Turn 73

Through the miracle of retroactive continuity it was decided that Pham remained at the ship, so as to not have both pilots away.

* * *

    Mumble, mumble, mumble, "help you?" he says.
    "Greetings, good sir," Alais says. "We are from outer space. Could you kindly take us to your leader?"
    This earns him a considerably startled look, but the man is distracted before he can figure out if the visitor is actually mad.
    "Yes," ibn Fadil says pleasantly, trying to imitate the local accent. "I need to remedy a mistake I made some time ago, which was not purchasing new boots when I had the chance." With a pained expression, he shifts his feet a little, inviting a look at their sorry state.
    The man looks mildly appalled. "If you'd" mumble, he gestures toward the displayed samples, "soon have" mumble. He turns back to the curtain and claps his hands sharply, summoning a pair of apprentices with almost magical speed; they hover attentively behind him. "And" mumble? He looks at the rest of the party.
    Ibn Fadil drifts over to look at the samples, presenting his best face of calm amiability as he tries to get the shoemakers to compare the different kinds of leather and fur so he can listen to them talk and get a better feel for their accent. At length he settles for warmth and sturdiness over fanciness.
    There is a definite emphasis on the practical, but some elegant examples as well. Some of the leathers are unfamiliar. The cobbler's persistent mumbling doesn't make him a terribly good accent teacher, and he does at least half of his communication through gesture, but ibn Fadil does begin getting a better sense of it.
    Mumble, mumble, "please," mumble. He gestures toward one of the chairs, where an apprentice - a boy of perhaps twelve - is waiting to take measurements. The master makes a few notes, nods to himself, and mumbles what sounds like a suggestion that he return tomorrow evening.
    The Zakharan digs out several silver coins to display as he asks hopefully, "Any chance of tomorrow by noon?"
    Mumble "see what" mumble "very" mumble. He seems to be saying he'll do his best.
    Outside the shop, ibn Fadil's pleasant expression becomes rather fixed as he glances up and down the now-dark street and says, "Master Zeremin, please try to remember that we are not here solely for your amusement."
    "I'm not sure what was supposed to be amusing, sir. I suggest you pursue your own purposes and I mine."
    In the light from the shop windows the Zakharan's eyes flash dangerously, reminding Val of the last time he saw him really angry. But he only looks away from the mage, scans the street again, and mutters, "I hate being so conspicuous." Ibn Fadil then looks to Valarin and says, "Shall we choose a place to stay, then?"
    After minimal discussion, the three retrace their steps toward the gate. There are fewer people on the darkening streets now, and the wind is rising. The inn they select has a sign of a leaping deer-like animal and one of the ubiquitous wooden mugs.
    Everyone looks up when they enter, stamping snow from their numb feet; the long, low-beamed common room is dimly lit by a fireplace at each end, supplemented by scattered lamps. The air is thick and warm, smelling of garlic, onions, cooking meat, wood smoke, and humanity. The place is busy but not quite full--all men, they quickly realize, as they move into the room and look for room at one of the several long tables. The hush has still not lifted. A couple of people make room at an end, near one of the fireplaces, looking at the newcomers with open interest as conversation begins to pick up again around them. A serving lad comes by and, without asking, deposits three mugs.
    "Soup?" ibn Fadil says to him hopefully, chafing his cold hands together. There is no sign now of his ill temper, or his unease. He seems determined to pretend there is nothing at all unusual about himself.
    The boy bobs his head in acknowledgement. "S'a roast on, and there's a goose, too, sirs."
    The others request soup as well. A short time later their server is back with a laden tray. The "soup" is almost solid, heavy with potatoes, onions, and some sort of fish, accompanied by a dense rye loaf. The beer isn't bad, either; for a moment it's pleasant to sit, thaw, and eat before taking more of a look around the place.
    When an opportunity arises, Alais asks the serving boy, "Excuse me, what political authority is over this place and where might its local seat be?"
    The boy gives him a funny look and spends some time performing a mental translation. "Well, his lordships' up t'castle...."
    "And who might you be, friend, that you do not know whose lands you are in?" interrupts one of the nearby men.
    "Lost, of course," ibn Fadil puts in humorously. "But not to worry; I have been lost before, and managed to profit from the experience."
    Reflecting that they really should have discussed their approach beforehand, and hoping that the half-elf can handle this, Val lets him handle it for the time being.
    The man across the table, to whom he is speaking, meanwhile, raises a skeptical brow. "I asked *who* you are." The kid scuttles out of the way.
    "As you like, friend townsman," ibn Fadil shrugs. "I am Yusuf Fadil's son, this is Master Zeremin, and this Captain Ehrendrin." He takes a drink of his beer, watching the man's reaction to the (of course) unfamiliar names.
    Before any reply can be made, the door opens again, and three men enter. They pause for the usual moment of adjustment, scanning the room. One of them comes over to where the strangers are sitting and says, "You three, with me. Captain wants to see you." The stance and tone of Authority are in clear evidence, and the man with the questions across the table looks like he's hoping they'll start something.
    Ibn Fadil, entirely unsurprised by this, just nods and gets up from the table, saying, "A good evening to you," to the man he's been talking to.
    There are three more men waiting outside, two of them with torches. The strangers are watched carefully but escorted with relative courtesy and through the dark streets, toward the castle. They all bear staves and, it can be seen now, long knives in their belts.
    The walk ends at a small building in the square that faces the castle's gate, where their escort's leader shows them in to a sort of office, where a heavy-set, thickly-bearded man of middle age is leaned back in his chair, as if he has been waiting for them (which he probably was). He looks them over thoroughly before speaking.
    "You are not from the city. No sane man travels in such gear, and no fool is given care of so much steel. I am told your speech is strange, but you are not emissaries, and if you are spies you are most inept. Who are you, from whence do you come, and what are you doing here?"

* * *

Meanwhile, as evening falls...

    Pham: "Got any fives?"
    Hiro: "Go fish."
    Something rattles off the hull.
    It *could* be a pinecone....
    Hiro lays down his remaining two playing cards face down. His raises a finger in a "shhhhh" gesture to Brother Pham. His eyes dart over to the general direction of the noise as Emmett makes his uneven way down the hall to join them. A brief conversation is held via glances; in the silence seconds crawl past like minutes. And then, another rattle.
    Hiro moves as quietly as possible toward the source of the sound, the upper hull near the midsection; he can see nothing from this vantage. He then makes his way to the hatch and opens it just a little.
    Rattle.
    There. It *is* a pinecone, but thrown, not fallen. As he swings the aperture further open Hiro can hear someone making a dash through the brush.
    

| Top |