Turn 114

Emmett laughs. "I've done a lot of flying, and I've never seen a world made of iron. Of course, in your night sky I could point out a world of fire and one whose surface is all water except a few rocky crags. I'll point them out tonight if you wish, but it does mean that in a universe this big, anything is possible."
     "The thought delights me; please do point them out when we halt this evening."
     "It also means that a wise craftsman should rely on both skill and access to raw materials...in a wider world, there's always someone else who can supply the once rare, but skill is yours alone." Emmett wonders how the diplomat will respond tot hat veiled statement.
     "Ah, but knowledge... it is like the kepola. It will slip from the firmest grasp and wander as it wills."
     "I hadn't realized that your language matched knowledge and skill. It's accepted among the spheres that no one can match a Dwarf's skill with metal, even when their knowledge...wanders. I can only wonder what your craftsmen might master if they had access to other materials."
     "Knowledge is in the hands no less than the mind. My people do good work, but so do many humans," he shrugs. "They have learned a great deal from us. What other materials have you in mind?"
     In camp that night Emmett and Alais point out those other planets that are currently visible in the Rigolian sky. The dwarf listens and nods and skillfully conceals his bafflement at some of Alais' more esoteric commentary.

     * * *

     "A most excellent hunt," the king remarks, clearly pleased by the day. "Let us return to camp and see how the others have fared."
     "Most exhilarating, your Majesty," Yestin concurs with a smile, though troubled thoughts stir behind his massive brow. He is appalled by the waste of good armsmen, slain for the sake of a mere day's entertainment. Death may come at any time to fighting men, it is true, but the Giff hopes that his death, at least, will be in service to a worthier cause.
     Sheathing his heavy blade, Yestin lumbers after his host, eager to confirm that his crewmates have not likewise lost their lives in pursuit of sport.

     * * *

     "Vicious little bastards." Emmett contemplates vowing that he'd track these things down, and then wonders about his skill in being able to hunt something that need not leave tracks. While he wants to be seeing how Alais is doing -- the wizard would be an enormous loss, and over the months he has grown quite fond of him -- he instead flips up his eyepatch and sends the blood red beam raking through the woods, hoping its light would reveal the spiders for a javelin's point, but the creatures do not show themselves again.
     When Ziven declares Alais fit for travel, the increasingly wounded band makes haste back to camp, hoping that their arachnid adversaries will not follow.
     Later, while Alais expounds (quietly, to conserve his strength) on the spiders, Emmett thinks "Man, not even a brush with death changes him. He's pure, 100% unalloyed academic. It's amazing, really." Given the obvious attention, Emmett does his level best to appear modest, but that's a wash after a few minutes. He instead endeavors to make everyone else in the group appear as heroic as possible, with desperate slashes by the wounded to hold off the enemy spiders, eldritch energies flying from Alais hands to reduce them to cinders and Father Ziven's calm, collected actions in the face of such mysterious danger. Plus his own modest accomplishments.

     * * *

     After the ceremony,
     Yestin watches the ritual intently, understanding little but committing the details to memory nonetheless, lest the imagery later inspires a couplet when the Giff toils over his humble verses. His offended sensibilities at the hunt's waste of men are mollified somewhat; he cannot condone the loss of life for the sake of mere entertainment, but a sacred rite is something else altogether. It is no uncommon thing for men of the Gods to sacrifice themselves for the sake of faith, though few Giff would do so. Giff prefer to die for more practical causes.
     Yestin frowns as he gazes around at the faces of the priests. He does not know what they see in the fire's depths as they pierce the veil between real and unreal. He only knows that they do not look happy...
     Emmett, by coincidence of positioning, is close enough to make a go at snagging the young priest before he hits the snow, glancing back and forth between Lynden, Inez and the smoke, wishing that his connection to his god were closer so that he might see the motion of this machine as well.
     "Sire, may we speak privately?" Gwidon breaks the silence at last, his voice hoarse. The two go off into the shadows of the forest; others of the councilors are summoned later on, and the discussion goes on far into the night, with all of those involved looking grave.
     Tossing his head and writhing from side to side as he comes to Emmett can hear Lynden murmuring faintly, "Beware true omens! He said beware!" The young priest's distress, though obvious, is quickly controlled once he realizes that he is held by another.
     " Lynden, are you OK?" He glances over to Pham, giving him a look of "do you know what just happened here?" Pham gives him a bewildered shrug, having caught the barest glimpses himself.
     A quick pressure indicates his return to full consciousness and Lynden is grateful when Emmett releases him. "Thank you, I will be." He takes in the scene noting the senior priest's discomfiture and departure with the King. He was obviously not alone in his interpretation of the imagery. "Thank you for your assistance; the cold of the snow would have been an added shock." He smiles weakly. "The omens are not good..."
     "Yeah, I...uh...kinda gathered that."
     An attempt at a smile crosses Lynden's face at Emmett's reply. "I'm sorry." His words are almost muffled as he wipes the perspiration from his face. "I suppose I did rather state the obvious. Come, let's step away from this throng and I will tell you what I may."
     Once their relative privacy had been established Lynden took a sip from a mug of beer he had snaffled as they passed by and regaled his audience with a description of what he had seen.
     They are not the only ones who are interested. Lynden's observations are solicited later that night by a tired-looking Father Ziven, who has been making the rounds to ensure that nothing in the omens has been overlooked.
     "And what did you see?" the brown little priest inquires.

     * * *

     "I do hope our hosts will only consider me shameless, but I thought it best to speak to you as soon as may be without listeners. A most eventful day it has been -- during our chase this afternoon I was entertained by conversation with friend Steelhand while the good general was occupied with his quarry. He is most anxious to discover our position relative to the quarrels of this world, for he believes -- or would have us do so -- that this notorious Lord Durrell's first use for his imported steel is actually to attack the dwarves. If the man could but gain control of even a small portion of their mines, he would be then restrained by neither king nor the Victors' whims. And he is most anxious to know what is happening in that lord's demesne. Interesting, no?"
     "Very," ibn Fadil sighs. "It seems that involvement in this place's politics is inevitable," he adds glumly. "My only consolation is that it was the Victors that started it."
     "We could leave as soon as we return to the capital," she shrugs. "It seems that they have upset any number of balances in their dealings here. It may profit us as well to find out what they are doing."
     "Politics is messy," he explains, "especially when the fighting starts. Nobody is going to thank us for the results, whatever they may happen to be, and if we are lucky we will escape with our skins intact, and I do not even like most of these people." He snuggles even closer to his lover. "But I do like you," he adds.
     She smiles.

     * * *

     In the morning, funerals are held for the men killed by the mastodon. The second day of the hunt is fruitless; the soldiers are dispirited, the servants frightened, the nobles distracted by the omens of the first day, and as in Myrr those quickly become a self-fulfilling prophecy in unsophisticated eyes as every small mishap is taken as a sign of doom.
     "Attention to the gods' warnings is only wisdom," ibn Fadil mutters to Mihal, watching a groom make a sign against evil after dropping a bridle, "but this sort of worry is excessive." Throughout the rest of the excursion, he visibly refuses to become either dispirited or distracted. His attitude (expressed in words if anyone asks) is that the future will take care of itself, and being anxious about it is a waste of effort and not conducive to victory. This gains him a certain amount of wary respect from the natives.

     * * *

     By the third day, the hunters have recovered somewhat, and more game is found. Emmett earns himself further renown when, going out again with a small group of men, they bring down a good-sized bear.
     "Mmmm...I've never had bear. This is pretty good." Emmett does his best to lighten the mood with the tale of the bear hunt - the flushing of the beast, the charging the prey, his desperate one-on-one wrestling match against the enormous creature until he was able to free his cutlass and end it with a single decisive stab...the usual.
     "Lynden, what are the rules for using the animals? Would I be out of line by asking to make something from the Bear pelt?"
     "I should think you could request it as your due." A flick of his eyes upwards is a small indication that he is accessing his memory before he answers gravely. "Provided you give proper respect to Marek and ask the permission of his priests of course. But what would you have made?"
     "A cloak of some sort, I would expect. It's obvious from watching people around here that bear hide tans pretty well, and I or Inez could certainly do with some warmer clothing."
     Lynden nods his agreement. " I expect the tanners would prepare the skin for you for the right price. Likewise Mistress Celina will be happy to oblige with your requirements once we have returned to the palace."
     "The tanners, sure, but I'll do the other work myself. I have a pretty fair hand for these things, and I need to keep practicing the skills or I'll lose them." He gives a brief, overinflated wink "Besides, it'll be an excuse to measure Inez *very* carefully to make sure it fits as snugly as possible."

     * * *

     While things are being packed and prepared all around, a servant summons Yestin to attend the Lord Chancellor. The old man is alone, sitting at a fire a bit apart from the bustle.
     "Ah, captain. Delightful. I hope you have found the week's excursion worthwhile?"
     "_Acting_ captain only," the Giff replies stiffly, unwilling to let it be forgotten even a moment that he has only assumed command until such time as Captain Valarin is safely returned. Mitigating his stiffness, he adds, "Our time here was interesting, thank you, though I fear I was of little account in the hunt."
     Yestin shifts restlessly on his feet, slightly embarrassed to continue. "My people -- by which I mean the Giff, not the crew of the Distraction -- are not much given to hunting. We do not eat meat, you see." Diplomatically, he does not add that the majority of his people consider the "carrion-eating" of other races quite appalling.
     "Ah yes. I am glad you were entertained, at least." After the small talk about the hunting, "You know something, I think, of the dilemma we face, the dangers of which we are warned. It goes beyond the bound of credulity that your presence here and the matters with which it is bound have nothing to do with the omens received. I will speak simply, therefore.
     "It is urgent that we know what is happening in Lord Durrell's realm, what seeds of evil these other visitors have sown and what fruit they might bear. Your vessel is swift, and your crew not without cleverness. Will you go and see what may be brewing there that can so trouble our whole world?"
     Yestin consciously suppresses the instinct to frown and furrow his brow; he hopes that his sudden agitation is not reflected in his coloring or repose. "For my part, I would gladly do as you bid. Some of your customs are strange to me, but the honor with which we have been received and with which your King and his loyal retainers have acquitted themselves is both familiar and dear to me and to my people. Many of my Platoo... I mean, my _crewmates_, feel the same, I am sure."
     Yestin's rubs his prodigious jowls as his mind continues to work. "Too, I feel the troubles that are stirring here may be related to a strange mystery some of my fellows have been investigating of late. They would, I am sure, relish this opportunity to discern the nature of the Victor's relationship with Durrell and how it might bear upon the enigma in question."
     The Giff sighs. "Sadly, we are not wholly free to follow the dictates of our desires in this matter. The Distraction belongs to the Three Trees trading house, to be used to further its interests. We have not the right to risk its destruction, as may happen, merely to satisfy our honor or curiosity, if satisfaction does not also coincide with whichever course is most profitable for our trading house. There must, you see, be foreseeable profit for Three Trees."
     Yestin's ears twitch furiously as he continues to consider the matter. Finally, he heaves a sigh, acknowledging, to himself at least, that he is completely lost in matters of diplomacy. "I will put the matter before my crew. I will not order them to their possible destruction, but I will do what I can to persuade them to agreement, trusting, of course, that His Majesty will remember our service when the time to negotiate terms of trade finally arrives. Does that satisfy?"
     "Entirely." There is no doubt that Fynn is very pleased and somewhat relieved. "I give you my word, and His Majesty's, that you will find your dealings here satisfactory."
     Yestin smiles, believing Fynn to be an honorable man and, therefore, his pledge to be as strong as any contract written by (less trusting) men of commerce. "Then we are of an accord. Let me now take your leave, that I may offer what assistance I can in breaking camp. The sooner we are away, the sooner I may put the matter before my crew." He bows, then turns with a flourish of his winter cloak and throws himself into the business of breaking camp...
     The following night, therefore, when the excursion has begun its return toward the city and the crew of the _Distraction_ are gathered around their own fire, the matter is put to them. They appear to have gained the trust of at least some of the key governmental figures. The choice at hand is to visit the heart of trouble on this ill-omened world, or to do what business they may in the capital now that the hunt is concluded and sail on.
    

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