“I didn’t say that exactly…,” minced Moira.
“But that’s the only reasonable conclusion, milady,” stated Tamara calmly. “I don’t involve myself in politics, so I’m afraid I won’t be of much use to you. Nor am I sure I should be, since it might be treason. I don’t think our good King Darogen has done much to create enmity between our nations, but the Earl is a strange one. Who knows what he might do, or have done?”
Chad’s eyes were sternly on his mug, but his ears were at full attention. Gram, by comparison was watching the two women with unabashed concern. Both of them worried what the outcome might be if their new acquaintance decided to betray them.
Tamara winked at Gram before speaking to Moira once again, “Tell your bodyguards to relax. I have no intention of reporting you to anyone. In fact, I might know someone who would consider helping you.”
Moira nodded, “I wouldn’t expect anything from you that goes against your conscience. I harbor no ill intentions toward Dunbar. In the main, I just need help finding the Earl of Berlagen.”
The proprietress smiled, “I believe you. Look over your shoulder. Do you see the man in the corner over there? The one watching you?”
Moira tensed, looking furtively across the room. While most of the patrons were talking quietly amongst themselves again, she could sense their eyes on her. “I think they’re all watching us,” she replied.
The older woman laughed, “That’s true. We don’t see many strangers in Dunbar. I mean the dark haired one in the corner, not much older than you. He’s a nobleman, easy on the eyes.”
Moira spotted him then, before quickly turning her gaze back to the bar. The man was well dressed and looked to be in his early twenties, with aquiline features and sharp eyes. “I think I saw the one you mean.”
“That’s the Baron Ingerhold,” said Tamara. “He’s a smart young man, and no friend of Berlagen. He’s also still unmarried, if you’re looking for a husband.”
Moira turned a deep red, “I had no intention…”
The older woman chuckled, putting a hand on her arm, “Relax, I was only teasing. He is the most sought after bachelor in the kingdom, though. Just something to keep in mind.”
“I’m not here to think about such things,” protested Moira.
“He’s young, and you are beautiful. If you’re looking for a co-conspirator, then you should be thinking about such things,” admonished Tamara. “Men are fools once their smaller brain takes over.”
Moira stared at her, but her magesight could plainly see the amusement in the older woman’s aythar. “Please stop teasing me,” she said seriously.
Tamara sighed dramatically, “You’re taking all the fun out of it. At my age I have so few pleasures. Wait here, I’ll speak with him and bring him over for an introduction.”
She nodded and as soon as the owner had left, Chad leaned over, “Are you sure this is wise? We just met that woman.”
Gram stayed silent, but his look as he gazed at the man Tamara was talking to, was one of disapproval.
“I’m not sure of anything else here,” admitted Moira, “but I get a sense of honesty from our hostess.”
“Ye can’t know that,” argued the hunter.
She noticed that his bow was settled innocuously against his leg, and while it was unstrung, he had the string over the lower end and was holding the rest in his hand. She wondered how quickly he could ready it. It seemed an awkward weapon for a bar, but she knew better than to underestimate the ranger. “I do know it,” she insisted. “Besides, I’m sure if something goes wrong you’ll be more than ready to murder everyone in here,” she added sarcastically.
The hunter sniffed indignantly before taking another drink, then he answered, “I had no such intention, but I could enjoy my ale more if ye’d stop tellin’ our business to every person five minutes after ye meet ‘em.”
Moira saw the man rising from his table and heading toward her, following Tamara. Standing, she moved to meet them halfway across the room, leaving her tense companions behind. The stranger started to bow, but she held up her hand to stay him. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?” she asked Tamara. She could feel Gram and Chad’s unhappy eyes on her back.
“Let me show you one of our private alcoves,” said the proprietress, giving her a look of approval. She led the two of them to one of the curtained rooms on one side of the main floor. Holding the curtain back, she motioned them within. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with your tea.”
“Thank you,” said Moira, before turning her attention to her guest. The stranger motioned for her to take a seat before moving to place himself across from her. She couldn’t fault his manners.
“Mistress Tamara said you might need my advice, Miss…?” He let his sentence trail off into a question.
She gave him a gentle smile as she replied, “I don’t think it would be wise to share my name with you yet. I hope you don’t find that offensive.”
The Baron dipped his head, “I find it intriguing, and coupled with your foreign accent—beguiling. My name is Gerold Ingerhold, and I am pleased to make your ‘enigmatic’ acquaintance.”
“Thank you, Lord Ingerhold. I appreciate your patience with my reticence,” said Moira, sitting a little straighter.
“Please, just ‘Gerold’ if you will. Using titles makes me uncomfortable, especially since I don’t know yours,” he answered, flashing a smile that was probably meant to put her at ease.
She couldn’t help but study his aythar, particularly the parts that revealed his intentions. She could see interest there, but it was more than intellectual. His mind was disciplined, but it was clear that he found her attractive. She shifted uncomfortably at the observation. “With your permission then, Gerold it is. I’m interested in Earl Berlagen,” she said, hoping to put his thoughts onto a more practical track.
“The younger or the older?”
Moira paused, “Pardon?”
Gerold pulled at his ear, absently toying with a gold earring. “We have two Earl’s, although only the younger properly holds the title. His father, the elder, handed the title down to his son when he became too ill to attend to courtly duties. I assume you mean the younger, but I thought I should make certain.”
“Oh,” she responded awkwardly, “you don’t say?”
“But I just did,” said the Baron with a confused look on his face.
“No, I meant that I understood, but I was a little surprised,” she explained.
He frowned, “Then why didn’t you just say that?”
Now she was a little flustered, “It’s an expression we use in Lothion.” She caught herself too late, and she saw his aythar flicker with a sense of victory at hearing her name her homeland.
“I see,” he replied gracefully, “an idiom then, one of acknowledgement while also connoting surprise. Is that correct?”
“Uhh, yes,” she answered. It was quickly becoming apparent that she was outmatched when it came to crossing words with the Baron.
He patted her hand, “Thank you for telling me your home. I know it was an accident, but I feel more comfortable knowing it nonetheless.”
The touch seemed overly familiar, but she didn’t withdraw her hand immediately, “I hope my nationality isn’t a problem.” She tilted her head down slightly, so that she looked upward at him with her eyes. What am I doing?
He withdrew his hand, studying her thoughtfully. “To the contrary, I find foreign women exotic. Why are you interested in Lawrence Berlagen?”
“I think he may have information regarding my father’s disappearance,” she said forthrightly.
Gerold’s eyes widened slightly. “I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that the Earl has been rather strange of late, but it might be easier to help you if I knew who your father was.”
She ignored the latter part of his response, “Strange? How so?”
With a sigh he went on, “The young earl has always been a gregarious man, given to socializing, but over
the past two years he has secluded himself. He almost seems misanthropic these days.”
“Misanthropic?”
“It means that he seems to dislike people,” explained the Baron.
“I know what it means,” said Moira with some irritation. “I was curious what you meant specifically. Is he just becoming a hermit, or has he shown some actual signs of actively disliking people?”
Gerold continued, “He fired much of his staff last year, and just over a month ago, he sent more than half of his men at arms away. None of them have returned.”
“They crossed the Northern Wastes,” commented Moira. “We found some of his livery.”
The Baron stared at her, and she could actually see a storm of activity around his brain. At last he spoke again, “Then you must be the daughter of either the Baron of Arundel or the Count di’Cameron.” He paused, following his thoughts to their conclusion, “Are you a wizard then? Or is the proper term ‘witch’?”
There was a faint hint of fear in his aura, but it was clear that he was keeping it under control. Moira chose her words carefully, “Witch is a superstitious term, generally used for people with very little ability, and commonly used for those disliked by their peers. I am a wizard, but I have found that people here react badly when they discover that fact.”
“Can you see my thoughts? Are you reading my mind now?”
Moira almost winced, but she suppressed her reaction, “I would have to touch you to do something like that, but I can speak mind to mind with other wizards, or with someone with whom I have a special bond.” She didn’t bother explaining the fact that mages could sense emotions without direct contact, or the fact that her own senses could reveal far more about someone than even most mages realized. For the most part her answer was truth; she couldn’t actually read his overt thoughts.
“Your father is the Blood-Lord isn’t he?” asked the Baron directly.
She ground her teeth, “I really dislike that term. My father is the kindest man you could ever hope to meet. He’s done nothing but sacrifice and suffer for the people of our realm. Anything you’ve heard to the contrary is a damn lie.”
“Did he really face the gods themselves?” Gerold’s voice was a whisper now, as if he feared someone hearing the question might suspect him of heresy.
“They weren’t gods, merely supernatural creations given power by men of old, and yes, he did in fact face them,” she answered. “None of this helps me. I need to see this Earl and find out if he knows anything about my father’s disappearance.”
The Baron caught himself for a moment then, before lowering his head in a gesture of contrition, “I am sorry. Realizing your identity has made me rude. You must understand that magic is distrusted here. We count ourselves as faithful devotees of Celior.”
“What will you do then?” challenged Moira. “Run out and summon a mob to hunt me down? I am only here to find my father.”
“No,” he said after a moment. “I think you too beautiful for that, though it may damn me. Besides, you don’t fear a mob do you?”
“No.”
“What would you do?” he asked curiously. “I won’t do it of course, but I find myself unable to help wondering. Would you fight them off? Could you hurl fire at them?”
“I would just leave. There’s no need to hurt anyone. I can defend myself from most attacks,” she insisted. “Why do men always think of violence first?”
“What of your companions?”
Moira laughed a little at that. “I would restrain them. To protect your people—of course.”
“They are wizards too?”
“No,” she said, waving her hands. “The younger one is the son of Dorian Thornbear, and the older one is just a grumpy old man, although he’s fought in many battles. He’s probably killed more people than any ten men you’ve ever met—combined.”
“That those two are your only companions leads me to believe you didn’t plan to find your father through diplomatic entreaties,” commented Gerold. “You might find more help than you suspect, if you enlist the King’s aid.”
Moira pursed her lips, “I don’t think your king would take kindly to accusations that one of his vassals had kidnapped my father. Besides, I thought your people distrusted wizards.”
“Wizards yes,” agreed the Baron, “but an ambassador from Lothion is a different matter. Allow me to present you to the King. Greet him openly, and then make your needs known in private. He is a wise man, and a fair one. He will appreciate your discretion, and given the Earl of Berlagen’s odd behavior of late, I have no doubt that he will be open to helping you discover the truth of the matter.”
“I’m not actually an ambassador,” Moira informed him, “I came here on my own.”
“Aren’t you related to Queen Ariadne?”
“She’s a cousin, yes,” answered Moira. My first cousin, twice removed, she noted mentally, though we aren’t actually related by blood.
“That’s enough,” said Gerold. “Present yourself as an informal representative. King Darogen is an intelligent man. He will understand your reasons. Small political fictions are a matter of convenience.”
“You seem to have a lot of faith in your king. Are you close to him?” she asked.
The Baron straightened slightly, “I am, and I am sincere in my desire to help you.”
She could read the earnestness in both his posture and his aythar. “If he decides not to help, it will make my options more limited.”
“Options?” Gerold raised one brow, “Do you mean breaking into his home, or storming the castle at his ancestral estate? I thought it was my gender that always thought of using violence first?”
“I think I could manage something subtler than that. My intentions are peaceful, but don’t mistake me, I will use force if it becomes necessary to free my father,” said Moira, trying to put steel into her words.
Gerold glanced down, examining his well-trimmed nails, “You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” she admitted, “but I have seen blood. I won’t shy from it if I can save my father.”
“So what course will you choose?”
“I would take your advice, but I brought no attire suitable for meeting royalty,” said Moira, challenging him with her eyes.
Gerold smiled, taking her hand in his, “Then we shall have to remedy that.”
Chapter 6
“I don’t like this,” said Gram for perhaps the fourth time.
Moira patted his shoulder sympathetically, “That’s too bad.”
“I don’t trust that greasy lordling,” he added for emphasis.
“You’re very wise,” she agreed.
“Stop patronizing me,” he complained.
“Then stop whining,” she shot back. “We’ve been over this several times now.”
“I don’t understand why we are waiting here. You should have an escort.”
“Baron Ingerhold will be escorting me. You don’t have any clothes suitable for the occasion,” she explained patiently—again.
“You didn’t either,” grumbled Gram.
“Gerold didn’t have any clothes to fit you,” she returned.
“And yet he had a dress that would fit you, doesn’t that seem a little odd? What sort of man keeps a house full of women’s clothing?”
“It was his sister’s dress, and it’s much easier to take in a little fabric than it is to try and create extra where none exists. You’re twice the size of any man we’ve seen. His tailor would have to be a mage to make one of his shirts fit you,” chuckled Moira.
“As your knight, I could wear my armor, then my clothing wouldn’t matter,” suggested Gram.
She frowned at him, “You can’t bear arms when meeting a king, and you can’t wear your armor without having Thorn out. Besides, do you realize what you look like in that armor? It’s unworldly. You’d scare the daylights out of everyone who saw you. That’s not the sort of impression I’m hoping to make.”
“Don’t y
ou have anything to say?!” asked Gram, looking at Chad in exasperation. “Surely you can’t agree with this plan?”
The older man took a slow sip of his brandy. Lowering the glass, he held it casually in one hand before replying, “I made meself a promise a long time ago, boy. I don’t argue with stupid.”
Moira glared at the ranger, but Gram pounced on the remark, “See! Even he thinks this is a dumb idea.”
Chad held up a hand, “Let me clarify that. She’s goin’ ta do what she wants. That’s clear enough. She’s not exactly defenseless either, but if somethin’ happens an’ she don’t return, we’ll go straighten things out with His Royal Majesty.”
“What does that mean, precisely?” asked Moira.
Chad smiled, “It means ye best be careful. Dunbar wouldn’t do very well without a king.”
“That would start a war,” she countered.
“Assumin’ there was enough of ‘em left to make an army,” noted the hunter. “The boy here might take a while, but he could probably slice his way from one end of this backwater nation to the other. An that ain’t even considerin’ the two pissed off dragons waitin’ outside of the city. You might mention that to His ‘Majesty’ if the negotiations get rough.”
A few minutes later, a carriage pulled up in front of the Dusty Doxy and Moira stepped out. The Baron’s footman held the door for her as she climbed in. She didn’t have to turn her head, her magesight confirmed Gram and Chad’s stares on her back.
Gerold offered her a choice of seats before glancing out the window, “Your companions don’t seem too pleased with your decision.”
“They’ll be fine,” she assured him, “so long as I return by nightfall.”
“You won’t stay at the palace?” asked the Baron. “The King is almost certain to offer hospitality.”
She smiled, “Best not to tempt fate. My friends are very protective. You don’t want to see what those two are like when they get cranky. I’ll be polite in my refusal—I’m sure King Darogen will understand.”
Gerold nodded, “You’re right, of course, about the King I mean.” He put a finger across his lips, while a thoughtful look crossed his features. “Still, I cannot help but wonder. I have heard many stories about Sir Dorian, but philosophers generally advise that sons of great men rarely match their father’s renown. Is the young lad really such a great warrior?”