns her attention to the self-proclaimed Horse Knight, definitely not wondering who's going to be sleeping in the stable to make sure he won't be wandering the grounds solo as she does. "And if those rules don't suit," she adds, "are there others that'd suit better that we ought to talk about?"

Lorides keeps his eyes on the road he's walking along. "As a friend and traveling companion to Sir Firumbras, I feel that I am a unique case. And honestly, while you have been decent companions, I am more of a neutral horse-of-arms than you, and thus am less likely to find trouble, unless I offend their Gods."

He shakes his head. "Let us call ourselves peers, then and neither of us is subordinate to the other."

Sir Hydrargyrum looks at the horse. "Do you have another form to shift to or should we magically lighten your step to allow you to walk lightly through our halls?"

"I will shift, if it is required of me," says Lorides.

He hasn't really mentioned any shifting talents before.

"Didn't know you could change shapes, Sir Lorides," Raven remarks. "But it ain't like I've been in your company long. What form do you prefer when you're not a horse, if you don't mind me asking?"

Sir Hydrargyrum looks at Raven. "This knight is a demon, Ambassador Raven. Do you not know how to recognize them?"

Lorides looks at Hyrdargyrum. "It's not our name for ourselves, but many call us that. They call each of your peoples that as well. I am most comfortable in an equine frame and it is my primary stress form."

Brennan had long suspected something was up with the talking horse. What, exactly, he didn't know... but definitely something. So it isn't hard to keep his face neutral at this revelation. Although it is, perhaps, telling that he's kept this to himself since they first met over the corpse of a shape-shifted grackleflint.

"So be it," Brennan says, "I have no authority to impose a curfew on Sir Lorides that he does not wish to abide. But I trust it is understood that you will not bear our likenesses, marks or insignias." He waits pointedly for a response to that.

Lorides nods, a desultory gesture from the big horse. "Certainly not. I have no wish to cause trouble. For you."

Brennan smiles broadly, and there's a more than usual resemblance to Bleys as he says, "Sometimes the best way to avoid trouble is to spell out the expectations."

Brennan is prepared to let the matter stand there-- Lorides is his own responsibility. Not that Brennan would necessarily let him twist in the wind; so far the horse has done him no detectable wrong other than being shady. But he had the chance to form a closer mutual association and turned it down, which leaves Brennan with a much greater degree of latitude.

And Raven mentally crosses the talking horse off her list of people that are kind of her responsibility.

And Raven mentally crosses the talking horse off her list of people that are kind of her responsibility.

Raven nods to Sir Hydrargyrum. "Sir, I'm new to this whole world-walking on purpose thing. There's a lot I don't know. In this case, I was more asking in the name of not having the 'who's this strange person inside the walls?' moment in the middle of something going on. If there's a better way, I'm listening."

"Demons are difficult to identify, but there are ways. I can provide you a monograph on the subject from the Asir People. They are mostly wrong, but sometime correct. Also consider that many demons," he looks at Lorides, "many demons wish to deceive as part of their goals, so that it is not always trivial to identify them. Asking another demon is one way." Lorides nods. "But the best way is to hear them speak. Demons have magics to allow them to speak, and if your will is strong enough, you can see through the translation that makes their mouths move. If you cannot read a creature’s lips, it may be a demon." Sir Hydrargyrum has a lot more advice on demon-finding.

It's possible that the description might also apply to Raven. She haven't checked.

"Or you could just be very bad at lip-reading," Raven says with dry amusement. She will politely listen to whatever else Sir Hydrargyrum has to share about demon-finding, for certain values of "politely listen" that include "throwing anything else as useful as 'just ask someone that might be here to deceive if they're a demon' into the same mostly-forgotten mental corner as all the other 'useful' 'advice' she's gotten over the years," anyway, and when he winds down, says, "Thanks, Sir. I'll try and keep that in mind the next time I meet somebody I think ain't quite what they seem."

He smiles and says "Of course, it is my role to disseminate knowledge." He turns back to Sir Firumbras to ask that knight more questions.

The group arrives back at the temple complex. It seems in many ways like a fortress against the town. Their horses are stabled by grooms who are interested in them, except for Lorides, who goes into a stall and does not come out as a horse.

He is, in human form, a tall, thin man with a pencil-thin mustache and slicked-back hair. He's dressed casually and his body has a number of obvious scars on it.

The Knights take little notice of his form and they all are led to a suite of rooms, and offered the opportunity to rest before the evening meal. The rooms are all on the same hall, so the group can easily find each other. The Moonriders Brennan and Raven came in with are housed elsewhere.

Brennan takes note of the architecture with what he hopes is a neutral professional interest. He's also curious about the staff-- the aforementioned grooms, any equivalents of pages, minders, etc. Are they the same double-jointed people as Firumbras and the other moonriders, or are they a separate people?

They are not double-jointed. They have a wide range of phenotypes but are on the whole darker skinned with more and curlier hair. It would be hard to mistake a moonrider for one of their servants, even if they weren't moving.

Is Lorides in the same area as Brennan, Raven, and the rest of the Knights? If yes, is he keeping to himself or mixing with the Knights?

He is keeping to himself, but he does have a room in this hall.

The meal is in a communal dining facility and the room is very full. It seems everyone who could arrange to be here did so, for a chance to see Sir Firumbras. Or, perhaps, to see the legendary Knights of Amber who accompanied that legendary hero. The food is simple fare; bread and grains with meat in them. It’s not bad, but not an ostentatious welcoming feast.

The knights and their guests do not speak much during the meal, but afterwards is another story.

Sir Hydrargyrum stands first. "My friends, guests, and fellow followers of the way of truth, I am no longer eldest, and by quite some time. Rumor and prophesy have come together this evening and the progenitor, Sir Firumbras, walks amongst us. Freed from his time-tossed prison by the knights of the King of Amber and Xanadu. Two such knights have accompanied him in his return to our lands."

He pauses. "You all know the stories, or the legends, but fewer may know of the prophecies. We have a debt that cannot be repaid to Sir Firumbras, for all that we are. I ask your assent, in this chapter, to embark on the great mission we have before us.

"My brothers, shall we return Sir Firumbras to his own time?"

The roar of agreement from the assembled Moonriders is immediate.

Sir Lorides looks across at Brennan and Raven. "You know there’s not a chance they can succeed, right?"

"No, I don't know that, actually. I have first hand experience with their manipulations of time and space-- and other styles-- and if I had to single out the group with the highest chance of success, this would be it especially if their Marshal takes part. What makes you think otherwise?" Brennan asks-- and he is genuinely curious what Lorides is seeing that he isn't.

Raven shrugs a little. "Not at all sure I understand any of the time stuff," she admits. "Other than maybe thinking that from what they were saying earlier, it seems like getting him back then would involve somebody at the other end of time hauling him there, not somebody on this end of time shoving him back? Ready to be told I'm thinking about it too simply, though."

Lorides shrugs. "It's a matter of scale. They can throw people back years, possibly a lifetime, and a long lifetime at that. But he's from thousands of years in their past. If this eldest throws him back a few centuries, how does that benefit him? He needs more of a lift than these poor mortals can manage."

Raven frowns slightly. "So it ain't that you think it can't be done - just that you think it can't be done by them, or at least not without help from - who?"

Lorides shrugs. "Nobody. Maybe himself, or someone as old as all that who is also one of their time wizards. I watched how you travel, and how they do. Your power engages with senses, and is affected by your interaction with them. If they were unreliable or missing, or if you wanted to go to place that relied on a color your eyes couldn’t see, could you do it? How would you know, It depends on what you can sense."

The sometime horse pokes at his food, and seems most fond of the meats, which are not typically horse food. "Likewise, the Moonriders slide along their own timelines, backwards, mostly, so they relive certain events. They get more powerful the older they get, by the way, but they also age faster than regular linear time people if they do a lot of backsliding. They all have a zero point.

"Can they do it? I would wager against it, if I had any way to measure and collect it. Most likely they will send him to the past and he will die there and they will celebrate their feat.

"I wouldn't care, except he seems a decent sort, for a human. Or demi-god, whatever he is."

Brennan, who in a past life made good money by confusing any issue that happened to be at hand, asks, "But whose lifespan is the limiting factor here? The Eldest?" Raven and Lorides can almost hear the air-quotes around that one-- Brennan wouldn't be surprised if he ended up being older than the Eldest. "The Marshal? Firumbras himself? The Queen?" He lets that last one sink in and then follows up with, "But why are you telling us, not Sir Firumbras directly?"

Raven clearly has another question, but she doesn't ask it for the moment.

Lorides shrugs. "What makes you think I haven't?" He doesn't wait for Brennan to answer.

Brennan wasn't going to dignify it with a response anyway.

"I will, at an appropriate time, but I think he really wants this and knowing it won't work won't stop him. Just kill him. Not sure he wants to live now, and the hope of going back is important to him. Would you tell him it's a bad plan?"

"If I become convinced that it's true, yes I will," says Brennan. "But understand that he left behind not just a life, but a love. What would you have me do, tell him to abandon that hope on a hunch?

"Something else to consider, though, is that the Moonriders seem to know the end of his saga, and that it includes his being returned to his proper time and place. I was there when the Moonriders sang that saga, before we set out on the journey that led through you to here, and while I'm a naturally suspicious type, I don't have any reason to think they made it up out of whole cloth. It wouldn't be the first time prophecy has been misunderstood, but there's reason to think that he does eventually return home. If I were in his place, I'd need something more than a hunch. But," he lowers his voice a bit, "since I am a naturally suspicious type, I think one of our tasks here will be to research the legends and prophecies, so we can look at them with fresh eyes, instead of eyes constrained by tradition."

He glances at Dame Jennet to make sure she notes that as her job.

Dame Jennet nods as he is glancing over. She's anticipated that this was her task. She doesn't even look to confirm that he's looking. Brennan may decide that either she's started looking forward in time or he is entirely predictable about some things.

Brennan is perfectly content to be thought predictable in minor matters like this-- it causes some people to think he is predictable in other ways, which is an exploitable flaw.

"Or eyes too full of hope," Raven says, maybe about half to herself. Then, "You said there's a zero point. As in death, or as in they ain't able to go back anymore and have to just go forward to death?"

Lorides looks amused. "Similar, but the other end of the line. Birth. The origin, both mathematically and physically, of the Moonrider Knight in question. If you can move freely along your own timeline, what are the two natural limits? How can they pass him back through 40 generations of themselves? But I have arranged for my doubts to be both checked and expressed to him by someone who may have fresh eyes."

He doesn't elaborate on what he means.

"I can think of several, only some of which depend on the Moonriders having developed their abilities at or shortly after Firumbras' point of departure." Brennan says. But at this point, they're just repeating the same point over and over again, so Brennan decides to shift topics. "Your observations of our methods are keen for someone who's been with us only a short time, though-- have you encountered our Family before? Or other Moonriders?"

Raven is somewhat curious about that as well.

Lorides looks surprised. "You're as close as I've ever come to meeting the creator of everything. Every philosopher, mystic, and deranged cult leader in all time has been fixated on your family, whether they knew it or not. Of course I'm going to watch you closely. Anyone who isn't studying you deeply is either incurious, scared, or lying."

Raven blinks and then frowns. "Aye, that makes sense, but now I'm wondering who you think is the creator of everything...? If every philosopher, mystic, and cult leader's got their own idea of us, what's yours?" A beat, and then she shrugs. "I mean, if it ain't rude to ask."

Lorides leans in. "I suspect the Universe was an accidental byproduct of something that wasn't supposed to do what it did, and that your family has been 'winging it' since then."

He pauses, just for a moment. "How else could it be? There's no way to have historical precedent for inventing order."

Brennan shrugs, non-committal. He doesn't believe that, but there are elements that are close enough-- he is coming to believe that Oberon's descendents being able to walk the Pattern was not anticipated-- the he chooses not to comment.

Raven just snorts softly and shakes her head, both because she's not sure what kind of answer she was expected and because at this point, 'your family has been winging it,' seems... just enough on the nose to be faintly amusing.

"What about Qidan," Brennan asks? "Does that spring from the same source, or something else entirely?"

Lorides snorts. It's the most horse-like thing he's done, even in horse-form. "I don't believe he crossed primal chaos, because how would one cross that and return? Perhaps some eddy in the the fabric of reality was chaos-like. I suspect Qidan could not exist or exist in a form that was influenced by this reality if it wasn't descended from this reality." Lorides turns to Raven. "Or just consider me a skeptic, if you want the short version."

"Good evening, Sir Hydragyrum," he says. "My thanks, and the thanks of my knights for your excellent hospitality."

"Aye," Raven says, "And my thanks as well."

The Eldest has a circle of lesser priests around him. Students or Assistants, perhaps, but definitely his retinue. "Please, call me Quicksilver, it is less formal and suits me better. It has been a generation since your people came through here, and is an event of note. If my brothers had provided more notice, the hospitality would have been better."

"Your hospitality is excellent, Sir Quicksilver," Brennan says. He adopts the name so smoothly it is as if he had never heard the earlier name. "Please, do not think too harshly of your brothers-- we left them little opportunity to provide that notice." He does not elaborate on that. "I think we have quite the agenda for this visit. Will you be acting as our diplomatic counterpart?"

Brennan glances around the retinue, storing away faces for later use, though not obtrusively so. Which one-- if any-- looks to be the one assigned to being quiet, unnoticed and watchful?

Raven nods in general agreement.

"It's an interesting question. I am here and I have seniority, but I am not currently in the military order, as I have retired. The Priesthood hears that the Knighthood will defer to it in matters of diplomacy, but I would expect that a consultative approach would prevent a commander taking things into their own hands. The Queen has jurisdiction over all, but she is not available." He seems more matter-of-fact about that than the Moonriders were.

"So in sum, the answer is 'yes, probably, unless I am not.'" He smiles. "We are not the well-organized polity that your cities are. Eventually, it will come down to the Marshall."

He leans in. "I might have kept that from you, but I prefer not to engage in a-walk-in-the-woods diplomatically, and lead you astray or waste your time. We can agree to whatever we can agree to, and the Marshall will evaluate as he sees fit.

"And he needs to answer to his chapter house, so my goal is to negotiate an agreement that will suit all parties, so that we don't have to worry about dissenters."

"An unenviable position," Brennan says, with some measure of real sympathy. He has enough to grace not to say that he expected parts of that, and is skeptical about another. "Is the Marshall currently in residence, or is he in the field?"

Quicksilver shakes his head. "Were he here, he would have been at the dinner tonight, to honor Sir Firumbras. Word has been sent to him. I'd expect him in less than a ten-day. I suspect Firumbras will do more to summon him than your surprising arrival, but we can take advantage of it. I hope to have something to propose to him before his arrival."

"Maybe, maybe not. I am, after all, here on the Marshall's invitation," Brennan says, although there's a twist to his voice signifying a private joke or a private irony. "But this poses certain difficulties, as I expect the Marshall to be returning with at least one hostage."

Brennan delivers that absolutely deadpan and lets it rest a beat to see if Quicksilver already has the same information, before letting the rest of it drop: "Queen Vialle of Xanadu. You will of course understand that I require to meet and speak to her before I consider anything to be final. In fact, I find it difficult to begin the process without such a meeting. But we can make a good faith attempt. Should we begin formally right now, or make a clean beginning tomorrow morning?"

"That whole hostage thing is far from simple," Raven adds, "and we heard there was a little bit of a skirmish with a cousin of ours when the Marshall got his hands on her. So if he's the kind of man who might take that a bit personally - and of course you'd know that better than us - he may not be as excited to see us as you folks are."

"I'm sure it will be worked out satisfactorily. Who knows? It might even make our leaders more receptive to a bold solution. It adds enough urgency and gravity to the discussions that a breakthrough is not out of the question."

He turns to Raven. "The Marshall is likely to remember un-knightly behavior, but does not expect all warriors he meets to follow his personal code. A warrior who fights honorably for his King is a peer, and an enemy by happenstance. He would remember a battle with fondness, not enmity."

Sir Quicksilver turns back to Brennan. "If these are informal talks to establish points of acceptable mutuality, we can begin informally as soon as you like. In the morning if you need rest, or now if you wish.

"Do you have a broad idea of what an agreement between us that might be acceptable to both sides would consist of?"

"I'm sure our cousin Edan carried himself with honor," Brennan says.

He strays from the topic for a moment: "And I would prefer to begin in the morning, at the earliest. When I last met the Marshall, he disparaged the passing down of historical knowledge from one generation to the next, among our Family. In my case, at least, he was not entirely wrong. I consider this journey an opportunity to expand our knowledge, and so I ask for access to your archives subject to whatever limitations you place on that-- some of the Knights of the Ruby are scholars in their own right, and so I ask on their behalf as well. And I understand there is a monastic order or branch in residence as well.

"As for a mutually satisfying agreement, no, I do not. Too much will depend on our examination of the Queen to propose even a tentative commitment. But let us list the various agenda to be discussed," Brennan says, returning to the point. "First, your attempts to access the city we call Tir-na Nog'th and areas near similar cities and the Faiella Bionin. Second, the disposition of hostages and similar actors, including but not necessarily limited to the Queen and First-to-the-Fray.... who I understand may have opinions of her own. Third, reparations and assurances regarding attacks on King Random of Xanadu and other members of the Royal Family."

Sir Quicksilver nods. "Good starting points. Access to our Tir and a discussion of spheres of influence are a high priority for our people. Consolidation of areas of aligned interests. Perhaps even dynastic alliance and mutual assistance against some of the more menacing problems we face from truer enemies. We will address these matters tomorrow, and you can consider further tonight."

Brennan nods in understanding of that agenda, if not actually in support of an alliance with the Moonriders.

"I will see if the Marshall can be summoned more quickly. And I will assign you a priest to help you with our archives. Thus you will not be idle waiting for the Marshall."

Brennan's voice is, in this case, not pitched to carry as far as he can make it. Quite the opposite, it's meant for Quicksilver and Raven alone, although one can never be sure.

"Less directly related, there is the matter of Sir Firumbras. There is some concern as to the possibility of his being safely returned to his time from such a vast remove. I would like to understand this process better. And if he decides to go, I would like to assist," Brennan says.

"And I'm more likely to be in the way than of help on that," Raven observes, with a shrug and a bit of amusement. "But I think all of us that traveled with him are curious to see where that goes."

Quicksilver doesn't betray any emotion at this request. Or perhaps he did and then came back in time and corrected himself. "If he consents, I'm sure something can be arranged."

Raven, Sir Corbie, and Sir Crescent leave the temple after breaking fast the next morning. The town is of a moderate size, and the neighborhoods near the temple seem focused on the temple as the key building, from related outbuildings to wide avenues with craftspeople servicing the knights and priests of the temple. There are more saddle and leather shops than a town this side should require, many of them in the luxury category. The people around this part of town look to be well-off, or else servants to the well-off.

Further down the hill, the houses and buildings are closer together and seem to exist in spite of the temple, rather than because of it.

What are Raven and company looking for?

One point of curiosity at a time - Raven makes a mental note about the leather shops as something to come back to, but of more interest at the moment is where the common folk are. Not the ones living in the planned-out city, but the ones that actually make the pretty city go. She heads for narrower streets after a brief orienting stroll around the rest of the town. Inns and places to eat she marks for later, but for early in the day, she's looking for markets and gathering-places for the ones doing chores and the like - places where people gather and she can see what kind of folks really make up this city. As such, she does suggest that the others dress casually, and follows suit herself; this is not the time to make an impression.

Her explanation of what she's looking for to the knights is to the point: there's clearly more going on in this Shadow than the Moonriders either want to see or want to admit; a place like this has more than one undercurrent, in her experience, so she's on the hunt for those. Who's being treated like crap and has an agenda to fix that? Who's being trampled by society? Is there anything - good, bad, or in between - that can be brought back to the negotiation table (or used as an emergency distraction, if needed)? Are there actually any dangers for the Xanadu party or is it all focused towards the Moonriders?

This is not, she emphasizes, an interrogation. This is looking around, being friendly, doing a little window shopping and maybe a little drinking later, asking the kind of questions a dumb foreigner might ask - and if there's anything particularly interesting, digging in a little to see what it turns up.

The townspeople up here are distinctly members of stratified classes, almost castes. It takes some digging, but Raven believes that there are three or four distinct groups. Moonriders and their people, who are not from here, crillos -- 2nd and third generation, many born here, native Gheneshi, and mixed people. It's not clear if the mixed people are a different group or just a rich and adapted (relatively) group of natives.

The feeling Raven gets is that, as guests of the Temple, they should be staying in the upper town. There's nothing worth seeing in the lower town. The upper town, of course, has plenty of lower-town servants and such. There isn't any sign that they're actively being mistreated, but they're the ones with jobs here. There's plenty of guards in the upper town.

It might be a different story after dark, or out in the plantations, or on a bad day, but right now it seems calm enough.

As Raven wasn't really expecting to find the actual trouble at this point in the day, that's fine; this is more scouting to see what's likely to be interesting for a nighttime visit than trying to jump in the middle of trouble now.

Is the guard detail more of the "watching for pickpockets and fisticuffs" type or are they more alert and/or armed than that? Are they warning the guests back into the upper city should they stray or are they just watching?

The guard detail looks like a place that has been conquered, but not in this generation. It wasn't so far back in time that the differences are 'castes' but it wasn't recently enough that anyone here remembers it. They may have grown up as second class citizens and not ever known a time when they were not under the eyes of guards.

Raven gets the feeling that the guards are there to stop opportunistic crimes and not to stop a full-on attack. However, they are within the walls of the city here and not in the countryside. Raven also gets the feeling that the countryside is far less under the control of the moonrider people than the city. That's probably even an outlet for hotheads from town.

As a sailor who has been in more than one more-or-less unfriendly port, Raven knows when she's being appraised as a mark, a target, or a threat. No one is acting, yet.

Fair enough, in Raven's considered opinion. They're probably still a little too fresh in town for any but the most foolhardy to try anything. Well - foolhardy or desparate.

She'll spend a little more time investigating some of the shops - why are there so many leatherwork shops, anyway? - and make a mental note if there's anything like a bookshop in case they need to get outside the Moonriders' library for any reason.

The simplest answer about the leather working shops is that the community here caters to knights and pilgrims and the leather goods of Ghenesh are sought out as luxury goods. It also seems that the workshops are staffed by locals with craft masters being more similar to the guards.

And then she'll find a quiet place where they're not going to be overheard to ask her companions for opinions on the place, and to find out if they're game to continue out into the countryside to see what's what out there as well.

If they are, then horse retrieval and out of town they go. If they aren't, then she'll escort them back and head off herself.

They absolutely are. They are knights, and the field is more interesting than any temple or town.

"I was raised near Arden, although I was never going to cut it as a Ranger, so I want to get a feel for that forest."

"Yeah, if it's dangerous out there, I want to take a look at it before it takes a look at me."

Raven nods. "And I'm real curious about who it's actually dangerous to," she says. "I'm also a city kid and a sailor, and most of the time I'm smart enough to not ignore people that know forests better than I do. If I'm about to do something dumb in the woods, let me know. Back the way we came in here, or do we want to try another direction first? I'm of a mind that the way we came in is probably the safest option, which may mean the least interesting."

Sir Corbie pouts. He always does that when he’s thinking. "It's a walled town, and the gate with the most guards and the least trade looks like the southern one. How about that?"

Sir Crescent nods. "Or we could ask. In the bad part of town." He’s grinning.

Raven snorts and decides that she's just not going to mention that the last time she went looking for help in the bad part of town, a riot started. "Not saying it's a bad idea to ask down there, but I'm thinking we'll have better luck with that lot by visiting after the sun sets and all the fancy folks close their doors. Let's try the south first."

Raven and her two knightly companions head for the southern gate.

The gate leads out past a few scattered buildings; a mill, some sort of springhouse, an open area that looks like it's kept clear for defensive purposes. A ways down the road, there are farms, but they don't look too prosperous. There were better farms and ranches on the approach into the western gate, where the group arrived. It's part of the horse-and-leather economy over there.

Here, not so much. Food and perhaps hay.

There are no signposts, and the road looks like it probably started as a military thing, but was used for local goods after that.

Riding out is a matter of being watched on all sides, including by the not-insignificant gate guard on the sourhtern gate. There aren't any signs that the gate has been attached by enemies, but that's not how the guards act.

There's supposedly a village some distance down the road, but it's out of sight due to trees.

The whole point of leaving town was to see what's out there, so in Raven's considered opinion, there's not a lot of reason to turn around until they've at least reached the first village.

The knights never exactly relax, but they are more at easy as they ride through the countryside. It takes about half a day to cover about ten miles distance, and the horses are tired when they finally spot an inn near midday. It's on the outskirts of a village and is just on the edge of the distance a person might walk in a day and get to the temple.

It seems a bit run-down and there isn't a lot of evidence of traffic. Raven saw more people working the fields than she's seen in the village. The sign on the inn shows an eight-legged horse.

Brennan and the Knights of the Ruby he selects (Dame Jennet, Sir Flagstone, and Sir Tenacity) are invited to the scriptorium in the morning, after breaking their fast. Sir Quicksilver is there, and introduces Sir Intensity, who will act as secretary for the meeting.

After assorted pleasantries and introductions, Sir Quicksilver says "You indicated that you wished to wait until we could discuss the matter of the queens. Are there matters of commonality we can discuss in advance or is that the primary reason for negotiating?"

Brennan has, heretofore, carefully only mentioned one Queen-- Vialle-- and was careful to name her thus. So when Sir Quicksilver mentions a multiplicity of queens, he decides to tilt his head and lift an eyebrow. But he also decides to answer Quicksilver's question directly. Perhaps they'll return to that issue of plurality, later.

"Let us speak of the recent incursions into Avalon and Xanadu, then. We do not look kindly on attempts to retake the higher ground above them," he says.

Quicksilver nods. "A cessation of provacative measures is certainly a point we will want to include in our proposals. I am told that several of your relatives raided one of our camps recently, taking a personal device from one of our commanders, perhaps as a way of counting coup. Perhaps a cease fire can be arranged while we negotiate. It certainly would be easier if we didn’t have to worry about news arriving that would upturn the process.

"I believe I am familiar with the incident. A navigational aid, I believe it was?" Brennan waits for confirmation before continuing. "I am not aware of any raids being planned, but I was not aware of that incident until it had happened, either. Are there groups still moving on the City?" The ambiguity is more diplomatic than deceptive-- whether they would be moving on Xanadu, Avalon, or Tir, the result is the same.

Quicksilver confirms Brennan's description. "Something along those lines. Those kinds of tokens are often passed between our people. It is a personal item and good will could be earned by returning it.

"As for the activities of the knights, the Marshall will need to address that question, of course. I personally don't know of any such movement at the present."

Brennan nods-- it's unsatisfying, but a reasonable response to Brennan's own statement. "I will raise the issue when I can."

It is much the same for similar issues. Several small matters are discussed in these preliminary chats -- things that can be resolved easily or which are not important enough to either side to be sticking points. Nothing strikes Brennan as contentious.

Towards the end of the discussion, Sir Quicksilver raises a new point:

"Have you been to Tir-na n'Ogth, Sir Brennan?"

"I have." Why?

"I am curious. It has been many years since I have seen the city, and I am wondering what it looks like now. We have heard various things, but I would be interested in your impressions."

"It was... cold. Spectral and somehow overwhelmingly solid at the same time, translucent, even transparent but at the same time vivid. It seemed to shift at the edges of my vision, provoked an overwhelming sensation of deja vu when I looked directly at some things I have never seen, and appeared to rearrange itself when I wasn't looking. This all sounds poetic, but I mean them literally. There were courtyards that I later remember seeing in Rebma and spires that belonged Amber, and shimmering false clouds that wavered between a jetty I'd seen in Amber and a sandbar that should have been in Rebma, and all the while the City never seemed to be anything other than itself.

"I was born there. It was, in my day, not cold and spectral, but a living city of spires and walls, with all the chaos and excitement of one of the largest trading empires in the skies." He looks sad. "My biggest concern about returning is that if we undo what was done, can we avoid the rain of bodies?"

Quicksilver closes his eyes, briefly, perhaps remembering the horror of that day. "We have no easy answer. While this is our problem to solve, I suspect the solution to it is tied to whatever reasons your king and his father have had for keeping us from reaching our goals.

"What magical resources can you offer to make sure we come to a solution that is acceptable to your King?"

It is with some effort that Brennan does not just repeat Quicksilver's question back at him to make sure he heard it correctly. Brennan takes his time before responding, not as a conversational tactic, but because he is genuinely uncertain of the best approach, here. Ultimately, he decides to take the bull by the horns, even if it will require some degree of positioning to do so.

He lets out a long exhalation of air, almost but not quite a sigh. "Sir Quicksilver, I fear we are very far from a meeting of the minds, even you and I to say nothing of our respective camps. If you would indulge me a question or two of my own: You were born in Tir, as you say. Were you part of the cohort that came down much later with Sir Unsheathed? If you were, would you describe what happened in the days immediately following that?"

Brennan is aware that he is treading on historical and possibly trauma, here. Very few people would describe him as overly gentle or sympathetic, but he asks the question with the gravity it deserves and without intentional accusation.

"It's something of a blur, and it was centuries ago, Sir Brennan. But we attacked Amber, in an attempt to get to the fleet to escape. We were not fast enough. We attempted then to break out to Arden, and were defeated on the verge of the forest. From there we were taken to Ghenesh. And left on our own."

Sir Quicksilver considers Brennan's question. "Are you suggesting the fact that we fought you means that you are not willing to help us, as part of a greater peace? We were at war. We were at war for a long time. We were at peace before-hand and for longer."

He frowns. "How then, should we have our minds meet? We desire a cessation of hosilities, access to Tir, just dealings over the kinds of minor matters we have discussed, and we would also look favorably on assistance with our desire to restore the City of Tir from her current imbalance."

Dame Jennet leans in to Brennan to confer. "Sir Brennan, is this normal for Moonriders? It's like he's jumping around in the conversation like they jumped between places."

"It's not going the way he expected," Brennan murmurs to Dame Jennet. "He's giving himself help."

Leaning back out of conference with Jennet, he says to Quicksilver, "Where polite discussion fails or lags, art remains. Dame Jennet, would you give us some of the music of the time from the time of the Sack? Perhaps one of the Lamentations, something by an eyewitness?" Brennan says this as though it has only just occurred to him, but of course he and Jennet have discussed this already.

When Jennet is finished singing, Tenacity has given Brennan a copy of one of Cambina's histories. He doesn't open it, but has three fingers interposed in the pages, ready to open to particular passages. "A history of the time," Brennan says, indicating the book. "I can read you contemporary accounts, eyewitness accounts, that are much the same: The shock of a surprise attack after centuries, the carnage of a three-day sack of an unsuspecting population. And although I was not there, I have many living aunts and uncles who were, who have given me their accounts. Without exception, they spontaneously express certain... reservations... about your re-occupation of the strategic high ground."

Brennan's tone is cold and direct here, and the freight with which he invests the word 'reservations' is itself artistic-- and unmistakable.

"We will be closer to a meeting of the minds when you understand our reservations about ceding the high ground, and when you understand that these memories are still very much alive in Xanadu," Brennan says.

Quicksilver nods. "From our perspective, it was war, and it was the present, and we were escaping a trap possibly inflicted upon us by our very foes. It was not a matter of centuries, but the same day. So it was an invasion, and we invaded. There were casualties.

"But we have also been in exile for centuries. What is the proportionate end of that? Do we stay at war and fight you and teach subsequent generations to fight you when they see an opportunity or can we end this? We will of course acknowledge that there are disagreements and matters to resolve, but the point of having these talks is to come up with ways to resolve them. Is that a common goal, at least?"

"And you are asking us to allow the reoccupation and reset of a trap sprung on us by our very foes," Brennan responds, quickly but still calmly.

"So here we are, the first of several real obstacles. We know you're willing to fight-- Your forces showed up in two locations in arms, one leading an army. You know we're willing to fight-- We just escorted your commanders back here without their army, and First-to-the-Fray is in our custody. So let's have it, then. Take it seriously and put your suggestions on the table: What security guarantees will we have that you won't come down in force again tomorrow, or next year, or a century from now? Convince me, because if you can't, you have no hope of convincing those who lived through it."

"I would ask what your King sent you to accomplish if not to attempt to make the difficult arrangement we are discussing," he says. "But given the outcome of our recent skirmishes and our relative lack of resources, I think you may have misidentified who was in a trap that was sprung upon them like mice being decapitated with a spring-loaded wire."

Sir Quicksilver seems very still, almost as if he is not breathing, which is quite a trick since he’s talking. "As to security guarantees, we honored our word to Oberon until he died. We did not attack during his lifetime when we could have gathered armies and moved on Amber. Not even when he let his son temporarily ascend to the throne. That alone is evidence that our agreement would be inviolable. We did not attack when your city was weak, when we could have to advantage. But if you wish guarantees, those can be arranged. We already have mutual hostages. Other traditional methods can also be invoked.

"But I think the real difference that makes it possible to make peace is that your King is not his father. Oberon is dead, and the Queen’s disagreement was with her brother. There is no need to keep personal enmity beyond the generation that sparked it. Royal quarrels are not quarrels between people, but sovereigns."

As Quicksilver begins his speech, Brennan begins to open his perceptions. Usually he does this through the Third Eye and then Sorcerously into the Astral Plane. This time, though, it is Ordered-- looking, listening, feeling for how and where the reality of this Shadow is being stressed by what he suspects that Quicksilver is doing. Passively, though, always passively.

The best approximation that Brennan can come up with is that Quicksilver is giving himself time to think. It's like he's saying "umm" but editing it out. It's not even clear to Brennan if he knows he's not appearing to breathe.

Brennan is pretty sure he's breathing. Also, it's not something everyone would notice.

"All right," Brennan says, unfazed. "Now we might be getting somewhere. First, so that there are no misunderstandings, who are you proposing as hostages, and what other methods do you propose?"

"I am in favor of all manner of exchanges. Dynastic marriage, the granting of lands and titles, fosterage, trade arrangements, mutual assistance, embassies. The more we are intertwined, and the more we understand each other, the more capable we are of averting another war. The more tools we have at our disposal, the less likely we are to fight over any disagreement.

"What would your king think of a proposal for a dynastic marriage? Those of us who think that would work well once thought The Princess who was once Chases Into Madness would be likely to marry Edan Bleysson, but that seems unlikely at this time."

The day after the dinner with Martin, Harsh--still reeling a little from the sheer weirdness of everything he's learned--gets himself on somewhat more familiar ground by making good on his promise to give Alex and Rowen an orientation on the ways of seamanship.

Some of the Golcondan terms he knows best have to be translated -- various Amberite sailors help out with that -- but by the time he's done, they should at least know the difference between port, starboard, bow, and stern, and that it's lines not ropes, and what commands are particularly important to know in terms of "landsmen and landswomen, get out of the way when you hear it".

More than once, during the explanations, Rowen shakes her head while looking at the sails and mutters about the ropes being called sheets when there are perfectly good sheets flapping about overhead. Despite her protestations, though, she seems quite adept at memorizing and picking up the terms. Where misuse surfaces, it comes with intent.

Alex spins a very long story about how lines are, on his world, what you call the path a ship takes, but he loses his straight face about halfway through. He's a decent student, though, and he doesn't seem to assume that he knows everything already.

Harsh gets a good laugh from Alex's story, and he has a few of his own as they go -- enough to provide Alex and Rowen with at least a little context about what his own world is like. Golconda is clearly a great naval power and a society that contains multitudes, standing on more or less equal footing with the western nations of Albion, Gaul, and the American states. It is also, notably, a colonizer in its own right rather than a colonized state, with footholds in south Asia, Terra Australis, and some parts of eastern Africa.

Along the way:

"So, Harsh -- I didn't quite figure it out over dinner. Are we cousins, or are you just some poor guy who Martin picked up along the way? The second one is better, I've met nothing but cousins all week."

"'Just some poor guy', I'm afraid," Harsh says wryly. At least, that's as far as he knows at this point, and he has not yet picked up on any hints that he might be related to any Amberites. "A ... week or so ago -- more or less -- my ship stumbled upon a derelict vessel in the Southern Ocean. I led a boarding party to inspect it and then we were swept away by a rogue current. Uncommonly rogue, you might say, since it pulled us into this, ah, Shadow. Luckily for me -- and for the Prince, I daresay -- I'd had the presence of mind to bring along the logbook and other documents from the derelict, and it seems it was information he found valuable." A small, apparently self-deprecating shrug. "Where I go next, I'm unsure. Some of my men want very much to return to Golconda and the Prince has said that he will try to help."

There's a slight change in the wind and the color of the sky shifts a little. Rowen, who has had some lessons with Martin abut this, recognizes that Martin has done some shadow-shifting. Alex can feel it too; he's been through a few. When he and Rowen were sitting on the mast, he even saw one happen.

Harsh is aware something has changed as well. He doesn't know how to express it or even what he's feeling, but he can feel something is different and not just because of the external alterations to wind and sky that confirm what he was already feeling.

Rowen looks about, taking notice of the changes and putting them into words. "He just made one of those shadow. Did you feel it? The sky has a little more green in it. Notice how the clouds are thinner now instead of fluffy. The air is drier, not as oppressive." Though it seems addressed to Alex, her words fall equally applicable to Harsh. "This place feels... lighter, too, like a weight has been lifted." She tests this new feeling with a twirl on the deck. A fairly steady twirl, at that. Getting used to her sea legs, it seems.

"What was so special about this derelict?" she asks, coming back to the topic at hand. She comes up to Harsh, perhaps a smidge closer than is comfortable, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Harsh takes a deep breath of the new air and she's right; the texture of it is different somehow. There's an odd sensation, almost like a galvanic tingle under the skin. He wonders how he missed it when the Cotopaxi was swept away, and then considers ruefully that he'd had a lot of other things on his mind at the time.

Rowen's proximity startles him a little, but he answers her easily enough. "It was unlike any other ship we'd seen before. Her designation and name -- the IN Cotopaxi -- were unfamilar, as were the contents. We thought he might take her as a prize, but -- well, she took us, you might say."

"I might," allows Alex. "But that sounds a little more interesting than just a ship fight. Was it, um, weird?"

"Very." Harsh's expression sobers, and he glances toward one of his crewmen who is engaged in cheerful conversation with one of the Amberites as they work. "One moment we were simply trying to make sense of a logbook in a script that I couldn't read, and the next we'd lost all sight of our own ship -- which had laid not more than two cables away moments before -- and were being swept toward Tortuga. Lucky for us that the islanders there seem accustomed, or at least not strangers to, that sort of thing."

"Fortunate that you weren't pulled into a more inhospitable place. That island must be a special place if travelers like you appear out of nowhere with regularity." Idly, Rowen picks up a free piece of rope and practices knots. Slender though they are, her fingers are agile and she seems to have an aptitude for picking up the delicate motions.

One of the younger deckhands hops up on deck and, after a quick glance around, strides purposefully over to the group, singling out Alex. "Prince Martin wishes your presence, Lord Alex." He dallies just long enough for Alex to flamboyantly bid his farewell and leads the way. As the big man disappears aft, the scent of brine becomes sharper and a little tart, as the water around the ship yellows into a mildly disconcerting green.

"Such a disconcerting way to travel," Rowen sympathizes. Rocking back on her heels, she shifts a foot that opens up the space again and gives her a broad view off the beam. "Even knowing that Prince Martin is making these changes that slip from one world to another only makes it slightly easier to accept, but only because he's an ally." The wind picks up, teasing at the loose strands of her red hair. "Not knowing if the next shift will take you home or leave you stranded in an unfamiliar world..." she trails off. A sudden realization snaps into place, followed by a twist of her head toward the seasoned sailor. "I hope we can get you back to Golconda, Mr. Harsh. What would you do there with your new knowledge?"

"That's a complicated question," he muses. "Some men, I expect, would simply be grateful to be home, and perhaps the change in perspective granted by this--" a gesture encompassing the ship and the new landscape, "--it will, I don't doubt, have far-reaching effects. You can't unsee it. But the truth is ..."

He folds his arms and leans back against the rail, gaze off in the distance at the strange new sea. He wonders what swims in it.

"I want to go home, and I don't. Or -- not yet, at any rate. Before I came here -- the commission I'd sought, and received, was that of an explorer. We were sailing to the great Southern continent, you see -- not for war, but for discovery. And, not to put too fine a point on it, to try and get there first." He smirks slightly. "And I would gladly see my ship again, but suddenly even the Southern continent seems very small when compared to a multitude of worlds." Then, half to himself, he adds, "I wonder if the navy of Amber has its own exploratory service."

"The world of what you have to discover has expanded greatly. Worlds. The way Prince Martin speaks about it, it seems neverending. Surely they have explorers of some sort," Rowen muses, wandering over toward the edge. Leaning out over the railing, wind blowing her hair, she smiles toward the sun. "Are you alone, sir? No wife or children waiting for you at home?"

"The Albic Navy men have a tradition," Harsh says, "of different toasts on different days amongst the officers' mess. Robibar -- Sunday -- that's ... 'absent friends'? Or 'to us'? I forget which ... but anyhow, one of them is 'to sweethearts and wives'. I've neither, nor children. A variety of uncles, aunts, and cousins and I've no wish to cause them sorrow, but there is no one who depends on me."

The practice of concealing the fact that his so-called Aunt Titirsha is actually his mother is so ingrained that even to a stranger, he doesn't mention it.

"Do you and your brother always travel together? And to where do you ultimately sail?"

"This is the first time I've been allowed to travel beyond my county, that was not part of a war party. My brother and I are often together," she says. It's not mentioned, but given his considerable size over her, there might be a reason for his accompaniment, and yet the girl seems capable enough.

Her eyes scan the horizon as she fidgets, her knees following the undulation of the deck to keep her steady. "Prince Martin hasn't revealed where we go. He mentioned finishing some tasks for his uncle or uncles, but has otherwise been vague. In hope for some excitement." She glance apologetically at Harsh. "And land." "Nothing wrong with land. I like it myself. Sometimes." Harsh grins, underlining the little joke. "You mention a war party -- in what capacity do you serve?" Normally he might not automatically assume that a woman -- particularly a relatively slight-looking one -- would be a soldier of some kind, but he's making an effort to not let too many of his usual assumptions get in the way.

"I have a mind for strategy and observation, so the Count usually used me for scouting, but when the fighting starts, we all contribute." The woman steps away from the rail and returns to practicing her knots while she talks. "My brother is more of a frontline warrior. Most of the others are too. It's a very direct culture. Pack tactics of varying sizes. I was a bit of the odd one who found subterfuge more to my liking."

"The more I hear of your people -- and the Prince's, and Alex's too, for that matter -- the more I would like to get to know them all better," Harsh says, gesturing expansively. "This is what I mean about not quite being ready to go home yet. Like a child at bedtime. So will things change for you now, with the -- excuse me, perhaps I pry too closely. I was going to ask if your possible kinship to the Prince's family changes matters for you, but you are welcome to tell me that's none of my business."

"The Prince's family exists in a place between mythology and royalty for my people," Rowen responds with the same flatness that she might describe the hierarchy the military or the various grades of fur. "I was brought up with their stories, for my mother has had relations with them and I have--had--a sister who was of their blood. As a young girl, I had dreams of perhaps 'being one of them,' so if Prince Martin's suspicions are true..." she continues, trailing off to let Harsh fill in his own blank. "I've thought I was mean for more for some time now, without knowing why. I don't know what that would mean for my future. It certainly expands it greatly from what I thought my life would be in the Monkland."

Meant for more. Harsh smiles faintly.

"I'm not sure if I was meant for more, or if I only have wanted it that badly," he admits. "I hope you find what you seek, Rowen -- whatever future that may mean in this big new world."

"I hope you get home, Harsh, when you've had your fill of adventure with or without us."

A week or so later, Martin calls Rowen to his office/cabin for a chat over the midday meal. Martin has been making sure the port calls bring in as much red meat as possible, even if some of it is salted, as well as fish and other provisions, so the lunch is well suited to her tastes.

Neither Lark nor Reynart is present.

Once she's settled in and the platters have been brought in, Martin says, "I'm sure you have to have a million questions. This is a good time to ask them."

While the platters, which seem to contain the entire meal, are served family style, there's more fish and ocean creatures in a near-raw state on one platter and more cooked meat and fish on the other. Martin picks more heavily from the raw seafood platter

After weeks at sea and in port, he's not surprised that she drifts about equally between the two sides of the platter, though she tends to slightly favour the meat over the seafood. She's not averse to trying new things, though, and will at least try the fancifully prepared ocean offerings. Always curious, the exploration tends to come with questions like "What is this?" "How do you open the hard crust?" or "What makes this go from black and blue to pink?"

Martin explains various bits of the oceangoing foods and some things about their preparation. Most of them are not raw even if they appear to be. Apparently some of them are prepared in a way that leaves them with a texture similar to raw fish.

Amidst all those questions, between quieter bites of the morsels, she says, "When I first boarded your ship, it was under the pretense of protection. Someone or something was coming after members of the Amber royal family. Alex was rescued from a prison with a number of his cousins, many of whom sound quite capable, yet were still captured."

Pausing, she snares one of the large, crustacean legs with an expected flourish of fingers, and cracks it open without any of the customized utensils. "Where are we going and how could I be more prepared to defend myself?" she asks.

Between bites, Martin explains, "You're--we're--going to Xanadu, which is where my father King Random is. And you shouldn't need to defend yourself there; it's a stronghold. The best defense, though not a perfect one, is to come into your gifts, and meeting with my father is the first step on that road. Assuming you can do that. Which I think you can, but Dad will know better than I do. He can tell; that's one of his gifts."

"It would seem that the gifts aren't uniform across the family. Are there certain ones that are always given and what are the more unique ones that have been given hitherto?" she asks, nibbling--there has been progressively less gnawing as the weeks go by--on steaming flesh, held perfectly like a maize-encrusted sausage with what remains of the leg's shell structure. "As generous as these gifts sound, are there caveats, whether they be mystical or political?"

"There's always a caveat somewhere," Martin says.

"Gifts is--a thing we say in front of outsiders. We can do certain things because of what we are. Walking the Pattern, which is the name we give among ourselves to the test of our heritage, lets us master the basic skills. There are some additional things people can learn on top of that. A lot of us have little knacks as well.

"Walking the Pattern," Martin says, setting down his fork, "gives you mastery of a number of things you may already be able to do. To walk in shadow, which is a faster version of what you've seen me do with adjusting the sky and sea on our route; to manipulate the likelihood of certain things happening or not happening; similarly, to find things you're not certain where they are." He ticks each of these off on his fingers as he explains them. "They're all different uses of the same ability.

"There's Trumps, the cards like the one Alex used to get here, which are related to the Pattern, but you don't have to be an initate to use them or make them. We think you have to be able to be initiated for someone to make one of you. That's a hard skill to learn and not everyone has it. Originally our great-grandfather created the Trumps and everyone else who knows how to make them learned from him, or someone he taught.

"And there's sorcery, which is a step removed from manipulating raw Chaos, and works by violating principles of Order. Like, time moves forward, right? You can't go back in time, but with Time sorcery you can. Or distance: a sorcerer can do something called 'parting the veil' that lets you step between one place and another place far away, across Shadows, in a single step. Unlike Trump, it's antithetical to Pattern.

"And there's shapeshifting, which is usually related to Chaos, but doesn't have to be. Not like what you have, where you change from one particular form to another, but more like if you could turn into any kind of creature you wanted to, or, maybe, a bunch of rocks as well. Again, not something that does well mixed with Pattern. Those are the basic things we know or can learn how to do. Beyond that it gets really complicated. I personally can only use the Pattern; I can't make Trumps, and I don't have any sorcery or shapeshifting. Pattern and a good blade are all I've needed," Martin concludes.

"It would be fascinating to be able to do that, changing into anything you wanted. It all sounds fascinating. I don't know what to choose... that is, if there's a choice at all. Have you had anyone one try to do something, like the sorcery or the Trumps and been unable to do it? It would seem likely that there would be limitations, but what you just described suggests otherwise," Rowen muses aloud as her mind grinds against the onslaught of new information.

"Trump and sorcery are skills that anyone who knows can teach. I don't know if there are family members who can't learn them. If there are, they probably haven't confessed it," Martin explains.

"Shapeshifting like I'm talking about seems to be limited to people with close Chaosian blood. 'Seems' is the operative word there; nobody's ever told me that they tried and failed. I think having taken the Pattern would make it harder, but again, that's a guess. But not everybody speaks up about what they can do. One of our cousins, Lucas, was a Trump artist, but most of us didn't know that until he was dead." Martin makes a bit of a sour face. "Another one was secretly a sorcerer and it took him a while to fess up. I think I understand why he did it, but it sat badly for reasons that are long and involved and complicated to explain if you don't know family politics."

She possesses a healthy appetite, continuing strong as he starts to slow down. "Who are we likely to find in Xanadu? The books I had featured family trees but I expect they are outdated. I don't recall seeing a Lucas mentioned." A pause while she nibbles meat off a bone. "What is the nature of Xanadu itself? Ask I know if there is a Thing underneath it."

Martin is one of the few people Rowen has ever met who seems to eat as much as she does. "Most people don't stay in Xanadu proper. Usually my Dad, and his brother Gerard, who was injured when the castle in Amber collapsed. And," Martin adds reluctantly, "Folly, my wife and Lark's mother. Everybody else is in and out, some more out than in."

"Will there be expectations? Listening to Alex talk, it seems there are worlds that are vastly different than what I've known or were described in mother's books about Amber. How could I learn about those things. What magic are fones and television?"

"There are always expectations, but you'll be taught them as you go along. There's been a large influx of cousins in the last couple of decades, all from very different sorts of places, so we're getting used to accommodating different levels of technology and magic and the understandings that go with them."

Martin takes a bite of something to buy himself a little time to figure out how to explain telephones and televisions.

"Phones--telephones--are devices that people can use to speak to each other at a distance. Television is a form of over-the-air broadcast that has visual and audio effects; it's also the name of the device that receives those broadcasts. They can be news and information, or entertainment. Like a play or a musical concert that you'd listen to. They're common in certain kinds of shadows like the one Alex came from. You'd need a book from that kind of place or someone like Alex, or me, to explain how they work. But in Shadows where people have those devices, they're usually common enough that people know how to use them without knowing all the science behind them."

By the look on her face, it looks like he may have lost her somewhere over the air or casting broadly, though the expression disappears quickly, replaced by a neutral studiousness. "I may need a book," she says plainly, pausing her chew to speak. "Or a demonstration," she adds, considering his last statement. "These devices take the place of feasts and meetings like this, then? Is it just for the speaking and communication, like the cards? I did not hear of anything about food."

"They don't take the place of meals, but telephones can take the place of talking in a meeting, so similar to the cards in that respect. No stepping through, though. I think you're going to have to see a lot of this technology to get it, but fundamentally shadow tech and shadow magic for us are different routes with similar endpoints. You'll get there," Martin says with confidence.

"I think Dad limits the level of technology that works in Xanadu. It's got to be hard because he wants electricity and enough tech to make sound engineering and recording work but he doesn't want military technology. Anyway, not the point: the point is that nobody will think you're stupid for not knowing. You'll be fresh in from Shadow and people will tell you what you need to know."

Rowen's lips twist wryly. "It's what you need to know that others don't think you need to know that limits you." She shrugs slightly and goes back to gnawing on a rib.

"Probably the biggest piece of family etiquette is the sort of family hierarchy. Dad's at the top, because he's king, then his brothers and sisters, then our generation, sort of by age but also sort of by life experience. Since I'm relatively old for our generation, plus I'm Dad's oldest known child, I'm reasonably high on the list, but I still don't push it with the uncles unless I need to. Usually when we find each other in Shadow, we tell each other all our family news, and the younger one goes first. Or the guest goes first, but again, easier to just give some or most of your news to an older relative early so you're not perceived to be snubbing someone."

Illustrating with her hands at different levels, she asks, "By all accounts everyone in the family looks youthful enough and there are generational overlaps. I suppose we state our lineage and determine the pecking order from there?"

"Yes. There are nuances, though, even in that. Like, if Corwin takes a shine to you because you're Eric's, that'll move you up the line. Still, as a youngster and a new member of the family, you'll probably do better to start with the assumption you're junior and move your way up the line over time." He stops eating for a moment and tilts his head, looking at her. "I don't have a great sense of pack dynamics among the Weir, but I guess you'll have similar ways of working out who's senior and who's junior?"

Rowen snags a serving fork and shifts a few meaty items around. "There's a separation between the nobility and the rest of the Weir, of course," represented by dark meats and white meats. "Within each group, however, it's a mix of age and prowess. Which gets more prominence depends. Obviously, the best outcome is wisdom and ability. There's more focus on ability than just pure age. The elders get respect, but witless elders are still useless."

"What happens if you end up with somebody who," Martin pauses, looks for the right word and settles on, "goes crazy? Endangers the pack, or the nation, or whatever group you want to settle as important?"

"If it's something as clear as endangering the pack or nation, or the county, then they'll typically get a very stern opportunity to amend their ways," Rowen says, edging out a piece of white meat from the group of 'nobles' on the platter. "And if they continue to be recalcitrant... I suppose that depends. If it is a political inconvenience, they might be cast out. I believe you call it 'disowned.' But, if the transgression could be considered a crime, then they might be executed." Reaching for her own fork, she stabs the lone chunk of meat and brings it to her mouth for an exaggerated chew.

"Yeah, we have a rule about that too. Which is, don't," Martin says. "A crazy uncle tried to do me in and Dad would have let him walk at the battle at the end of the world. Things fell out another way and he got a bad case of dead anyway," he clarifies, "just in case you're worried about crazy uncles coming after you. But don't. If the family has to deal with a problem of that magnitude, it won't be you or me making the decision."

Rowen sits back, crossing her arms over her chest, leaving one hand free to hold her fork. "Sir Vargr's troops told stories of their time in Amber, and how Eric was ultimately deposed by Corwin." As she speaks, the fork begins to rotate and ultimately spin between her slender fingers. "Is there any lingering animosity between him and Eric's kin or kin to Corwin?"

"Not so far as I can tell. Corwin gets along fine with Jerod and got along with Cambina. Corwin has two kids that we know of: Merlin and Celina. Merlin was raised in Chaos and Celina's mother was the Queen of Rebma, and they're both more concerned about their own homelands--running away from it in Merlin's case--and each other than they are about revisiting old fights. Dad expects everyone to bury those old hatchets and not in each other, either.

"Another reason not to bury hatchets in each other is that sometimes we can and do issue death curses. Killing a family member will probably earn you their curse, and that would be," Martin says, stabbing a sole piece of white meat, "bad."

Rowen nods slowly, taking in the new information. "Was such a curse issued by Eric or your crazy uncle, assuming they are not one and the same?" she asks. "How does one issue a death curse? Can it be done without dying?"

"Corwin did it once, but he was busy having his eyes burned out at the time. He got better, which is to say his eyes grew back after some years. So: maybe," Martin says, "but don't get in that situation."

Rowen's face scrunches up a little as the blinding is recouted, but softens. "That sounds like a horrid fate. Is that regrowth also a gift of the family or one particular to... Corwin?" A pause, but short enough to come before an answer. "Are there any relatives who prefer to be, uh, formally addressed? Uncle, Majesty, Sir, or somesuch? It seems we can just use their given names in casual context."

"I'm usually pretty informal, but when I was a child I was the only grandchild of Oberon I knew of, and I wasn't acknowledged by my father, much less my grandfather, so I didn't have the closeness to call most of my aunts and uncles by that title," Martin explains. "These days it's usually Uncle or Aunt, and cousins by their first name. Corwin is King in Paris, so formally Your Majesty, and he'll be flattered if you call him that. Dad isn't a fan of formality and Celina, who holds the throne of Rebma, is doubly informal by Rebman standards. She's Corwin's daughter and not very like him in personality. Sir or Ma'am would also be good at first, since it's easier to let them decide to be informal and thus feel more control over the relationship.

Martin pauses for a moment to think about eyes. "I'm told many of our uncles and aunts have lost fingertips and parts of ears and things and those have grown back. Corwin's eyes are large and complex, so that's notable. But Uncle Ben, Benedict, lost most of one forearm and as far as I know he hasn't grown it back. And Uncle Gerard's back was broken and his legs were damaged in the Sundering, and that hasn't grown back, or grown back right, anyhow. So I wouldn't count on it working that way for you unless you already grow injuries back.

"Which it occurs to me: I don't know that about the Weir. Do you?"

Rowen shrugs, considering how to answer the question. "The severity of the injury matters. Little things we can grow back. Muscle is easiest. Organs may grow back, but not fully. I don't know if eyes would ever grow back. Bone breaks heal. If you lose the bone, it's likely not growing back, or at least no one has lived long enough to see it happen."

"That sounds comparable to what we've seen with the uncles," Martin says. "Corwin's case was considered an outlier. So you have a good idea of what the risks are if you get in a fight with someone or something as tough as you are without me explaining in more detail. And there are people and creatures out there as tough as we are, especially in ones and twos."

Rowen picks out a drumstick of some bird -- Far better than one from a fish -- and lightly nibbles at it. Her bites are precise, ultimately leaving nothing on the bone. "Are they common, those people and creatures?" she asks, thinking back to her own sparring drills with the Weir. For a moment she looks very slight, though still with the bearing of confidence.

"Common--" Martin starts to say something, reconsiders and stops. "We're rare. There are a few dozen of us in the infinite multitude of shadows. But we have a kind of gravity, so we tend to encounter each other more often than a completely random universe would imply. Usually things that are as tough as we are share our gravity, so they're drawn to us or we're drawn to them. I wouldn't call it common for us to encounter Moonriders and dragons and half-gods and the like, but it's not unexpected."

It's been a week or so since Rowen and Harsh had their first lesson in shipboard life when Martin joins Harsh on deck. He waits until Harsh has finished his current task to approach. "When you've got a moment, Commander," he says to Harsh, "I'd like your advice on a few things. No rush, particularly; it's just occurred to me that you've probably got some useful input on a problem I'm pondering."

Harsh has settled into the rhythms of life aboard this vessel, as have the other Golcondans. He's in an odd spot, somewhere between the Amberite officers and a guest, but he's been accepted as an honorary member of the wardroom. He'll take a watch from time to time, help with the navigation (learning much along the way), and generally jump in to help wherever he can.

The officers have been pleased enough to take Harsh on; on a ship this size (the Queen Vialle is the largest and newest in the fleet) there's always something that needs an extra, experienced hand. When he's not needed, Harsh has been asked to fill up a rutter with information on Golconda, clearly with the idea that the merchant marine will be sent to trade with his homeland in the future.

It's a curious thing, writing about one's homeland -- there are so many things that one takes for granted without realising that a stranger won't know them. Harsh has had some help from his fellow Golcondans, and has developed a habit of jotting down brief memoranda whenever something reminds him that Golcondan assumptions and practices are not universal.

While most of the crew are from Amber, some are also from the old Golden Circle kingdoms, and Harsh learns here about Bellum, Hamakaido, Etana, and Gateway, and stories about the undersea city of Rebma, where Prince Martin's mother was from. (He's considered a good egg by the sailors for singing a shanty that was written to satirize his father for siring him without marrying his mother instead of standing on his privilege and forbidding it. Also he knows better than to interfere with the running of the ship beyond "we're going to this place" and shifting Shadow, which he does in cooperation with the Captain.) The crew is collectively human, or near enough, but they do speak of having met creatures that are definitely not human in their sailings, and also, some of the survivors of the late war talk about the shapeshifting Chaosians.

Harsh is also able to pick up various scraps of information about the larger royal family in passing: more on the recent war including the fratricidal nature of part of it and the way it's all been patched up, the large spread of brothers and sisters (and now cousins), the Fleet Admirals Prince Caine and Prince Gerard, the latter now tragically injured and unable to sail, the mysterious royal abilities that are accepted as a normal part of life, and so on.

Today Martin finds him at the changing of the watch, and Harsh steps down from the helm and greets him with the Golcondan salute.

"Your Highness. Certainly, how may I help?"

"I am considering," Martin says, "my long term plans." He's clearly aware, as they step away from the helm, that he's being overheard and probably listened to. "Let's take a turn around the deck and talk about it--but if you'd rather have tea we can wait."

Speaking of assumptions ... Harsh reminds himself that the usual Golcondan dance of polite refusals and acceptances are not de rigeur here, and his answer is straightforward. "It's the tea that can wait, sir. Please, do lead on."

Martin takes Harsh's answer at face value, and does so. "It's not a secret," he says, "that my father and mother ran away together and didn't marry, and that my mother died when I was an infant. I was raised in the court of Rebma, where the roles that men and women generally have in Amber, and from things you've said, similar also to Golconda, are generally reversed: that is, women hold all the political power and men--and boys like myself--hold a lower status." Martin pauses there to let Harsh evaluate that for a moment.

Harsh has absorbed enough information to not be surprised at Martin's casual mention of his parents' marital status -- or lack thereof -- but it still startles him to hear it so plainly put, without shame. He schools his expression and nods: understood, go on.

"My childhood wasn't particularly happy; my father was held in low regard for his part in my conception and presumably my mother's death. When I came to adulthood and, over my grandmother's objections, came into my gifts, I promised myself that I wouldn't raise any child of mine in court. That I would do my best to give my children, not a normal life, because I don't even know what normal means, but at least a happy life. I've been thinking that raising Lark for the next decade or two on a ship--not a warship like this, but merchant marine--might be a relatively stable way to raise Lark. You've got a level of naval experience that exceeds my own, but you're also not involved in the politics of my homeland so that won't affect your answers. I'm interested," Martin concludes, "in hearing what you think."

"There are few men who would call life aboard ship 'stable', sir," Harsh says with a smile, "but I think I see your meaning. The perils are more ... physical than social, perhaps. And while such a life is not without its own kind of politics, in many ways it is a world where a man -- or a woman -- can be valued for their merit as much as their birth, if not more so."

Harsh has found a small wooden toggle in his pocket, picked up idly at some point during the day. He takes it out and begins to fidget with it, flipping it through his fingers and spinning it, only half aware that he's doing so; a nervous gesture.

"But I suppose it comes down to whether you reckon the potential dangers of storms, pirates, and hostile navies outweigh those of courtly machinations -- and which you think she is better capable of weathering."

Martin laughs, but not unkindly. "The last time I tried to settle down, we were chased out of our home by zombies. Lark already knows how to finish one off." It occurs to Martin then that Harsh may not even know what he's talking about. "Do they even have zombies in Golconda? Magical or technological?"

The word sounds vaguely Afric; it's a new one to Harsh. "What are they? Some sort of monster?"

"The magical ones are dead bodies, usually human, that have been animated. They eat human flesh," Martin says, "by which I mean tear people to pieces. There are various means of destroying them but it generally boils down to hack them to bits and burn the bits to ashes. And they're often contagious, in that an injury, particularly a bite, will cause the injured person to die and become a zombie. The technological ones, and in this case I mean biotech, have some kind of disease that emulates the effects of the magic, including the contagion through biting or clawing. I'm pretty sure the ones we encountered were the latter," Martin says. "I don't expect we'll encounter any but if we do, you run and I'll fight. I'm tough and apparently immune to the disease."

A number of words go over Harsh's head, but he gets the general idea. "We have legends in Golconda of the vetala -- spirits that possess the corpses of the dead. And ghuls -- corpse-eating monsters. But they're tales there, not real," he says. "I assure you that if I see one, getting out of the way will be the first action on my mind." A pause. "Did you find out about the immunity the, ah, hard way?"

"Yes," Martin says, "not deliberately, but yes. It didn't surprise me, though. I've always been fast to heal up and hard to knock down, and we're all immune to a lot of magics that would do in anyone else. That I turned out to be immune to this disease as well was par for the course."

"Fortunate," Harsh says with a small chuckle. "My fellow sailors have often said of me that I'm difficult to kill, but your people seem to be something else altogether. Though of course I've never been put to the test beyond the naval battles and the occasional ducking in the sea."

At least a couple of which incidents ought to have killed him, by all rights, he knows. Good thing he's lucky.

"Do you swim, then, Commander?" This seems to be a very interesting topic to Martin.

"I do. And a good thing, or you might not see me here now," Harsh says. "After we found the Cotopaxi, a storm blew us to Tortuga, and we might have foundered there with her but for the assistance of the people there. I was the last off the derelict and like an idiot, managed to fall right into the sea as I was disembarking. They fished me out, not much the worse for wear, but it was a near thing."

Martin laughs, not unkindly, but perhaps in recognition of the near-miss. "It's always seemed strange to me that so many surfacer sailors don't know how to swim. I was raised in Rebma so I could swim before I could walk properly. And the plan to not fall off the ship is always a good one, but unfortunately the universe doesn't always let us follow through," he says ruefully.

"Though I hope that won't be so much of a risk with what I'm thinking of. Probably it's not for you, since it might not be very interesting, at least not after the first round of trips, would be merchant marine sailing in relatively settled areas. Transport of goods and possibly of diplomats as needed, but not exploring new shadows. Ideally also avoiding zombies, religious cultists, dragons, and other troubles to the extent I can make it so. It would all be new places for you, though, so once Dad has taken your measure, if he doesn't have something better for you, it might be worth your time for a few years."

It takes Harsh a second to fully grasp the last part of what Martin says; then he hesitates a moment before answering:

"Am I to understand -- and forgive my impertinence if I have misread you -- would it be your wish that I accompany your daughter on her travels? If so, it would be a profound honour. And if I have misunderstood, I beg your pardon humbly."

"Well Lark and me, but yes, if it's something you'd consider for a few years. I expect you may get a better offer," Martin says with a wry smile, "and if you do, take it. But a good leader who's adaptable and interested is worth a lot, especially one with naval experience. We're a seafaring people, we've been through a lot in the war, and we've lost a lot of resources. There will be a place for you, I can tell, with me and Lark or somewhere in the Navy, or who knows, with the shadowpaths all changed, maybe Dad will need some outright explorers. I'm just getting my bid in early."

"I am," Harsh says after a moment's frantic thought, "a son of Golconda, and ever shall be, and I hope to see her shores again someday. And I am determined to deliver home those of my men who wish to return. But in my heart I know I would be a fool if I were to turn down your offer." He presses his palms together in anjali mudra and bows. "You honour me greatly, your Highness."

Martin apparently doesn't know the anjali mudra and is wise enough in the ways of the worlds not to make a gesture he doesn't know the meaning of. He does make a neck-bow in return, adding, "Depending on how things go, we may be able to take a shot at Golconda after we finish this ferrying job, back to Xanadu. Though ideally not on a giant warship. I can see that being perceived as less than friendly."

Harsh chuckles. "Less than friendly and entirely uncanny as well. Tell me -- is there anything that I might do to help ... navigate to Golconda? I continue to fill the rutter that you requested, but if there is anything more -- something related to your Trumps, perhaps? Forgive me if I misunderstand how they work."

"That's not really how Trumps work," Martin agrees, "and in any case, I don't have the skill of making them. But what you can do that will help, if I do the shifts at night, is make a star chart. Colors help a lot too, but that's harder to explain to someone who hasn't seen the skies or seas you're looking for," he adds. "I do them gradually over time for a vessel like this and that gives me better precision. Fast shifts lose that, and also require the ship to be moving at very high speeds. I don't even want to think about trying to hell-sail this thing."

Martin pats the railing as if reassuring the ship he likes her anyway.

Harsh contemplates briefly what would be involved in getting a ship this size up to a particularly high speed and he has to agree; trying to sail her in seriously high winds would not be fun for anyone.

"I'll provide what information I can," he says. "And I trust that if we are fated to sail there, it will come to pass. In the meantime -- this plan of yours for you and your daughter. What else might I need to know?"

"I'm in very early stages with this plan," Martin says. "I don't even know what we need. Maybe an exploration vessel would be better, in the sense that we'd be going to places we don't know, or at least through them. I'm open to general suggestions. You're the expert here. What would you consider in my situation?"

Harsh ponders the question in silence for a moment.

"You'll want something halfway between a passenger ship and, well -- this. An exploration vessel isn't a bad idea. Something smaller, nimble, relatively shallow draught as you don't know what sort of waters you'll be in. Nothing that advertises 'royalty aboard, ransom at will'." A wry little smile. "Fast, in case you need to run. And if worse comes to worse, you'll want to be ready for a fight, but not look like you're spoiling for one. Cannon, but not as much as a warship, swivel guns. A complement of marines. I'd hire a scholar or a naturalist as well -- to document the places you go, and as a tutor for your daughter as well."

Martin nods slowly. "Cash on hand won't be a problem but possibly some trade goods in small and easy to pack quantities. And I'm the diplomat. It could work." He smiles, and it's hard to tell with Martin because Martin doesn't have a lot of tells, but Harsh feels this is genuine. "Thank you, Commander, you're a great help, even if you go on to better things."