***
The Elderling clan continued to send messages requesting payment. Waimbrill offered the increasingly uncomfortable messengers a smile and kind words. They had apparently been instructed to make demands and threats, but none did, no doubt having heard of the oath Waimbrill made in Delverton. Eventually they stopped asking, and instead offered Waimbrill a morsel or a few coins.
One day a messenger brought Waimbrill a note from Porthos, reading “Mortiss Waimbrill, you are hereby invited to a general council meeting in one fortnight, at my home. There are matters we must speak of, you and I, and the other lords and ladies of Crikland.”
Waimbrill had an honorary spot in the general council of Crikland, as Modrobenians generally did. But he had never attended a meeting before, as was also typical of Modrobenians.
On the way to the Elderling estate outside of Crikburg, Waimbrill walked with an elderly Delver who hobbled along slowly, her tan face lined with kindly curving wrinkles. Her name was Helga, and she was the eldest living Delver besides Father Delver himself.
She thanked him for keeping “that poor bo’” away from Lord Porthos. While she talked, she chewed on a salted and aged turtle leg, a delicacy of the Delvers. Known as iggther, the legs were a hard chunk of chewy meat that could be eaten all day, scraping off tiny bits with one’s teeth, or gnawing on it continuously, as was the custom among the elders of the clan. Waimbrill had hated its biting astringency the first time he tried it. The flavor grew on him though, perhaps a taste he had acquired soulcleaving Delvers, some of whom ate so much iggther their brains tasted of musty turtle flesh.
“He didna have no right ‘spir’tions ‘pon that lad,” she said several times, shaking her head, “Not what I see, jes’ as I hear.”
Waimbrill still only barely understood the fluid speech of the Delver dialect, which had an entrancing mellifluous tone.
“That bo’...” Helga said, “’Tis a shame he be not among his kind, but Father Delver ne’er compl’tely abandon one o’ his own, e’en if’n we do, be please. Ye raisin’ him right, yessir, M’rtiss W’mbrill,” she said.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Waimbrill said, “The best I can. Though I do worry, for I can teach him only what I know, which is limited in scope. A boy his age should be with others that age, and do as they do.”
She chuckled and patted him on the back, shaking her head. “Good M’rtiss W’mbrill, ye know much o’ life, at its end. But I do know Delver men, and gentle Terredor is na’t but a wee one o’ that. The Delver child today is rotten ‘ll the ways. The likes of ye be more r’spectable than any Delver, so jest be kind as ye be, and natural as a M’rtiss, and he shall do fine.”
They were met at the gate to the Elderling manor by a trio of guards, who brought them to a meeting chamber, in the center of which was a thick wooden table. Each attendee’s name and likeness was printed on paper in front of each seat. Waimbrill found his spot next to the head of the table. His throat closed as he realized he would be sitting next to Porthos himself. To his right was to be Lady Ballardrine, the elven woman who had murdered her husband outside his cottage. She represented the most prosperous elven merchant and noble houses. Second-to-last to arrive, excepting Lord Porthos himself, she ignored everyone, including Waimbrill, which was typical for an elven lady among outsiders. He couldn’t decide if she was angry with him for exposing her husband’s misdeeds in front of her guards, or perhaps for cleaving him against her will. He wanted to talk to her, but he was distracted by a kind-wrinkled, silver-bearded man named Milo, who sat across from him; Milo represented Bryndoth, a prosperous resort in the south of Crikland, a major source of income and prestige for the region. He was a jolly man, but also loquacious, and he kept Waimbrill deep in conversation that Ballardrine studiously avoided.
“I believe you know the lady Shezanne?” Milo asked, “She sends her warmest regards.”
Her name gave Waimbrill a fluttery heartwarming glow that turned and sang in his stomach like his nostalgia for the red-haired girl from his childhood, whose face he now barely remembered. All he recalled was Shezanne, whose skin was smooth and loamy brown, her smile gentle and curved at the edges. Her beauty made her one of the resort’s most renowned attractions, but she made time to stay with Waimbrill and comfort him when his cleaving brought him to the resort.
The other attendees were a somber-faced lot of elders, there on behalf of their various villages and guilds. The dwarven and gnomish clans, elven families, and both the snow and pond rainid tribes sent leaders as well, along with each of the major churches in the area.
Lord Porthos entered, his stern face aloof and rigid. Waimbrill had an urge to stand and salute him, but no one else did, so he forced himself to stay still.
After a formal greeting, Porthos said, “We have several matters to discuss. The miners strike, the goblins of Havrin, certainly some other topics-” Porthos pointedly turned his glare to Waimbrill, whose blood turned to ice so cold it felt like the skin of Sharradrir’s frozen corpse.
“Those goblins are a menace!” shouted a human representative.
“The strike,” said a gravelly-voiced dwarf, his words ringing out and echoing in the high-ceilinged chamber, “Is a temporary aberration. It is already moribund. It is of no concern to any of you.”
“I depend on a stable source of iron, Thaxtrum,” Porthos said, “It is of the utmost concern to me. The price hath almost doubled in the last six months.”
“We are ignoring the real reason thou hast called us here,” said a human man, whom Waimbrill recognized as Egglebrod, the same fisherman who had come to fetch him the first time the monster attacked after Waimbrill’s arrival in Crikland, “It is not to discuss the price of iron. It is that monster they call Petromyza.”
The table erupted in frenzied talk. Each attendee shared experiences and rumors about the wingless flying monster. The only silence came from Waimbrill and Lady Ballardrine, who had scarcely moved a muscle since arriving. Porthos cleared his throat, then shouted for attention.
“Please, please, we do, of course, need to discuss Petromyza. I intended to wait until the end, so we could finish all other business first. Please, before we get there, there is but one topic I feel I must bring up.”
“Ah yes, the real reason ye called this convocation,” Lady Ballardrine muttered, her voice quiet but contrasting so starkly with her demeanor that everyone stared, and even Porthos stumbled over his words.
“I… I’m sure ye shall agree with me, Lady Ballardrine,” Porthos said, then turned to Milo, “And thee, my good man, as the both of you are prosperous merchants. It is important we standardize rules on contracts and debts, especially in thorny situations like when a debt-holder dies with only a single child as an heir. Lady Ballardrine, I know your family is much involved in moneylending, and I beg you share some insight-”
“Lord Porthos,” she said, her voice even in tone, lips pressed tightly together, “Ye are lucky that there is also a monster to discuss, because if ye had insisted I depart from my home for a meeting solely about your least noble of pursuits, I would have required compensation from you for my time.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Ballardrine?” Porthos said.
“Your servants are not as tight-lipped as ye might think, Lord Porthos. Ye remain upset that Mortiss Waimbrill hath assumed the debt of Jaxoll Delver, not because he repayeth you with but a hen, rather because ye never wanted to be paid in gold or eggs or anything else but that Delver boy. I may not spend much time among humans or other barbarians, but even I can plainly see ye loaned that money to buy the boy in a roundabout fashion. Ye never had any intention of collecting on the debt.”
A shocked silence spread around the table. Nobody was surprised by the accusation, only by her boldness as an elven woman to speak of it in front of all and sundry.
“Thank you, Lady Ballardrine,” said another elf, a man with gray hair and deep violet eyes, “I did not come all this way to negotiate the finer points of contract law to fulfill your p
rurient interests, Lord Porthos.”
Porthos was pale and slouched. Waimbrill avoided his glare. He felt that he should speak, and he looked towards Lady Ballardrine, who listened attentively with a stony forward-facing stare. He knew how reticent and eccentric he must have seemed, remaining solely silent despite the conversation occurring around and about him.
Helga pointed at Porthos and said, “He give we Delvers contract’ he know we ken not m’stly read, and he doth lie ‘bout what is in them. ‘Tis a trick doth shape the life o’ that gentle boy.”
Lady Ballardrine shook her head mournfully, glaring at Porthos, and muttered, “Shameful…”
“Lord Porthos, I thank thee for calling this meeting, but I am also not interested in discussing thy concerns,” said Egglebrod, who turned to Waimbrill and continued, “Petromyza takes our dead and leaves nothing to be cleaved. What is your church going to do?”
Waimbrill thought for a moment, trying to think of something new to say. In the end, all he could do was repeat what he had told so many others over the last few months. “They promise to send a champion as soon as possible.”
“We nee’ Hapcort,” Helga said at the other side of the table, referring to a fabled Delver hero and Mortiss.
“Silence, Delver, we need not hear of thy people’s idiotic ramblings. Thou art here only as a courtesy,” Porthos muttered.
“There be a thousand Delver’ for each o’ thy knights,” Helga said, “Thou art here only as a courtesy.”
“Priestess Alaurea,” Egglebrod said to the representative of the Chamballine Church, “Petromyza is said to be thy goddess’ child. What say thee?”
Alaurea was a pond rainid, shorter and squatter than their mountain-dwelling cousins. Her skin was a warty dark green, her face rough and lined with wrinkles, her mouth a long thin lipless smile.
“Petromyza hath long visited our land to test us,” she said.
“Yes,” Egglebrod said, “But only every several years. Now it is many times a year. What hath changed?”
“We don’t know, but obviously we, or someone in this land, has greatly displeased our Lady,” she croaked.
“And why does your Lady’s child not leave the head for me to soulcleave?” Waimbrill asked.
“It is not for you to question,” she said.
“Priestess Alaurea, it most certainly is his place to question,” Lady Ballardrine said, “All of us are obligated to facilitate proper soulcleaving. It is easy to forget that in times of passion, but we must protect the dead, lest we all join them.”
Alaurea’s dark green eyes flashed with anger, and she said, “I apologize, Mortiss Waimbrill. In truth, she causeth not the attacks, rather, she preventeth them from occurring more often.”
“So why doth the monster come several times a year now?” Egglebrod asked, more insistent.
“I do not know. I am sure my Lady is cooperating with Modroben the best she can. We do not know the affairs of the gods, and should not pretend we do.” Egglebrod said, “I hardly find that a sufficient explanation.”
“My goddess needn’t justify her actions to any fisherman,” she said, “And if Modroben thought she was keeping souls from being cleaved, he would have interfered by now.”
Egglebrod turned to Waimbrill and pleaded, “Tell your church to hurry, Mortiss Waimbrill. We need a champion.”
Alaurea said, “Chamballa hath long prevented Petromyza from more frequent depravations. She is an intelligent sorceress, magically enchanted into the stupid beast that haunteth us now. Chamballa preventeth her intelligence and body from reuniting and wreaking havoc on us all. Rather than blame my lady for monsters, we should create a plan to deal with those blasted goblins.”
Waimbrill stopped listening as the conversation turned back to the goblins of Havrin. But there was nothing he could do to help, with that or any other problem. He was feeling useless today, his inability to think quickly enough to participate in the council meeting shaming him, and he worried he had offended the Church of Chamballa. Still, he was glad that Lady Ballardrine and the other rulers of Crikland supported his right to take on Jaxoll’s debt.
Porthos barely spoke until the meeting was complete, then he adjourned and scurried away. Waimbrill walked home, as the sun was setting and an early evening chill had already set over the land.