My subsequent exit from the palace was delightfully awkward.
I lost track of the number of confused looks I received from various palace staff as I walked by them, silently led by my escort down the various hallways leading to the main stairs. Guards on patrol would stop momentarily and stare, looking puzzled once they realized who I was. Then they would glance at my wrists, notice that I wasn't cuffed, and then would somehow manage to look even more puzzled than before.
Doubtless they were wondering what the heck I was even doing inside the palace at that hour in the first place. I did my level best to look serene and calm, throwing an occasional smug look to wide-eyed guards as I walked by. For some reason, doing that seemed to help with some of the aches and pains I was feeling.
As I walked I also pondered, something I'd begun doing the instant I left Tenarreau's room. There were many, many new things about this whole situation that I'd have to take into account, not the least of which were the various revelations the prince had imparted during our last conversation.
I mean, the Dynast. The freaking Dynast - the mythical King of Thieves from stories of yore - was real. What's more, I'd just spoken with a man who routinely met with the Dynast every two years . . . if Tenarreau wasn't actually Dynast himself, that is.
It had occurred to me several times in the past fifteen minutes or so to wonder how much I actually trusted Tenarreau, or if I should actually believe anything he'd told me. Surprisingly, each time I asked myself this, I'd recall some expression he'd made, or the tone of his voice when he'd said something unexpected, and I'd immediately dismiss any suspicions I had. My gut simply refused to believe he'd been anything but sincere and forthright that whole entire time.
And if he waspulling some sort of fast one, well . . . if he was capable of lying that convincingly, I doubted I had much of a chance to foil whatever he might have planned anyway.
The 'flori'-whatever crystals had been a rather unexpected development, however. Once I was back at my keep, I would have to do some experimenting with the one I'd palmed . . . figure out if there was some way to manipulate them without seeming to. I already knew that it couldn't pick up conscious omissions, since I was able to successfully leave out any mention of Connor's role in my escaping from the palace jails.
Stealing something like that right under Tenarreau's nose had been hugely risky, and I wasn't even exactly sure what I was going to do with it yet. However, considering it was truth that I was after, something that could actually detect lies would likely come in very handy at some point.
Eventually, my tight-lipped escort and I made our way through the more public areas of the palace and to the doors that opened to the main stairs. I was about to thank my escort for his trouble and leave, when a voice I didn't recognize interrupted me mid-attempt.
"Lord Tucat," said one of the ever-present guards standing by the front entrance, bowing slightly at the waist as he did. "I've been instructed to ask if you would please remain here a few moments, ere you depart."
I stopped mid-stride, and my thoughts immediately went to the small crystal in my pocket. My guts lurched unpleasantly.
Crap . . .
Okay, this wasn't the time to panic. What I needed to do was act exactly as I normally would.
I gave the guard a curious look, glanced at my silent escort, looked back to the guard and shrugged. Then I found myself a nice patch of stone wall to lean up against as I waited, like there was nothing particularly special or terrifyingly anxious about being stopped just as I was leaving the palace. My escort made no move to leave, which probably meant that he had been specifically ordered to actually walk me out of the palace, not just see me to the door. Though many considered the palace staff haughty, stuffy, and humorless, their absolute attention to detail was never questioned.
I briefly looked about me, forcing my shoulders to relax. Though the other hallways and rooms about the palace usually had a chair or two tucked away here and there, the front entrance was conspicuously free of them. Likely it was an intentional decision. After all, it wouldn't do to have a bunch of people malingering around the main entrance. Me being stopped at this particular spot probably meant that I wasn't going to have to wait too terribly long for whatever it was I was supposed to be waiting for.
At least that meant less time spent stewing in anxiousness.
It seemed I'd barely been standing there for a minute when I spotted a familiar figure coming down the hall towards me, carrying a small bundle in both hands. Forcing a smile onto my face, I stepped away from the wall and stood nearer the middle of the hall, next to my mute escort.
"Preceptor Albusequa," I said once I judged her close enough, bowing to her at almost the exact same time as the thin fellow standing next to me.
"Lord Tucat," she nodded back, smiling briefly before fixing her eyes upon the man standing to my right. The smile fled her face, and she gave him a rather cool look. "I shall be escorting him from this point on. You may leave us."
"Preceptor," he replied in a whiny, nasal voice before standing briefly at attention, giving her a crisp bow, and then stiffly walking away.
"So that's what his voice sounds like," I mused quietly, watching him leave.
Peyla chuckled.
"Yes, as you can imagine, you don't have many fans at the palace at the moment," she said just as quietly, sending the escort a brief look before turning back to me. She held out the bundle and motioned for me to take it. "I liberated some of your things from Borshank's office, as per the prince's instructions. I figured that you might wish to take them with you. Two pairs of boots, two dress coats, one cloak, and a vest."
I took the bundle from her with a nod and briefly inspected it. "No canes?"
"Not from what I could see."
"Ah well," I shrugged, shifting the bundle so that I might hold under my arm. "Oh, speaking of possessions, would you care to accompany me back to Tucat Keep? I know it's late, but I still have a certain . . . something of yours, and I'm sure you'd probably like it back." I held my arm out to the doorway in invitation.
Peyla seemed to consider, idly brushing some of her long, white hair over her shoulder as she did so. Then she gave a half-shrug, smiled her acceptance, and swept past me towards the palace exit.
"Why not? I suppose there's not much chance of me getting any sleep tonight anyways, what with all the alarms and the sound of people scurrying about." She turned and gave me a wry look. "Apparently, someone attempted to gain entrance to the main palace spire earlier this evening."
"What?" I asked, unable to entirely conceal my smile. "Why, that's preposterous! Only a lunatic would try something like that!"
"Oh, I certainly agree with you there."
"Well then, we should probably leave, and quickly!" I said, glancing about as though suddenly afraid. "After all, a scoundrel that desperate might still be lingering around here somewhere . . ."
Peyla laughed musically at that, and we both made our way down the stone steps towards a carriage that was sitting at the bottom, waiting for us. It was one of the royal carriages, the sort that were usually reserved for visiting dignitaries and other special guests of Tenarreau. As I followed Peyla into the carriage, I surreptitiously looked around, noting that several guards were within view, watching me as I made my way through the open carriage door.
Doubtless my treatment this evening would be the source of much speculation and rumor the following day. I'd have to bear that in mind.
Peyla had selected the seat nearest the driver, facing the back of the carriage, and I sat opposite her. The cushioned seats were comfortable, but not particularly plush or special in any way, which sort of surprised me. I mean, these werethe royal coaches we were talking about. They should have been at least a little more comfortable to sit in than my own private carriages, shouldn't they?
"Tucat Keep," Peyla called over her shoulder through a rectangular window-like opening, reaching up and sliding the wooden privacy partition in place a moment later. That done, she leaned toward me and gave me an urgent look as the carriage gently lurched forward. "Is Talia okay?"
"Well, there was some excitement, but yes, she's fine. And I do have to thank you for your help, Peyla, both for the assistance with those Crown Knights and for your rather spectacular timing. If I'd been even a minute later in getting to her, I'd- . . ."
Honestly, I didn't really know how to finish that sentence, or even how to properly express my gratitude. I didn't know what I'd have done if I'd arrived too late to rescue Talia from what might have happened when . . . I mean . . .
See? I can't even properly finish that thought.
"You'd rather not elaborate?" Peyla ventured.
"Doubtless we'll discuss it sometime later, but things are still a bit too fresh at the moment. I'll tell you some other night, I promise. Right now I just want to get to bed and get some sleep, try to heal up a little bit. My ribs feel like I'm wearing a weasel's corset." I gave her a wan smile. "Ever been roughed up while unconscious?"
"You'd be surprised," she said, giving me an enigmatic half-smile. "You and I should sit down over a bottle of wine one of these evenings, and I'll tell you all about what life can be like for young ladies born in Norsh."
Taken aback by the ominous overtones of her words, I simply nodded.
The next several minutes were spent in awkward silence, and I began idly watching some of the Haraelian scenery go by as we sped down the street. Given the time, there weren't many people out on the street, but those few who were would look up and watch as our carriage passed them by.
"So," I said, finally, "you're probably wondering what I was doing at the palace tonight."
Peyla smiled. "No, it seems pretty straightforward."
"Oh? Well, that's odd. Especially considering I didn't even know exactly what sort of things I'd be doing this evening."
"Well, in some ways you're very hard to anticipate, I'll admit. And you can be very, very creative, of course. In other ways?" Peyla shrugged one shoulder. "You have a history of becoming quite predictable the instant someone crosses a line with you." She caught my slightly troubled expression and smiled. "It's not a weakness, Vincent. It's called 'character'. Reputations are built on it, and yours is no exception. Or perhaps you're going to try to convince me that there's some Lord out there somewhere who isn't aware that you'd jump on them like a frost hound if they ever threatened anything of great value to you?" She smiled, shaking her head sadly at me. "How you'll react emotionally to certain situations is about as predictable as the rising of the sun. It's what you actually decide to do with your feelings that people find unpredictable."
I frowned, mostly because I hadn't really thought about it in those terms.
"A point, I suppose. Well, that's bothersome. I've never been fond of the idea that my actions could be anticipated."
"No matter how hard you attempt to disguise it, you can't deny your true nature, nor should you ever wish to. Knowing ourselves is the only way for us to learn in what ways we are truly strong, where we are vulnerable, and how we might need to adapt. Rabbits too proud to change the color of their fur rarely survive a single winter."
"Poetic," I mused. "Are there many philosophers in Norsh?"
"A great many. Philosophers and poets, both. It's a land of frozen earth and blowing snow, where four months of the year are spent hurriedly preparing for the other eight." She gave a light chuckle. "As it turns out, spending most of your time alone in a cabin trying to stay warm dramatically increases the chances of philosophical musings."
"You make it sound like the entire country should be begging for entertainment of a mind-altering variety. And you're telling me that they don't even allow vimroot up there?"
"Vincent, people have been imprisoned in Norsh for making their winter wine too strong. Asceticism and stoicism are practically our national pastimes. Those who visit rarely stay long, and they seldom make the mistake of visiting twice."
"Well," I grinned, "it sounds like I might just have to visit Norsh one of these years, if only to develop a healthy appreciation for all of the things Harael has to offer."
Peyla returned my smile for a few moments. After a short while, however, her expression fell away and was replaced by a much more solemn one. "Vincent, I'd like to ask you a question. A very serious one."
"Very serious?" I asked, a wry smile still firmly fixed on my face. "Well, now I'm intrigued. Just how serious are we talking, exactly?"
Rather than reply, Peyla angled her head to the left, looking down at the family crest on her cloak - a heavily stylized and majestic-looking white horse rearing up on its hind legs. After a moment's consideration, she carefully took the front portion of her cloak and folded it into itself, then swept it over the shoulder of her jacket, making it so that the crest was no longer visible.
I stopped smiling.
The gesture itself was archaic in the extreme, but one still used by Crown Knights from time to time. If a knight realizes that their investigation is going to bring them into contact with family, friends, or anyone where there was potential for a conflict of interest, they'd pin the crest on their cloak back so it could no longer be seen, much as Peyla had done. It was a declaration of sorts, one that said 'I am not a Crown Knight at the moment, or acting in any official capacity'.
What Peyla was saying was that, insofar as this question was concerned, she was not my preceptor.
"Oh," I said quietly. "So . . . very, very serious then."
She nodded. "Like Tenarreau, and yourself, I like to know what's going on around me. Especially when it comes to people I'm working with, or dealing with on a regular basis. I'm not asking on behalf of Tenarreau, or as your preceptor, but as someone who- . . . as a friend. Your answer never leaves this carriage."
"I see," I said, becoming a bit more alert. "Well . . . certainly then. Ask away."
She gave me a quick nod, and regarded me intently for a few seconds before speaking.
"Nobody, not even you, simply breaks into the main palace spire on a whim. You had a very important reason for being there tonight."
"Well, while not technically a question, I-"
"Did you visit the palace tonight to do something . . . untoward to Tenarreau?"
Peyla's tone was level and calm, as though only mildly curious about my answer. I'd seen her get emotional with her knights from time to time, but sometimes it was what she didn't get emotional about that seemed to have the biggest impact on people. Someone calmly asking you if you'd been planning to murder someone is a much different sort of thing than someone whispering the question in a hushed tone, or one of incredulity.
It was easy to see why she'd been an effective Preceptor all these years. I was also beginning to understand why she'd developed such a ferocious reputation among some of the other Lords of West Harael.
"I don't think so, to be honest," I said after a while. "I was certainly angry from what had happened, or almost happened, but I didn't have enough information to properly focus it on Tenarreau, or anyone, really. If he'd been the one behind the incident with Talia . . ." I took a quick breath and exhaled through my nose. "I don't know. I think it's possible I could have done something. I think my visit tonight was more about being direct, and cutting through some of the crap so I could get a better sense of what was really going on. A line had been crossed, as you said, and I needed to understand why."
"So, you now understand things better?"
"And how. I found out rather a lot tonight. By the by, you may wish to keep some distance between yourself and Borshank, politically."
Both of Peyla's eyebrows went up, and I nodded.
"Yeah. I spoke with Tenarreau at length about some of my recent adventures, as well as Borshank's involvement in them. I don't see things going particularly well for him in the very near future. In fact, I have a feeling you might even be receiving a bit of a promotion soon."
Peyla frowned. "Tenarreau said that?"
"Well, I sort of put it out there for him, but he seemed open to the idea. I expect that there's a very short list of candidates qualified to take on the role of South Preceptor, and given our working relationship, I certainly wouldn't object to you being offered that position."
"Tenarreau is taking you at your word? He's relieving Borshank of his duties?"
"Looks like it."
"I see. And what if he plans to make you South Preceptor?" she asked.
I sat up in my seat suddenly, a little stunned by the question. That possibility hadn't even occurred to me.
"Me, Peyla? I can think of at least a hundred people who would be more qualified for a position like that one. Some of them might even actually want the job."
"A desire for power is oft times considered a trait of someone who is ill-suited to possess it," Peyla said. "It certainly wouldn't hurt your personal fortunes any. And as you've mentioned, we do work reasonably well together, you and I."
I shook my head slowly. "I don't think that's what he plans on doing at all. In fact, we even briefly discussed what sort of impact a new Preceptor would have on me and my activities. So whoever he does pick, I'm pretty sure it's not going to be me."
She shrugged noncommittally at that, favoring me with an odd look a moment later. "What are you doing, Vincent?"
"Sorry?"
"You're not after power - the look on your face a moment ago made that pretty plain. You're not keen on becoming a preceptor, and you've already stated that you have no desire to become prince. You've been doing practically everything in your power to give your gold away to your tenants, and seem to be getting little but strife in return. You're too smart to be doing these things just for the hell of it. So if not power or wealth, what is it you're after?"
The carriage was silent, save for the muffled clip-clopping of the horses.
"Justice," I said, finally. "Closure. Everything I've been doing has simply been a means to that end." I shifted in my seat a little. "Sometimes, it seems my whole life has been devoted to it."
"In my line of work, when someone uses the word 'justice' to describe what they're after, the word they really mean to use is 'revenge'."
I shrugged. "Sometimes, they're the same thing."
"No . . . the two have very little to do with one another." Peyla leaned forward in her seat, a serious expression now fixed upon her face. "Do you know where the need for revenge comes from? What it's rooted in - what lies at its core?"
Since her question sounded serious, as well as rhetorical, I gave her a little half-shrug rather than answer here with any of a dozen glib answers that sprang to mind.
"Shame," Peyla said solemnly. "A terrible thing happens to us, or to someone we care about, and we feel responsible. We weren't there to prevent it, or weren't in a position to do anything, and we feel weak and afraid. Sometimes it's our fault, and other times there's nothing at all we even could have done, but there's a feeling deep down inside telling us that we somehow allowed this thing to happen, and that we need to do something about it. It's not about 'justice', or fixing a problem, or balancing some unseen set of cosmic scales, or even undoing the damage that was done. Nothing can do that. Revenge is merely an action we take to try and make ourselves feel better . . . to rid our guts of this horrible feeling that we've somehow failed someone." She shrugged lightly. "We feel ashamed."
I stared her for several eye-blinks, considering her words.
"You've thought about this rather a lot, I'm guessing."
She tilted her head slightly in agreement. "Revenge is not exactly a unique concept to happen upon when you're a preceptor. When investigating just about any crime committed in my area, revenge usually ends up being the motivation behind it. I've seen my share of it. I can even find myself sympathizing with many of the people I'm investigating."
"And in all that time, you've never once come upon a situation where you thought revenge might have been justified?" I asked. "You don't think there's value in wishing to see things put right? To do something with these feelings, and see that someone gets punished for some gross injustice?"
Peyla looked the slightest bit troubled, and took a slow breath before speaking.
"Was Redforne justified in blaming you for the death of his father?"
I winced slightly at that.
Touche.
"There have been some occasions where I myself felt revenge was justified, personally," she continued. "You can't believe in right and wrong without finding yourself on somebody's side from time to time, even if you strive to remain objective. However, even in those cases, what those people ended up doing in the name of revenge affected the world in some measure . . . made it less than what it was. Two weeks ago, an innkeeper's daughter was assaulted by her fiance. The innkeeper and several of his patrons decided to get together to track this fellow down, and shortly after the fiance in question was discovered in an alley, beaten near senseless.
"Rather than involve the Crown Knights, the girl's father took matters into his own hands, privately shamed that he couldn't protect his own daughter when she'd needed it. Does his incarceration and pending trial by magistrate help his daughter, or his business, or anyone at all? Hardly. He may feel better because of what he did for a short while, but it's others around him who suffer for it. People he cares about."
"So then, what specific advice would you give to someone who has a hankering for revenge? Not that I know of anybody like that, of course."
Peyla gave me a sad smile.
"I'd let that person in on a secret - the way to avoid feelings of shame altogether."
"And that is?"
"Do nothing you'd ever be ashamed of."
We both listened to the sounds of horse and carriage a while.
"You know, this isn't exactly the idle late-night carriage chat I'd been hoping for," I said, grinning weakly at her, "but since we're being all serious, here's a hypothetical situation for you. Let's say I did manage to succeed in bringing about some subtle and cunning form of 'justice' or 'revenge' or whatever, and you caught wind of it. Entirely unfair question, to be sure, but given everything you know about me and my past . . . how thoroughly would you investigate the matter?"
Peyla gave me a bleak look that contained the barest hint of disappointment, and she turned her head so that she might look out the window. After a few awkwardly quiet moments, she spoke.
"I wouldn't."
I nodded. "But things would be different between us, wouldn't they."
"Yes," she murmured, casually leaning her shoulder forward and un-folding the front of her cloak, making her family crest visible once more. "They would."
Her gesture with the cloak made it quite plain that there would be no further discussion along those lines.
Thankfully, we only had to endure a couple of minutes of strained silence before arriving on a fairly familiar street, not two blocks away from Tucat Keep. I took a quick breath and sighed.
"Peyla, I'm sorry if I've disappointed you tonight, really I am. And I do promise to think about everything you've said just now. I do value our friendship tremendously, and would never wish to be the source of your discomfiture."
She furrowed her brow at that. "Discomfiture?"
"A state of being - feeling frustrated or disappointed." I smiled, idly looking out the side window. "Your Haraelian lesson for the day, though I must say, it's been a while since we had one of those. Were I to move to Norsh, I doubt I'd have your faculties when it came to picking up the language, or- . . . Belial's bespeckled backside!"
My mouth was literally hanging open as we pulled in front of Tucat Keep. Or, at least, something that was roughly the same basic shape as Tucat Keep.
Peyla looked out the window as well, her eyes widening, and she murmured something that sounded like 'moi shalla vee' under her breath.
My keep - the entire Baal-be-damned keep - had been wrapped in bright lavender cloth.
Every feature of Tucat Keep could be made out, and looked exactly as my home should, save for the fact that everything was purple. An enormous white ribbon and bow had been strung across the front as well. My house knights were everywhere at once, frantically busying themselves wherever I looked, pulling at the wrapping in an attempt to expose the stonework beneath. I could see at least four knights who were engaged with the area nearest the entrance, and who were holding a fairly serious-looking discussion in front of a four-foot tall opening in the fabric there.
One of my knights noticed the carriage, noticed me, and then hurriedly made his way over.
Incensed.
Must . . . appear . . . incensed.
"What in the name of Hades has happened to my keep?" I shouted at the advancing knight, bulging my eyes at him in an attempt to make myself look as angry as possible. "I want answers, and by Astaroth's abhorrent ass, I want them now!"
"Milord!" he panted, stopping just outside the carriage window. "We . . . we know not how this was done! I was off duty at the time, but from the accounts of those who were stationed outside, everyone just sort of fell asleep at once! A few woke up, discovered that the others were unconscious, and that Tucat Keep was-" he trailed off and made a sweeping gesture behind him. "We've been at it for hours, trying to remove some of this, though it's proving nearly impossible! And when we did finally manage to cut through where your front doors were supposed to be-"
"Supposed to be?" I bellowed.
The fellow swallowed hard and looked extraordinarily apologetic. "It- . . . the doors . . . aren't there, Milord. There's just stone! We suspect the entrance has been walled over, but the mortar is dry, and the stonework looks so similar to that of the rest of the building that we knew not whether we should attempt to knock it down, or-"
"This is my family's keep! I want that wall torn down and my doors found at once, or heads will roll! Wake people if you have to, bring staff from Tucat Court if you must, but by morning I want this entire place looking exactly the way I left it! Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Milord," he said, saluting crisply before running back to where his fellow knights were toiling away.
Giving my purple-clad keep and those working on it one last, withering look, I quickly drew the carriage's blinds to obscure myself from view, collapsed back into my seat, firmly covered my mouth with both hands, and laughed as I'd never laughed before.
Almost immediately my abdomen began to cramp, the pain of which just seemed to make me want to laugh even harder. Occasionally, I had to remind myself to breathe.
After a few minutes spent both laughing and attempting to remain absolutely silent, I caught a glimpse of Peyla through the blur of my laughter-inspired tears. She was patiently sitting in her seat, her arms crossed, shaking her head sadly at me with a ghost of a smirk on her face.
I allowed my laughter to become a breathless chortle and slowly sat upright in my seat, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and taking deep, careful breaths.
"Oh, gods," I finally managed to gasp. "Do you know what I'm truly afraid of, Peyla? I'm worried that once all this is over and done with, I'm going to suddenly find my life so boring I won't know what to do with myself."
Peyla gave me a half-smirk, and raised a single eyebrow at me. "A word of advice, Vincent. Never complain of the possibility of becoming bored to someone from Norsh. Especially right before winter." She gestured at my bundle of garments, which had somehow fallen to the floor of the coach without me noticing. "Don't forget your things. Fetching my sword can wait, since it's obvious you have some . . . other matters you probably wish to attend to."
"Like trying to find a way into my own keep?" I chuckled, gathering up my possessions and giving her a friendly nod. "Thank you for the escort, Peyla. I'll be sure to have someone deliver your sword to the palace sometime tomorrow morning."
"Take care, Vincent," she said, nodding in return.
After taking a couple more deep, cleansing breaths, I affixed a mighty scowl on my face, opened the carriage door, and stepped outside.
To maintain my furious expression, I decided to avoid looking at my keep entirely, since just glimpsing it would likely send me into more fits of laughter. I wandered around the side of my keep and began heading to the main yard, bundle clutched to my chest, head bowed, avoiding my knights as best I could. Honestly, they were probably also doing their best to stay out of my way as well.
Though I found it difficult at times, I did manage to make it all the way to a small, nondescript grove of juniper trees without so much as a giggle. Once there, and after looking around to ensure nobody could see me, I stepped through a section of the soft, scale-like foliage, arriving at a special section of my retaining wall almost immediately. I then pressed my hand against a very specific rock and slid it to one side, exposing the lever that opened a drop-down hatch leading to the secret tunnel connecting Theo's keep to my exercise hall. I pulled the lever, hurriedly made my way over to the hatch as it creaked itself open, and then dropped down into the inky blackness of the tunnel below.
Despite being dark and fairly unfamiliar to me (though Theo uses this passageway extensively, I hardly ever need to use it myself), I managed to navigate my way through the tunnel and into my keep without incident.
Though the hour was ungodly, and despite being tired and sore, I figured I was still too keyed up from the evening's activities to even consider retiring to bed, and opted to get a little work done before making the attempt. Still clutching my bundle of clothes, I managed to make my way from the exercise hall to my study without encountering any of my staff, stopping only briefly outside the greeting room to pick up any letters or notes of import that had accumulated during my time away. It was only once I was safely inside my study and had closed the door behind me that I finally allowed myself to chuckle at the memory of what Tenarreau had done to my keep. I might have even guffawed once or twice.
The worst thing about all this was the fact that I had no clue how he'd pulled something like that off, and knew I'd be driving myself nuts later attempting to figure it all out, or at least come up with a working theory regarding how I would go about doing something like that myself.
I'd have to come up with something really, really clever for Tenarreau to chew on later.
Dropping the bundle onto my desk, I began shuffling through a few of the notes I'd fetched from the greeting room. I quickly realized that one of them was a letter from Cyrus, and I hastily opened the envelope, pulled out the card, and scanned its contents.
Have grown weary of travel, am about ready to return. Just as I finished packing all my things, the weather improved dramatically, which figures I suppose. The boats have been overbooked as well - I'm currently seventh on a waiting list to get aboard, and had to bribe someone just to get there. Can't wait to get back home. -Cyrus
Smiling to myself,I re-read the note several times to ensure I hadn't missed anything, and then folded the note and began to tuck it into my inside vest pocket . . . which made me realize that I had no vest on, as I was still wearing my thoughtcloth outfit.
My eyes fell upon the vest sitting atop the bundle of clothing I'd retrieved from the palace, and I quickly tucked the note away inside of that inside pocket instead . . .
And discovered another note there.
I felt a brief flash of panic. Had I been holding onto one of the letters from Cyrus when I'd been arrested, or knocked out? Had Borshank read one of the letters? If so, which one?
Once I'd pulled the note out of the inside pocket, I ceased my worrying along those lines, and decided to become rather confused instead.
It wasn't one of Cyrus's letters at all, but rather a note written on a rectangle of expensive-looking card stock. The card had finely gilded edges, and the words upon one of its sides had been written with an artful flourish, the copper-gold drying sand giving the ink a slightly raised appearance, the letters glimmering in the light of my study.
Realizing the card was upside-down, I righted it, and then began to read.
Any fool can complain of the sourness of lemons, but rare is the man who can take a bite of one and then express how much he suddenly appreciates sugar. -WT
I read it twice more, beginning to end, and then simply stared at the initials at the bottom corner. WT.
Warren Tenarreau.
He'd requested that my various stolen clothing be returned with me tonight. Clothing that just happened to have this note tucked away in one of the pockets.
My mind began racing through the details of our earlier conversation.
-there has always been a very specific reason for me telling you the things I've told you . . .
Everything Tenarreau did was deliberate, and more often than not there turned out to be some purpose behind it. And what had he said before, about his oath? Something along the lines of how just giving me information was much different than . . .
Allowing me to take it.
Despite being seemingly innocuous and pithy, this note meant something. Something important, I was sure of it. A hint, or some sort of clue? Some way to help me without breaking his oath?
Code, perhaps?
An opportunity to 'take' something?
Hastily, I swept the remaining unopened notes to one side, along with my bundle of clothes, and then placed the note carefully on the desk in front of me. Then I put the letter from Cyrus beside it.
I spent some time studying one, then the other, thinking furiously.
After about fifteen minutes or so, I fetched a vimroot candle from my tea cabinet, lit the wick, and gently placed it in a nearby candelabra. After a moment's consideration, I did the same thing with a second candle.
Then I resumed staring at the two pieces of paper before me.
Much as the thought wearied me, I knew I'd be getting no sleep tonight. I was being handed an opportunity. I just had to figure out exactly what that opportunity was.
Quickly. Very, very quickly.