I hate the sound of breaking crockery. There’s something about it that screams chaos, unrest, and well…your dinner is swimming on the floor mixed with bits of broken clay. I’d heard the gasp from Mia, that abrupt intake of breath that meant she’d stopped in her tracks on the way to our table, causing the two bowls of steaming cock-a-leekie soup it contained to drop to the floor and cause the aforementioned nerve-scraping crash. I turned my head slowly to look at her and saw her hands lift to her wide open mouth. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway.
I followed her gaze with my own, slowly, and with one eyebrow arched. I’d seen him coming when he’d passed the tavern window, loping along like a lame ogre. Of course, he’d known I was here. I’d left a trail that could have been followed by a dead goblin.
Unfortunately the Crimson Ram Tavern was nearly empty this evening, which surprised me, given the wintry mix of rain and slushy snow coming down from the chilly gray sky. We ourselves had made it to Kingsbridge only a few moments before the clouds had broken open and the roads quickly turned to mud. Lucky thing too; I don’t mind getting wet but I can’t abide the mud. It’s difficult to keep a wardrobe as expensive as mine clean while traveling and good tailors are often hard to find.
My name is Marlo, in case you were wondering. Marlo Wickett, the one and only daughter of Thomas and Ayera Wickett. Thomas is the richest man in the Highfork area, a merchant by trade. He’s built himself quite a profitable shipping and commerce business over the years. It’s earned him enough to keep Ayera happy, no easy task in and of itself. Of course he’ll sell the company someday having (in his own words) ‘No offspring worth teaching’ to leave it to. I can’t blame him for that; I’ve spent my entire life shirking any kind of real responsibility.
A laugh welled in my throat at the sight that greeted my eyes when I looked toward the door. In a pose that was in as almost as poor taste as his hat stood Marcus Wintermoor. Spattered with mud, his fine velvet doublet and breeches were more brown than their original green. The aforementioned hat, also green and with a huge white plume (now quite bedraggled) in the band, hung about his face and dripped half melted snow onto the floor. Worst was his hair. Once cascading about his shoulders in great golden curls, it now lay limp against his neck and was almost as mud spattered as his clothes. Despite all that, he stood stock still, shoulders back, chin up, and feet apart and perpendicular to one another. After my first chuckle escaped my throat he slowly reached across his waist with a gloved hand and jerked his saber out of its scabbard with a dull rasp. The phosphorous he’d hidden in the metal throat of his scabbard was wet, and instead of igniting and spraying out in a shower of sparks as intended, it managed only to shred and fall to the floor as a handful of wet gray powder.
The first rule of making a good entrance is this; Be sure to make the entrance you intend, and not a caricature thereof.
From across the table I heard a snort followed by a ‘Harumph!’. That pile of hair over there is with me. It has a battered steel helm on top of it because that’s actually a head atop a stumpy body shaped like a beer cask. It’s name is Thalin Silvershield, though I have several others I prefer to use. Thalin is a dwarf, with a thick red-gray beard that hangs to his waist and hair that…well, hangs to his waist. At present, neither are bound and, due to the moisture in the air, are bushy enough to almost hide his face and body completely. His arms stick out from it, one thick hand wrapped around the handle of a wooden mug and the other gripping the shaft of the huge double-bladed axe that leans head-down against the table. He’s my constant traveling companion, fighting partner, and adversary in verbal sparring, not to mention my dearest friend. I’ve saved his life more times than I can count and he’s done the same for me. Thalin is one of the newly restored royal family of the Silvershield clan. In fact, the dwarves of the clan tried to make him king (since he’s next in line), but he turned it down. I personally think it’s just because he can’t do without my company.
Marcus cleared his throat to make doubly he had the full attention of all nine people in the room. When he knew I was looking at him he assumed a decent Ansetzen stance and leveled the point of his saber at me.
”You’ve run from me long enough, you cowardly wench. I intend to have my satisfaction here today!” His voice was loud enough to make the other occupants of the tavern look up from their plates and mugs. One or two tittered at the sight of the bedraggled nobleman. Marcus’ face took on an expression of outraged indignance and I could see a red flush creeping out of his collar and working its way up his neck. He extended his arm, bringing the saber to bear. “Draw and fight you boil-brained harpy, or I’ll beat you black and blue with the flat!”
I sighed and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. The table shook under my elbow as Thalin stifled a guffaw. “Marcus, it’s far too depressing a day to fight you. Would you not rather die and meet the afterlife under a bright sun with the sound of birds singing in your ears?” I swirled my goblet and appeared completely engrossed in the smooth movement of the deep red wine it contained. The crimson flush crept up over his chin and, in a sudden rage, he kicked an unoccupied chair toward me. As usual, his aim was as bad as his taste in hats, so the chair rebounded off a table a few feet from me and clattered harmlessly over onto its back. Several of the patrons got to their feet and began to work their way to the nearest wall.
”I’ll not abide your presence another second, witch! I vow to rid the world of you today!” His voice rose until it almost cracked. This time Thalin couldn’t hold it in and his booming laugh broke out. I let loose a chuckle myself. I must say I couldn’t help it, considering his bedraggled appearance. O…I’m sorry, you must be wondering what’s behind all this. Since I have a quick moment I’ll give you the short version.
A few months ago Thalin and I traveled through a tiny village called Cartway, near the Daearion/Chandreskahr border on our way to who knows where, when we came upon a caravan that had been attacked by bandits. The drivers had been killed and stripped of their valuables, the guards (bearing the livery of the Four Crowns Trading Enclave) cut down by arrows in a brutal ambush. Being generally concerned about the welfare of innocents, not to mention stalwart defenders of justice, we hunted the offending bandits down. Those that fought back we disposed of, those that didn’t we brought to Chandreskahr and handed them over to the White Plume Legion for justice. On the way we questioned one of them quite extensively and found out (among other things) that Thomas Wintermoor (the brother of Marcus) had hired them to disrupt the dealings of a rival merchant house. Long story short, Thomas was exiled and the Wintermoors fell out of favor in the Baron’s (not to mention the royal) court. Marcus blames me for the disgrace (puzzling, because Thalin and I were both responsible for bringing the brother to justice, and he doesn’t seem to even know the dwarf’s name). Fancying himself a swordsman, he has been trying to drag me into a duel to assuage the damage done to his ‘honor’ for the past few months. I fought with him once, shortly after his brother’s imprisonment, and humiliated him in front of a group of his friends. I used a stick and he used his sword, and I ended up with both his sword and the stick, which I used to beat him…well, you get the point. He seems determined to get himself seriously hurt or killed, as he keeps following me. Frankly, it’s becoming a bore. Hold that thought; Marcus is posturing and spitting insults. I don’t want to miss anything.
”Tripe eared sow!!” he screeched, his face positively crimson by now. “Your cowardice has caused me great inconvenience! I’ve gone to considerable trouble to chase you down and today my honor will be satisfied!” A drop of sweat ran out of his soggy curls and ran down the side of his cheek.
This time Thalin’s mirth was too much for him to contain and he guffawed loudly and slammed his palm on the table top. I was treated to an ale shower as his mug leapt a good three inches in the air, landed, and sprayed the last dregs of its contents onto the right side of my face. “Mia!” he bellowed. “Fetch me a fresh mug o’ the same and have another one ready! The first one won’t last longer than the show!” He turned his hairy head and peered, gimlet eyed, at me. I was giving him a look that said I truly wanted to stab him…in the leg, of course, and he stifled another guffaw at the ale that was dripping off my chin. “Sorry, Fancy, but this’un looks tough!” He slapped the table again and nearly fell off his chair as he laughed so hard he choked.
I can stand the cold and the rain. I can stand the mud. I can stand sharing tavern rooms with Thalin. I can even stand watching my hot, steaming, tasty dinner being trampled into the floorboards of an overpriced inn. One thing I cannot stand, however, is being sprayed with ale. I think it’s the smell, gets into one’s clothes and so forth. Either way, I channeled my rage into a white hot ball, hammered it into energy, and released it at Marcus.
Before he could blink I was standing en garde, my rapier, Icerazor, in full extension and pointed at the bridge of his nose. He seems a bit surprised, so let me tell you a bit about Icerazor.
After I helped Thalin’s family clear out one of their ancestral halls…there was this whole exiled thing, centuries ago, that…well, that’s not important. What is important is that, for my assistance, a few of Thalin’s clansmen made a rapier for me. Now the Silvershield clan is second to none in the crafting of arms and armor, and Icerazor is no exception. The blade is darkly gleaming steel, almost black because of some metal they forged for it. The basket and quillons are made from mithral, inlaid with tiny diamonds. The diamonds are tinted blue, and they perfectly complement the dragon hide leather wrapping on the handle. The hide is gray, and the scabbard is made from the same material. The dragon was one of the denizens of the ancient hall. I, of course, take full credit for getting rid of it. I mean, I didn’t strike the actual killing blow, but…well never mind. Marcus is thinking about attacking me.
I straightened up out of my ready stance and let Icerazor’s point drop to the floor with a flourish. “Today has been a day of adversity thus far, so I’m not going to cry and change it now.” I flipped Icerazor into the air. It’s wicked point sunk three inches into the ceiling beams and stuck there. With my right boot I kicked backward and caught the edge of our table with my heel. Thalin grunted as his two fresh ales upended into his lap. More importantly, my fork bounced into the air. I reached back and caught it as it fell. “I’ll not take any chances though, so I’m choosing a weapon that more befits my opponent.” I rotated my wrist and brought the fork to bear, spreading my feet and bending my knees slightly as my lip curled up into a derisive sneer.
With a high-pitched shriek he charged at me and lunged in full extension. Had I been somehow unable to move he would have skewered me. As it was I gauged his thrust and took a step backward. When his forward momentum stopped I caught the foible of his saber between the two points of the fork and parried it up. I stepped in and neatly caught his wrist with my left hand and kneed him in the abdomen. The air was expelled from his body in a rush and his grip on the saber loosened. I forced his arm upward until the point of the saber was thrust through the basket of my rapier which was, conveniently for me, still stuck into the ceiling beam above my head. I kneed him again and his saber went up and out of his grasp. When it came down it was socketed into Icerazor’s hilt and it hung there. Marcus narrowly avoided sinking to his knee by clutching the edge of a nearby table. I pirouetted backward and assumed a low offensive stance. Some say it resembles a coiled snake ready to strike.
It was at about this time that the gods decided to smile on Marcus, thereby reducing the severity of his beating, not to mention the crushing of his considerable ego. His savior opened the door and stepped lightly inside. I groaned inwardly as I recognized the chiseled, strong-featured face of Captain Lucien Stockley glowering at me from under the rim of his polished helm.
Two guards in boiled leather armor came through the door to flank Lucien, leveling crossbows at me as they did. Lucien is a half elf, and a tall one at that. His long black hair, trussed into a single braid, hung to his waist in the back. His hand rested on the polished but well-used longsword hanging from his baldric and his eyes, green and catlike in their intensity, narrowed at the sight of me.
”When I heard ‘tavern brawl’, Madame Wickett, I automatically thought about you for some reason. Amazing, how that happens.” He spared Marcus, who was slowly regaining control of his knees, a single glance, then turned that gaze back to me. “You’re under arrest, in the name of Baron Chandreskahr.”
Thalin let loose another guffaw. “Fer what, Ponytail? Cannibalism?”
Lucien looked at the fork in my hand and mirthlessly chuckled. “I’m quite aware of Madame Wickett’s skills with any weapon that finds its way into her hands. I would arrest her were she holding a spoon, Thalin.” He looked back at me and cocked an eyebrow. “Be a good girl and come quietly.”
I’ve never enjoyed the gaol, but at least they’d have food there. Besides, I rather enjoy Lucien’s company. With a shrug I quirked a smile and tossed the fork onto a table. Lucien spoke over his shoulder to his men. “Escort the fop to the King’s Road. Retrieve his sword and return it to him when you get him there. Bring Madame Wickett’s weapon to the guard post.
The first rule of being a duelist is knowing exactly what to do in any given situation. Having learned that years ago, I swept up my hat and allowed Lucien to escort me up the muddy street to the squat stone building that served the town as a guard house.
