Ossian and Jerod proceed towards the port. On the way, Ossian asks Jerod: "I think we should be very discreet with the bailiff. Maybe we should even make a few investigations by ourselves before seeing him. We will be much more efficient if our presence isn't well known."
"I would agree." Jerod says. "The bailiff will be an official and while Benedict may trust him, the people may be more reserved with their information to him. Getting a feel for the situation from the locals will give us an idea as to what they think is happening... maybe some information too that hasn't been passed on.
"I think I will dust off my merchant persona. People are always willing to talk to a foreign merchant looking to buy, not sell, and who has lots of money for drinks." he says, making sure his coin purse is suitably stocked with coinage, which of course he is absolutely sure will be the case.
Ossian grins. "I think we should stay together. Otherwise I would go as an artist, seeking the avantgarde. I'd be your spoiled, party oriented cousin instead."
Jerod nods with a slight smile, pulling out another coin purse and tossing it to Ossian. "Spending all my hard earned cash." he says with a fake tsk in his voice. "Father would be so disappointed with your wayward outlook on life. Sounds perfect to cover all the bases actually."
Ossian, Jerod and Regenlief ride on to the port. I guess they will go for places near the harbour (but maybe the sort of fancier taverns in the harbour district where the merchants meet?)
The town's walls look quite functional, and capable of defending both against a land-based or sea-based attack. Despite this it seems to do a vigorous trade and people are constantly moving through the gates. Jerod is able to pay their entrance tax with no more than minor price-gouging and they are directed to the harbor-master if they wish to conduct significant commerce.
"That one has the signs of a mercenary hiring hall," says Regenlief. The people outside of the Stone Head fit that assessment. The Golden Hind across the street seems more likely to be a merchanter tavern.
"I'm inclined to the merchanter side first, get settled." Jerod says. "We need to get ahold of Voight's bailiff Savor - we can do that by running the merchant angle and running through Savor first as part of going up the food chain. We also need to see about Montage and what he's up to, and how to burn him to the ground if we can. If as Brennan says he's posing as Stratum, we'll want to see how that is working out amongst the corsairs and here."
Ossian nods. He will enter the place after Jerod, and surveys the clientele as soon as he gets inside.
The room is cool and dark without being poorly lit, and the music from the small stage keeps most conversations private. A few of the clientele are evaluating Jerod as Jerod and Ossian evaluate them.
The patrons look fit and are lightly armed, in the fashion of Avalon. Some are better dressed than others, with jewels and other displays of wealth about them. It's almost like a spectrum, with the best tables and views reserved for the richest merchants. A very large man who is probably a bouncer looks at you and makes eye contact with Regenlief. He doesn't say anything or approach.
"Our move," says Regenlief.
Jerod steps up, ignoring the bouncer with the careful gaze that recognizes the hired help for the value they provide, but not much more. His practiced eye scans the room, looking to see who is in charge of this part of the establishment. Wealth and power are two different things and those that exercise the latter well know they do not always need a lot of wealth displayed. So he looks carefully, see where the lines of power gravitate in the room, who gives the signals, who directs the flow, where do they eyes turn or flicker when the newcomers enter.
The room has tells, like a person, and Jerod can read them. Money is power here, but Jerod can also see who they watch. It's not who he would've expected. A woman wearing a veil sits at a table at the back, watching everything. It looks like the kind of table that people pay court at. She has two men standing behind her. Her hair is all covered by the veil, but her skin is a creamy pale that indicates she doesn't work in the sun. There are two people at her table, but it's clear she's seen Jerod enter.
Ossian will follow Jerod's leas for the moment, but also keeps an eye open for the lower rank tables, looking for a place he could go when he becomes "bored" with Jerod.
Ossian doesn't see many lower rank people in this room, but he notices a server carry a tray of flagons towards a side room. It's either gaming or a waiting area for those who aren't making deals.
Jerod's gaze makes it clear he's recognized he's been seen. He sizes up the two men behind her, as well as any others sitting around who might be additional security.
"Our Watcher friend in the booth," he says, to Ossian after a moment. "Veiled, two for security, maybe others. Cover as you see fit. Time to see who runs the show here."
Ossian gives Jerod a bored look. (Staying to his role). "Yes, uncle." he answers, with a louder voice than Jerod is used to from him.
With that he wanders over to the table at a sedate pace, enough that he's not appearing threatening, and enough time for the Watcher to decide how she will respond to his approach.
Assuming no interception, once he gets to the table he offers a polite nod/bow. "Well met, I am Jerold."
Ossian stays to his role as bored nephew. He follows Jerod, but seems less focused and more easily distracted (i.e. he watches the crowd, not only the veiled lady).
The woman with the veil on bows her head. "Well met, indeed stranger. "I am Epiphany. Few men come straight to me, but the ones who do often know exactly what they are doing.
"Do you?"
Ossian notices that he's not the only people-watcher in the room. The bartender and a few of the regulars are talking, presumably about Jerold.
"That depends on if that man knows they are walking straight into trouble." Jerod says with a smile. He motions to the bartender to Epiphany's table for refreshments, confident that he'll know what she is having. "May I?" he asks, pointing to a chair.
Assuming she allows Jerod to sit, Ossian takes a position behind his chair. He watches the room, especially interested in if someone leaves the room.
"Please, sit," she says, gesturing to the chairs. Ossian doesn't see anyone leave, but all eyes area on the tableau at the back table.
"Trouble is another word for opportunity, as they say in the Rimlands. I am an opportunist." She smiles. "What do you seek?"
"Knowledge," Jerod says simply. "Opportunity depends on knowing the land into which they enter....the people in charge, the people who think they are in charge, those with assets, and those with levers over all them."
"The people with levers...they are the ones I like to get to know best."
Ossian visibly supresses a bored face, like someone who is bored, but tries to hide it.
"Ah, Knowledge. Some worship it, some hoard it, some treat it as a war matériel. For some it is their primary motivation in life, for others, it is the thing that breaks the mystery they crave. I sense that neither of these labels applies to you. As for me, I trade in it. Buying, selling knowledge for the right coin." She looks around the room. "Others do as well, but few are as capable as I."
Ossian leans close to his mother and whispers. He looks at one of the other tables to hide what he's whispering about. "Sounds like monk policy to me."
Regenlief nods. "Maybe. I have never heard of a woman in their ranks. How many of the guards do you think you could take?"
"I'd say at least four. Just be prepared if this goes bad."
"You mean if this gets better," Regenlief replies with a wry grin.
"Mmm... traders are always eager to push their brand, lest they think their potentials customers may go elsewhere." Jerod says to Epiphany. "Market share and all that.
"Perhaps we can see about a sample of your merchandise," Jerod muses. "I know already my coin is good, and if your senses are as good as you claim, then you know having my favor is better."
Epiphany concedes the point. "As a wine trader will always provide a sample glass, so too I will provide you with samples to prove my wares. And if you are who you seem to be, you will come to trust, rely, and profit from patronizing me. I do not use tricks, or magic, or prophecies on my customers. Tell me what you seek to know and I will prove that it is worth paying me for that information."
"Admiral Wossome." Jerod says simply. "For a start."
Ossian tries to judge if anyone at another table can hear Jerods conversation.
Ossian thinks it would take Amberite hearing to overhear this conversation. No one here looks like a cousin except Jerod.
That doesn't preclude the possibly of magic, or someone behind the nearby wall.
"Stratum," replies Epiphany, "War-leader Syke's eldest. His maneuvers are the talk of the port and I can see why you would be interested. He stays mostly to the North, only venturing into the central seas when there's a strong Corsair presence.
"He has a reputation for being a tactical genius, which is predicated on him winning a lot of battles. It's somewhat undeserved, since most of his victories come from either overwhelming force or magical force augmentation. If his forces get within 3 islands of here, it will be a surprise to most."
"And why would you say that?" Jerod asks. "If his victories are achieved as you say by force or magical augmentation, then it would seem he knows how to pick his targets and times for attack."
She nods. "That's strategic and not tactical. I think he's not the one doing the winning. Someday, he's going to get into a tactical situation that's not wildly unequal and he'll melt like snow in the sea. On that day many people will express their lack of surprise, and few will recall that they once considered him unbeatable."
Ossian listens intently, but keeps his eyes on the crowd.
A young woman at the bar is looking at the four of them. It's either the traditional offer made by looking directly at someone in a bar, or it's not.
"Time for me to play my role." Ossian whispers to Regenlief. He smiles at the young woman and walks towards the bar. He will buy her a drink if she hasn't one already. He also orders one for himself. "It is strange how my uncle's talking makes my throat dry."
She takes the drink and thanks Ossian. "It must be a very dry subject, given who he's talking to. I haven't seen you in here before, new in town?"
Ossian nods "Yep. Uncle wants to establish himself as someone that matters, I guess. Are you from here?"
She smiles at him, a friendly grin. "No one's from here, but I'm from a bit further away. Terror Maghee is my name. Me Ma didn't much like babies." It's a smooth line, and clearly she thinks it's funny. "There aren't any new ships in port, so you came up landside. What brings you to Port Eden?"
"My uncle keeps his plans inside his head. From what I understand, we are to take advantage of the unstable situation here. " Ossian sips his drink "Maghee." he tastes the name "Is that a surname, or more like a description. Or a title?"
She snorts. It's not a traditionally smooth or attractive gesture, but it doesn't seem out of place coming from "Terror Maghee". "Something of all of that, as it turns out. It means 'Clan of the Sons of Ghee' in our old, sexist language. But it's effectively a surname because we're all related. And it's a title because the Gheesians are the first amongst equal clans that are Sons of Alpin, the first King." She sips her drink. "I'm 'Terror' becuase my baby brother couldn't pronounce 'Terra' and everyone else thought that was hilarious."
Terror sips her whiskey. "What names have they hung on you?"
"Oswald of Abford." Ossian says, "although Uncle sometimes calls me 'Slackerboy'. What's up with that woman uncle is talking to? Seems like she's the queen of this place or something."
She finishes her drink and waves at the barman. "Well, not in any way that she can give orders outside of her web, but, yeah, she wants to seem like that. She's not the mayor and she doesn't work for the Protector. She'd sell information to either of them, if the price was right. If you're wondering, I'm here because I'm watching her. Not because she's our enemy, but because I want to know if our enemies are buying her services."
Ossian says, "Well, I don't know if we are your enemies or your friends. Uncle is an opportunist, so I guess that is not decided yet.
"I would prefer not being your enemy", he adds with a smile, before ordering another drink. "Are there any friends of yours I should steer Uncle from? If I can, of course."
She looks sidelong at him. "I wouldn't want to be your enemy, either. I might even like to be your friend. Not sure about your uncle, though. There's a lot of Maghees. I'm not worried about the ones who went with the Ard-Righ. No, that's wrong. I am, but they have their eyes open to their danger. I am most worried about the common Maghees who might've been at sea, or traveling who aren't a part of the battle for the Silver Towers. If you and your uncle could avoid hurting those folk, or helping those who would hurt them, I'd consider that friendly."
Ossian smiles "He is not soft, my uncle. But I 'll try. Is there anywhere I can reach you? I might learn things from uncle that could help your folks.
"Is the Ard-Righ a ship?"
"In a way. It's a King-ship. The King ship. The High King, in the old language. And you can leave a note at the bar here. The barman's a cousin. Maghees make the best publicans."
Ossian chuckles. "So the High King left with a number of people? I thought kings really belonged in their kingdoms, ruling?"
Tara pushes her hair back with one hand. "You haven't heard? It's a long story. A tennight ago there was no Ard Righ and our kingdom was sunken beneath the waves by mighty magics, of our own doing. We ended an age of great wealth, great injustice, and great power. The world that followed was not as safe, for a time, and injustice wasn't ended, but the demon prince who ruled was banished and people had a say in their own destiny.
"We were diminished, landless and kingless, until last Twosday, when the Isle of the Mighty rose from the waters and the King sailed with a flotilla from Methryn's Isle wearing the lost torc of King Cam MacAlpine Maghee.
"And about a dozen breaths after Ramjollock declared and the Brehon accepted his claim, our enemies declared war.
"It's been a memorable ten-day. And that's a story that calls for another drink." She signals the bartender, who busies himself making two more.
"Indeed" Ossian says. "Uncle will love ths situation. There's probably money to be made, I guess. Let's hope he learns things over there that makes him more likely to spare your friends."
She takes their drinks from the barkeep and hands one to Ossian. "What's he selling? Maybe my friends should be his friends, too."
"He's been known to do bounty hunting among other things. Your friends aren't pirates, are they?"
Tara drinks about half of her drink. Ossian thinks it smells moderately strong. "Well as the sovereign lord of the Silver Towers, Ram technically can't be a pirate, as he's got an island. He's no friend of the northern corsairs, but we are a stubborn clan and there are certainly pirates amongst us.
"So are you generally pro-pirate or anti-pirate?"
"We would be anti-pirate in most cases. Although, as you obviously know, who is a pirates is a contested issue. Corsairs in the neighbourhood changes that equation also. Uncle doesn't like them if they aren't on our side."
She laughs, ruefully. "They're not on anyone's side but their own. If they come upon a fight, they'll stand off and try to take out the winners before they recover. They are a pox on the seas.
"And they renege on their bills, on land. Be prepared to aggressively enforce any contract you make with them, or better yet don't make one."
Before Ossian can react to that, he feels the subtle mental pricking of a trump call.
Ossian looks a bit unfocused. He takes the call. *pause*
"I'll advice my uncle. Heck. He might even find me useful for once!"
She doesn't quite snort in her drink. "If he can't find a use for you, I think I could. You're definitely more attractive than he is, and you're smart enough to talk to me while he talks to her, but sure, you can play dumb if you like." She grins. "It probably works pretty well most of the time."
Ossian smiles. "You wouldn't believe how ... irresponsible he thinks I am... wasting time on useless stuff." He pulls a piece of paper from a pocket and almost absentmindedly starts folding it. "That does not mean I can't carry my own weight."
Ossian excuses himself and feigning a need to go to the bathroom.
Jerod notes Ossian's departure with a vaguely irritated look of an elder disappointed with his charge. He doesn't bother looking at Regenleif to know she will be aware of the division of them and trusts her to keep an eye on anyone else.
"And has anyone attempted to bring off a confrontation with this Stratum on terms less favorable to him?" Jerod asks Epiphany. "If he only ventures south with a strong supporting group, then there must be an opposition still remaining to him, or else he'd have come already."
"No one has," she replies. "Yet." Epiphany looks over to where Ossian is standing, and then back to Jerod.
"Another piece of gossip or news, for free, no one knows exactly what the Rise of the Silver Towers will mean, but there's not a military force in all of the Avalonian Sea basin that isn't looking to make a move based on it. There's already two armies on the island, and more troops are coming. Will the Corsairs ally with the Maghees? If so, then they have a base in the south that can strike even here on Avalon.
"Your boy is talking to a Maghee, in case you weren't sure."
"He seems to attract all sorts of attention." Jerod says, taking what seems to be a very bored look at Ossian and his companion. "Trying to keep him under control is quite the task. I suppose I'll have to have a talk with him again, afterwards.
"As for the Silver Towers, that is certain to a catalyst I would think for those eager to try to amass power, perhaps beyond their means to control. I'm curious as to what news on that front has filtered here. It's always good for business to know what might be happening, on the wider scale, that can be disruptive. Especially in regards to Avalon for example...its ruler is not one I would presume people would want to be on the bad side of."
"It's a mercenary town. War bands hire. War bands buy food and weapons and sails and shoe leather. They know better than to try press-gangs on the Protector's own island, but the volunteers and mercenaries are finding ready work, just like the merchants."
She taps on her arm, three times. Jerod recognizes it as a ritual gesture, but doesn't know her culture well enough to know the meaning. "Maghees and their tower have not been declared part of the Protectorate, which puts them at risk to anyone who wishes to try their arm. Do you have reason to believe the Protector will act quickly in the matter? He has a history of moving last."
"From what little I know of the Protector from my travels, I would gather his choice of acting last would be as a last resort when other, less destructive measures have not been effective," Jerod says, making note of the motion, curious as to whether it is repeated by anyone within viewing range.
"Acting first before having even a reasonable understanding of the situation tends to lead one into bad venues, especially if you're dealing with a rival, or enemy, of whom you have little information. Were I to speculate, I'd figure the Protector would send agents on his behalf to observe and report. Trusted ones might be sent to take action on his behalf...assuming of course they had sufficient skill and power, as well as his confidence." and he smiles. "I'd guess the latter would be something that would be very sparing."
Nobody seems to have taken notice of Epiphany's gesture.
"I'm sure the Protector seeks sources of information, sometimes openly and other times less so. I've supplied his agents in the past, sometimes knowingly, sometimes perhaps not." Epiphany looks Jerod up and down as if assessing his own fitness for that position. "Think of me as an arms merchant. I don't always know what people are going to do with the weapons I sell them. And sometimes I think I've sold them a small knife but in the right hands, or the wrong ones, it turns out to be a cannon."
Jerod smiles. "I remember my father mentioning something similar...about never handing someone a loaded weapon unless you're sure you know where they're going to point it.
"Let us follow on your path as an arms merchant. In our current situation, and based on what I've mentioned I'm curious about... what would you consider to be the most effective weapon to... deal with the situation?" he asks.
"Most arms merchants would tell you that they would sell you the most effective weapon. As an honest broker of information, information you gather, is your best weapon, and information I sell is valuable for speed and coverage."
She looks around the room, lingering on Ossian and the Maghee at the bar.
"I cannot tell you how best to deal with the situation for your own best interests. If you were a sell-sword or a captain of mercenaries, I'd point you to the recruiters who offer the most coin. If you wanted to make a fortune profiting from the war, I could tell you what to buy and where to sell it. If you were looking to ensure that your people were safe, there would be another answer. As well if you were looking to conquer peoples who might have their attention elsewhere.
"But if I understand your concerns aright, I would advise you as I have advised other clients, with respect to the Silver Towers. Let another attack first. Let the Maghee and their enemies show their hidden reserves before committing your strengths.
"It's not heroic, but it is more reliably profitable."
Jerod turns slightly to look at Ossian and the Maghee, a very slight nod being made when Epiphany makes mention of the Towers. He is cognizant that power like the Towers attracts those who desire it...and those who fear it...in equal measure. He wonders for a moment which one the Maghee represent.
Turning back, he smiles again. "True. Heroism, barring the truly mythical kind in stories, rarely is worth the price that is paid in the long run.
"I would accept your goods that you offer." he says. "What is your price?"
"I do business many ways," she says. "Some clients have me on retainer and pay me regularly to know things for them about their specific concerns. Much of my efforts are for these kinds of clients. Some pay in coin, some in information, some in profit-shares of a journey or business. The latter is always at my discretion.
"Some purchase information ala carte, becuase they are here infrequently, or they have too many interests to pay me to watch everything.
"Some pay me in kind, if they have the sources and are willing to allow me to broker the information they have, I can be a good intermediary.
"And a vey few pay me to suppress information about them, to prevent other information brokers from knowing of their business. That requires advance payment."
She leans back. "Let's start with cash payments, and you can decide if you want me on retainer or just a transactional nature. If my services please you and you want more, we can discuss other options."
She writes a number down on a piece of paper. It's high for a merchant, he thinks, but not enough to buy an entire ship.
Brennan lets Folly close the Trump contact, and leans against the rampart, considering, composing his report in his head.
While he does that, he studies the field of the coming battle below. If applicable or necessary, with Astral vision.
Unless his survey reveals something so alarming it absolutely must be dealt with right now-- like, the siege turning into an assault right this very instant-- Brennan calls Benedict. If Benedict answers, then within the dictates of courtesy and circumstance Brennan does not make him ask for the report, he just gives it:
First, the broad strokes of the skirmish; the strategy, tactics, and performance of both sides; the major contributions of Jerod, Ossian, and himself; and the final decisive clash. Second, in slightly more detail (because he knows Benedict cannot get this first hand from anywhere else) the sorcerous chase across the morning sky, leading back to the Silver Towers; its current occupation and state of siege; and his intent to escort the Moonriders back to Ghenesh. His report is spare and efficient. When he is done, he lets Benedict guide the conversation with questions.
"I see. Thank you. Have you asked them why they didn't just manipulate time in order to arrive before you did?"
"Hmm. No," Brennan admits, frowning. He turns the question over in his mind to see if he can answer it without asking the Moonriders. Were this Fiona, it might be the occasion for speculation and brainstorming, but Brennan has nothing he feels is solid enough for Benedict.
"I expect there will be time, if I escort them back to Ghenesh, to try and worm some information by conversation and observation. Do you think they'll actually answer?"
"If I understand them correctly, they will either say nothing, or will answer truthfully. They consider lying to a foe to be beneath them. They are more like Eric than Corwin, if you will. Of course, asking them the question will inform them that you do not know the answer, but the contest is to gain more than you give."
Brennan nods a tentative agreement-- he'd gotten that vibe from them, too, which is one reason he called Caine first.
"I have two questions," he says, since Benedict seems to be done with that topic and not inclined to ask anything more.
"First, what are your wishes regarding the Maghee and the Silver Towers? Whatever they think they understand of their new situation, they are still a people in flux. One may enter a new phase of history overnight, but one does not understand it for years, if not generations.
"Second, if you'll indulge me, when did Tir-na Nog'th become as it is? I didn't think to ask before, because I thought I knew the answer: During Faiella's reign, somehow related to the Faiella-Bionin. I've gotten reason to believe it was earlier, perhaps much earlier."
Benedict nods. "As to the first, I am attentive but have no wishes. This is my crucible. It will bend to my wishes, but if I am to learn from it, it needs to keep providing me novel lessons. I look forward to seeing what they make of their new position, and how the others respond to them." Benedict sounds younger than he ever has when he speaks of learning. It's not a reaction that seems particularly human.
"Understood," Brennan says.
"Tir-na Nog'th has had three phases, or seasons as the prophetic have described it. The first is legendary, or perhaps before I was born, when it stood as a city in the sky, and broke in the cataclysm that sent Paris to oblivion. It was out of phase, but still itself. The second was during living memory, when they tried to bring it back, and partially succeeded, and it become as it is now. That day, bodies rained from the sky into the harbor of Amber and it was said a man could walk from the docks to the sea-gate across the backs of the corpses. And our most desperate did.
"Few who remember that sight do not have nightmares of it, even now. Botched magic is significantly more tragic than warfare."
"Ahhh," Brennan says, as this finally begins to make sense to him. "Not one events, but two-- one that destroyed Par-Ys and... what, left Tir-na inaccessible but still populated? And another, later event, still in living memory that caused Tir to be as it is now. That would have been Faiella's time, I suspect. And later still, at least one war that included the Battle of Jones Falls, when the survivors had become Moonriders proper." He looks to Benedict for confirmation.
"Now, finally, I can start to ask intelligent questions. I'll hold most of them for Bleys and Fiona, but this one goes to a strategic rationale: They want to reach the city because they will try again to bring it back, with as or more catastrophic results? No doubt with a prophecy to back that up."
"I have no idea about prophecy. It's not historically very accurate, except when it creates self-fulfilling predictions. Allowing our enemies to hold a commanding high-ground above the city is catastrophic enough," Benedict explains in a tone so dry it sucks all the moisture from the connection.
"Of course," Brennan says, with some irritation at his own poor phrasing. "What I'm still trying to understand is why they are our enemies. Because they sacked Amber, of course, but why did they do that? What happened between the Fall and the Sack, or were we enemies even then?"
He sighs, somewhat contrite, and runs his free hand through his hair. "Maybe this is just a pent-up a lifetime of not questioning Brand's madness, but it rankles."
Benedict looks sympathetic, but does not offer to resolve his issues definitively. "There are tales of a perhaps-mythical golden age when all cities were friends, followed by a betrayal and a war of all against all. It is not a war I know of firsthand, but I did look into the legends and found them to have the characteristics of legends. Different locales and instigators, the clandestine relationship, the secret child who was destined to destroy his father, either by accident or due to moral outrage at the failings that led to his own birth, betrayal by a trusted nephew who jealous of the queen, all the elements that make up every legendary royal or divine tale of the personal failings of powerful beings is applied to Tir, Rebma, Amber, and Paris."
"I have hope that meeting some of the new people recently pulled from the past will give me some ability to sift the truth from the chaff."
"I had some hopes that wasn't the case," Brennan says, "But how could it be any other way? Those universal tales, in their infinite permutations, may as well be the Shadows through time of the actual events... and just about as useful in reconstructing them. Well. If nothing else, one thing I hope to learn as I escort the Moonriders away from here is their version of all this, because I still hold a conviction that they have some angle apart from our destruction. I hope to take Sir Firumbras, as well, so there's that, too.
"I expect I've taken more than enough of your time already, so I'll close with this: If you want me to try and learn or observe anything specific, tell me now, and I'll do my best."
Benedict nods. "I would be interested to know if they were aware of your father's desire and attempt to 'Fix' Tir-na nOgth, but don't know enough else to ask for specifics. I will await your report."
Brennan closes the Trump connection to Benedict, and leans against the rampart, considering whether or not to be disgruntled. In the end, he decides yes, mildly-- not because Benedict hadn't been straight with him. To the contrary, things made a hell of a lot more sense after two brief chats with Caine and Benedict, at least one level. The broad arc of Tir's history, finally, seemed clear. Five years ago, that wouldn't have felt the significant achievement it was.
On the other hand, to be fighting a war which had already claimed Cambina, when apparently no one on Amber's side even understood the root of the conflict... that was intolerable. But there was nothing more that could be immediately accomplished with Trump calls, and Ramjollock was intent on holding a banquet in the face of a siege. So that's what Brennan would do-- attend Ramjollock's banquet.
He had spent enough time with the Maghee to have a rough idea of the protocol that would be expected, and Tenacity would already have filled in the details on her own. Once he is suitably presentable and appropriately garbed, he goes to the appointed place.
Maghee feasts involve singing, dancing, drinking, and tale-telling.
Ram tells the tale of Sir Walker's Arrival at the Maghee Horse Fair. It receives great applause. Ram looks at Brennan. Clearly the next tale is to be his.
Brennan should have known. He assumes, as soon as he sees that he is the central figure in Ramjollock's tale, that he himself will be called upon next. He pays attention to Ramjollock's telling with half a mind so he can react appropriately-- looking mock-wounded if Ramjollock needles him, mock-modest if he builds him up too high, etc. The other half is thinking about what tale he will tell.
The Siege of Montparnasse is an obvious choice: It mirrors the situation here, it has a surprisingly happy ending, and it plenty of action. But even with as high an opinion as he has of himself, it doesn't seem quite right for Brennan to sing the song of himself, here. Maybe Cledwyn will tell that one.
Brennan pulls Crescent and Flagstone aside, and gives them quiet instructions, and then when Ramjollock calls him out, leaps to the platform.
"Listen! Listen, now! I tell the tale of Edan ibn Bleys, descended of the Flames and the Flame-haired! Edan ibn Bleys, with eyes like that burn like the desert sun! Edan ibn Bleys, Knight Commander of the Order of the Lamp and his race to Madness and back!"
Edan's adventures, on the other hand, tick a number of boxes: It's a smooth transition from a tale set in a horse fair to the tale of an epic horse race. It won't be long before word spreads that Bleys has been here, and is Brennan's uncle and by extension that Edan is his cousin... because that is what Crescent and Flagstone are doing if word hasn't already spread.
Brennan, at least for the purposes of this story, is a very physical teller. He sketches the background of the race and Edan's relationship with Orlon, then dives into the elemental challenges of Edan's race with gusto. The river serpents become Bobbitt worms, if such worms were composed nothing of their own animate venom, and-- through Brennan-- rear up to attack Edan. Brennan describes with relish the clash of aqueous venom turned to steam by Edan's great heat, and their eventual diversion. The trolls-- through Brennan-- stomp ponderously across the bridge as they exploit their legal loophole. Edan-- through Brennan-- burns the fog of confusion and doubt into a magical tunnel, preserving the safety of his fabled mount, Aramsham. Orlon, however, has been lost, or lost himself in the fog.
The interlude of the tale, the meeting with Chases-in-Madness under the Great Tree, is told in a more restrained fashion to highlight the eeriness of it. Brennan does not call her out as such, but it is clear from Brennan's body language and the examples present before the crowd, that she is a Moonrider.
Then they part, and the remainder of the tale unspools quickly, releasing its tensions as Orlon tries to win in earnest with a series of betrayals and reversals: The smashed bridge, Orlon's betrayal with the Troll-mother, the vengeful re-emergence of the venom serpents, culminating in the final mad dash as Orlon tries to steal Aramsham out from under Edan, Edan's acrobatics to dislodge him and final victory over Orlon.... and, as epilogue, Ofallion's naming of Edan as heir.
Through the telling, but especially during the interlude with Chases-in-Madness, Brennan does not pay *particular* attention to the Moonrider commands, but nor does he ignore them. He has, however, told the various Knights of the Ruby in attendance to subtly watch their reactions and report back to him.
Brennan designates Slayer of Shadows, by gesture, to tell the next tale.
Slayer of Shadows thanks Brennan for his tale, and rises to the the stage with his two fellow knights. One produces a small hand drum and begins to beat out a rhythm on it. The room quiets.
"Hear now, a tale immortal, told a hundred thousand times across a hundred generations. The tale of a knight-errant so valiant and unflinching that he once sailed across the sea of chaos and found another order, an island not connected to our reality. He did this to fulfill a promise to his love, to get her father's permission to marry.
"At his side, the mighty Prince Orolando. Roland, shining star of Carol The Magnificant's Paladins, also loved the daughter of Galafrone, and also wished to marry her. The trip across the ever-changing sea was such that only a hero could attempt it, and even then must go in pairs, for one must ever be vigilant.
"Thus the two great heroes travelled together, rivals for the hand of the fair Angelica but required by their vows to Charlemagne and their Princely virtues to travel together to Qidan and back, even though one of the two would be bitterly disappointed.
"The pair sailed for forty days, each taking a turn to guide their small boat. They entertained themselves by swordplay, and song, and fighting the creatures who attacked out of the chaos-sea. Roland told of his adventures in the Forest Savage, Firumbras told of his pilgrimage to Tir Tairngire. The two men ate, fought, and talked for many a day, unsure if they would reach Qidan but risking all to do so.
"Galafrone, King of Qidan, welcomes them to his island kingdom, and offers them hospitality and takes news of his children in far Paris. He offers them many contests to show which is superior and which Knight should wed his daughter. The two knights, each the equal of the other in skill, wits, arts, and arms, can neither win nor lose these contests.
"In the end, Galafrone leaves the choice to his son, who is in Paris with his sister, in disguise. The knights agree, and return to Paris in the boat which brought them across the ocean of chaos in the first place.
"Ganelon counsels Orolando to abduct the princess, while Turpin tells Firumbras he must take her to his homeland in the land of youth. Ganelon warned Angelica of Firumbras' plan, and she had him magically imprisoned.
"Through his might and virtue and magical assistance from a fey people he refused to ever discuss, Firumbras escaped from prison and returned to his ancestral homeland and left the treachery of the Parisians behind him."
Firumbras nods through the first twenty or so verses, but seems surprised by the last one. He sits silently while the audience applauds the tale.
Ram calls upon other storytellers, who tell the tale of Camelopardis, the five hundred year Ard-Righ, the fall of the silver towers, and other great tales. Brennan finds eyes squarely upon him during the last tale. Not everyone knows of Corwin's connection to them, but Bleys was here.
These are fine folk, but Brennan, son of Brand, has ignored harder stares in his time.
Even while genuinely enjoying a tale or other work of art, Brennan is one of those who just can't helping thinking about it and analyzing it at the same time. This tale is no different, and even though Brennan cannot help but feel for Firumbras' plight as it is initially set up, he cannot help thinking also about the implications of this supposed island-Order of Qidan-- He wonders idly at the influence of an island-Order on those symmetries of Bleys' vaunted mathematics.
He wonders, too, at the sudden swerve from Angelica's disguised brother to Ganelon and Turpin. Those sorts of swerves are rarely accidental.
Then, in the last few stanzas, much falls into sharper relief.
During the next tales, he makes his way to Firumbras and, making clear by his posture that these are words not to eavesdrop on, says: "It is a heavy burden you carry, separated by such a gulf from one you love, and seemingly by her hand and deed. And a hard burden to share." Brennan says it so matter-of-factly and yet so obliquely there is little doubt he speaks from personal experience. "I have responsibilities transecting burdens of my own, but I would help you if I can."
Firumbras makes an effort to get himself together. "Thank you for that, my friend. My kinsmen told me the tale before dinner, although I had not heard the verse. I have always been ancient myth to your people, but I am ancient legends to them. The tale, as they know it many generations later is both true and not-true. I suspect that few such songs survive for so long without a reason."
"Shadowslayer wishes me to accompany him back to his clan. They will attempt to send me back. It's not an offer I wish to pass upon."
"Yes, I expected as much on all counts. It is in the nature of what they have done to themselves," he says carefully, "though I have never heard of it on so... heroic a scale. And it is in the nature of tales to change over time, varying in their emphases and lessons. Allegedly, not too very far from here." He looks in a direction that would be over the strait in Avalon proper.
Brennan exhales heavily. "I would not see you depart, as a friend or an ally, but I cannot cause myself to ask you to stay. Nor have I anything so direct to offer. But there are tales of other peoples with other relations to time, and places and passages that lead to earlier eras. But given the effects of time, you may know things I do not: Does the word 'Caledon' mean anything to you?"
Brennan can tell it does not. "Nooo. Unless you mean Caliburn? Caliburn is a name for the Sword of Avalon, legendary land of the Once and Future King, Arthur. Modred was supposed to have taken it. The Arthurian romances were mostly veiled allegories of the court of Charles the Great and his Paladins."
Brennan frowns, slightly. He isn't sure whether he expected Firumbras to have heard of Caledonia or not.
Firumbras neglects to mention that he was one of those Counts of the Realm, but it was clear from Shadowslater's story.
"I wish I could take you with me, my friend, and show you the wonders of my home as I have seen wonders in this time. But I am afraid it would be a one-way trip."
Brennan considers that for a moment. "It would be a hell of a thing to meet my grandfather," he allows, smiling faintly. "But I cannot. It would put another insurmountable gulf between me and mine, and this time by my own hand. I cannot." Brennan rather doubts the Moonriders would enjoy having Brennan tear-assing around their past, either. Nor should they.
"King and Queen of Caledon, How many miles to Avalon? Eight and eight, and other eight. Will I get there by candle-light?" Brennan recites, returning to the earlier topic.
Firumbras clearly doesn't recognize the lyrics. "The meter is common, and it would be easy to sing. Is there more to the song? Oftimes songs like that tell more in their later verses than in the ones easily remembered."
"Caledonia was a place," he says. "It was once inhabited by the Fair Folk-- one of those peoples with a different relation to time-- though I don't know if it was called that during or after that habitation to be honest. I had hoped you had heard of it, or of them, as well." It's clear that Brennan is not going to stop thinking about how to return Firumbras to his own time, even if the Moonriders have promised to do it."
"No, but I will look for them when I get back home."
"I gather they plan to do this thing after we escort them back to Ghenesh?"
"Yes. I don't think it's a thing they can do in small groups. It needs their most powerful chronomancers." He smiles. "It's a good thing magical transportation doesn't give me motion sickness."
Brennan recites the remaining verses of the song, if he knows them. Or if necessary, sends for Dame Jennet who will certainly know it because that is her job. He does note to Firumbras, though, that he did not mean to imply he was without other leads on the Fair Folk-- he was, after all, told where to find them. He'd simply hoped Firumbras had also heard of them.
Having planted the seed that Brennan can-- potentially-- offer Firumbras another path, Brennan is content to let that rest. For now.
"I would hardly expect motion sickness of the man who sailed to Qidan and back. Now that, that is a tale I'd like to hear from the original source, some day."
Firumbras frowns. "It has an unhappy ending, but it was a braw, braw tale up until then. The main thing to realize is that Roland and I each did not want the other to go, but we would not allow one to go without the other. We were rivals as well as peers. He was an amazing man, the best of equals. and a damned difficult man to have fall in love with my lover.
"We could only possibly go on a difficult trip together. Had things been too easy, we would've created our own mischief." He smiles at the recollection.
"We had a poetry contest on the way back. It was important to us that we commemorate our voyage."
Firumbras rises, and the room silences. He recites a long poem from memory, or perhaps he composed it on the spot. It is the tale of his departure to Qidan with Roland, and it is the show-stopper of the evening's storytelling.
Come, my friend,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are.
Brennan lets Firumbras finish his telling (of course) but looks ever so slightly abashed at his own miscalculation-- he hadn't really intended a public recitation, but it's another obvious and correct way to have parsed Brennan's statement. His applause at the end is unfeigned, though.
When they are standing together again, Brennan says quietly, "That's how I described my intent to bargain with the Fair Folk, should I choose that path-- 'So that I might carry with me memories of them when I walk to a newer world.'
"I feel I owe you some of my own story, but you come onto the stage in the days before its resolution and it makes for an unsatisfactory recitation with no conclusion. Perhaps on our return to Ghenesh," Brennan says.
Ramjollock applauds as well, as do the Moonriders. One of whom seems to know parts of the poem. He's frantically writing it down as Firumbras recites it. Brennan suspects he may be using minor time magics to get all the lyrics.
Firumbras takes another mighty drink.
"I would enjoy that. It would not surprise me to learn you were of Roland's line, or descended from another of the Twelve Peerless Peers. Indeed, this many generations on, you might be descended from all of them. Who knows, perhaps I will name a child for you, and you will eventually be named for someone of my line." He smiles.
Ram consults with his councilors. "We declare Sir Firumbras the night's winner. As we have enemies at the gates, I will retire. I advise my people to drink while they can, as long as they are fit to fight when their duty calls."
With that Ram and several older men leave. The youngers relax, and it's clear that some of them plan a long evening's drinking.
Sir Firumbras says "I should retire as well."
Brennan gives Firumbras congratulations for his well-deserved victory, but does not retire.
It's a crude trick, one of the crudest in the book, but attacking in the wee hours after a supposedly inviolable revel is a powerful tactic. Brennan should know-- he's used it often over the decades. Will the opposing forces use it? Brennan isn't sure-- the Avalonians have peculiarly high-minded manners in some areas, such as their treatment of ransom and hostages, and that might apply here. But as a once-in-a-generation opportunity to seize the most valuable territory available to arise in generations and kill all the witnesses... It all turns on how badly you want to win.
Brennan likes winning, and he thinks those fellows outside want to win, too. Enough that he can't take the chance.
Brennan makes the rounds of his Knights, sharing that concern and making sure they get well rested, and listening to their concerns if they have any.
Then he moves up to the towers, where presumably some of Ramjollock's men who have drawn the short straws are keeping watch. Nothing builds camaraderie and esprit de corps like shared suffering, so he suffers with them, counting on his Amber stamina, his recent recharge, and if necessary the occasional catnap to keep him hale.
The Knights and guards are all happy to see him and share their concerns with him.
The towers are too tall for siege engines to top or ladders to reach the ramparts, so the maneuvering is all around the ground.
In precisely the place Brennan would have placed them, Brennan can see sappers working on digging protected tunnels. He also nots that the Maghee are watching them. Apparently they plan to make them expend the effort before they shut the tunneling down.
Brennan thinks there are more fires now than when he arrived yesterday.
Brennan chats for a while with the soldier about siege- and countersiegecraft, but he is genially and professionally distrustful that the soldiers have seen all that there is worth seeing. That is, after all, his job... in whatever capacity it is that he's serving here. And also because he has more options available for surveillance than these folks do.
In particular, unless there is a reason for it, Brennan wouldn't be digging tunnels that are so easily spotted. Hell, he wouldn't even sink the minehead in view of the ramparts if he could avoid it. While he's talking to the soldiers to see what their preferred tactics against sappers are so he can make them more effective-- Drop big rocks and firebombs? Countermining? Something he hasn't thought of?-- he also casts a quick spell on himself.
The spell is a trivial working of Space so that he can look down on the array from a suitable and movable height, with a less trivial twist of Third Eye and Astral. He is looking for the following:
First, a better estimate of their numbers, because it's easy to light extra fires or suppress them, but hard to hide a body from Astral sight.
Brennan makes a good estimate using the tools and knowledge available to him. He checks his work by counting the fires and estimating how many troops per fire there are. If Edan were here, he could do something to them via those, but he's... busy elsewhere.
Brennan thinks that in a fair fight, this group would wipe the defender pretty handily, but the silver towers look to be strong defensive fortifications. The seige doesn't seem to be starving them out any time soon, if they can hold feasts. Unless that's just bravado, of which the Maghees have plenty.
Second, is there any evidence of sneakery as regards the sapping efforts? A second concealed mineshaft?
Brennan doesn't detect any. They may have magical pickaxes or trained Dire Badgers, but he doesn't see any. They are continuing to dig.
It may be just to give the diggers something to do.
Third, and maybe related, Brennan wouldn't want to try to sap this place with a bunch of pick-axes alone. Sure, it could be done especially if he had a corps of equally strong miners, but that's hard work. They're probably planning on burning something hot, like that Hirulean Fire that Benedict was so excited about, to crack the foundations. Or maybe some magical gimmick like that accursed bobbitt worm. Brennan looks intensely for that, and while he's at it any evidence of hedge wizards.
Brennan sees several signs of wizardry. Magical lights being chief amongst them, but there seems to be some sort of spell on the shields for the tunnel. Probably to stop exactly the kind of sabotage the Maghees plan against it. Nobody seems to be messing with Bobbit Worms. Camelopardis may have been an extraordinary hedge wizard.
Fourth, and sadly lowest on his priority list, what are the local ley lines like?
The local ley lines converge on the central tower as if they were invented here.
With the exception of no major magical gimmick in the offing, that's all more or less as Brennan expected it-- superior numbers vs a highly defensible structure, adequate foodstocks for the defenders (which Brennan can make real, if it is a bluff) and the ley lines converging like this is the center of a map. Even the sappers make sense, because unless Ramjollock was lying or mistaken about eventual relief, this force needs to change the situation or they'll get caught between a hammer and an anvil... and Brennan isn't yet seeing any Caesar out there, building fortifications for a double siege. Brennan's earlier forecast stands-- they need to win in less time than a siege takes, and they're willing to make the attempt.
Then he smiles as he realizes those shields might be an attempt to defend against him and the Moonriders solidifying the smoke, walking out above them, and dropping heavy rocks on them all.
All right. Brennan doesn't consider himself to be bound by the same cloak and dagger secrecy as he was before, but nor does he feel the urge to shock the night with something flashy and noisy. Yet. His opening bid is small, taking a moment to work Entropy on the defensive shields of the sappers, rusting and corroding them, leaving them more vulnerable to the Maghee counter-measures.
He remains vigilant, in both a mundane and a Third Eye sense, but otherwise waits for further developments and reactions.
Brennan casts his spell, and feels as if it's impeded by the proximity to a source of Order. Still, he feels as if he's done some serious weakening.
Brennan takes no other immediate action to hinder the troops on the ground or the sappers, or to bolster the soldiers here in the fortress.
He does stay with them, to further the aforementioned shared suffering and building of spirit. He engages the men by asking them what they've learned of the new castle and its environs during his absence. It's only been a day or so, but they are many and Brennan is few. And if Ramjollock hasn't sent parties out to scout the land (before the besieging force arrived) and to take stock of the castle, he doesn't deserve to be a King.
So little. Quite a lot of good pastureland for horses and kine, but no cities and no people. Every now and then, they find the ruins of a dwelling or road, but no full buildings. Most of the men hope for land in exchange for supporting the King. It's the traditional bargain.
"That's good to know," Brennan muses-- unless the opposing force takes the time to construct it, they have no defensive points of their own to fall back to.
The have ships and the harbor. That's the closest they come to defensive points. They've got a crude but effective blockade on the towers now.
Brennan wants to hear anything they particularly think is novel or interesting or unexpected. After that, he is curious if they have found hidden ways out of the castle. If they infer that Brennan is considering a counter-raid from behind their lines, well, they're not wrong. What Brennan does NOT share is that he more than half-expects they might have found a system of caverns with seven locked doors beneath it. No need to put that idea in their head if the caverns aren't there.
Under the coffin of Lir a series of steps led down into utter darkness. Prince Bleys entered it, and has not returned. No one else has dared, and Ramjollock promised the Prince he'd wait a month before sending anyone after him.
Brennan evinces a broad, generic faith in Bleys' abilities to take care of himself and does not otherwise encourage them to go looking for him.
At the same time if possible (or after the conversation, if not) Brennan renews the spell on the smoke spear he created earlier. He is getting tired of renewing it, so he takes the time available to do it right and make it last longer.
The spear is long and smoking and reminds Brennan of his youth.
Brennan has the high and fortified ground, and there are no obvious means of counter-raids. He reserves the possibility of Parting the Veil for a situation more dire than this, especially knowing that the Moonriders are taking notes on him as much as the reverse.
He waits to see the besiegers' next move.
It doesn't take forever to see where there are hedge wizards on the other side doing something. He'd say it's probably something around intelligence gathering, but he's not sure what. It doesn't seem to be working, which suggests that someone is countering them. Brennan isn't doing it, so there's some other user of magics here.
Well, isn't that interesting. This is easily explained: Brennan's first and obvious conjecture is that the beseigers' hedge wizards are trying to figure out who spoiled their shields and for whatever reason one or more of the Moonriders is resisting them. But conject in one hand, do something else in the other....
Brennan opens his senses-- all of them, not just sight-- in the Astral fashion. He does this so fully that he is actually Astrally projected, separated from his physical body, he just isn't going anywhere with it. His Astral body is still in his physical body, leaning up against the rampart, like a mystical Matryoshka doll. He would ultimately like to know what is going on, but we'll start with two questions:
- Can Brennan get a fix on the other users (or uses) of power?
- Can he tell, in broad strokes, if they are Pattern-based,
Sorcery-based, or some other thing?
Astrally, things are... unusual near the towers. Brennan expects to see people, animals (dimly), plants, and the land, but nothing impermanent unless it is alive.
The towers seem like a living thing, or things.
Being fully astral probably makes it stand out.
There is definitely something else at work. Something that seems more like Merlin's sorcery than Brennan's. It's definitely tinged with Order, but it's not really Amberite Sorcery. Perhaps his Grandmother has been here.
Brennan is not Robin or Brita, but he has lately given some thought to the effects of limiting himself to sight-based magics, and is trying to stretch himself out of those assumptions. In this case, he thinks that if vision fails him, feeling for tides and currents might be of some use.
Astrally, everything smells wet.
Some things smell good when wet. Some... don't.
Well that is awe-inspiring, and not what Brennan expected. He ignores the smell and concentrates on the Towers. It's somewhat remarkable that they're even present in the Astral. It could be a remnant of whatever titanic magics were preserving the place and brought it back to the surface. It could be further evidence to Brennan's pet theory that this is a pre- or post-Pattern site. Or it could be what his first impressions tell him-- that the Towers are themselves kin to Chaos in some way. Perhaps some very tangible way.
Of course, not all of those ideas are mutually exclusive. Only some of them. Probably.
And of course it is probably quite beyond the experience of the hedge wizards below.
He spends a long moment, admiring the Astral Towers by star and waning moonlight with more than a tinge of awe, and places astral fingers on the masonry to take in its texture.
"Greetings to the Silver Towers," he whispers into the Astral. "Well met by starlight."
And prepares to feel foolish if no response comes.
There is no response, at least verbally. Somehow, the towers look and feel serpentine to his astral senses, in a way they hadn't looked before. He gets the impression he's been allowed to learn something, but he's not sure for whose purpose it was allowed.
Serpentine, or draconic? Brennan narrows his astral eyes, more out of puzzlement and curiosity than anything else.
He takes a careful stock of all the second- and first-hand exposure to Dragons that he's had in his time, comparing to what he senses here.
There are the Tritons of course, which aren't Dragons in any meaningful sense of the word, but are descended of one. He's seen those up close enough that he thought he and Fletcher were going to have to fight one, aside from all the time he's spent in Rebma. And there were the dragons-- he can't help avoiding the capital letter-- they ran across during their hunt of Huon. Brennan isn't sure what exactly those were, but since they were in Arcadia it's not crazy to think they might have been fragmentary, even infinitesimal projections of the Dragon of Arcadia.
Then there were the ones at Oberon's Funeral. The ones attending the funeral proper had done something to themselves to not overwhelm everything else there. Brennan would have used Space, but who knows what the Principles of Dragons are, or even if they directed their sorcery along those lines. And of course the majestic creature that carried Oberon's casket away. That wasn't masked at all, not one little bit that Brennan could tell at the time. He regrets not having examined that in his astral vision, at the time, but it might have burnt his eyes out, so.
For completeness, Brennan consider Jovian's dragons, too, but those don't seem at all the same.
How does this compare?
It does and it doesn't. There are commonalities between all of those, and even Robin's tiny wyverns. There is definitely a feeling of timelessness, of a thing that can only be partially of this world. The smell and feel of the sea are close to it, and it might be very old.
Brennan considers if it might take more help to get a good look at it.
Brennan thinks about that. He's not sure how long he thinks about that in the physical world, but in the Astral, he thinks about that for a good long time, and he really wishes ANY of his Sorcerous cousins were there to consult with. Because he keeps thinking about this from different angles and coming back to the same compelling thought, and he would like someone to tell him he's crazy, that can't be, don't even bother, and then to help him when he ignores their advice.
He could, he supposes for completeness, ask the Moonriders their opinion. But that isn't going to happen.
Is it possible that this draconic entity is not merely the castle... but the island entire? Or beyond?
That is an idea worth gaining altitude to pursue, so he carefully re-inhabits his body for a moment, seats it casually lotus-style in the lee of the rampart wall, and then leaves his body and lets his Astral self rise above the island. He does so gingerly, of course, mindful of the silver cord, his visibility, and so forth. But rise above the island he does, looking across the island under the starlight for traces of entity in, or perhaps just under, the landscape.
The land is eldrich, and hugely magical but the towers are distinct. Brennan thinks they're related, but not the same entity. He thinks they're connected, though. Even if they appear as separate above the earth.
Well, Brennan muses to himself, at least he doesn't have to call Benedict and alert him to the fact that the new invasion platform off the coast of Avalon can just swim anywhere it wants to. The worst part of that would be that Benedict would probably be thrilled, and Brennan would have to regard that insanity with a neutral, disinterested facial expression.
Still, he's almost... disappointed. At least he has a vaguely chaotic, disturbingly rhizomatic, slightly serpentine castle to keep him occupied. And a siege, and a bunch of freshly defeated Moonriders. At some point he's going to have to get below the surface, because that's where he'll see how this all comes together, probably in the location Cameleopardis received his vision of Corwin and Benedict. He tries and fails to rationalize why that time should be right now.
But back to the meddling hedge wizards. He performs a simple working of Space to listen into their frustrations: What are they trying to do with their intelligence gathering, and what is opposing them?
They are frustrated. Their efforts cannot find out about the disposition or numbers of defenders, and they cannot find if the entrances are all equally well guarded. They are earning the ire of their warlords, because they haven't found a way to attack yet. They are arguing about if they should spoil the croplands or keep them as is in case they need to eat. Some are arguing to go home, and others think they should wait to see if helps arrives.
Brennan has some small sympathy for their plight-- if they know nothing, they have to plan for everything, which is not unlike fighting the Moonriders where you always have optimize the pessimal situation. Which sparks another thought: Brennan lingers in the conversation for a bit more trying to figure out from their gripes what the source of the difficulty is. It is probably the castle itself, but may just be that once the Moonriders join whatever fight the besiegers start, the Moonriders' natural abilities just obscure everything.
But no matter what the source of the difficulty, if Brennan even figures out what it is, he'll eventually leave off the eavesdropping, and take a more active hand in matters-- by deciding that it is highly likely that the besiegers' foodstocks have been irretrievably spoiled. That ought to dramatically change their strategic calculus.
Brennan works his probability affecting pattern use on the foodstuffs carried by the army. It takes a while to make the change, as if there is some resistance, and Brennan is glad he spent the entire watch working on it.
When he finishes, it is nearly morning, and at first light Brennan sees that there are fewer camps than before, and from the coast he sees ships departing or loading up.
Sir Firumbras tells him that the beseigers are leaving to resupply, but that there is a problem with the Tower's foodstuffs, and they may need to resupply soon as well.
That specific news does not please Brennan-- not least because he probably knows what happened and does not like that at all-- but on the whole he thinks it is more positive than negative.
He indicates to Firumbras by gesture that he should take stock of the besiegers' activity from the fields below to the docks, and invites Firumbras' interpretation. Brennan's is: "I don't think we're the only ones. I doubt those ships are equipped with fishing nets, but you never know. Either way, that looks like an emergency resupply run and probably some very impromptu redeployment for foraging. Or possibly some of them decided to cut their losses and find better pickings." Brennan is rather skeptical of the second one.
"What's happened to our stocks?" he asks. "We might not have a better moment to strike, even if our hands are forced to it."
"Water supply burst on 'em. Big barrel at the top was too heavy for what it was piled on, and not strong enough to survive the fall intact. We've got a goodly number of apples, but no grain and the beer's all watered down. It's dire, but it helps that they're leaving. On the other hand, if they did in our foodstuffs with magic, then they can go off and blockade the island. Or try to raid the ships that are coming to our aid, if there are any.
"Not that we?re sure they won't sail to a nearby island, raid it, and come back. It's what I'd do."
"Is this castle not built over a well?" Brennan asks in some surprise. "Or is it just the ruined grain that's the issue, not the lost water?
"Either way, this is still a good opportunity for us: If they're leaving, they're leaving. If they're fishing, raiding or just going to buy more supplies, that takes time and leaves them with a split force. It also gives us absolutely every incentive to take advantage of the change in numbers."
Brennan's mind is playing over the new situation even as they're speaking, decomposing it into goals and priorities, stratagems and tactics: Damage the forces in the field. Push them back to the docks. Push them off the docks. Is it worth destroying the docks, if it comes to that? He'd prefer to hold them. That would hold out better hope of relief from Ramjollock's thus far erstwhile allies. That would also present Brennan with the challenge of defending docks, castle, and coastline all at the same time....
The docks are a makeshift thing here, more notional or "gangplanks" than actual docks. If there are the makings of a permanent harbor, there's not the infrastructure for it yet. Tower Island (or whatever the name of it is) is almost pristine; only the towers are permanent man-made structures, if indeed that are that...
"Where do your kinsmen stand in all this?" he asks Firumbras.
"They are, like you, opportunists. It is the nature of successful warriors, I think. We are strong, so we trust in strength of arms." Firumbras shrugs. His long imprisionment may have shaded his judgement. "We should see what the Ard Righ plans."
No wonder Firumbras gives so few compliments-- they must hurt the back of his hand.
"Probably wise. No sense committing to a move before we find out exactly how many of them are going and staying, anyway," Brennan says. Never get in the way of an enemy doing what you want him to do.
Brennan takes reasonable precautions, such as having someone with eagle eyes keep watch on the docks and waters, and someone else to keep watch on the sappers (if they aren't also packing up to leave) but accompanies Firumbras to find Ramjollock.
He also glances out over the ramparts again at the remaining forces of the siege. Have they brought light structures with them, tents and like? Can Brennan identify the important ones? And how far away from the walls are they, if they exist, in terms of a good healthy longbow shot?
Brennan could, with a high-draw bow, hit some of the tents that haven't been taken down. He can't tell who is in or not in them.
Ram is easy to find. He's with his steward in the kitchen, trying to see if they can save any of the supplies.
"Ah, Sir Brennan. At least we feasted on some of the food before this morning's excitement. You've heard, I presume?"
Finumbras nods.
"Well," continues Ram, "it's not great for us, for the most part because we have called our people here from the double dozen seas, and the ones who have already arrived have brought little more than their own names." He tries and fails to avoid looking impatient with his subjects.
"Any ideas on how we can get a few cargos of dry goods here without confronting the angry fleet off our shore?"
"Some," Brennan says, "but I need to make some educated guesses about that angry fleet-- mind if I use your chart and map room?"
Assuming no objection, Brennan will indeed head to that map room, partly for a bit of privacy and partly to refresh his memory of the local coastlines and islands. Brennan is quite familiar with Avalon's overall topography, having studied Benedict's maps and charts extensively while trying to divine Moire's intentions.
But this island wasn't even present when he did that. Brennan expects someone will at least have put a few pins and maybe even sketched a bit coast.
When Brennan extracts what information he can from that, he deals himself Ossian's Trump from his deck, and concentrates on it.
There are a few charts, mostly taken from the ships that came here. They are quite detailed in the coast of Avalon, and Brennan notes only a few harmless errors.
There are hand-drawn annotations on one with the coast of the new island. It is less accurate, based on Brennan's recent aerial approach.
Of course, there's also a mosaic map of it on the floor of the chart room, but it may be centuries out of date.
Or it may have magically updated itself just like the land magically dried out and produced trees. Brennan honestly wouldn't be surprised if it did, and if they were to find field that are pre-tilled and sown, although he's not reckless enough to try and enforce that suspicion with Pattern.
He is tempted to study the mosaic in detail-- whether it updated itself or not, the answer is likely to be fascinating-- but does not. He's here for a reason, and that is to call Ossian by Trump. Which he does.
Ossian answers. He is in some kind of tavern or restaurant.
Yes
"I'll advice my uncle. Heck. He might even find me useful for once!"
Brennan sees that Ossian is in the middle of a conversation, and times his words so they're not directly interrupting that other person.
"Are you and Jerod still on pirate detail? I have useful information for you."
I would be grateful fot that.
Ossian smiles "You wouldn't believe how ... irresponsible he thinks I am... wasting time on useless stuff." He pulls a piece of paper from a pocket and almost absentmindedly starts folding it. "That does not mean I can't carry my own weight."
"I'm still here at the Silver Towers, under siege of sorts. Except there are sudden food shortages on the isle, in the Towers and (we think) among the besieging forces. Some of those forces are departing, probably to raid local coasts, ports, and shipping lanes to resupply before coming here. I can give you some very educated guesses as to where and when they'll strike, if it helps you. It'd sure help me."
Brennan doesn't-- can't-- do anything consciously to emphasize his surroundings, but if Ossian is looking at Brennan's surroundings, he will see a multitude of maps and charts in a variety of hands.
It might be useful. We could get some friends that way too. Ossian feigns a trip to the bathroom to get more privacy.
"Well, if I were the forces that just departed, and I were hungry and spoiling for a fight..." Brennan goes on to give his top three guesses for where they would raid and pillage:
The nearer coast of Methryn's Isle, in the vicinity of Methryn's port, is Brennan top choice. That end of the isle seemed healthy and fertile enough to have commerce with other locations, which means having enough stuff to steal to make it worthwhile. More than that, Brennan was with them when the Maghee Migration came through and bought, borrowed, begged and hopefully didn't steal every available ship to get from there to the Silver Towers. The coast may be difficult defend without those ships.
Another location on Brennan's list is the neighboring coast of Avalon itself, probably around Port Idun. Geographically, it's a perfect target because it's the closest of all. On the other hand, even that far from the City, Brennan would have to be pretty desperate to pick the coast of Benedict's personal island to raid for supplies. The prospective raiders might think likewise, so Brennan thinks this is less likely than Methryn's Port.
There are a few other locations Brennan lists as well, based mainly in geography and his discussions with Benedict some months ago, not in current events.
"The friendship angle is a good thought, but I'm not sure how to work it. The Maghee are not popular, here, and if people find a way to blame the raiders on them, they surely will. I trust your judgment. Here's another question-- what do you think is the possibility of sending a few cargo ships of grain here for the Maghee? If Ramjollock can't pay for it now, I'll make sure he can by the time it's here. Or is it possible to do that by Trump?"
Ossian shrugs. It's possible, but not so practical. We would need to set up chains of men to carry the sacks to and away from the Trumpsters. If working through sketch it could break quite easily too.
"Yeah, there's a reason you have to pay stevedores," Brennan agrees. "And while we could get the labor, I'm a lot less willing to risk our Trumps of each other. Not without a very good reason, which I don't think we have, yet."
I'll see what I can do about the grain. I don't know what Jerod has found out yet, but I'm sure we can use the intelligence.
"Fair enough. Let me know if there's anything else you need, that you think I can provide. The longer our three 'guests' stay here in Avalon, the more I want to be underway."
Last modified: 11 January 2020