Off to See a Man About a Giraffe

Sessile nods at the road ahead. "The camp we heard about is just over the bend, Sir Walker. They'll be plenty of Maghees and others here, as it's their horse fair. If you'd been a few weeks later, they'd've split up back into traveling groups."

While Brennan has discarded the mannerisms of the Walker persona, he still hasn't given them his actual name, so they have nothing other than that to call him. Whether they suspect he has another name or not-- surely they must-- doesn't concern him unless they act on it. Referring to him as "Sir" Anything is still discouraged, though. Strenuously discouraged.

When they round the bend, Brennan gives the whole camp a brief glance through the Third Eye, but mostly out of a sense of habit. He expects nothing from it, and on the assumption that's what he gets, he proceeds to spend some time amiably strolling the fairgrounds, seeing who is selling, who is buying, and what is changing hands. Even better than rumors, that should tell the way the wind is blowing.

But primarily, he keeps his eyes open for who has power, money, or political influence among the Maghee-- someone who might be a member of the Council of Sons of Ghee. He's also keeping his eyes open for Maghee wizards, which will probably be more difficult. Anyone with a crest that looks like it bears descent from Cameleopardis' own giraffe's head device would be a start. Failing anything better, fortune teller's booth with the least traffic, the least ostentatious advertising (preferably none), the one people almost avoid. The one that's not here to make money.

For what it is worth, he lets the Shadows lie for him. For now.

Horses are changing hands! And occasionally wagons, and food, and maybe some things behind closed doors. There's music and apparently horse racing will happen after the sun goes down (but before it gets dark).

He sees giraffes' heads everywhere. It's a motif. It's hard to tell who is important and who isn't.

He does have luck finding a fortune teller who doesn't seem to be very busy. The man is sitting on the steps of a caravan, reading. No one approaches him.

Brennan strolls up to the man, and invites himself to sit down with him.

"Slow day, it looks like," he muses, before going directly to the business he has in mind. "My associate and I," Brennan nods at Cledwyn, because while they are in detente and perhaps moving toward entente, probably neither would yet describe the other as a friend, "are in something of a dilemma. We have a large task before us, with many possible paths forward but no good way to sift the good options from the bad. My family has a tradition, in such circumstances, of casting fortunes... or having the fortunes cast for us, if we can find a reader more interested in the truth of his vision than the flattery of his patrons. Will you read the cards for us?" he asks. "A good classical six-card spread, I hope, as my Grandfather would have done."

"Cross my palm with silver, sir, and six cards you shall have, after the fashion of your elders." The man looks up, showing he is one-eyed, and smiles at Walker. Walker doesn't recognize him. "They call me Ramjollock," he says.

"An auspicious name for the occasion," Brennan says.

[Assuming Walker pays Ramjollock.]

Ramjollock gathers his cards and shuffles them thoroughly, then lets Walker cut them. He is, after all, paying. Then he lays out the cards.

Brennan does indeed pay him, but when the man begins to shuffle his cards, Brennan catches his wrist gently and presses his own Fortune deck into Ramjollock's hands. "No. Use these," he says with a grim smile. "Family heirlooms. They remind me of my grandfather, too." The deck contains Fortune cards only-- all the Trumps, face cards, location cards, non-Trump sketches and so forth have been removed.

While Ramjollock is casting the cards, Brennan silently tells the Shadows to stop lying for him.

[Bottom row]

The Eagle

Overlooking the Diamond

The Dragon (reversed)

[Middle row]

The Griffin (reversed)

The King (reversed)

[Top row]

The Lion (sideways)

"Interesting," Brennan says. "The immediate task before us is arranging a meeting with the Council of the Sons of Ghee and such sages and wise men as may be among them, but perhaps the cards are focused on the larger task behind it." He speaks to Sessile and Cledwyn as much as to Ramjollock as he runs though the cards.

"The Eagle: I'll flatter myself, but the path that brings me here has been a path of relentless logic and strategy, of understanding the strategy of another. This tells me that the strategy has been good... so far. Or perhaps... it represents a past friend. The Diamond," he taps the card, "is often infuriating but in this case, I choose to take it as helpful advice, that something I need is closer than I suspect, right now. We'll come back to this one," he says looking at Ramjollock. "The Dragon, reversed in the future..." He looks back at Cledwyn and taps both the Eagle and the Dragon together, "If my suspicions are correct and I disrupt someone's strategy, they are going to be powerfully angry. But we're here to prove I'm correct, and I don't want to bias our investigation, so I'm hesitant to say more right now. But those seem straightforward.

"The Griffin, reversed... as the virtue," he shakes his head slightly. "I don't understand this. There is an act of cowardice in the past of this reading, but as a virtue..." he shakes his head again, puzzled. "And the fault, the King, reversed-- tyranny. It could be argued that my opposite number places their desires above all else, but this is too flattering to me," he says, rejecting the interpretation. "I don't understand that entire pairing, but I do not like it.

"And finally, the Fate: Physical strength or physical weakness. All things considered, I could take that as encouraging, if I understood how the current situation could turn on physical strength rather than strategy.

"So," he turns back to Ramjollock, "I would be pleased to hear your interpretation, especially of the Virtue and Fault. But I am inclined to take a literal approach to the Present," he taps the card again, decisively, and looks piercingly into the man's eyes as he asks another question: "Are you that Diamond, Ramjollock, that I am in danger of overlooking? Can you take us in private to the Council of the Sons?"

He takes out Cameleopardis' torque-- he was not wearing it, only keeping it under his cloak-- and places it on the table next to the Eagle card of the past.

Ramjollock does not answer the question immediately. Instead he looks at Brennan and says, "Knowing nothing about you and the path you have taken to arrive, I cannot speak to the past and present you propose. But in the field of reading the cards, we sometimes use an alternative interpretation: the second row is the parties to the current conflict. In which case we might say that one party is a coward, or acting out of fear, and the other party is acting out of tyrannical desires. Who these parties are may not be who you think they are."

He places a hand on the torc. "I can take this to the Council of the Sons. Who should I say wishes to meet with them?"

"I'm familiar with that style of interpretation," Brennan says, "although I would not prefer to cast myself in either of those roles. As you say, who those parties are is not always obvious." He begins to gather the cards. As he reaches the Dragon, reversed, he pauses, and considers. "If these," the virtue and fault, "are viewed as the competitors, then this," the future, "might be a strategy or a tool in one of their arsenals, or a resource to be used," he muses almost to himself. "And reversal sometimes indicates a descendant... or by extension descendants." He pauses again, then taps the fate card speculatively, but does not elaborate.

He nods to Ramjollock when the man touches the torc, giving permission to take it. "Tell them Walker seeks audience, though I doubt the name will mean anything. So tell them also that I bear a message from Cameleopardis, and let that torc bear witness of it, for it belonged to him. And tell them that we come requesting their assistance, but that I believe it will be to their benefit as well."

Brennan leaves space for Sessile or, especially, Cledwyn to add any comments they might wish.

No, they're letting Brennan handle all that.

Wondering just what kind of fire they've jumped into, no doubt.

"I will see what I can do for you," says Ramjollock. He takes the torc and puts it away in what Brennan suspects is the bag where he carries his cards. "Look for a messenger from me."

"I will look upon it as a kindness. Thank you Ramjollock," he says.

Brennan will need to arrange somewhere to stay and so on and so forth, at least tentatively. Since this is a horse fair, that could be "under a blanket on the side of a hill" or whatever. Ramjollock did not set a deadline for getting back to him. Also while he can always pull probable supplies out here, it's easier for Brennan to find things where they are sold, as it were, and many things can be found at the fair. Especially including drinking and fighting if Brennan is inclined to amuse himself with either of those.

It is much easier to conjure coin and have that remain hidden, than to conjure tents or whatever else might pass for lodgings, and Brennan still tends not to display obvious power in broad daylight, as it were. Five hundred years of conditioning dies hard. If this is a large enough fair-- and it seems to be-- there should be someone selling or renting lodgings of some sort. Brennan aims for those, in a fairly low-key mode.

There are no regular lodgings in the sense of buildings. This is a horse fair, and possibly not in the same location every time, so there are none. Brennan can pay rent on a good position, as it were, and he can upgrade the saddle roll and any tent he has for something more comfortable. Similarly, he can supply himself and his comrades with food, both fresh for local consumption, and preserved for travelling.

He'll do that, then-- a reasonably good patch of ground and an upgrade from what they are all collectively carrying to something suitable for three-- no, four people, in case for some reason they should need to entertain someone.

Brennan does watch the fights, but does not try to participate. Mostly, he is evaluating the Maghee as potential... soldiers might be the right word, but so might warriors.

The Maghee definitely have a martial bent; Brennan suspects they would make a group of raiders or reivers. His sense of them is that they'd do well on special tactics like that but trying to get them into a regular standing military unit, even at a level of technology they understood (like pikes; they could do pikes), would go pretty badly. They're too quarrelsome and individualistic for integration into regular units.

So noted-- something in a shield wall with swords or spears was about the most he'd expect from the milieu in general, and pikes are just an elaboration on that.

A boy finds Brennan in the evening, as the trading has waned in favor of drinking and, well, fighting. For those who aren't sleeping on the hill. "You're Walker? Ramjollock says to come with me to meet some people," he tells Brennan.

Brennan gathers Sessile and Cledwyn to go with him. His only special preparations are to make sure his Trumps are properly back in their pack, his KCOR ring is still in his pouch, and the signal dagger remains in do-not-disturb position.

In the evening, one of the Maghee boys of the sort that have been running all over the fair approaches Brennan. On confirming that he is in fact "Walker", the lad says he comes from Ramjollock and hands Brennan a sketch showing two cards (the Griffin and the King) as proof of identity. He asks Brennan to follow him.

As far as Sessile and Cledwin are concerned, this approach doesn't seem suspicious.

Brennan shows his own Lion card to the boy by way of establishing his identity, and does indeed follow.

Sessile and Cledwin follow along out of the immediate sphere of the fairgrounds. Not into the middle of nowhere but more along the lines of "we'd like a little privacy here" or maybe "these people are of questionable luck and we don't want them too close at night". Perhaps a quarter-mile past the edge of the fair, with the lights still in view, they're met by Ramjollock and a group of masked men (presumably all men, though they could be women in the mix with the darkness). The masks are, to Brennan's eye, ceremonial and ancient, and while they conceal the identity of the wearers, they're not designed for that purpose.

[OOC: If you've read any Holdstock, think of the Hollowing masks and you're on the right track.]

"We are the Council of the Sons," says one of the men (definitely a man from the voice). "Who are you, man called Walker, and by what rite do you seek the Sons?"

[May also be "by what right?"]

As Brennan begins to see where they're going, he signals Cledwyn and Sessile to be alert... although they probably already are.

There is almost nothing that Brennan likes about this set-up-- in a few short moments he's gone from a comfortable, well-lit tent to somewhere dark, semi-abandoned, surrounded and out-numbered by mask-wearing interrogators. He's seen subtler set ups in the seedier parts of New Hong Vegas, of all places. He strongly considers conjuring a version of the mask he wore to the Coronation Masque and affixing it before he lowers his hood, but that's just petty. Futile, too, since Ramjollock and the messenger boy have already seen his face. He settles for keeping the hood of his cloak drawn, just to maintain the pretense of psychological parity.

He also takes a long, hard look at the gathering through Astral Vision-- he is looking for signs of Reality or Substance, because who knows what sort of green-haired agent Moire may have among them. Ramjollock and the boy are not excepted. Also, how big is this gathering, roughly? Has Ramjollock acquired a mask, or is he still bare-faced?

"I'm a long way from home," Brennan says, "come by right of recent friendship with the man called Cameleopardis, and bearing a message. I trust your man gave you his token as proof. Who among this Council knew him?"

There are nine masked figures, not including the boy and Ramjollock, who remains unmasked. With the Astral sight, it is clear that these are magicians, even Sorcerers, of some power, though not beyond that which Brennan might expect in Benedict's realm if he meant to test himself against a sorcerously backed tribe. The colors painted on the masks appear much brighter to his Sight, as if they are Real in some way (the symbols as much as the masks themselves).

How fascinating. How absolutely fascinating.

Brennan wasn't intending or even trying to bypass the masks, but now he knows that if and when he does, he's going to have to work for it. These are not a trusting people. These may be a paranoid people. Which is not out of line with their post-Corwin diaspora history as he understands it. It is also not out of line with a cult... which is not the most quieting thought he has had in the last several weeks.

Brennan still has Cameleopardis' prayer book and has surely read it with reasonable care by now-- he's had it for weeks. Are these masks, or some reasonable centuries-old antecedent, mentioned therein or (based on that limited knowledge) some relatively new innovation? Also, what kind of symbols are they, roughly speaking? Geometric designs? Facial or animal motifs? Script of some sort? Something else?

The masks are ancient and mentioned in the prayerbooks. They're masks of office. Skogen is probably not a real name, but a title associated with the mask he's wearing. The symbols are shown in the prayerbooks, but they're more stylized in those illustrations, as if made by an illustrator or illuminator who hadn't necessarily seen the masks themselves. They are vital and primitive on the masks. Some of the symbols are abstract -- Brennan can't necessarily figure out what they are from the masks, to the extent that he can see them -- and some are animal or plant motifs. They are brightly colored, Brennan thinks, or would be so in the daylight.

Brennan's mind is put somewhat at ease by this. As much as it is possible for Brennan's mind ever to be at ease.

Ramjollock might be a magician but hasn't got the strength for any but the thinnest of sorcery. The boy is just a boy. If there are geasa or commands on any of them, they're operating through the masks.

"I know the legends of Camelopard's, though I have only seen him from a distance. I recognize the torc as his. You may call me Skogen, Walker." The speaker steps forward: he's a man, definitely, from sound of voice and build. "That you return his torc to this company means that his story has come to an end. Will you tell us of his fate?"

Assuming he hasn't taken off that mask, Brennan doesn't draw back the hood. But he does hold out a hand in greeting. "Well met, Skogen."

Skogen takes Brennan's hand firmly. He's clearly of the old school and is checking it for hidden daggers.

"And I will," Brennan says. "The telling is complex and, once told, you may very rightly question it. But I do not come empty-handed. I may have the means to provide some credibility." Brennan puts enough emphasis on 'may' to convey some uncertainty. "And so I must ask also: Are there members of the Wise among your company?"

"Yes," replies another man, one who has not introduced himself. "although that term is not a Ghee term and our ways are not always as those of other tribes. Continue, and tell us what you know."

Brennan locks eyes with the new speaker, and holds the gaze just long enough to make clear that he has decided to speak rather than been commanded to speak.

"Good," he says. "I met Cameleopardis on the field of battle he with his army and me with mine, earlier this season. The armies fought around us, and mine had the better of it. In the first true battle between the forces, things went poorly for he and his, and I took him captive. The battle ended but the siege continued, so I took him to a safe place and questioned him.

"He was not what I expected, and I will be frank: Though he was an enemy and I was not well-disposed to him, I grew to like him and even to respect him. I would prefer to believe that the reverse was also true. And so we spoke not just of the recent battle, and of ransoms and terms and surrenders, but of his past. He told me that he had led an expedition to Maghdeburg and the Silver Towers, under the sea. Something was odd in the telling of this, for he made the fall of the Silver Towers seem more recent than it really was. But I let him tell his tale, alternating of adventure and mishap, until the place was reached-- not just Maghdeburg, but the throne room itself.

"At that point, he saw terrifying and confusing visions of the Sorcerer-King and of the Protector, and lost his senses. When he came to himself, he found himself confronted by a woman on the throne. They conversed, he saw more visions, and she put him to sleep. When he woke, he was confronted by a different woman, claiming to be a priestess of Lir, who bade him command her forces and enter into the same battle where I met him and captured him. Naturally, I asked for a description of the woman, but curiously he could not give one. Initially, he did not even seem to find that strange, and only when I pressed him on it did he come to believe that he was under a geas of some sort, and consented-- no, resolved and collaborated-- to break it.

"It was at length broken by a woman in the employ of the army I fought with, whereupon Cameleopardis' memory was returned and he was able to identify the woman. However, the magics keeping him alive were also shattered. If I understand things, he started his journey to Maghdeburg a very long time ago, and slept from that day until the day he was woken by this self-proclaimed priestess. He aged before my eyes. We spoke, and he swore vengeance on this priestess for manipulating him, but he died of old age shortly thereafter. I mourn him and deeply regret his passing, for I feel we might have come to be friends.

He takes out the letter that Cameleopardis dictated, and against his more manipulative instincts it is unaltered and unedited, but it is wax-sealed with a borrowed, almost generic signet from Trippel's stocks, and with the imprint of Cameleopardis' own torque. He does not hand it over. "I have a letter, but he aged so quickly that his hands could not hold the quill. The writing in the letter is mine, but the words are his. He described the device I drew inside."

He bids Sessile to step forward, and hands him the letter to hold.

"This letter contains the name of the one who used him, and declares her anathema. But unless he dictated a coded message, there is no proof.

"However."

He bids Cledwyn also to step forward.

"This man is called Cledwyn. He was my captain before the siege, and a traitor and saboteur during and after. When the siege was ended, I tracked him down. I have reason to believe that he has been manipulated in the same way, by the same person, and that now his memories of the event are clouded. He has come to believe that this may be true, and he comes here willingly." Brennan pauses for Cledwyn to nod or signal agreement in some way. "I have not offered either of these men the details of my suspicions. Again, I could offer nothing more than accusations and suspicions.

"Instead, I offer you each to the other in the hopes that you will add evidence and weight to the contents of this letter, which we can unseal afterwards. Or," in a somewhat lower and more ironic register, "I will have a great deal of reconsidering to do.

"The question is: Will you help this man regain his memories and his clarity?"

At the end of the long explanation, Sessile has offered the letter to Ramjollock, who has taken it and handed it to Skogen, who has it in hand but has not yet opened it. Cledwyn is also standing between Brennan and the Sons, who have been watching and listening with extreme interest.

"We must confer before answering your question, Walker, if you will wait a few moments?"

Brennan favors Sessile with an irate expression-- he gave him the letter to hold not to pass around. If he'd wanted Skogen to have it, he'd have given it to Skogen. But it occurs to Brennan that even though the script is in his hand, Cameleopardis might have done something to it to prove its authenticity, so he lets it pass... mostly.

"On your honor that the contents remain un-read, we will wait," Brennan says, with a gentle clarification that 'unseal afterwards' is not a suggestion, but a requirement. "I would have Cledwyn convinced as well." Brennan is not completely inflexible-- if one wants to read it and another helps Cledwyn and they promise not to communicate, Brennan will take them at their word.

"We will not read it," Skogen clarifies, and passes the letter back to Sessile for good measure. "Let us confer," he says to the brethren, and they pull back into a knot to discuss the matter.

As they wait, he turns to Sessile and Cledwyn and asks, "Last minute thoughts, observations, concerns?"

"Do you think I'm going to die?" Cledwyn asks after a moment. He's obviously aware that his case is somewhat different to Cameoleopardis', but it's a horrible thought, aging out and turning to dust while Brennan and the rest watch.

Brennan gives that due consideration, although he's already given it some private thought.

"I don't think so," he says, at length. "You have any reason to believe you're a relic of another age, or that magic is keeping you alive, like Cameleopardis?" He gives Cledwyn a good moment to answer that even though he personally thinks it is not the case.

Cledwyn shakes his head.

[Brennan]
"I think that's what did it-- when the geasa were broken, they were all broken, not just the mental block. We can ask the Sons when they're done with their little conclave over there-- they're the experts."

He looks relieved. Sessile's mostly interested in that question theoretically. He doesn't exactly seem to think this is mumbo-jumbo but it seems like more ceremony and bother than the situation probably merits, as it were.

Assuming Cledwyn and Sessile have nothing more, they'll wait for the Sons to come back with their comments. If they are in favor of helping (although Brennan doubts it will be that simple) Brennan will make sure they don't proceed too quickly-- he will make sure that either he or Cledwyn can raise Cledwyn's concerns.

After perhaps five minutes of debate and discussion, some of which sounds rather debate-y for all that it's not in Thari and Brennan doesn't understand all of it, the Sons return to Brennan. "If Cledwyn is willing, we will attempt this," Skogen says. He turns to Cledwyn. "Are you willing?"

"I'm not going to age out like Cameleopardis, right?" Cledwyn asks.

Skogen answers honestly: "I can't promise that, and certainly not without examining you magically. But we have no reason to expect it to happen either."

"Perhaps a compromise," Brennan suggests, "if either of these are feasible: Move cautiously, and tell Cledwyn what to expect through the process." Those might not actually be feasible, and so Brennan is content to let them handle this as they see best, unless they and Cledwyn come to complete loggerheads.

Skogen's mask is a study in impassivity. "Very well. We will examine you and tell you what we find before proceeding. You will be consulted before anything is acted upon."

"Might as well," says Cledwyn. "It's what I came for. Go ahead!" He stands stiff and tense, anticipating something bad happening.

If/when they start, Brennan watches the process through the Third Eye, passively. If at all possible, he positions himself such that both Cledwyn and some or all of the Sons are in his field of view, and he is interested in the two following things: First, during the process, does Cledwyn's aura start to change-- particularly, does any dormant true Sorcery begin to show? Second, if he can tell, who among the Sons are working this counterspell, which of them are tasked with watching Brennan and-- because he shares the same sneaky-genes as Fiona-- are any of them working against this effort?

They speak only in their local creole dialect during the spell: a mix of Thari and something else that no self-respecting God would answer to (or at least Smoking Mirror wouldn't have). It is, however, powerful enough to connect to and interact with the spells on Cledwyn.

To Brennan's third eye, it is a mere lightshow, although he thinks he can tell what's new and what’s the old spell by colors.

"Two there are," says Skoggen. "One spell which cloaks your remembrance of meetings with your master. Another which keeps you from remembering his face.

"We can remove both."

It doesn't seem like Cledwyn is about to get killed by suddenly rearing true Sorcery, so Brennan has no motive to interfere. He continues to observe through the Third Eye out of native caution and, to be honest, professional curiosity. You never know when some obscure bit of local knowledge will come in handy.

Can he make out enough of the creole to tell who or what they're calling on? Lir, he would expect. If it's Moire, he's really got a problem....

There's absolutely a syllable that might've been 'Lir'. Or maybe 'Tir'. -ir in any case...

Brennan's opinion, if asked, is that they proceed, and if order is important that they get to the face first so that a description can be given or a sketch can be made.

The spell takes time, and preparations, as shadow magics are wont to do. They offer Brennan a chair, and eventually begins. The spell is cast in silence, and mostly on a liquid. Eventually they tell Cledwyn to drink it.

He does, and he gets a puzzled look on his face. Eventually he looks at the wizards and at Brennan and says "They must've blocked it, because it doesn't make sense.

"The admiral's a young man, the face I saw was old, and had a beard. He looked a proper ancient sea captain."

Cledwyn says "I'll make a sketch, but I want to know what happened."

Skogen nods. "It will be hours before the next potion is ready. You have time."

Cledwyn takes a sketchpad and pencils from his pouch and turns to a clean page. Brennan notices that both he and Sessile are on prior pages, but Cledwyn flips past those quickly.

The sketch rapidly comes to life under the spy's deft hands. He looks older, and he didn't have a beard, but other than that, it's the spitting image of Montage, who Martin killed in Amber some years ago.

Brennan stares at the page, allows himself a small private smile, then lets Sessile and Skogen see the sketch if they wish. "This man is known to me," is all he says on that subject. Brennan lets Skogen get to his casting with his fellows if he so desires, but not before he asks a pertinent question: "How long will his memories last? Is this permanent?"

"We don't know," Skogen replies, mater-of-factly. "We have never negated this spell before. His memories may fade, it may be like a story he has been told that he thinks he remembers, or he may keep and expand upon it. Magic with memories is not precise."

Brennan scowls a thoughtful scowl-- Montage and whoever he had do this for them probably had greater confidence than Skogen just expressed.

Then he answers Cledwyn: "I'm not sure what kind of an answer you're looking for, but your Admiral is not who he appears to be. I know this man. He has at least two very good reasons to conceal his identity here as he works--" Again the small, quiet smile, "--and I expect he has his own magicians to do what was done to you."

Cledwyn's mouth tightens in anger, but he doesn't say anything.

Then he looks at Cledwin's sketchbook and says, "Let me see that." He is not overlty upset or threatening, but neither was that a request. "Any of these get delivered or shown to anyone since you hired me?"

Cledwyn takes a moment to figure out that Brennan is discussing his sketches. It breaks his focus on his anger. "No. It's just a thing I do. Some people play chess. I sketch."

"I want you to do two things, Cledwyn. I want you to make another sketch of that man, because I need one of my own and because the act will attach it more firmly in your mind. And start writing down everything you can think of about what just happened to you-- the memories you just regained, every detail. The emotions you have, the thoughts you have, every detail, for the same reason, to fix it in your mind. And then first thing tomorrow morning, you do it again. That's the first thing," Brennan says.

He motions that Cledwyn should start this right now.

"The second is, I want you to let me see that sketchbook, because you may have seen something-- or someone-- and captured it without even knowing it was important. And then, I don't know how their next spell is going to work, but I'm going to tell you some things to try to... pay attention to, or focus on, for lack of a better word. Your sketchbook may help. Or it may not, but I don't want your sketchbook be another diamond, overlooked."

Assuming he started the sketching or the writing, Brennan gives him some time to think that over and, hopefully, decide that it makes sense and give him the book.

Cledwyn doesn't need any time to decide, and turns over the book to Brennan and begins at his appointed task.

The sketchbook goes back to the sea voyage and has many of the people they met along the way. The brothers, Crisp, 'Walker', local nobles in several of the towns. Finally Mayness, Balen and Trippel. Based on her portrait Balen should sue him for caricature assassination. Walker looks stronger and tougher in each of the portraits.

What did she do, turn you down? Brennan almost asks. Humor and sarcasm are unlikely to save the day, here, so silence remains the better part of wit.

Brennan leafs through the sketches carefully, generally spending more time on the people not already familiar to him, but always putting his fingers on each page when he turns them. His intent is not to smudge (indeed, if there's a chance of that, he takes care not to) but just out of excessive caution, remembering Benedict's revelation that non-Family can draw Trumps.

"No help, unfortunately," Brennan says. "So I'll say what I was going to say anyway. When the wizards unlock the rest of your memories, I don't just want you to focus on this Admiral, this man who calls himself Stratum. If you can, I want you to focus on everyone who was around him, all the members of his court, all his advisers. But especially his mother, War-Leader Syke. Everything-- her looks, her clothes, her gestures, her jewelry, everything. You can ask questions if you've got them, but most I'll want to answer after the wizards do what they do, not before."

"I'll start making notes now, and see how they compare to after the next round of treatment."

Brennan claps the man's shoulder in reassurance. "I'll leave you to it. Sessile, you need to stay here, stay in sight with that letter, and keep it to yourself. They've said we have hours to go, yet so I'm going to go take a walk, think this new little wrinkle over, and bring us back something to eat. I'll be back shortly, but under no circumstances-- no circumstances-- should you start without me."