De · Novo

Oh, the sheer agony of it! Being back in regular classes, that is to say; my second year at Carillon University, and I fear my interest in obtaining a degree, even one as useless as that of languages, is fading quickly. Perhaps Father is right and I'm good for nothing but gambling and wenching. It seems that every day I drag myself into the lecture hall becomes increasingly torturous. I don't know how Rand, Lyssa, and Jader can attend classes and do their homework so dutifully.

I told Stefano how I felt, and he insists that I need to persevere and complete my four years. I told him that none of this was important to me and that my future would be no better or worse for failing to finish, but he was very stubborn about the whole subject.

Still ... the drudgery of it. Perhaps if the work were difficult, I'd be too busy to be bored, but I find the work far too easy. Friday I found myself sitting on that hard wooden bench listening to the professor conjugating verbs and gazing down at Aralia Black's decolletage -- the young lady has a delightful habit of keeping the front of her university gown open, rather than prudishly closing it to the neck, like so many of her peers. At any rate, I learned absolutely nothing from the lecture, and if I'm going to fritter away the hours daydreaming, I could do so much more comfortably in my own chambers or in a companionable tavern.

Ah, well, I am doing nothing but complaining tonight, and it will make dull reading for whoever picks up this journal after my death. I should record Colte's confrontation with Kincaid; perhaps later.

All the fuss over Myrdd's little ringwar hasn't yet died down, and I still feel some shame over parts of it that I fear may eventually reach my family; but had I known how well it would serve as an entree into society, I confess that I may have sought one out much earlier. Even Jader and Lyssa have received some invitations to accompany the three of us exalts to this dance or that card game, and have been introduced during chance encounters on the street as having been involved in the affair. Myrdd, were he a less retiring man, could turn his notoriety into a small fortune, because although in Arquian a man might be mocked behind his back for going through such efforts for a servant, in Saldon for an aristocrat to protect his Companion is considered quite the thing to do and, I think, his escapade has done its part to perpetuate the odd custom.

Although Myrdd has been reluctant to benefit from his sudden popularity, both Rand and I have enjoyed ourselves immensely, if for different reasons. Rand sees the whims of his peers as a great joke and laughs to think that in another week or two their attention will shift to some new curiosity; he attends the parties and dinners and card games with an ironic smile on his face and a tongue quick with a cutting quip. But instead of giving offense, his sarcasm has made him popular, with the excuse I have overheard whispered behind his back, "But that's the way people jest in Candor." And so it is; but if he isn't careful, I fear that someday he'll insult the wrong man and find himself pursued by assassins during Storm Season. The Saldonians indulge all vices and smile affably at all insults, saving up their grudges for the sharp knives of winter.

My enjoyment has been more honest, because I nurture ambitions. With the support of Rhian Gallimaunes, who has given me the honor of paying her my most intimate respects again since this ringwar, I have been brought into the houses of some of the most powerful men and women on the island.

Cesar Sinistri of House Pendaryn invited me again, and spoke to me briefly about politics. They say he has his eye on wresting the throne from Archon Salane. Cesar and Salane have clashed before, I'm told, but the archon hasn't yet managed to kill Cesar because of the exalt's precautions, which I have heard includes a veritable army of blackmailers, informants, bodyguards, and spies. I will tread carefully there; while he would be a good man to have as an ally should he win the throne, I am wary of his house's motto: Mors tua, vita mea, or, "You must die so that I may live."

I have also visited House Childe and House Beauquier, the latter run by the charming but madcap Exalt Alves Kit, and the latter by the amiable but phlegmatic Nairn Aout. Exalt Jean Gaunt of House Sangreal spent several hours conversing with me about weapons over a game of whist, and I believe I favorably impressed him, as he spent several years in the navy and is one of the few exalts on Saldon who has seen true battle. Our conversation impressed those who overheard us, and for once my realm's bloody habits may stand me in good stead, as if there's one thing a Saldonian admires, it's bravery.

With all of this, however, I have had too little time for Stefano, who has thrown angry words at me regarding what he says is my neglect; and there is some truth to the accusation, as I've been careful to act the complaisant gallant in society and have struck up several understandings among my newfound acquaintances that, while limited so far to amusing games, promise to eventually reach the final goal to which all lovers aspire. So, I must take the time to sweeten my mage's mood; classes begin next week, and once we begin to see each other on campus more often, I'm certain I can make him forget his jealousy.

We stayed at Myrdd’s house that night; it was more crowded than staying at ours, but we thought that if anybody were to look for him — a physician’s runner, for example, or a Sword — they’d go there, first. But there was no news, and the next morning we went to work early, rousting out everybody we knew to help look for Sergeant Geoffrey Tobias. Captain Meurer’s Swords had already started the search, checking the sergeant’s flat and posting a patrol along the docks in case he tried to slip out with a ship. While Myrdd was checking on Gavier’s state, Stefano, with the captain’s permission, went into the sergeant’s rooms and prepared a third talisman. I asked him later if the process of creating a talisman is tiring; he told me it isn’t, but I know he was looking drawn after making the second one the evening before, so I don’t believe him.

Gavier had regained consciousness enough to tell Myrdd that the sergeant had, indeed, been involved. It was late morning on the ninth when we followed Stefano and his talisman down to the port. We found the sergeant hiding in a seedy inn that was more of a brothel than anything else; Rand and I held Myrdd back long enough for Jader to serve up the ring challenge. Tobias could have refused it; if he had, he would have been arrested by the captain, who was with us. But he chose to accept it, signing his name as the defendant. He had six hours, by the laws of the challenge, to round up his faction and get them signed up, as well.

Everybody criticizes Arquian for its duels, border skirmishes, and blood feuds, but at least we fight in hot blood. Saldon’s system is peculiarly unsavory, to me, with its cold-blooded paperwork and rules and faction armbands. Where’s the honor? But we checked in again on Gavier — falling into a fever — and then tried to snatch a few more hours of sleep before the challenge would officially begin. This time we stayed in our own apartments, where it was easier to find sleeping room for all of us.

The goal of the ring challenge is, apparently, to keep fights regulated and controlled. Damaging another’s property or causing harm to anybody who isn’t a member of the faction is strictly illegal, and combat is constrained to hand-to-hand weapons, I presume also to minimize the number of incidental casualties ... or perhaps Saldon’s assassin’s guild is simply protecting its monopoly. The armbands warn observers that fighting may break out, and we swiftly found that wherever we went, people sidestepped and avoided us, albeit with the greatest curiosity.

The confrontation came that evening, in the Market Square, just as the day markets were clearing out and the night markets starting to open. The factions were even, as required by the challenge rules: five to a side. Stefano was with us, as he’d been all day, but as soon as we saw Tobias and his swordsmen, all in their armbands, he stood aside along with the rest of the crowd. I had spent considerable time the night before convincing him that he was too valuable to risk his life in a swordfight!

It was a brawl, pure and simple, but one in which we desired nothing more than to kill each other. Our side had the disadvantage; Tobias had picked a crew of rogues accustomed to combat, whereas only Rand and I were truly skilled swordsmen, and I think I was the only one who’d ever seen true battle. But I was right about one thing: when Myrdd is angry, he forgets to fear his opponent’s sword.

Well, the first clash was inconclusive; we badly crippled one of them and injured several others, but we took the same, Lyssa and Jader especially, since they weren’t using swords. As if my mutual agreement, both of our factions broke up and retreated into the dusk to recover. Lyssa was furious when we forbade her to fight anymore, but she’d been cut up too badly, including a nasty slash across her upper leg that would make it difficult for her to fight, anyway. Jader had also taken several wounds, but he was too big to be incapacitated that easily. Myrdd, Rand and I were relatively unscathed; a few nicks and scratches, but we’d held our own. Tobias’ men were trained fighters, but not used to facing the same.

We fought again the next day, the tenth, twice. The first time was ugly; Tobias’ faction tried to attack us in my apartment while we were sleeping, which infuriated me — fortunately, our door was sturdy enough to withstand their first three blows, giving us time to grab our weapons and scramble into the parlor to drive them back when they burst in. I fear my neighbors are even more irritated with me now than when we’d played kickball in the courtyard. We did drive them back, at last; they’d gambled on surprising us and killing us half-asleep, but it seems they’d expected a door as flimsy as those of the tenement in which we’d found Gavier, not one made of solid oak. Still, I hadn’t realized the rules of a ring challenge included such dishonorable tactics; now I know better.

The second time we found them, using those rough-looking friends of Gavier’s to track the sergeant down to a tavern where he and the three other members of his faction were eating. We came in from the front and back, leaving the doors open behind us and shouting “Ring challenge!” to clear out the bystanders as quickly as possible — and clear out they did. This time we approached the combat more intelligently; Rand, Jader and I fought defensively to keep the others away from Myrdd and Tobias so that the two primaries could settle the matter for once and for all. I would have preferred to be the one fighting Tobias, but it wasn’t my challenge, and it would have been wrong to gang up on him with Myrdd. Still, I think we were all expecting the worst. Tobias was a Sword, a hard man trained to subdue drunkards and criminals, whereas Myrdd was a technical swordsman in less than perfect physical shape.

But Myrdd prevailed, partially by luck. Tobias swung too far back on a high strike, and Myrdd thrust in, capitalizing on the only real advantage a dueling rapier has against a heavier military blade. Tobias yanked his weapon back quickly in a cut and managed to slice Myrdd’s upper arm, but Myrdd didn’t flinch; he kept his attack long and clean and pierced Tobias under the left breast. Tobias yanked himself off the steel, howling in pain. His faction faltered then and I took advantage of their hesitation to turn and check Myrdd, whose sleeve was soaked crimson. His eyes were dark and flat as he stepped forward again, batting aside Tobias’ awkward defense, and ran the sergeant through.

That was the end of it; the rest of the faction conceded the victory, as was only natural, and we waited for the Swords to come and officially close the challenge. A physician was called for Myrdd’s wound, which was deep and long, but Myrdd seemed almost oblivious to the pain. I was to learn a day or two later from Rand that Myrdd had taken a large dose of lethe after the morning attack to calm his nerves, and then kethen to counteract the lethe’s soporific effects; no wonder he was able to ignore such a painful slash! And perhaps those drugs were to blame for the ease with which he killed a man who had already, clearly, lost the fight.

Of course, the matter didn’t end with Tobias’ death. It seems that ring challenges are rare enough to be newsworthy, and the Saldon Herald covered this one for several days. Although none of our faction would talk to any of the grubby journalists pestering us, Tobias’ faction was less reticent. “Graf Lede,” that good-looking but gossipy writer whom I’d met several months ago, especially pestered me for quotes, but I refused to say anything about what was, really, meant to be a private matter, and I fear he was piqued by my reticence, as he managed to dig up and print information on my last two unofficial (and illegal) fights from “anonymous sources” — Damand, Chart, or Mark, I’m certain. The whole thing was, and still is, an embarrassment, and confirms my opinion that duels were not meant to be public spectacles.

Moreover, as a result of the publicity, several of the locals from the tenement in which we’d found Gavier swore out complaints against Myrdd, Rand, and I, for injuries and one death in our hallway assault. That took several days to settle; it would have taken much longer had we let it go to court (I think we could have reasonably argued self-defense, as they had attacked first), but the three of us decided it would be faster to pay the complainants off, and they were greedily eager to allow us to do so. But in all of the furor I forgot about my examinations, and indeed I would have been sadly unprepared for them even had I remembered. So, I failed to pass my class on nalseku, which only grieves me insofar as it means I will need to take it again ... and that I wasted too many weeks of my summer in a lecture hall when they would have been more profitably spent on more entertaining past-times.

Gavier is still weak but much recovered, though he was feverish and ill for five days while the physicians fought back an infection caused by, I’m told, fabric carried into his wound when he was stabbed. Apparently Tobias and the other two men had beaten him soundly after they’d taken him to the tenement room, Tobias ranting about being left and swearing he’d make Myrdd pay dearly for Gavier’s use. But he and one of the men had left to buy liquor when we burst in; I can only imagine what would have happened had we come any later. As it is, Gavier has the stab wound, several cracked ribs, a number of broken fingers, and scrapes and bruises all over from being kicked and punched. Myrdd, of course, has been brooding over whether his Companion’s miserable state is his fault. I don’t know Gavier’s feelings on the matter; I don’t know him well enough to talk to him about any but the most superficial matters when I visit his sickbed. I suppose it’s possible he blames Myrdd, too, for causing the event which set all of this off — he may blame me, for that matter. But I know better than to blame myself for another man’s actions, and I have done my best to convince Myrdd of the same fact.

In the meantime, we have all received several invitations; apparently the Herald’s coverage has made us temporarily fashionable, or at least pleasantly scandalous. I have turned down those from strangers and people I can safely refuse, but Rhian Gallimaunes has asked Rand and I to lunch again, and I expect she will want to hear everything.

I had been in Myrdd’s house only one other time, when I called on him to ask his advice about last winter’s political intrigue; he has never thrown a party or held a dinner, to my knowledge, but I had remembered correctly that while modest in size and humble in location, his house was well-appointed with graceful antiques and faded but warm rugs and tapestries: no doubt the remnants of his family’s former glory. Myrdd showed us to Gavier’s room (thus answering a rather base question I’d often entertained), which was, not surprisingly, equivalent to the rest of the house in furnishing; no mere servant’s quarters for a Companion, it seems.

Stefano found the items of Gavier’s that he needed and brought them to the dining room table, where he began to consult with Jader on the various other materials he would need to create the talisman. Although Myrdd stayed with them to assist, Rand and I had nothing to contribute, so we both casually strolled around the house, taking the opportunity to learn more about our taciturn friend. Yet despite this chance to satiate my curiosity, I regularly returned to watch as Stefano worked, bent over the table, long black hair spilling over his shoulders, scarred hands carefully marking sigils on parchment and painstakingly folding it into a sort of small envelope. I had never seen him pursuing his profession before, and it was simultaneously delightful and disturbing. Delightful, because he is so lovely when he’s intent on his work, whether in bed, a fish stall, or leaning over a talisman in the process of being shaped. Disturbing, because it was a reminder that he is ahead of me in his studies; that he will graduate in two more years, truly Magister Montresor. I have sworn to assist him to that point, but it will be strange to see him reach it.

At last the talisman was finished, a small box of parchment folded many times over, so that the sigils Stefano had written all over both sides now seemed to criss-cross each other and form brand new arcane patterns. Inside the paper box were several unpleasant items: strands of Gavier’s hair, a used handkerchief bearing his initials, a note in his handwriting, and other odds and ends I hadn’t marked carefully when Myrdd had provided them. All, however, were linked to him in some material way; I finally understood the reference to “contagion” that Jader had made.

“How will it work?” Myrdd asked, standing close to Stefano, hands clenched at his sides. Stefano took a deep breath. “I can’t guarantee —” “I know. But you have to try.” Stefano nodded, and I moved closer, to sit across the table from him and lend him my silent support. He squared his shoulders. “I’ll use it to try to call him,” he said. “If the call takes, there’ll be a link between us that will guide me to him, unless he’s ... shielded by avertiis, or more powerful sorcery.” Or dead, I thought, and I saw my thoughts reflected in everyone else’s eyes, but none of us said the words aloud. “But the talisman is fragile; it’s going to start to consume itself, and when it’s gone, I’ll lose the link. So we’ll need to hurry.” “How long will it last?” Lyssa asked, breathlessly, staring at Stefano with wide eyes. He shrugged awkwardly. “I used as much material as I could, in short time,” he said. “But it’s all so ... maybe half an hour, at best.” Jader nodded. “Could you make more than one talisman?” Myrdd asked. Stefano nodded. “Yes, but ... how long do you want to wait, Exalt Arvais?” Myrdd ran a hand over his mouth, then shook his head. “We’ve already waited too long,” he said, harshly. “Let’s go.”

“We should do it outside, by one of the Great Stairs,” I said, as Stefano picked up the box. “The Sword may have hidden him on d’Avenent, but if not, we want fast access to the other terraces.” Everyone nodded, and we hurried back outside to Whisper Stair. There, in the twilight and glowing lamplight, Stefano fixed all of his attention on the box and whispered a phrase that meant nothing to me, except for the words “Gavier Palistern.”

The result was, I fear, anticlimactic. Nothing visible changed — magic really ought to make a noise, or cause a flash of bright light, oughtn’t it? — but Stefano winced. “Down,” he said, cradling the parchment box close to his chest with one hand while he hurried down the wide marble steps. I took a place on his right, and Myrdd flanked him on the left. Rand, Lyssa, and Jader followed.

We went only one terrace down, to Lucerne, and Stefano nearly jumped down the side steps into Feather Street and took off at a run. We all hurried after him, easterly, into one of those poor neighborhoods so haphazardly scattered about the closely packed island. We dodged piles of garbage not yet hauled to the trash courtyards and shoved past staring locals until Stefano stopped at a series of crooked, plaster-peeling buildings built along the terrace edge near Rising Stars Stair. I caught his arm and steadied him as he swayed. Perhaps fifteen minutes had passed since he’d activated the talisman. The people who lived in the neighborhood stared at us from their perches on stoops, open doorways, open windows, and the street itself. Some children were playing kickball, not far away, but otherwise conversations had all died down.

“He’s in there,” Stefano said, pointing with his free hand. Myrdd drew his sword and I followed suit. “Remember,” I said, “we haven’t filed a formal challenge yet — if we kill anyone, it’s murder.” “I don’t care,” Myrdd whispered, moving forward. I glanced behind me at Rand, who shrugged expressively and stepped up beside me. “Stefano, stay here,” I ordered. “Lyssa, Jader, will you watch the exits?” “I don’t need to be kept out of danger,” Lyssa snapped, glaring at me. What could I do? Myrdd was already across the street and at the door, so I ran up to him and hoped we could effect this rescue without bloodshed.

Of course, my hope was in vain.

Myrdd threw the door open and stepped in first, as was his right, but Rand and I crowded close behind. The building was some kind of tenement, as low as all Saldonian buildings but filthy and run down to an extent I’d never seen before on this island. Stefano, ignoring my orders as everyone else had, was trying to shout directions from the crowded doorstep, but inside, a group of young toughs was challenging our right to barge in with bare blades, and an assortment of knives and clubs and broken bottles were appearing around us. We were shouting back our desire to rescue a kidnapped friend, but to no avail; a bottle was thrown, the mob surged, and we were pressed against the walls in quarters too close for decent swordfighting. The onlookers outside took heart from the resistance inside and began to push from the other side; I heard Stefano cry out with alarm but couldn’t do a thing. Jader was shouting and Lyssa making some sort of warlike whooping sound, while Rand was swearing under his breath and Myrdd fighting in grim silence, his technical but uninspired swordsmanship sufficient in this fight.

I can’t say how long the fight went; probably not so long at all, based on my past experiences. At last we broke through to the stairs and were better able to hold our ground. Standing on a step, I was able to glance outside, where I saw that the mob had fallen back some. At last the final few combatants in the hallway turned and fled, stepping on the bodies of the fallen. We didn’t hesitate, but ran upstairs, throwing open doors right and left, and breaking down those that had been blocked shut with cheap locks or chairs under the handles. I was the one who found Gavier, in the third room I checked, although at first I could only guess it was him. He was huddled in a corner covered with blood, and I shouted for Myrdd and Rand as I hurred to check whether he was alive. He’d been bound and gagged and beaten very badly, and it seemed that one of his captors had tried to kill him before, apparently, escaping through the open window — he’d been stabbed in the side and his shirt was covered with blood.

After we’d done what we could to bind the wound, Jader lifted him up and he, Lyssa, and Myrdd hurried off to take Gavier to a physician. Stefano, whom I was relieved to see was unharmed except for a few bruises from clubs he’d been unable to dodge quickly enough, volunteered to go to d’Avenent to tell Captain Meurer what had happened, but I dissuaded him, certain that we must have killed a few of our enemies below and in no hurry to be publicly scourged, tortured, or killed under Saldon’s laws. Instead, we looted the room and found a scratched-out draft of a ransom note that bore no signature but was addressed to Myrdd, and various articles of clothing and possessions that suggested this was somebody’s dwelling place. “Can you make a talisman to trace this person?” I asked, holding up the clothes and the note. Stefano flinched. “I can try. They may not belong to the same person, and it’s harder without a name.” “Try,” I ordered, so we bundled up everything we could find, including Stefano wiping off the windowsill and outer wall in the hope of picking up dirt from the captor’s shoes, and then we hurried away. Some people gave us sullen looks as we left, but none offered further challenge.

We headed back to Myrdd’s house, the appointed meeting-spot, where we were surprised to find the door open and Captain Meurer waiting there, along with a number of ragged and unsavory-looking characters. The captain seemed equally as surprised to see us, and for a moment we faced off, hands on weapons. Then Rand quickly reported that Gavier had been found, which seemed to mobilize the rag-tag group of strangers. They rushed out, leaving Captain Meurer and ourselves alone. “I haven’t found Sergeant Tobias,” he reported, without providing any explanation for his presence or the others. “I’ve issued a warrant for his arrest.” He drew a leather wallet from his coat pocket and handed it to us. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up these papers.”

Stefano was already spreading out the things we’d found and was pulling paper and parchment toward him. Rand and I read the papers and found them to be a license to challenge under the Ringrules. The captain had already dated and signed them. Rand and I instantly signed as faction supporters, but although Stefano turned to do the same, I stopped his hand and quietly insisted he stay out of the challenge. “You don’t want a record as a duelist,” I explained. “Magister Montresor needs to be respectable.” “Nobody will respect a coward,” he said, stubbornly. “It isn’t cowardice, it’s intelligence. You’re a scholar and a talismancer, not a swordsman.” I laid a hand over his. “What happens to your dreams if this hand is crippled or lost in a brawl? How will you support your family if you’re blinded or wounded so badly you can’t return to the university?” “And you?” he demanded. “I’m an exalt,” I said, bluntly. “My studies are nothing more than an excuse to live away from Arquian. No matter what happens to me, if I’m alive, I’ll have money and land to live on.” He wasn’t at all happy with the situation, but neither of us wanted to argue too hotly before Rand or Captain Meurer, so he turned back to his work, lips tight with annoyance.

When Myrdd, Jader, and Lyssa returned, they signed the license, as well, Myrdd as challenger and Jader and Lyssa as factionalists, although Stefano’s resentment seemed increased that they were permitted to sign and he was not. But they’d aquitted themselves well in the brawl, whereas my poor Stefano simply wasn’t a fighter. “The surgeon says the stab’s deep but didn’t puncture anything vital,” Myrdd reported, grimly. “I left Gavier with the rest of the ... of his friends. Aran, are you going to fight with us?” The captain shook his head, tucking the license back into his coat. “I’m going to file this and keep up the search for Tobias. Don’t get yourself killed, Exalt Arvais,” he said, coldly.

By then it was about 10:30, or Nine’Qua, as the Saldonians would have it. While Stefano worked, the rest of us cleaned our faces, hands, and weapons. By 11, Stefano tried the talisman, but it failed. We didn’t know what to do next.

Oh, my hand is tired. I’ll write more later today, if I can.

It has been far too long since I’ve updated this journal, but where do I start? I suppose I must simply begin to write from where I left off, and acknowledge that it may take a day or two to bring this book entirely up to date.

As I had feared, the matter between Myrdd, Gavier, and the Sword Geoffrey did not end with Gavier’s promise to stop seeing the man. Instead, it sank us into a quagmire of Saldonian law from which we were for a while hard-pressed to extricate ourselves. As it is, I fear far too much attention has been paid to all of us in these past few days, and I have had the unfortunate experience of missing the summer session final examinations as a result.

Sergeant Geoffrey Tobias is a rash man, it seems, and after suffering Gavier’s rebuffs several times after, apparently, attempting to make his apologies, he finally took offense at the treatment. On the night of the eighth, three evenings after Gavier made his promise, Geoffrey and two constables waylaid Gavier on his way back to the house with an evening meal.

Fortunately for Gavier, one of the local urchins who saw him taken apparently knew him and liked him well enough to run barefoot to Myrdd’s house and warn Myrdd that his Companion had been kidnapped. Myrdd ran to the spot where Gavier had been taken and began querying the onlookers — who were reluctant to say anything until Myrdd made it clear that he didn’t care who had absconded with the missing supper — and learned enough to suspect Geoffrey’s hand in the affair, although the men hadn’t been wearing uniforms.

I came into the picture an hour later, when one of those same ragged urchins pounded on the door of my flat holding a tersely written message from Myrdd, requesting my presence as a second. Of course I couldn’t refuse, especially as he had obliged me in the matter of my own duel with Damand, so I swiftly threw off my dressing gown — I had been enjoying a quiet evening of cards with my roommates and Stefano — and grabbed my coat and sword. Although I attempted to remonstrate with them, everyone else insisted on going with me, Rand buckling on his own blade as we rushed down the stairs and out into the street. I was especially reluctant to involve Lyssa and Stefano, but neither would listen to my pleas for them to remain home, Lyssa proudly displaying a broad-bladed knife of her own and Stefano simply making his usual polite apologies as he kept pace.

We found Myrdd where he’d told us he would be, in the d’Avenent station, restlessly pacing back and forth. Although his exaltancy may be relatively minor, House Arvais virtually unknown, he had still managed to engage the aid of one Captain Aran Meurer, a man to rival Jader in breadth and height. To my surprise, the captain had apparently taken Myrdd’s complaint against Sergeant Tobias quite seriously and had sent a summons out for the Sword.

We tumbled into the station and Myrdd quickly answered our questions, telling us what little he knew. Captain Meurer was clearly less than happy to see us, especially Rand and me, I fear. He sternly warned us that this was a Sword matter and that he’d have no dueling, reminding us that killing a Sword was a crime punishable by death. At that point Myrdd coldly reiterated his intention to challenge Geoffrey Tobias under the Saldonian Ringrules, should there be any indication at all that he was responsible for Gavier’s abduction. At that exalt and captain began to argue in a terse and tight fashion that reminded me of the previous disagreement Myrdd had engaged in with Gavier.

While the business between an exalt and a servant is his own, I felt I couldn’t stay aloof from this argument between an exalt and a public official, and I quite reasonably pointed out that the Exalt Myrdd Brandon Arvais could do anything he damn well pleased, so long as it was supported by Saldon’s ridiculous and imperially illegitimate, but locally respected, body of laws.

“I have heard of your fire-eating tendencies, Exalt Evantine,” the captain said, with a terrible scowl, “and I will thank you not to undermine the ethics of one of our own law-abiding aristocrats with your ... Arquian customs.” I am certain he just barely managed to bite back “barbaric”! Well, my retort was going to be hot, but Rand cut in with a sneering “Then I shall undermine him with my Empyrian customs. If one of your Swords is responsible for this outrage, then you can hardly expect us to stand aside and trust other Swords to handle the matter, can you, captain?” Captain Meurer growled and argued, but there was little he could say on two counts: first, because he was clearly aware that Rand had quite lofty political ties both here and in Candor, and second, because we had the right to challenge anybody we wished under Saldon’s foolish legal system. In any other realm of the dominarchy he might legally tie our hands, but not in Saldon. “And,” Myrdd said to the captain with the oddest emphasis, “you wouldn’t expect me to be any less the exalt than my two friends, would you?” Perhaps it was a reference to some obscure Saldonian sense of realm pride; I don’t know. But it seemed to quell the good captain, who turned his ire on his underlings, shouting orders and demanding to know why the sergeant hadn’t been brought in yet.

“Myrdd,” Jader said calmly, “you’re going to count us in your faction, too, aren’t you?” His gesture encompassed Lyssa and Stefano. I was glad to see Myrdd hesitate, his violet eyes sliding to me a moment. He was clearly as sensitive to involving common folk as I was, friends or not. “It’s your decision,” I told him, reluctantly. “I would be ... I would be much obliged,” Myrdd stammered then, “if you would wait until we find out how many people are involved. They said three men took Gavier, and there are three of us now. It wouldn’t be fair to outnumber them.” A fair answer, and a reasonably diplomatic one, although truth be told I wasn’t certain Myrdd himself would be of much use in a fight, given what I’d seen of his too-technical swordsmanship to date. But I could hardly say that.

Jader wasn’t happy with the answer, but he nodded curtly. It was then that Stefano cleared his throat. “Exalt Arvais,” he said, nervously, “if you have something — any object close to Gavier — I might be able to use it to help us find him.”

At that, all of us, including Captain Meurer, turned to him. In truth, despite all my jokes about Magister Montresor, I often forget that he’s training as a mage! And so, apparently, do my friends. Jader, of course, grasped the implications first, with his studies in theoretical thaumaturgy. “You can create a talisman of contagion?” he asked, his eyes lighting up. Stefano hesitantly nodded. “I have, once or twice,” he said, “but I can’t promise how well it will work. Avertiis....” But Jader was already explaining to Myrdd what was needed — something Gavier was closely associated with or part of his body, such as his hair.

“There’ll be things at the house,” Myrdd said, eagerly. He looked at Captain Meurer, who nodded. “I’ll send a Sword around if we find Tobias,” he said. “In the meantime, if you have a talismancer willing to help you, don’t waste the opportunity.” He gazed thoughtfully at Stefano, and I could see the gears turning in his head; no doubt he was wondering if he could convince my magister to come work for the Swords on a more regular basis. I’m certain they can’t normally expect the assistance of a thaumaturge! As if I would allow Stefano to lock himself into a role as lowly as civil servant.

But it was as though the captain’s words were permission; Myrdd grabbed Stefano’s hand, stammered a thank-you, and hurried us all back to his small house by Glass Street.

Of course Gavier would hear about the lesson. I suppose it was inevitable.

Before starting, I’d pulled Myrdd aside and told him, as diplomatically as I could, what I felt the problem was; I had to choose my words with care, because of course he could easily be offended at the suggestion that he was afraid to fight, and feel compelled to defend his honor. But either I was diplomatic enough or he doesn’t have a prickly sense of honor; he simply nodded and said he’d try to do better. Rand and he were a minute or two into their first round, with me watching carefully, when Gavier suddenly shoved through the onlookers and stopped in front of me.

He’s slightly taller and much fitter than his master, with pale hair and light gray eyes; he is of Geronfrey stock, for certain. For a moment I thought he might try to strike me, which wouldn’t have been wise of him, but he showed restraint and simply stared at me, shaking with anger. I could see a discoloration on one cheekbone that suggested a healing bruise — perhaps the bruise that had started all of this in the first place.

I could tell at once that he knew what was going on, and why, so I didn’t attempt to dissimulate. Instead, I decided that this was an ideal opportunity to address the problem at its root. “I doubt he could beat a trained guardsman,” I said, directly. “But he’ll try, for your sake.”

“I told him —” “That you could handle it, yes,” I said, dryly, and saw Jader and Lyssa moving forward behind him. Rand and Myrdd still hadn’t noticed the newcomer, intent on each other. “I’m afraid that friends don’t pay attention to comments like that, not when someone they care about is getting hurt.”

That made Gavier look away, and he had the grace to seem ashamed; as he should, for it’s a rare servant whom a master also calls a friend. Jader and Lyssa were next to him, and Jader dropped a ham-sized hand on Gavier’s shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. “Myrdd’s been worried about you,” he said. “We are, too.” Gavier tried to shrug off the hand, but he had a better chance of pushing the Manse off the top of ter’Caraciel. “You don’t even know me,” he said, irritably. “Not too well,” Lyssa admitted, “but we know your boss, and he’s broody enough without you adding to his worries.”

Suddenly I heard a yelp. Myrdd had abruptly stopped fighting, staring with a positively frightened look at his Companion, and Rand was trying to catch his balance after awkwardly pulling a blow he’d suddenly realized was going to skewer his opponent if he didn’t do something about it. It was he who’d cried out, for fear of killing Myrdd.

I glanced at Gavier, fascinated by the little interplay between master and Companion, and I saw that the servant’s anger had evaporated, the shame I’d seen earlier taking its place in full. Rand turned to see what Myrdd was staring at and rolled his eyes, sheathing his blade.

“M — My lord,” Gavier said. “I heard you planned to challenge Geoffrey.” Myrdd looked down at his sword uncertainly, and then looked back up, and I was deeply gratified to see a determination in his expression that had been lacking until that moment. “You haven’t left me any other choice,” Myrdd said. Gavier shook his head. “Rath would —” “Rath would say I should do what any other exalt would do!” Myrdd snapped back. “You’re my Companion. You’re supposed do what I say, but if you won’t, then I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands.” At that, Gavier’s fair cheeks flushed.

Rand sidled up to me, in a cloud of smoke from his freshly lit cigarette. “Thank the gods,” he muttered, so that only I could hear. “Another day or two of exercise and I was going to drop dead, myself.” I chuckled, because he really is a dreadfully indolent man, and then coughed on his smoke and missed part of the argument.

“— back at the ... the house,” Gavier said. Myrdd shook his head. “I’m not going to argue with you about it anymore,” he said. “Either swear to me that you’ll stop seeing him right now, or I issue a challenge tomorrow.”

Tomorrow! I choked but managed to bite back my protest. Gavier shot me a look. I attempted to disguise my misgivings. Myrdd was most certainly not going to be able to defeat this Sword, Geoffrey, at his current level of skill — unless, just maybe, he could keep his anger at the forefront. But even then, I feared he’d lose. I was trying to remember if Saldon’s Ringrules allowed a second when Gavier gave a stiff, angry bow.

“As you wish, my lord,” he said, the sarcasm in his voice palpable. “I won’t see him anymore.” Myrdd looked stricken by his servant’s tone, but before he could say anything that might weaken the stand he’d taken, I broke in. “Then it’s settled, and without bloodshed,” I said, loudly. At the same time, and no doubt for the same reason, Jader took a small side step that managed to put him between Gavier and his master, breaking their line of sight. “Do we have any more of that Roscarberry stout?” he asked, genially. “I think you drank it all,” Rand replied, and thus the argument between Myrdd and Gavier was neatly curtailed.

Gavier turned and left, not looking like a man who’d want to join us for a drink. Myrdd didn’t seem any more eager to linger, but we forced him back into the apartment with us, united by an unspoken agreement that he and his Companion should be kept apart until both cooled off. I asked him who Rath was, and he said a “guardian” and added nothing else; I decided to let the question drop until he was in a better mood. Because, of course, once his anger wore off, he began to look broody again, as Lyssa had put it, and we all had to work hard to assure him that it was for the best and that he’d been right in forcing Gavier’s decision.

I can’t feel bad about what happened; Gavier shouldn’t put up with being beaten, and Myrdd shouldn’t allow his Companion to be beaten. Yet I expect that things will be strained between them for a while, and I worry that the third, unseen party in all of this — Geoffrey — may not take Gavier’s decision calmly. But it’s out of my hands now.

I should have remembered, of course, that dueling with Myrdd would hurt.

Lat night we went outside in the courtyard to practice, which of course drew an audience; Jader and Lyssa were already there, watching with great interest, and soon enough we were surrounded by most of our neighbors. Wren was there, too, at Lyssa’s invitation, ostensibly so that we’d have someone capable of patching up any wounds should a sword slip. I expect she was more tempted by the prospect of seeing Myrdd up close!

I was Myrdd’s first opponent, but I soon relinquished the spot to Rand and became the teacher, instead, to save my wounded hand any further jarring. I would like it to heal with minimal scarring! Besides, I found it quite aesthetically pleasing to watch Rand and Myrdd face each other across bared steel. Both are about the same age, a little too thin, and wear their hair long — but Rand is fair-haired, while Myrdd is dark, and they both have striking eyes, Rand’s emerald green and Myrdd’s dark violet. The sight of the two of them concentrating on each other in the fading light as they moved back and forth across the courtyard striking and parrying was one I won’t soon forget!

Myrdd is a better swordsman than I’d feared; he has clearly been instructed, although perhaps by someone more interested in practical defense than gentlemanly graciousness. But be that as it may; Myrdd won’t need manners to fight a Sword. The problem is that he’s afraid of being hit. He starts well, and for a while he manages to hold his own, but whenever Rand began to press forward, to strike faster and harder, Myrdd responded by going on the defensive, and not terribly well, either. Invariably, Rand would manage to strike the sword from Myrdd’s sweat-covered palm, or bat aside a too-hasty defense, and win the match.

Now, to be sure, I prefer to keep an opponent’s blade well away from my delicate flesh, too, but a man cannot win a duel if he’s afraid of being hurt. The best way to teach Myrdd to overcome his fear would be simply to send him into a few serious fights — it works well in Arquian, at least, where we’re thrown onto the lines almost as soon as we can hold a knife — but Saldon isn’t the right kind of city for that sort of thing. We’d have no trouble starting duels in Court Marsilion or Candor, but there simply aren’t enough ne’er-do-well exalts here on Saldon ... though I do my best.

When it became too dark to duel I called a halt, and we had some drinks and then parted. We will meet again this evening. I haven't yet decided what to do about Myrdd’s fear. If I can’t purge him of it, then the only thing I can think of to do is to replace it with something stronger ... such as anger. I have never seen Myrdd lose his temper, and anger has its own drawbacks in a duel, but at least it would put him on the offensive instead of the defensive.

Last night we invited Myrdd to dinner and, as has been happening more frequently, he arrived without Gavier in tow; which of course is what we preferred, although we’d agreed that we’d discuss the matter with Gavier, too, if he arrived. I’m afraid we barely settled Myrdd in with a glass of pre-dinner brandy when Jader leaned forward in his chair and started us off with his usual brand of diplomacy: “So, why are you letting that asshole of a Sword beat up Gavier?”

Myrdd stared at him, frozen, and for a moment I was afraid his grip would break the snifter. “We want to see the matter put to rest and your Companion safe,” I said, calmly. “I know it’s been distressing you. What can we do?” “We’re ready to horsewhip the bastard,” Lyssa said, rather enthusiastically. “Well, she is,” Rand murmured, sitting in his usual cloud of cigarette smoke.

Then Myrdd seemed to relax, as though we’d relieved him of a great weight. He slowly set the glass down on the side table and drew in a deep breath. “Others have made the same offer already,” he told us, quietly. “I refused them, too. I won’t interfere in Gavier’s private life.” “Why not?” I demanded. “He’s your servant! You have a responsibility to protect him!”

Myrdd, who had half-risen at my first words, sank back into his chair and gave me a rather odd look. “He says he can handle it on his own,” he said, after a moment. “Look, Myrdd,” Jader said, blithely ignoring Myrdd’s title just as he does my own, “they always say that. My father heard it a hundred times, keeping the peace in Ankham. Mostly from women being pounded on by their pimps or husbands, but the principle’s the same. You gotta do something before it goes too far and Gavier gets seriously hurt. Or killed.”

“I don’t know what I can do,” Myrdd muttered. “I don’t want to lose Gavier’s friendship over this.” “He’ll be pissed off at first,” Rand agreed, “but he’ll come around. Probably.” Finding that rather unhelpful, I intervened. “You have two choices, Myrdd. First, you can threaten the Sword quietly, so that Gavier never hears about it, and see if that stops him. Second, you can call out the Sword in a duel, and —” I stopped, seeing both he and Rand shaking their heads. “What?”

“It’s illegal to challenge a Sword to a duel,” Rand said flatly. I groaned, remembering what I’d heard of Saldon’s outrageously corrupt set of “laws” and wondered again how Archon Salane managed to get away with his abuses a mere five days’ sail from the imperial seat. “Of course,” Rand said, “you can always get around it with a Ring challenge.” Myrdd sighed, but I perked up. The Ringrules are, of course, another imperial illegality — a type of officially approved form of warfare in which the winner, or winners, were permitted to create a new law that would stand until successfully challenged by another combatant. The result is a city filled with a number of highly individual and sometimes annoying pseudo-laws. We were all familiar with the restrictions on moving through the University at anything faster than a walk, although the ancient rule was ignored by everybody; I suppose none of the current deans wanted to try to uphold it at swordspoint.

“I’ve thought about it,” Myrdd said hesitantly, “but I’m not a very good duelist. I know I’m not as good as Geoffrey.”

All eyes turned to me. I sighed. Sometimes having a reputation as a bloody-handed Arquian barbarian can be a trial. “I’m not afraid of getting involved,” I said, carefully, “but I shouldn’t be the one who defends your Companion. You need to do it. But if you want, I can help you brush up on your swordsmanship until you feel ready to issue the challenge.” “I’ll help, too,” Rand said shortly, which surprised me, because I’ve never seen him wear a sword, even to formal balls.

Myrdd hesitated for a long time. Celi was just calling us to the table when he finally nodded. “All right,” he said, looking up at me. “I’ll do it.”

Tonight we shall see how well Myrdd wields a blade.

This morning Celi awoke me early, while the sun was still low on the horizon, so that I could get down to Haute Orphiel’s fish market. Stefano had asked me to dress more modestly than usual, warning me that the market wasn’t a clean place and that whatever I wore there would have to be cleaned well before I’d want to wear it again. Thus, I tried on a pair of proper Saldonian etamine trousers, indigo blue and loosely cut, and an embroidered blue, green, and gold tunic, as well as a pair of the light canvas “slippers” so popular here. However, I took one look at myself in the mirror and burst out laughing, because I thought I looked like a fool, with my fair skin and blond hair! Native fashions look much better on the natives with whom they originated; Stefano would look just as out of place in an Arquian brat and léine, I’m certain. I swiftly changed into the clothes I’d worn sailing during Ysabeau’s little outing; they weren’t as lightweight and comfortable, but at least I didn’t feel like a fool while I was wearing them. Then, after breaking my fast on a sweet roll and cup of tea, I headed down Sailor’s Walk to the Bay of the Setting Sun, where the market is located.

Although rising early isn’t my habit, I found myself quite enjoying the sight of ocean at morning; the shadows were still long over the smaller boats docked on the wharf, but the sunlight farther out in the water played brightly on the flags and prows of the great anchored ships. Gulls are ubiquitous on the island, of course, but they were especially loud and obnoxious around the market, where I saw a number of dogs tied close to the stalls to ward away the winged scavengers. Cats won’t do, I’ve learned in my time here; a gull is just as likely to kill a cat as vice-versa.

I became rather overwhelmed by the size and the noise — the smell wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, although it was pungently recognizable — and I finally stopped to ask directions. The woman there was selling squid, or perhaps octopus, I’ve never been able to tell the difference; she looked up at me with the sort of withering scrutiny I haven’t faced since I was fourteen and asking Edme’s mother if my cousin could go to the dance with me. I would have been insulted had the circumstances been any different, but I was in a good mood and simply endured her gaze. “You must be his exalt friend,” she said, sniffing. “You don’t dress like an exalt.” “I didn’t think silks and lace entirely appropriate for gutting fish,” I said, easily, even though I had no intention of getting fish blood on my hands. She sniffed again, then pointed and gave me directions. I thanked her and set off once more, glad that I had taken Stefano’s advice despite the fishmonger’s doubts, because the ground was muddied with seawater, blood, fish entrails, and scales.

I found Stefano where she’d said he’d be, leaning over a rough wooden tabletop that was stained and scarred from years of use. I paused a moment to watch him, charmed afresh by his intensity as he worked. A narrow frown line ran down his brow as he concentrated, and the small knife in his hands was a blur as he scaled, slit, cleaned and filleted the fish that were stacked in a bucket beside him. He wore the same sort of ragged clothes I’d first met him in, and his hair was tied back with a waxed cord into a long, dark ponytail.

Then he seemed to sense my gaze, because he looked up directly at me, and his frown of concentration melted into a warm smile. I waved and walked to his stall while he wiped his hands clean before grasping mine — being careful of the bandage I still wear around my knuckles — and pulling me forward. “This is Exalt Corale Evantine of Arquian,” he announced. “A fellow university student and my patron.”

The others in the stall greeted me with respect that barely hid their overwhelming curiosity. I met Mrs. Montresor, his father’s sister, a short woman in her fifties who looked a decade older; Ilario, her stocky and genial son; Ghita, Ilario’s wife; and Perla, their daughter, a bright-eyed little lady of about fourteen. Ilario was about ten years Stefano’s senior, and apparently there were others in the family who were younger but who didn’t work in the stall. I honestly couldn’t remember all of the names that were rattled off when I inquired about the entire family, and I didn’t try, especially as I was soon being introduced to the extended family members and neighbors who worked in the other stalls in the market. I was paraded around as a curiosity, and I strove to be as agreeable and charming as possible, knowing that winning these people’s good graces could only please Stefano. Although I had a great deal of trouble following their dialect — Stefano has often complained about having a “fisherman’s accent,” but now that I’ve heard the real thing, I realize how much of it he’s eliminated from his speech — I found it easy to be agreeable, because everywhere I went, people told me how intelligent and talented Stefano was, and how proud they were that one of their “own” was attending university and going to be become a great mage. I agreed with everything they said, boasting of his high scores on his behalf, which thrilled his family and friends and flustered him. One or two had the poor manners to ask why I, an exalt, wished to become a fishmonger’s patron, but I easily explained that I was happy to invest in his future, because I expected great things of Stefano when he became a fully trained talismancer. At that the scoundrels nodded, because they understand self-interest.

Soon Ilario invited me to a family lunch after the market closed, and of course I agreed to the invitation, although it quickly became apparent to me that this “family” event would include many more guests than the five at the family stall. Stefano was urged to show me around “the neighborhood,” and although he protested, his aunt ordered him out. At last, reluctantly, Stefano pulled off his stained apron and led me away from the markets, across the wharfs and south to the closely packed, brightly painted houses that were the village nestled around Sunset Stair and Fisher’s Croft Bay.

Although I confess I had taken some lewd anticipation in the thought of being alone in his childhood bedroom, I was destined to disappointment, as there were a number of people left in the village who naturally came out to meet me. Stefano continued to introduce me as his patron, and I heard again how bright he’d been as a child, and how everyone had known he’d go on to great things.

Yet despite the amiability of the fisherfolk I met, I was also struck by the poverty in which they lived. They ate little but the fish they caught and the extras they could afford with the surplus catch they sold; they owned little but what they could make with their own hands. The houses were small and dark, thick-walled to resist the heat of the summer and the cold and storms of the winter. Stefano pointed to places where the village had flooded during unusually bad Storm Seasons and casually mentioned that one out of ten adult fishermen died lost at sea — his father included, of course. I shuddered, because that was far more than we killed in our border skirmishes in Arquian, which are bloody enough. I saw Stefano’s room, in the small house where his aunt and Ilario’s family lived, but it was currently being used by Perla and her older brother, Carlo, who was out with the fishermen.

The fishmarket closed before noon, and soon the house was full of Stefano’s family and friends and the mouthwatering scents of cooking seafood. I found my hosts liberal with their wine, which was cheap but strong, and by the time the entire assembly sat down to eat, perhaps a half-bell after Fourth — 1 p.m., in civilized time — we were all merry and loud. I was hard-pressed to behave myself, as I was enchanted by the sight of Stefano in his working clothes, the accent he worked so hard to eliminate on the higher terraces inexorably slipping back into his speech with every hour that passed. The sight of his friends and family clapping him on the back or tugging on his ponytail, trading old jests and teasing him about using magic for this or that small chore, was thoroughly charming. But I managed to avoid embarrassing him, aided by the fact that he seemed wary of making the same error and often kept himself an arm’s length away or more from me. His little niece Perla was less standoffish, though, and was soon calling me “Uncle Evantine,” to her father’s horror, but I laughed and told her I’d be proud to be her uncle, at which she kissed me on the cheeks. In another year she’ll be breaking hearts.

The lunch went on for hours and spread to neighboring houses until it seemed we had become a party. As the heat of the day waned and the breeze off the ocean cooled us down, fiddles and pipes broke out, and I was entertained by examples of the local dances. I was urged to show them dances from Arquian, but I begged off by teaching them the quadrille, which isn’t so different from the dances they knew but, as danced upterrace, rather slower and more stately. They laughed as I played dancemaster, demonstrating all the refined mannerisms so necessary in the ballroom, and everybody enjoyed themselves immensely.

At last I said I needed to leave, and several of my new acquaintances offered to accompany me up the stairs, apparently worried for my safety. I thanked them kindly but refused, finally managing to escape with no escort except Stefano and another bottle of wine. We barely made it to the dark alleys between the warehouses along Setting Sun when we both surrendered to the urges we’d been suffering in mutual silence, heedless of who might stumble down the alley and see us. If anyone did, I didn’t notice; and I suppose in that part of the docks, the sight might not startle anybody.

Stefano finally did walk me the rest of the way to the terrace; I wished I could invite him in, but it really wouldn’t do without warning my roommates, and it wasn’t my night to use the apartment. We ended up sitting outside by the fountain. I thanked him for letting me meet his family. “You were very kind,” he said softly. “They liked you.” “I liked them,” I assured him. “And I liked the fact that everyone’s so proud of you.” “I couldn’t have gotten to the University if they hadn’t all been behind me,” he said, seriously. “They wouldn’t let me give up. I have to earn my degree for them even more than for myself.” I laughed, because my own family thinks pursuing a degree is foolish, which is of course is why I’m doing it; they’d much rather I marry and raise lots of sons to defend the bloody House borders. Stefano asked why I’d laughed, but I brushed the question off. At last we took our leave from each other, and I went to bed.

I’m glad to have seen Stefano with his family; I know that he’s ashamed of his background when he’s upterrace, and it pleases me that he finally trusts me enough to allow me to see more of that side of him. I must think of a suitable reward, because I want to teach him to continue to trust me with his secrets.

Of all people, it was Lyssa who found out what Myrdd is worried about! Apparently her friend Wren — my charming little nurse — has a crush on the poor fellow and keeps a close eye on his whereabouts. What an amusing thing to know, especially because I’m certain he has no idea of it. In fact, I’d be surprised if he knew Wren at all, although, come to think of it, they both might have been at our end-of-the-term party.

Wren says, according to Lyssa, that Gavier is not being pestered by a Sword, as I’d assumed; on the contrary, he’s being beaten by a Sword. But just as I was about to pull on my boots and grab my own blade, Lyssa added that the reason Myrdd hasn’t intervened is that this thug of a guardsman is also, it seems, Gavier’s lover, and according to what Wren says she’s overheard, Gavier insists he can handle the problem on his own.

Which is, of course, patently ridiculous, as all four of us agreed around the dinner table. If he could handle the problem himself, he wouldn’t be showing up with bruises anymore, would he? Of course, there’s a small possibility that Gavier enjoys his bruises, but Lyssa said Wren didn’t think that was the case, and one would assume that by now Myrdd would know his companion well enough to not be so concerned if this were just a matter of, well, recreation.

Naturally, Jader was all for finding the guard and breaking a few of his bones — he’s not a brutal man, but he’s rather direct when it comes to defending others — and I was tempted to agree, but Lyssa and Rand both argued for a more cautious approach to the matter, to ensure that we have our facts straight. We are going to confront Myrdd directly and discuss the matter with him.

I am, I have to admit, rather puzzled by Myrdd’s passivity in this matter. If one of my servants were being beaten by a stranger, I’d certainly step in to prevent it, no matter what my servant asked me to do or not to do. A man must defend his own household! But perhaps it’s different on Saldon, with a Companion; I don’t know what my relationship would be with a servant who’d grown up with me from childhood. I expect I’d consider a Companion to be kin, in which case I’d be no slower in thrashing anyone who raised a hand to him. But Myrdd is an odd sort, and if our guesses about his sickly childhood are correct, perhaps he simply doesn’t know to duel. Well, we shall talk to him soon and get to the core of the matter. I really can’t bear bullies, so if this guardsman needs to be taught to respect his betters, I should be happy to do the duty on Myrdd’s behalf.