A paladin and a rogue walk into a bar..., Eek! It's a story!

Yeah, yeah. I can't figure out the title yet. Maybe someone can give it something when I get around to writing the rest of them


Chapter 1
The Paladin

The sun is already low on the horizons as the merchant ship Bright Daystar docks in the city of Drendar – just another one among many that docks every day, bringing wealth to this western port city in the continent of Mongard.

The port has always been lively – there are almost no time when there aren’t any ships at all – but today, it is Drendar’s day. Being the day of the Goddess of Wealth herself, the trading scene by the namesake’s port has reached fever pitch. Merchants shout themselves hoarse, trying to attract the equally aggressive customers looking for deals in clothes, jewelry, spices, and other exotic merchandise from other continents. Traders jostle with each other to unload their wares from the ships, relieved to have arrived on time for the festivities and eager to join in and reap profits.

Captain Ferwall, of the Bright Daystar, tolerantly surveys the Drendar port as he inhales deeply from his cigar – courtesy of a trader, of course. The ship’s journey has been long, but smooth and uneventful; just the way he prefers it. Pirates have been surprisingly active off the coast of Drendar lately, for they are aware of the lucrative plundering to be had, but the Kingdom of Gardalia’s mighty navy has made that enterprise risky, at best. Wealthier merchant ships have taken to hiring escorts to discourage pirate attacks, but Captain Ferwall believes in luck (and in Yunria, the Goddess of the Sea) to deliver his ship from harm.

He turns at the sound of footsteps behind him, and smiles at the approaching person. “So, this is where we part,” he says. It is not a question.

The cloaked figure nods her hooded head. “Indeed,” she replies neutrally. “If Mother Lindra wills it, we shall meet again.”

The captain sighs. “Unlikely, m’lady. You know it like I do. Still, best of luck in Mongard. If I were you, I’ll not go far from Gardalia. This kingdom’s the only civilized land in this forsaken continent. And that’s not saying much.”

“I’ll reserve my own judgment, captain,” she rebukes gently. “After all, even in this continent, Mother Lindra will always guide my step like she does for her followers here.”

The captain smiles a touch sadly. Most of his passengers are traders – not very honest and likable, moreover – and he normally welcomes the opportunity to take other passengers. But on this one, this solitary person likely on a one way trip to Mongard… while he likes her well enough, he doesn’t like what he has been charged to do to her.

As if she can read his mind, she continues, “And I hope you don’t continue to feel guilty about bringing me here. Right now I should thank you for bringing me here safely; Master Trennar expects you to do no less.”

“But… why?” the captain sighs. “For someone like you… this is a death sentence. This continent may seem alright at first glance, but trust me: this is no place for anyone. All the wealth you see here stays in Drendar and maybe Keralt, a way upriver – there’s no good to be had beyond that. Very few merchant ships deal outside Gardalia. And it’s way too cold everywhere. I don’t think that cloak of yours is going to be warm enough.”

“If Master Trennar really wants me to die, he’d have ordered you to tie rocks to my feet and throw me overboard in the middle of our journey to be eaten by sharks, to save us both some trouble,” she remarks dryly. “I’ll be fine. Mother Lindra, through him, sent me here on purpose; it is my intention to find out what that is, exactly.”

He nods, acknowledging the determination on that half-hidden face. “Very well. Can you still remember the directions to the chapterhouse I gave you earlier?” He smiles as she nods. “Gods bless you then, m’lady – until we meet again.”

She laughs heartily, and invokes the sign of Lindra with her hands. She slings her pack behind her back before turning away to join the crowds below.

-----------------------

The chapterhouse is, unfortunately, on the other side of the town, by the south gate. On Drendar’s day, the streets are packed full of people from all over Gardalia, making passage uncomfortable. Her progress is slow at best.

She doesn’t mind, though. Drendar’s liveliness captivates her; even market days in Cerille, back in the continent of Vergard, have never been this crowded. She eagerly scans the merchants around her, looking at the fine silk clothings in one booth, semiprecious gems in another. There’s no fooling these merchants, though; the prices they shout are very close to what these trinkets are actually worth. It seems to her that either the merchants in Drendar don’t like to bargain, or the sheer competition during Drendar’s day forces them to cut prices to attract customers.

“Finest coats in Gardalia! Look at this beauty! It’s made out of, yes I kid you not, the fur of white wolves! And it can be yours for only forty crowns…”

“The dagger of Hustar! Or rather a fine replica of it, I’d say! It slices, it dices… anything you like! Make me an offer!”

“Lady, this ruby… you want it, yes? Twenty-eight crowns, yes? What do you mean, it’s worth twenty? You’re kidding! But I tell you something, yes, I really want to see this paired with your dress, yes, so I can even give it to you for twenty-six…”

No, she firmly tells herself. No shopping. She wasn’t given a lot of Gardalian crowns by Master Trennar, and she can easily spend it all here. She’d be better off taking advantage of the chapterhouse’s amenities.

She continues on her way, bumping into people garbed in lively colors. Everyone looks wealthy. Still, she is well aware of the less well-intentioned, lurking in the shadows of the alleys for easy prey. She even spots two such men at one time, standing idly by the packed bakery, eyeing her speculatively. They sneer, but otherwise let her be – something in her stance seems to tell them that they’d be better off not to deal with her.

As she ponders about an intersection, trying to figure out her way – a small, lithe black-clad figure rammed into her. With a muffled ‘oof!’, the figure fell heavily to the ground, while she staggers back slightly from the force of the collision.

It is early autumn, and the cold winds from the mountains have washed over this town, so the sight of people being cloaked and hooded like she does is not strange. But as she offers her hand to the stunned figure, sitting on the dirt road, she has a strange premonition – not quite a warning, though.

The figure is short, like a child’s. And the sobs that issue forth from beneath the hood were that of a child’s. But she can sense the taint within the figure, a sickening taint that she has not encountered in any child she ever met. Still, she didn’t sense a killing intent from the figure; other than the taint, the figure seems to be harmless enough. She extends a hand gently; the figure looks up, uncomprehending.

“I’m sorry about that. Can you get up?” she adds.

For a moment, the figure hesitates. Then the figure scrambles up to its feet, without taking her offered hand. The figure regards her for a few seconds longer, then suddenly turns away without another word and melts into the crowd.

She stares after the departing figure, stunned by the latest development, but with rapidly developing awareness that something is very wrong. Slowly she withdraws her hand into the pocket of her tunic beneath her cloak, and bites back a vile curse as her fears are confirmed.

Her money pouch is gone.

--------------------------

It takes her a while, but she finally spots her destination. With not a small amount of relief, she hurries her pace through the rapidly thinning crowd – the festivities do not extend to this grim-looking building.

She gave up looking for the thief after a quick scan of the crowd. All her money, as well as a few trinkets more emotionally significant than monetarily valuable, was in that pouch, and she had no one but herself to blame for that oversight. Back home, no one would ever consider picking the pockets of someone like her. Besides, a thief that skilled would not be dumb enough to linger for her to catch. So she hurried on, hoping to reach the chapterhouse before sunset, where inconveniences such as losing one’s pouch would not prevent her from getting a warm meal and a seat next to the fireplace.

She slows her pace as she approaches the building. The building doesn’t look like any chapterhouses she has seen before – no decorations or banners hang on the walls, and no guards have been posted. Still, she feels a certain mixture of relief and reluctance as she steps up and knocks on the stout wooden door. Even with her gloves on, her fingers are almost numb from the cold, and the sensation of connecting with solid wood is almost a relief in itself. She knocks again after hearing no response, and is rewarded by the sound of the door slit opening from the other side. A pair of sharp eyes stares at her.

“The weapon shop is closed. If you’re looking for weapons, the merchants out there probably have more than enough for the entire Gardalian army.” The deep baritone voice resonates with authority.

She blinks uncertainly. She had her doubts, but the directions from Captain Ferwall points unmistakably to this building.

“Is this not the chapterhouse of the Paladins of Mishtara, sir?” she asks politely.

The eyes narrow. “Who wants to know?” the voice demanded.

She straightens her pose, throwing her head back. As she does so, the hood fell from her long brown hair, revealing a pair of glittering earrings. Small amethysts are set in the middle of the elaborate design depicting the symbol of the Goddess Lindra, the Mother Nurturer. “My name is Vanyra, of the Lyonald family of Juno, in Vergard. I also believe you know what I am, sir.”

For about three seconds, the speaker is silent. Then she hears the latch on the door clicking open. “Come in,” the speaker invites as he throws the door bar aside and opens the door.

She gratefully does so, feeling immediate relief from the warmth in the room. The front room is lit by only the lantern being held by the tall, heavyset, middle-aged man who opened the door for her. Swords, halberds, spears and axes of every kind are displayed in the racks around a table cluttered by books, quills, and loose sheets of paper. It looks just like a regular weapon shop.

“Forgive me,” the man apologizes as he closes the door and put the slender iron bar back across the door. “The precautions have been necessary, for times have changed. I’ll explain more,” he adds upon seeing her puzzled face, “but first, let’s get inside. As Juno is quite a bit warmer than Drendar, I’m sure you can use some hot meal right now.”

“Thank you,” she replies gratefully. As the man raised his hand to put the bar back, his robe’s sleeves were pulled back, and she has caught a glimpse of emerald set into a bracelet around the man’s wrist. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Master Reginald Westar, sir?”

“I am indeed him, yes,” he nods as he beckons her into the door leading away from the shop. “Watch the steps, please.”

Vanyra stares as she emerges into the basement hall. Master Westar smiles in understanding. “It may not seem like the chapterhouses you’re used to, but this is our home.”

Paladin chapterhouses in Juno, and even throughout the continent of Vergard, tend to be spartan but comfortable – not to mention, easily recognizable from the outside. This common hall is certainly comfortable – but it is more opulent than she’s accustomed to. Banners hang from the wall, bearing either the holy symbol or the likeness of Mishtara, the Goddess of Wisdom and Knowledge. The acolyte guard by the door (clad in full, imposing armor) gives a salute as they pass through the door. Men in green robes are lounging around the fireplace; drinking, playing cards, talking – and they all fall silent as they turn to regard the newcomer.

Master Westar nods to the men. “This is Vanyra Lyonald of Juno, Paladin of Lindra,” he announced. “Please make her feel at home.”

There is a chorus of greetings, and some of the men (after brief bickering amongst themselves) stands up and leaves the room through another door. Vanyra gives a start as she realizes that Master Westar is looking at her gawking at the hall. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized that you do things for your chapterhouse differently in Gardalia,” she offers.

Master Westar sighs and takes a seat next to the fireplace; he gestures to Vanyra to do the same. “Not really,” he admits, “this is not the way we used to run the chapterhouse, either. But that is a long story.” He looks at her as she sits down gingerly, puts her pack down by the seat, takes off her gloves and extends her hands close to the fire’s warmth. “What brings a paladin of Lindra all the way from Vergard this close to winter, though?”

She removes her cloak, revealing her plain padded traveling tunic and a plain-looking bastard sword and shield slung behind her back. From another pocket of her tunic, she produces a rolled and sealed letter – at least the thief didn’t snatch that – and presents it to Master Westar without another word. She watches as Master Westar warms the seal near the fire, unrolls the paper and begins to read. The men who left the room have returned bearing food and hot tea for her in the meantime, and she gratefully accepts them. Around her, the others have resumed their activities, although she feels their stares from time to time.

Finally, he sighs as he hands the paper back to her. “So that’s how it is. I’ve been wondering why Master Trennar didn’t send Captain Ferwall to deliver this message, as usual.”

Vanyra nods in understanding. She has expected as much. Commanders often send their paladins on errand with a sealed note to another chapterhouse, and this often includes enlisting the messenger to the other chapterhouse’s service. She can’t help feeling a twinge of resentment of being sent to Gardalia, though. She quickly reads what Master Trennar had in mind for her, feeling suddenly light-headed as she comes to the end.

“I have to admit, the request is rather unusual,” Master Westar says as he reaches out for his own hot tea. “In my last correspondence with Master Trennar, I did mention in passing that we are terribly short-handed in face of our latest crisis, so I half-expected him to send at least a few paladins for temporary service. I didn’t expect him to send just you, on permanent service.”

“I’m just doing Mother Lindra’s will, sir,” she says, still trying to recover. Master Trennar has forewarned that the task set for her is unlikely to bring her back to Mongard in near future.

Master Westar nods. “At least it seems like you’ve expected not to return. And we definitely can use your help in times like these.” He ponders for a while. “I’d tell you about it, but it looks like you can use some rest after your long journey. Please finish your meal; I will talk to my wife about getting you a spare room, which we have plenty of. We will talk of this matter in the morning.”

Vanyra gratefully drinks the rest of her tea as Master Westar stands up. She briefly looks around the room, meeting the stares of the paladins around her, then smiles as she too gets up to join them.

------------------------------

Despite her fatigue, Vanyra cannot sleep that night. Her mind is filled with questions; for what purpose was she sent to Mongard? Is it just a test of her resolve for the oaths she has taken? Or is there something else?

She considers her room, dimly lit by the candle on the small table by her bed. Too many draperies and other luxuries, she concludes. She certainly doesn’t expect the opulence of the chapterhouse to extend to the spare rooms; she had assumed that the common hall is better decorated to make up for the plain exterior of the chapterhouse. For that matter, why is this chapterhouse hidden below a weapon shop? Being a paladin is certainly not a shameful thing to be, back in Juno!

And then there are the paladins: young, inexperienced, and almost exclusively male (the few lady paladins of the chapter happen to be out doing errands). The paladins in her chapterhouse have been gender-balanced, and include a few grizzled veterans, who fondly talk about better days past filled with exciting adventures of fighting evil. By contrast, Master Westar, as the only paladin here even considered to be middle-aged, seems to be the oldest and most experienced of them all. Also, from her conversations with them over the meal, she sensed in them… despair, defeat, and complacency.

What happened in Gardalia?

She senses something else, then, that gives her pause. It may be just her imagination, but suddenly she feels that she’s not alone.

The floor outside creaks; very silently, almost inconspicuously. But that is enough for her. Nobody on legitimate business sneaks around at night, especially not in a paladin chapterhouse! She reaches for her sword and gets out of bed, as silently as she can manage.

The creaking sound stops, and she holds her breath. Has she been heard? But then it resumes, and she steps lightly closer to the door. Her bare feet tread on fur; she silently gives thanks that she doesn’t have to walk on bare, cold stone floor.

Suddenly, she hears a muffled ‘click!’ beyond the door, and she involuntarily stops in surprise. That was the sound of door locking mechanism being disengaged. Someone is trying to break into her room! She tenses in anticipation, silently reciting prayers under her breath as she tightens the grip on her sword. Slowly, she makes her way behind her door and waits.

Vanyra gets an oddly familiar sense of premonition as the door silently swings open without a creak. Dimly she recalls that it creaked loudly when she first opened it. Whoever is coming inside has been very meticulous in minimizing the noise.

A dark figure lightly steps into the room through the half-opened door. By the light of the candle, Vanyra recognizes the short figure instantly. It is the thief that has stolen her pouch! She even feels the same taint in the figure, but oddly, still no killing intent.

The figure gives a little gasp of surprise as the candle reveals the empty bed. Vanyra calmly nudges the door with her foot, and it closes behind the figure with a muffled bang. The figure stiffens slightly.

“If you’re here to steal more of my money, you’re out of luck. You’ve taken them all,” Vanyra says calmly. “I’ll have to say though; you’ve got guts coming in here.”

Vanyra expected many things to happen next: the figure attempting to escape, to turn around with blinding speed to attack her, or to cast a spell of invisibility. So she was unprepared when the figure instead responds calmly, though in low voice, as if they are still talking in the middle of a busy Drendarian street. “It seems that I’ve underestimated you. Would you believe me, if I say that I’m just trying to return something to you?”

It is a voice of a girl; no, of a grown woman – with a shade of playfulness and innocence that has long gone. The figure reaches up (Vanyra readies her sword in response) and grabbing hold of her hood, she lowers it as she turns around to face Vanyra.

Later on, Vanyra will admit that when she first beheld the thief’s visage, she didn’t know what first captured her attention. But now, she immediately notices the expressionless, fragile features that convey a sense of loss, despair and perpetual struggle against the world. Sticking out of her short, black hair are her ears; long and pointed. She is an elf.

Ages are reckoned differently for pure-blood elves than for humans like Vanyra are. The woman in front of her might not have been fully grown, by human standard of maturity, but Vanyra reckons that she may have been already alive when Vanyra’s grandmother still served with the Paladins of Lindra. Not that it matters for now, anyway.

“I find that rather hard to believe, yes,” Vanyra admits, but she still holds her sword on the ready. She notices the elf has somehow taken a pair of daggers out without her realizing, but is making no move to attack her. Likewise, something within Vanyra stops her from charging headlong to blindly attack this elven thief. “Why would you want to do that, I ask? Do you somehow take pity on a poor, crownless traveler after the fact? If so, what drives you to break into a house, full of paladins, just to return something?”

“It’s not about the money,” the elf admits, while still eyeing the paladin warily. “When I bumped into you, it was purely by accident. I felt your money pouch at that time, though, so my subsequent action was purely opportunistic.”

Vanyra snorts a small laugh. “Sure. Of course.”

“If I’m really after your money, I’d have picked any merchant instead. Your fifty crowns is nothing in comparison to what they have in their filthy pockets,” she spats bitterly. “No, I’m here to return this to you.” One of her daggers disappeared with a flash, although not by magic, as she takes out a glittering bauble from her cloaks.

Vanyra recognizes it instantly. It is a finely crafted likeness of a hawk made of jade. Until that afternoon, the bauble has been sitting, forgotten, within Vanyra’s money pouch. “Why?” she asks the thief.

The thief’s green eyes seem to catch fire reflected off the bauble, even though the candle is behind her. “How did you come to possess it?”

“This hawk?” Vanyra ponders this strange question. “This was given to me in Cerille, back in Vergard, for services rendered by my chapter to an elven family. The House of Tyln, if I’m not mistaken. The hawk is the House’s avatar.”

“So… you didn’t steal it?” the thief insists fiercely.

“I know the words of a paladin probably don’t mean as much to you as to other people in general,” Vanyra replies dryly, “but we don’t steal. This hawk was personally given to me by Matron Edella Tyln after we successfully negotiated with the hunters who encroached upon their sacred forest. And when I said negotiated,” she adds, upon seeing the doubtful look on the thief’s eyes, “nobody lost their lives, although we did have to teach a few of them, um, a rather rough lesson.”

“Hmph,” the thief snorts. “I suppose I have no choice but to take your word for it. I have been prepared to kill you if you really have stolen that hawk.” She tosses that hawk casually to Vanyra, who catches it with astonishment. “And here’s the rest of your pouch, intact,” she adds as she takes a familiar pouch out of her pockets and tosses it at the bed. She strikes a defiant pose as her other dagger disappears into her cloaks. “Well. That’s that. Everything is done between us. Now if you can give your word, for whatever its worth, that you’ll let me go without any fuss, I’ll give you my word that I will not harm anything, or steal anything, on my way out. Don’t worry about me; I will not get caught getting out if I didn’t get caught getting in.”

Vanyra shakes her head in amusement of the thief’s audacity. “You’re lucky. Other paladins will never make deals like this with someone who stole their money.” She doesn’t loose her grip on her sword, but she tilts her head slightly. “You have my word.”

The corner of the thief’s mouth twitches up in amusement as well. “For whatever its worth. Now, if you’d excuse me.”

“One more thing,” Vanyra says as the thief reaches out for the door. Her strange feeling of premonition has increased, and she can feel the taint within the thief wavering strangely. “My name is Vanyra, of the Lyonald family in Juno. You don’t seem to be an ordinary Drendarian thief. Who are you?”

The thief pauses by the door. Her skeletal face remains expressionless as she says, “Evalia. Formerly of House Tyln.”

Ignoring Vanyra’s astonishment, the thief slips out of her room without another word.




Background: The story was written purely for my amusement, and for Torrilin's. See, the characters are based on mine and hers. They were leveled together for the most part.

Unfortunately, DN setting as it stands is too restrictive to give me much creative license, so I've decided to do away with it altogether. DN has definite influence on the setting though, as you will see.

This post has been edited by Phage on Jan 22 2007, 08:27 PM

I always enjoy reading your stories Vic! You know one day you will have to compile them into one and get them published so I can have a hard copy (signed of course!!) for my library don't you? :-)

It's all well and good until you realize that with one exception, none of my multi-chapter works have ever been completed.

With proper motivation, additional chapters do come.


Chapter 2
The Rogue

“You’ve got guts coming in here.”

The paladin’s words still ring within Evalia’s ears as she closes the door quietly behind her and cautiously makes her way back into the common hall of the chapterhouse, down the dark corridor.

What was she thinking anyway? No one sane would have considered breaking into a basement house, full of paladins, without a very good reason! Certainly not to return a worthless trinket, and a sack of money, to someone one didn’t even know or care about!

Well, what was done, was done. Now she just has to get out of this place.

The guard is still snoring when she gets to the common hall, just as she left him. It seems like not even paladins are immune to boredom on the job, despite the dangers that still threaten them even on these days. The guard’s face is buried in his armor, the hollow metal shell amplifying his snores loudly all over the room. That infernal noise has made her job breaking in so much easier.

Still, Evalia waits, her keen hearing tuned for any unexpected noise. True to her word, there is no sound from the paladin’s room to alert the others. Evalia has to admit that she didn’t expect any paladin to know how to be that silent; she had expected the paladin to call out an inquiry upon hearing a suspicious noise. Her heart had skipped a beat when that paladin turned the table on her, unexpectedly closing the door behind her. ‘Come tomorrow, I’m going to have to start thinking about paladins fighting in pajamas as well as in noisy armor,’ she thinks, carefully stifling a sudden urge to giggle at that mental image.

The guard gives a short snort as she creeps forward to the door, and Evalia freezes on her tracks. She is already well-concealed by the darkness, but any movement can alert the guard, and she would rather not leave any mark of her ever been in this place. The guard mumbles incoherently, shifts his position on his chair, but otherwise does not raise his head. After a while, he starts snoring again. Evalia patiently waits for a while, until she ascertains that the snores are truly genuine, before continuing forward. She crawls around his chair, behind his back, and to the waiting stairs.

She allows herself a small sigh of relief as she emerges back in the weapon shop. The snores are still audible even up here, and Evalia recalls how the noise had given her such a fright when she first broke in. There remains only one final obstacle between her and open air.

As she approaches the front door, Evalia carefully removes a pair of small grappling hooks from within her robes. The front door has been left unlocked when she broke in to facilitate quick getaways, but she has replaced the bar just in case someone checks it while she was inside. Now she removes the bar again and lays it on the ground by the door. She attaches the business ends of the grappling hooks to the bar and runs the ropes through the door slit. Once she slips outside, she closes the door and manipulates the bar, using the hooks and ropes, back into place. She smiles; putting the bar back into place is trickier than taking it off, but it is something she does not have to do too often. Finally, after retrieving her hooks, she relocks the door using her lockpicks, something she loathes doing in principle but is nevertheless necessary in this case.

She quickly looks around, but the night is quiet and no one is around. It is already so late that even the hardiest merchants have packed up for the day. Evalia takes her headband out of her pockets and wears it around her head, wrapping and concealing her unmistakable elven ears, before replacing her hood. She hates the sensation, but it is unfortunately necessary in Drendar. Whistling softly to herself, she leaves the chapterhouse looking just like yet another citizen on the streets.

-----------------------------------------------

Of all the taverns in Drendar, Evalia likes the Sweet Nectar best. Not only does it serve the best drink in town (named after the tavern itself), it is also one of the few places in town where Evalia can truly be comfortable with what she is.

The proprietress of the place smiles at her as she walks into the brightly-lit, warm room. “The usual, Eva?” she asks, and Evalia nods. She slips into her usual bench by the counter as the proprietress prepares her drink.

Mistress Bliss is what they all call the proprietress. Those who know her swear that she has ruled the tavern with iron fist ever since their grandmothers were still around. Evalia knows that to be an exaggeration; the elven blood within the proprietress’ veins, mingled with the human blood of her mother, has done wonders to keep Mistress Bliss as sunny as she has looked for many years, but she by no means could’ve been as old as the tale goes. Mistress Bliss also happens to be one of the few who knows of Evalia’s elven heritage, and she has treated Evalia like a daughter – firmly, but ever so slightly more favorably than to her usual patrons. Most importantly, Evalia can count on her silence.

There are not very many patrons left in the tavern, and most of those who stay are already facedown on the table, passed out. Being festive after a day of buying and selling is yet another favorite pastime during Drendar’s day – overindulgence is common, and likewise its regrettable consequences. The local authorities usually have their hands full during nights like this. That merely means that they are focused on the many other, less orderly places than the Sweet Nectar, which suits Evalia just fine.

“And happy Drendar’s day to you, Evalia. May the Goddess bless you with bountiful wealth this year.” Mistress Bliss puts down the mug of ‘sweet nectar’ by the counter, which Evalia accepts. “Speaking of which, have you done much to advance your wealth this day?” Mistress Bliss winks knowingly.


“Not really,” Evalia answers as she takes a long sip of the splendid drink. Mistress Bliss has neutrally accepted her seedier lifestyle, not betraying it to the authorities, and is even willing to share obscure gossips of the town with her, for a price. She couldn’t have asked for any better.

“It’s supposedly quite a harvest during Drendar’s day for you, isn’t it?” Mistress Bliss chortles. “There are many ignorant traders from all parts of the continent, and beyond, ripe for the picking. Yet you cannot relieve too many of them, or you risk attracting the attention of the authorities, not to mention having to deal with these traders returning with tighter security next year, if at all.”

Evalia raises her head to stare at the proprietress. “Perhaps that will make it more interesting, then.”

“Challenge can be good, yes, but that’s not the point of this exercise, isn’t it? At least not for the majority of people in that trade, unlike you.” Mistress Bliss stares back at Evalia with a mixture of amusement and frustration. She picks up a small towel and begins to wipe some mugs dry. “Let me guess. Like this day last year, you actually didn’t do any harvesting, did you?”

“I did.”

Evalia’s answer seems to catch Mistress Bliss by surprise. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re not in any immediate need for money. Did you actually find an appropriately challenging merchant you cared to try?”

“I never said she is a merchant,” Evalia said. She sips her drink, and realizes that Mistress Bliss is still waiting for further explanation. “A paladin.”

“Oh dear,” Mistress Bliss sighs. “You know, I’ve always been feeling rather sorry for them, ever since the Desertion. They may be stiff, but they’re actually a rather nice bunch. Well, if you must, I hope you picked one that’s not so nice. Let’s see… she doesn’t happen to be tall, red-haired, with a voice that you can hear from miles away?”

“I know Leandra; it’s not her. I’m not stupid enough to pick on someone who may recognize me. I didn’t know this one is a paladin.” Evalia shrugs. “She came straight from the port, and she was all bundled up. Well, she didn’t have much, and she’s staying with the paladins now anyway, so she should not miss it that much.”

Mistress Bliss stops wiping the mug she is holding. “You found the chapterhouse?” she whispers, and Evalia nods. “Oh dear. Please, don’t tell anyone else about it. The paladins are good for this city, even though they’re treated like scum.”

“I’ve known it for a while. I’ve even identified some of them. But I have no business or qualms with them.” She pauses, and adds, “You seem to know a lot about paladins.”

“They used to frequent this place. Some of them still do now, but rarely. They’ve been doing a fine job hiding their existence, but they’re not used to deal with secrets, so I can still keep tabs on them. Thankfully, the authorities don’t seem to know of their presence.” Mistress Bliss starts wiping the mugs again. “So how did you know that she’s a real paladin, or just one that happens to be the paladins’ guest? Did you follow her to find out?”

Evalia nods. Mistress Bliss chuckles. “That’s a first. I’ve never known you to follow someone you’ve just picked.”

“It was something she owned that got my attention. A jade hawk.” Seeing Mistress Bliss’ blank stare, Evalia continues, “Tyln family symbol. There’s no mistake.”

“Really. I thought you want nothing else to do with them.”

“It’s the curse of my race, I guess,” Evalia shrugs. “We tend to value family ties to the point of stubbornness, despite the circumstances.” She stands up as Mistress Bliss watches her with amazement. “Thanks for the drink. It’s late.” She tosses a crown to Mistress Bliss.

“It’s almost time for me to close anyway,” the proprietress nods as she deftly catches the crown. “Good luck with everything, but be careful. Try to avoid getting tangled with paladins. They have the talent of attracting the holiest mess possible and dragging everyone else along.”

Evalia nods and turns to leave. Behind her, she hears Mistress Bliss bellowing to her remaining patrons to get out or be thrown out from her tavern.

-----------------------------------------------

Evalia hears the soft, distinctive click as the complex lock gives way to her lockpicks. Satisfied, she opens the door and enters the building boldly.

She has no fear of being questioned for entering the shop that way; after all, the shop is legally hers. No key has ever been made for the front door; the lock has been installed both for security and for her amusement, and the only way to open it is with a lockpick and familiarity with the mechanism – and Evalia has steadfastly refused to tell that to even her best customers. After all, if she gives away all her trade secrets, no one will buy her novel locks or pay her to open their accidentally-locked objects anymore.

She ponders her actions that day as she gets ready for bed. At least she has satisfied her curiosity about the jade hawk, even though that happened by following a ridiculous whim. She isn’t surprised at the lengths she had taken to find out, but instead, at her readiness of accepting the paladin’s words on the origins of the jade hawk.

There. Her thoughts keep inevitably returning to that paladin. Somehow, they are not related to the trinket. What else there is about that intriguing paladin that captured her interest?

When she finally drifts off to sleep on her comfortable bed, she still has no answer to that question.

Except for my work, I have never put this much effort into writing before. The constant editing, re-editing, revisions... sometimes it also took rewriting some sections of the previous chapters to make them flow better. Chapter 1 before has been reposted with several edits. Here is chapter 3.



Chapter 3
The Patrons

Vanyra is already eating her breakfast by the fireplace when Master Westar emerges from the corridor that leads to his quarters, wearing his commander tunic and looking ready to take on the day. He raises his eyebrows upon seeing her. “Mishtara bless you this morning, Lady Lyonald. I do not expect you to be awake already.”

She nods, invoking the blessing of Mother Lindra in return, before answering, “I am used to waking up with the sun, Master Westar. You have shorter days in Drendar than in Juno, though, and they start later during this season.”

Master Westar ponders that for a moment, and nods. “I hope everything is satisfactory to you.”

“Very much so,” she said with her mouth full. “Your wife woke up early enough to provide me with these excellent biscuits. The room is excellent, too. It is more than what a guest can ask for.” She quickly adds, “Of course, I’m not one, though.”

“I’m sure you need some time to digest the sudden fact that you’re not just a guest here,” he smiles kindly. His wife comes into the room, as if on cue, and he kisses her on the cheek as he accepts his breakfast. She blushes furiously, and quickly turns back to the kitchen. Vanyra observes that even the back of her neck is red. “You know, even after years of marriage, I’m still amazed at how lucky I am to have her helping me run this chapterhouse.” He sits down next to her and asks, “So, what do you have in mind for today?”

“I will need to find a job soon. Master Trennar did not allow me to bring too much money on my journey, perhaps knowing that I will need to get established here.” She decides against telling him about how Evalia almost made off with all her money; judging from the lack of uproar, the thief has made a clean getaway without taking anything of value. “I was an apprentice weaponsmith once, but I must admit my weakness for bauble led me to become a jeweler instead. Demand for jewelry is fairly high in Juno, anyway. ”

“That’s a curious profession,” Master Westar says. Individual paladins are encouraged to take up a secondary trade – in many cases, tithes from the paladins’ jobs make up a larger portion of a guild’s income than commissions for combat. Most paladins take fairly physical jobs in order to keep their bodies fit for combat, smithing being the most popular, although the guilds do not frown upon any honest job. “Well, it might work better anyway. I have too many apprentices and helpers in my weapon shop. I don’t know of any good jeweler in town, though, but I will ask my wife.”

“I appreciate that.” Vanyra tears off a piece of bacon before continuing. “Since I am going out to town, I might as well ask you why you don’t operate openly as a paladin guild here. In Juno, anyone will happily employ paladins.”

“Well,” he says as he puts a warm biscuit into his mouth, “It went back all the way to the Desertion, two years ago.”

“We were much bigger then – we had a chapterhouse just like you were used to, and six times our current number. And back then, we had that respect that you’d expect an honorable paladin guild would have. We were also established in all major cities in Gardalia, and even beyond, in the neighboring Mondalia.”

“Back then, we didn’t sit around like now; we accepted commissions to uphold justice like you’re used to. And we also actively and openly recruited those who had talent to be divine vessels, too. Still, Gardalia is somewhat more lawless than what you’re used to, even at the best of times, especially outside the cities. We had to compete with less well-intentioned followers of other Gods who tried to recruit champions for their own with their vile lies and promises.” Master Westar grits his teeth. “Do you know that it is possible to convert champions of other faith, by the way?”

“Master Trennar told me that, once. He also mentioned that it’s usually extremely hard unless the paladin is already having a crisis of faith and ready to embrace other beliefs. Why?”

“Would you convert under threat of a sword?”

Vanyra narrows her eyes. “Never! I have pledged my life to Mother Lindra and nobody can force me otherwise. Death is preferable otherwise.”

Master Westar nods. “Threat never works. Only persuasion does. As you’d imagine, it is almost impossible to influence a few dozen paladins, with strong conviction, to renounce their faith and seek another one. And yet that was what happened to us.”

“That’s impossible! A few dozen?”

“Three years prior to the Desertion, we recruited this person named Lasker Frends. He was roaming the streets in Drendar before living in our guild house. He showed promise, and he indeed learned quickly. Our acolytes usually finish their training in five years or so, but many thought that Frends might be ready for paladinhood way before then. He was really popular, too, making a lot of friends. Apparently he was doing something more than that, though.”

“On that day, our commander at that time received word that there was a prison riot. The word was that the Mishtaran paladins were already on the scene, but it was them who rioted instead! We didn’t believe it, so we went out there to see it for ourselves, wondering if it was committed by people who somehow tried to dress like we did.”

He sighs. “They turned out to be indeed our members. They were not supposed to be there, either. I didn’t manage to count, but there were at least a few dozen of them, swords out, leading prisoners away from the prison. The prison was burning and there were dead bodies everywhere. It was horrible.”

“Why would they do it?”

“I have no idea. Some of the prisoners we saw were the very same ones we helped put into prison. But we saw Frends, who clearly was leading them on. Dead bodies were everywhere, and they clearly have been slashed and stabbed to death. And then the city guards came just as we were chasing Frends and the prisoners.”

“You can imagine what happened. We didn’t know who to fight, and we certainly didn’t want to fight the city guards. The guards had no such compunction – they attacked all of us. Frends and his followers escaped in the confusion with the prisoners. As for us, what else could we do?” He sighs. “We ran.”

Vanyra says, “And so that was the Desertion?”

“Yes,” Master Westar nods. Tears are flowing down his cheek and into his neatly-trimmed beard. Vanyra does not show her emotions, but her fists are clenched and her brown eyes are wet. He takes another biscuit and bites into it, continuing his story after a while. “How could we have defended our members’ actions? The public were furious; after all, by helping to free prisoners, we threatened their safety. We effectively went into hiding after the incident as the city guards chased us all over town. They besieged our chapterhouse and took it. All around the country, Order of Mishtara chapters were closed down and put on trial. Those who were allowed to reopen after the trials lost many members. People were losing faith on us, and on Mishtara. The clerics of Mishtara didn’t like that one bit.”

“As for us, one of the first things we had to do was to bring everyone back to a chapterhouse,” Master Westar says as he sips his coffee. “I turned out to be the most senior surviving member present, and thus the task of rebuilding fell to me. A lot of our members abandoned us, were killed during the Desertion, or were executed afterward under great public pressure. But thankfully there were still kind people in Drendar, mostly those whom we have helped before. They contributed the funds to help us rebuild. As for this chapterhouse,” he pauses as he flashes a sudden smile at Vanyra, “take a guess on what this was.”

“It has the feel of a weapon shop,” Vanyra admits, “and I have thought that it has been one since forever.”

“Aye, it had been a weapon shop before we turned it into our chapterhouse,” he admits, “but the merchant was running a second business in addition to selling weapons. You see, his wife ran a brothel down here.”

Vanyra blinks. “Well, that is unexpected. And yet, that explains why this place is very comfortable.”

“Aye. We inherited most of the furniture. I am sorry for not mentioning this last night, but I did not want you to lose sleep thinking about what people have done on the bed you were laying on.” Master Westar chuckles, but quickly sobers up as he wipes the tears off his face. “Anyway, we saved the shop from a local gang leader, who plotted to take over the merchant’s business after failing to collect the merchant’s debts. When we went into hiding, apparently the merchant was rattled and decided to skip town, donating the shop and everything inside to us. We did not know about the brothel until then, so that came as a surprise to us.”

“But just how did Frends manage to win over all his friends to the extent that he can persuade them to help him with a prison break? That blatantly goes against our code of honor.”

“I wish I know. We’ve been asking ourselves that question since the Desertion. We may never know.” Master Westar sighs, but he looks a lot calmer now. He finishes his coffee, and says, “We will have our morning devotions soon. You are welcome to join us. I regret that we don’t have proper training grounds; we have set up a secret one outside town where we gather for training, but I cannot show it to you today – I have too many things to do.” He stands up. “One more thing. The authorities are unlikely to look favorably even upon foreign paladins. Be careful, and don’t reveal your identity unnecessarily.”

-----------------------

The day after the big celebration is a lazy one.

Vanyra notes, with relief, that most of the merchants that littered the city streets the previous day have disappeared, and likewise the crowd of buyers. On the other hand, the city soldiers that she saw yesterday are now much more visible. After her stay at the chapterhouse, she is looking at them with much more wariness than she had yesterday. She gives silent thanks to Mother Lindra that she didn’t try to ask them directions to the chapterhouse then.

She still wears her cloak and hood, for it is quite cool, but on Master Westar’s suggestion has taken off her telltale earrings – while Mishtara’s followers wear the holy symbol on their wrists, there’s no telling whether the authorities will recognize her earrings. Vanyra has no intention of finding out anyway.

She nods toward a passing cleric of Mishtara, who barely glances at her before hurrying forward. The clerics are not militant, and the Drendar Temple of Mishtara has publicly renounced its ties to the paladins of Mishtara, claiming only to serve the need of the people. Vanyra wonders just how much that façade goes; the clerics and paladins are usually inseparable and she is sure that some ties remain. She has been to the temple earlier, and the atmosphere was quite subdued. Soldiers were stationed just outside the temple, and two of them – wearing their formal uniform but donning no armor and carrying no weapons, of course, in accordance to custom – were warily looking at the pilgrims who visit the temple. Given all the disruption, Vanyra imagines that the clerics may just covertly support the paladins just to get even.

Taverns and pubs are the prime source of information in any town, so Vanyra ducks into the first one she sees. Dank smell greets her as she enters that tavern, and she wrinkles her nose in distaste. The owner, perhaps mindful of the cold, does not open the windows, and the lights within are barely adequate. She almost decides to seek another tavern, but her fingers are getting numb again and she is getting hungry, anyway.

It is around midday, and the Red Adder is already fairly busy. The waitresses are busy serving lunch – the meals look and smell fairly good, and the patrons do not seem unfriendly. There is a raucous bunch gathered on one corner of the tavern, though, and Vanyra sits as far away possible from them – unfortunately, this means forgoing the bar counter, where she could’ve talked with the proprietor. She quickly discovers that her small table is situated near the fireplace – it is pleasantly warm at first, but soon she is forced to remove her hood and cloak, folding them neatly on the table as the waitress takes her order.

As she waits for her lunch, she takes a look around. The tavern continues to fill up, and soon even the counter seats are all occupied. Somehow, hers is the only table to seat one person, and that makes her feel rather out of place. As other patrons are busy eating or talking to each other, she cannot strike up a conversation with anyone.

The sound of laughter that comes from one corner of the tavern is getting louder; Vanyra notes that the rowdy patrons that she avoided are ordering a lot of ale. Glasses are emptied almost as fast as they are brought to them. Nobody around them seems to mind; in fact, it almost seems to her that everyone is trying their best to ignore them, too. As she leans forward to eat her lunch, she observes them.

In contrast with the rest of the tavern, those patrons are dressed like Drendar’s day has never ended. Bright, expensive-looking clothes they are wearing are embellished with various kinds of jewelry on their person. One of them is embellished somewhat more than the others; he is wearing a royal purple mantle covering a gaudy lime robe, and the clash of colors is almost painful to the eye. Vanyra supposes that he leads the other four men around him.

As Vanyra straightens her pose to accept the warm tea offered by the waitress, she notices that one of the men is leering at her. They are almost at the opposite ends of the tavern, but there is no mistake about it. Then the person laughs and points at her openly, in response to his comrades’ words.

Vanyra has realized that while she is not going to turn heads in a room full of beautiful young nobles, she is fairly attractive. Her face is smooth, although it is more due to her easy-going nature than conscious effort to conceal the fact that she’s going on thirty. Her long brown hair is well-kept, mostly for hygiene reasons. Probably the only thing that keeps unwanted advances in check is her unladylike sharp gaze, an asset that has served her well in her duties. For now, though, she decides not to use it, instead avoiding eye contact with the men while continuing her lunch.

She notes, however, as the man who has been leering at her gets up, rather unsteadily, and begins walking toward her. Three of his friends cheers, while the leader seems indifferent. Vanyra wills her fists to unclench; she must appear relaxed, while ready for all possibilities.

Vanyra gives one of her sharp glares at the man as he rudely pulls the chair opposite hers and sits down. He seems unfazed, but Vanyra suspects the alcohol has removed all restraint this man once had. His face is completely red and his breath stinks of ale mixed with something even worse.

“Haven’t seen you around here, missy,” he slurs, and belches noisily. Vanyra firmly suppresses her urge to give the man a sharp slap. “New here?”

“Just visiting,” she replies neutrally.

“Ash! No such thing as just visitin’. Everyone’s here for a good time.”

“Drendar’s day was a day for celebrations and good times – but that was yesterday.”

“How ‘bout you an’ me goin’ for a good time?”

Vanyra conceals a grin; the man does not even pretend to be coherent and logical. She says, “I’m having a time of my life right here in my little corner by the fireplace, eating this side of well-roasted and spiced venison that is worthy enough to grace the table of nobles. You seem to be having a good time with your friends too, right there in your little corner. I don’t think either of us has much more to ask for.”

The man is taken aback, and she hears snickers from around her that are quickly suppressed. His reddened face turns even redder as he shouts, “Damn bitch doesn’t know what’s good fo’ her! If only she knows!”

“If only,” Vanyra shrugs, her voice remaining even. “A pity her definition of fun does not include being intoxicated to the point of shaming oneself.”

Even this mild statement seems too much for the man. He screams with rage, stands up and in an instant, a knife appears in his right hand. Around them, patrons scream as they try to get out of the way. Even the proprietor only looks at them helplessly.

“I’ll show her! I’ll show what happens to those who mess with the Purple Mantle!” he screams, waving the knife threateningly at her.

His scream becomes one of pain the next moment, as the knife flies out of his hand up to the air and embeds itself in the wooden ceiling. Vanyra calmly withdraws her bare right hand as he cradles his wrist where she has chopped him hard. His eyes are bulging in disbelief. “Please go ahead. Allow me to get rid of that first, though; I’m afraid it’s clouding your judgment.”

If he is cowed, he doesn’t show it. Babbling incoherently, he walks unsteadily around the table to get to Vanyra. She stands up and catches the man on his wrists as he lunges at her. Her foot lashes out, tripping the man and turning him around with her iron grip still holding the man’s wrists. He screams in pain as she forces his arms to twist around unnaturally. Around them, the tavern is completely silent.

Kneeling on the floor with his arms held up behind his head, the man weeps with pain as he turns his head to look up to her – he whimpers as he regards her tall, powerful frame towering over him. When she speaks, though, the tone is still conversational. “I really hate to ruin our good times this way, but honestly, people are trying to eat around here.” She glances at the three companions, who are standing in shock by their table, and nods at them. “Can you make sure this gentleman goes home safely? He doesn’t look like he can get home on his own.” She pulls the man to his feet, drags him across the room to them, and sends him sprawling on the floor by their feet.

The men respond by pulling out their knives. Their leader is still sitting on his chair, not moving, contemplating the scene around him. Several patrons have exited the tavern quietly, but most of them stay to watch the scene – from a safe distance.

Vanyra regards the men warily. They are not as drunk as the man she subdued, and they have a certain stance that suggests that they are not ordinary thugs. She wishes she has a weapon with her; she left her sword and shield in the chapterhouse, although no doubt she will only get into more trouble if she uses them. Instead she says, “Look, I don’t want any trouble, and I doubt you gentlemen don’t either. Let’s just call this even. I’m still hungry and I want to get back to my meal.”

The men start to advance menacingly at that, but they are stopped as their leader holds up his hand and tells them to wait. He stares at her for a moment, but if he intends to rattle her, he fails. At last he said, “You have the look and build of a mercenary, but you don’t act like one. Who are you?”

Her oaths do not forbid her from lying, but Vanyra hates to speak the untruth unless she has no other choice. “I’m a traveler, here to unwind after the festivities,” she says.

A sudden grin splits his face. The man is rather handsome-looking normally, but the grin is startlingly wide that it makes him look frightening. “You have guts, though, confronting my men alone and barehanded. I am guessing that you have not heard of the Purple Mantle.” It is not a question, but Vanyra shakes her head anyway. “Fair enough. If you drink with us, we will forget this ever happens. You’re paying, of course.”

“I’m not in the mood to drink at the moment,” Vanyra says, amazed at the audacity of the request. “Right now I just wish to finish my meal in peace. Sorry.”

“Missy,” the man says, and this time she can hear the malice in his voice. “I don’t think you fully understand the situation. You have shamed one of my men in public. I have offered, generously I may add, a way to resolve this unfortunate incident in such a way that we all walk out of this place as friends.”

Vanyra looks around. The tavern has emptied further; now there are only a few patrons remaining. The proprietor is desperately mouthing a warning for her to just go along with these troublesome patrons. She sighs, knowing that she can no longer walk away from this. There is no way the ‘drink’ is going to be civil, anyway. “I’m sorry,” she says to the men, who are all leering at her openly.

The purple-mantled man’s grin becomes wider, twisting his face unnaturally. A knife appears in his hand. “I’m sorry, too.”

-----------------------

Vanyra sighs as she hurries down the street aimlessly. She was fortunate that there were no other reinforcement coming to the men’s aid. However, she saw a few soldiers approaching from the direction of the chapterhouse, and decided that it was safer for her to leave rather than trying to explain her actions, especially since she was the foreigner, in case they decided to check out the commotion.

The fight was short, but ugly. Alcohol has severely impaired the men’s coordination, and she had no problem repelling their attacks. At the end, she knocked them out using a stout wooden chair that was conveniently within reach. She came out of the encounter with a slight gash on her left forearm, but it healed quickly enough.

She knows that the streets are not safe for her. If the Purple Mantles are like any other street gangs that she knows about, the streets will soon be crawling with men looking for her – Purple Mantles and city soldiers alike. She decides to find a friendlier tavern for refuge.

It occurs to her that it is probably a good idea, at the same time, to find a guide to get her familiar with this city – or at least to get her safely back to the chapterhouse.