Retro: Clinging to a future (Attn: Dilora)

[Arath Faringal]

The last year had not been kind. Starving, twice imprisoned, and nowhere closer to finding out what he wanted, Esyndor was about to give up. Penniless, friendless, and apparently hopeless, he wanted only to curl up in a dark alley somewhere and die.

 

But he knew he wouldn't. The stubborn streak that was his family legacy wouldn't allow it. As long as there was any possibility of survival, he would cling to it. That was why he lived on the Caemlyn streets, among the people he had always feared. The dark lurkers, the thieves, the cutpurses. They had not welcomed him exactly, but they had not run him out like everyone else. Perhaps a proving period had been granted him?

 

He was not proud of his situation. He dispised it in fact, but he had no other options. His foolish antics with the powerful noble had assured him of that. No blacksmith within fifty miles of Caemlyn would accept him for even the basest of jobs now. Making his way on the purses of others was not something he enjoyed. Nor was he particularly good at it yet. His aching shoulder was a grim reminder of that. He was lucky that the merchant hadn't hit him in the head with that sling.

 

With a resigned sigh, Esy pulled himself to his feet, wincing as he banged his shoulder against a wall. Today would be a better day. It couldn't possibly be worse.

 

Wandering through the streets in the early morning sun light he considered his options. There weren't many people around at the moment. Certainly none that were carrying enough money to make them a worthwhile target. Looking down the street he spied an inn he often visited. The innkeeper there was a kindly woman, who had known his parents and sometimes allowed Esy to make small repairs around the place. He hadn't been there for a while because of one of her daughters, who had been trying to catch his eye. In more care free days, he would have enjoyed the game. But now, the last thing he wanted was to anger one of the few providers he had of respectable work.

 

As he made his way inside, he paused to consider the peddlers wagon along side the stables. A peddler was always a potential source of information which might point him in the right direction. And if not, the wagon was always a potential source of something valuable to sell. Pushing through the door, Esyndor looked for the innkeeper, praying that her daughter was nowhere in sight.

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

Oh Light, did the sun have to shine quite so brightly? As Dilora made her way on unsteady feet from her bed to the washbasin, she once again pondered on why that last pint of ale had seemed like a good idea at the time. There had been singing, there had been dancing, and there had also been one or two leads that looked promising to follow up as sources of items to sell on her journeys, so all in all it had been a good night. She had been wrong to think she could out-drink anyone there though. The old merchant with a bushy beard and the tilted eyes prevalent in Saldaea had a far greater capacity for the stuff than she did, but she had proved on more than one occasion that her voice was far the prettier.

 

Some water - that should help. Dilora rinsed her mouth out and tried to get ride of the horrible taste. It reminded her of the inside of her boots. Looking up, she caught sight of her reflection in a dull mirror above the bowl that made her wince. Her appearance was less than lovely, to say the least. At three and twenty years old, Dilora still had the prettiness of youth and her dark brown hair definitely needed a brush, but her skin had a mild green tinge to it that no cream she had in her wagon would alleviate. Some food might help, but all she had was a stick of dried beef and some goosemint candy. She popped one of the sweets in her mouth after a search of various cupboards and crannies, and picked her clothes up from the floor.

 

Despite the mild smells of tabac and tavern, Dilora thought she could get a little more wear out of the skirt, but decided on a fresh white blouse of cool linen and, after brushing her hair for the required hundred strokes, the candy was settling her stomach nicely.

 

Much better.

 

She nodded agreement with her reflection, the hazel eyes crinkling merrily with amusement at her foibles. Dilora pulled on first one boot, then the other … and noticed another hole in her stockings to mend. She went busily around her wagon, tidying, and remarked on how worn some of her cupboards were looking. Somewhere, she would need to find a blacksmith capable of intricate work who knew how to make locks and keys so her security would not be an issue. A second goosemint helped, and she felt ready for the day to at least begin.

 

If she had chosen to sleep in the inn last night she would have no doubt have had to share. The city was bustling with people and innkeepers were charging the same rate for a room but with three or four people sharing. This way she could guarantee that the woman had her fee her wagon would have called for, and also ensure that she got to sleep in her own bed. There had been a couple of faces she wasn’t sure of among the crowd, so this method met with the most approval from Dilora.

 

Right, breakfast time.

 

Her father had always been of the opinion that a full breakfast with sausage and egg, and even some cheese helped to beat a morning head. Dilora had discovered that when a person was ready for it, her father’s advice had been on the nose, and now headed to the inn to see what the innkeeper had laid on for breakfast. She could eat in her wagon while she counted the items she could sell, and then drop the plate off and be on her way. Finding those leads would be the most important thing of today, and then she could happily move on. Maybe someone knew of how to tan and cure hides properly … leather accessories were always needed, and her knife could use a new sheathe. The thought of it made her examine the blade. It was nice enough, with a funny little insignia on it that Dilora had never discovered the significance of, and the sheathe that held it to her belt was worn and tatty now. It needed mending badly, but she had never gotten around to it. Pushing the blade back in, the sharp edge sliced another stitch and left an inch wide gap at the bottom. Not a good idea – she didn’t want the thing to land point-down in her boot. She really had to get that sorted soon… For now, Dilora left the blade a little out of the top of the scabbard, the insignia just visible above the worn brown leather.

 

The cook had some crisped slices of bacon and bread for Dilora to break her fast with, and a mug full of hot steaming tea that refreshed her better once she had put a large dollop of honey in it. Tucking the bacon inside the bread, she munched happily as she walked back out of the kitchens, through the common room and back to Altie, and her wagon. A figure cast long shadows, looking at her wagon in the stables. Interesting… What did he want? Well, there was only one way to find out. She took a large bite of her bacon sandwich, swallowed, and then walked right up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

[Arath Faringal]

Esyndor waited patiently out in the stables for the inn keeper to get back to him. She was busy harassing the cooks, and he'd been asked to wait outside. He was fine with that. His disheveled appearance didn't make him a wanted guest anywhere, much less in a common room. Plus he was far less likely to encounter Clara out here.

 

As he waited out in the stables, silent but for the occasional stirring of the few horses, his eyes drifted back to the peddlers wagon. Really it was a foolish thought that this peddler would know anything. His family hadn't even lived within Caemlyn, so their deaths had gone largely unnoticed. He was just growing desperate for any clues as to who had done it, and he knew it.

 

Esy didn't know how long he had been waiting there alone, letting his thoughts wander, but suddenly a light tap on his shoulder brought him back to reality with a jolt. Sure that it was Clara who had snuck up on him, he jumped and spun around so quickly that he almost lost his balance, stumbling backwards a step or two before steadying himself on the water barrels. Way to go fool, he thought to himself. Now she’ll think you’re cute and funny too …

 

"Clara!" he stammered. "I... what..." An odd mix of confusion and relief played quickly across his face as he realized that this woman, although she looked similar, was not the innkeeper’s daughter. Without thinking, he automatically asked, “Who are you?” then immediately regretted it. He was not in any position to be asking questions here. “Sorry,” he muttered, bowing slightly and taking a step back. “I was just waiting fo . . . you startled me.”

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

A grin painted her face. She hadn’t meant to surprise the man as much as she had. “Clara, yes … do I look like a ‘Clara’ to you?” Dilora didn’t wait for his answer, not that she expected one. “My name is Dilora Fashelle, and I am a peddler…” The litanies of her introduction began, told a thousand times before and like to be told another thousand before her reputation grew to the point where people whispered “That’s Dilora Fashelle, the peddler!” Truly, she never liked to startle people, particularly not when they might have a knife or something hidden in one hand, and murderous intent in the other. She smiled by way of apology and held out her hand.

 

“That’s my wagon over there. You see it? The nice looking one with red and gold paintwork – that cost a pretty penny, that did. Dilora wondered what hardships the lad had endured. Younger than herself by appearance, there was a maturity in his eyes that seemed far older than his face and a gravity to his demeanour added years to him. Yet there was something …vulnerable about him that made Dilora want to put her arm around him and give him a hug, and to let him know everything would be all right in the end. She bit into the sandwich and felt the bacon starting to cool in the bread and morning air, the juices soaking into it and infusing it with saltiness. Why do I want to feed him all of a sudden?

 

Her own morning head starting to fade, Dilora considered taking him into the inn any buying him breakfast. Would he like something to eat? She would have asked him, but she had the distinct feeling there was something else on his mind. What was it? Dilora took a large gulp of tea from the cup she had set on top of a post and straightened her shirt. “I have some things I need to get straightened in my wagon, if you need to talk or need to buy something, can we do it there? I really want to be on the road before the hour is out.”

[Arath Faringal]

Esy wasn't at all sure what to do. What kind of person would kindly invite some dirty kid from the street into their wagon? Different instincts started playing through him. His mind began racing for an excuse to leave quickly and quietly. At the same time he automatically examined her, searching for weapons and hidden intents in case he couldn't escape.

 

Eyes moveing quickly in all directions (and trying to avoid her breakfast sandwich), his gaze came to rest on her dagger, sitting in a scabbard that looked even more disheveled than he did. Years in his fathers forge automatically kicked in, as he evaluated the blade from afar. It looked very finely made from the little he could see, and engraved in the pommel was ... His mouth parted slightly as he recognized the engraving. He'd grown up around it. There was even a good chance that he had made it. He looked into her face again, trying to remember if he had ever met her before. No ... there was no familiarity, but then he had never paid much attention to the many peddlers that came through his home town. However, he did see something else in her eyes that he hadn't seen for a very long time. Something almost foreign to him now. Kindness? Concern?. Thoughts of leaving slowly melted away, and curiousity replaced them.

 

Collecting himself quickly, he opened his mouth to ask where she had bought the blade, but another sound from the hallway distracted him. Someone else coming down the hall. And judging by the girlish giggling, it really was Clara this time. Quickly changing gears, he decided to take this Dilora up on her offer. "Okay. I did want to ask you something. If it's no trouble."

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

She bit into the sandwich again, and finished it with a second bite. Whether or not the voice that was rapidly descending on them had the coin to pay for the ribbon and fragrance she had in her wagon, Dilora had no idea, but there was a look of urgency on the lad’s face that sped her decision to return to her wagon. The morning sun was really bright anyway. What did he want to ask her?

 

“It’s no trouble at all. Walk this way, and we’ll sit down and do business – how does that sound?” He nodded eagerly in response and fell in behind her. Dilora kept up gentle conversation about the weather and the state of the city streets as they crossed the stable to where her wagon was parked up. Quickly, she ducked into Altie’s stall to make sure the mare was well before climbing the ladder into her wagon and opened the door. Light, she still needed to make enquiries about the lock… Something for another time, the lad was following her up the steps and if she didn’t move quickly enough, the stable boys would have something to laugh at. It might even be worth making a song out of. Stepping into the middle of the wagon, Dilora’s eyes looked around the familiarity of her home and the walls lined with cupboards, and the smell of myriad pomanders that dotted the room, both for sale and to combat some of the less pleasant smells of riding behind a horse.

 

Seating herself on the corner of her still unfolded bed, Dilora looked at the man. What did he want? “Would you like a drink? I’ve already got a cup of tea, but I should have something in here that would be nice.” She hoped he didn’t mind ale or brandy if that was the case… “In any case, do you have a name? I already told you mine. What was it you wanted to talk about?” This should be interesting. What could a young man of the city she had only dreamed of as a girl want with a peddler? She had a keen eye for a bargain that could be said about her but she did not short-change anyone. She prided herself on being fair because Dilora knew she hated being short-changed herself. A stretch, a sip of tea, and an appraising look to see if she had any food other than the strips of dried beef, and Dilora got up and fetched them from the shelf and handed all of them bar one to the lad. They’d been seasoned with some mountain herbs from near the Two Rivers, so they should be tasty. Biting a piece of and chewing it thoughtfully, Dilora waited for him to tell his name, and his reason for being here.

[Arath Faringal]

"My name is Esyndor Renethil. I'm from ... I was from a small village north of here. My father had a smithie there, until about a year ago ..." Already one year ... and what did he have to show for it? Not sure how much to disclose to his new acquanitance, he fumbled for words. Stalling for time he took a bite of one of the meat strips Dilora had given him. He could barely taste the delicious flavor though as he played back the bitter memories in his mind.

 

"I don't know why, but ... someone ... I lost my family, and almost everything we had. And ever since I've been trying to figure out who ... and why. But I can't find anything. Know I just look for any connection I can to my parents. Anyone who knew them, or might have known them.

 

"Strange as it may be, this leads me to ... your dagger." Reaching through a slit in the side of his shirt, he pulled out his own blade. Not a thing one would expect a street thief to have. The blade was of very fine steel, and inlaid in silver in the pommel was a marking, identical to the one on Dilora's dagger. He held it forward for her to examine. "It's my fathers mark. Unique to his work. I would imagine you've passed through the village on the way to Tar Valon. My father made an effort to get to know the peddlers that came through. Could you have known him?"

 

He knew it was unlikely that Dilora had known either of his parents, and even less likely that she'd heard anything that he hadn't already. But he had to hope. He remembered the meat strips in his hand and looked down at them. To his surprise there was only one left. He didn’t even remembered eating them. He slowly began on the last one, intending to enjoy it.

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

She took the dagger gravely from him and compared it to the design on her own. It was indeed the same, intricate and yet simple, and definitely distinctive. The two blades had been forged by the same smith, and were likely sisters. Dilora studied his face. Traces of hope warred with determination and an underlying sense of despair that appealed to some forgotten part of her. It made her think of the children she had seen, hungry and alone as a result of war or poor harvests, and surprised her, since it did not often rear it’s head. Intrigue claimed her as she traced the pattern in the dagger’s pommel. If his father had been a smith…

 

If his father had been a smith then there could be barrels full of identical blades with identical handles and pommels. The design seemed to be some indicator of a house of high status, but not one she recognised. It did not bring forth a shred of memory, except the day she had bought the dagger in the first place. She had been on her way to Tar Valon, as the lad had suggested, and had stopped at a little village after one of the inhabitants had called for a few bits and bobs from her wagon. Dilora had enjoyed a meal on the green of good salted beef and some cheese and pickles, and brown bread with a dark crust, before appearing before the villagers to tell the stories of the outside world. She told tales of the races ran at Ebou Dar, which seemed to appeal to the younger lads and the men that had wistfully regarded their pockets as if to make them grow larger. Dilora told tales of grand Caemlyn, so majestic and white, and tales of Tar Valon that put all the major cities of beauty to shame. And she told them the news from the land. Then, she had spied the smithy and had gone across to where a man worked the forge. Dilora had appreciated the blade and, as she needed one, asked it’s cost.

 

She spent a pleasant while chatting to the burly smith, and paid him for the blade and went on her way. A small keg of nails was purchased for sale along the ways with a promise of good publicity from Dilora when she sold them. It would also help if she ever needed to fix the axle, or any part of her wagon. Beyond that, Dilora remembered his name and face, but hadn’t seen him on her last few visits through that town, and she thought there was something unusual then.

 

“I did business with a smith … it is where I bought this blade from. I fell in love with it and had to have it – you know how frivolous women can be sometimes.” She smiled at him warmly, thinking he did resemble the man more than a little, especially around the eyes. “He was of medium height, but taller than I – mind you, most people are, and had hair as dark as the coals he forged in. There was a fire in his eyes too.” Another grin, and she dug around in her belt pouch and found an apple she would have given to her horse, Altie, if there hadn’t been a more pressing need. “Here.” She tossed the apple to him, and watched him catch it deftly.

 

“The thing I remember most was that he treated me kindly. I’d been going through a rough patch where people were not taking a lady peddler seriously, and he was good enough to see the potential I had. I seriously doubt that I would still be in business, if not for people like him.” Dilora mused, chewing her lip thoughtfully. She was used to loneliness, for the road was a terribly empty place at times, but to have it thrust on you unnecessarily was awful. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” She asked.

[Arath Faringal]

He listened, eyes to the floor as Dilora talked. A hint of a smile played upon his lips as he remembered his happier days. But it only compounded the hurt as his last memories of his parents came crashing back on him. "I need to find out what happened to them." Really that was a bad choice of words. He knew exactly what had happened, just not why, nor who had done it. "It wasn't an accident, no matter what everyone said." It didn't matter how inept a smith was, he wouldn't accidently fall into the forge . And his wife wouldn't accidently get molten silver all over her face.

 

Esy leaned back against a wall, eyes closed, fighting back tears of anger. That last image haunted his dreams too often. "I want to find out who did it, and why. They never did anything to deserve ... to be ..." He trailed off, not wanting to finish. "If you know anything about what happened, heard any rumors, anything that could point me in the right direction ... please ..." He hoped against all odds that she could help him. It was all he'd dreamed of since that awful day. When he didn't have nightmares, he dreamed about what he'd do to the person responsible for his ruined life. A dream that slipped further and further away each day.

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

“I believe you.”

 

Simple words were easily dismissed, but they affected Dilora. She wished she could do more to help the lad, but there wasn’t much else she could do. A few of her contacts might have some information though, so Dilora vowed to send a message bird off at the first opportunity, asking for discreet enquiries to be made and any findings reported back to her. She had a few trusted people that would pass on messages for her, and it was a worthy cause. Rising to her feet, Dilora crossed over to him and put an arm around him, drawing him to her.

 

“I don’t know of anything off-hand, but I keep my eyes and ears open you know. If I know where you are I can get messages to you if I find anything.” The hug continued a little longer, until an idea occurred to Dilora. “You are also a smith?”

 

He nodded. Good. Her provisions were waiting to be collected from a grocer’s shop not far down the road. Sacks of flour, beans and a few joints of cured meats needed collecting and stowing in some of the myriad cupboards of her wagon before she set off again, else it would be down to foraging and hunting whatever she could find for food. A wheel of cheese she had taken a particular fancy to would have to be left behind unless she could find something to trade for it. Oh well, maybe just a small wedge? He could fetch the trail supplies easily – he looked to have broad shoulders and some strength in his back. And hard work would not be unrewarded. This was in addition to what she had in mind though.

 

“I’m going to need a good supplier of nails and needles, and possibly cutlery. I used to get them from your father, but not a single smith in the area makes knives and forks like he did.” And a grocer would appreciate some good knives… “Would you mind making me some? I have coin to pay with, and if I am to write letters to ask about your family, I have some chores you could do for me that would save me the time I need to write them.” She hoped he would go for it. She needed the nails and needles; she wanted the cheese. And she wanted to help him, of course. As a peddler, Dilora often relied on the kindness of strangers, but tinged with the caution of experiencing having had the wool pulled over her eyes a few times. As much as she didn’t like to remember them, they had shaped her pretty well. “What do you say?”

[Arath Faringal]

Being hugged wasn't something Esyndor had been expecting. He tensed at first, unsure and uncomfortable. But he eventually relaxed. It felt ... good. Safe.

 

As he listened to Dilora's proposition, his heart fell a little. Make nails, needles, knives ... he'd need a forge and that was impossible for him now. He shook his head slowly. "I can do any chores you need done, but smithing ... I can't." Her raised eyebrow suggested that he explain himself quickly. "If I had any way at all to do it I wouldn't be living like I do. I have no forge, and no way to get one. There was nothing left of my father's. And I can't work with any of the smiths in the city. Several months ago I angered Lord Thailar, someone who did regular business with my father. I was sure he could help me but he insisted on not seeing me. I finally confronted him and now ... no smith within fifty miles of Caemlyn will take me on. No smith, no tanner, no merchant ... anywhere that I could find work."

 

Looking down at the floor he thought for a moment. "I do know where you can get a good price on those things though. I can't work with him, but I know someone who is willing to help me out at times." He shrugged. Until he could get out of Caemlyn and start his life over it was the best he could do. Light willing he could find out the truth quickly and move on.

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

“No one will take you on?” The lad shook his head, and Dilora’s heart went out to him. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you went to fetch the provisions I have asked for at the grocer’s shop and then to return them here, and there’d be coin for the trouble.” It was the least she could do. She doubted his answers lay in Caemlyn, though. The nobles here were too … settled, and far less likely to divulge information, particularly if he had managed to get into one of their bad books somehow.

 

Where could he go though if not remaining in Caemlyn? If his answers did not lie here, he’d have to go and try elsewhere, or he would eventually be eaten by his own drive. Cairhien? No, the place was far too political to search for a single piece of information. She’d not send him there unless she had some hard evidence and a name to send him to. If he went to the wrong person, they’d likely try and use him for some sort of Great Game ploy, and he did not deserve that. She wouldn’t want it to happen to her, so she wouldn’t let it happen to someone else.

 

Dilora’s eyes widened as the perfect suggestion came to mind. There was always the chance she was sending him on a wild goose chase, but she had to try. Murandy. Oft times she had been told and had experienced all the feuds between the nobles, and it seemed to be the best place for him to begin his search. And a battlefield would always have need of people to repair armour, or replace helms or weapons…

 

“I remember a wise man told me once that sometimes you have to take a step away from the problem so you can see it better.” It had been the friendly blacksmith – most likely this lad’s father, trying to convince her not to give up peddling because people in the more rural areas would not give a female peddler a chance. She had fought, and overcame the problem, but she couldn’t have done it without those words.

 

“I know for a fact that you will be lucky indeed to find anything that might help you here. If the nobles are so against you to prevent you getting work here, then they will be most careful to not let any information slip that might provoke you into action.” Unless, of course, one of them had wanted to discredit another house, but that course of action seemed more Cairhienin than Andoran. No, the more likely reason was that they just wanted rid of any mention of the problem, and if it meant driving him out like a rat then they would not hesitate to do so. It was a cruel way of doing it though; depriving a man of the peace of knowing about his family, and a livelihood.

 

“You should try going to somewhere like Murandy – they like to talk a lot there, and what with the feuds, I’d imagine they’re always looking for people. Plus, they could know what is happening in their neighbour country. It is certainly an avenue to go down.” Dilora straightened a lock of hair that had fallen in front of her ear. Her stomach was rumbling again, in spite of the bacon sandwich, and she wanted something to drink before she set off. A sweet smile appeared. “Now then, how about fetching me those provisions?”

[Arath Faringal]

Murandy? It was not something he had ever thought of before. He knew he would have to leave Caemlyn eventually, for a time anyway, but Murandy? Esyndor's knowledge of the country was limited. He knew that compared to Andor, the situation was more fragile.

 

“Now then, how about fetching me those provisions?”

 

Snapping out of his thoughts, Esy nodded in agreement. In short order he was off with a list and a small quantity of coin. Beans, flour, meat... He reviewed the list of things he was supposed to pick up from just down the street. He paused for a moment when he saw the cheese on the list. Not because it was an odd item, but because the quantity had been scratched out several times, and in the end had been left off completely. Shaking his head he continued down the road. This shouldn't take long at all.

 

***

 

Half an hour later, Esy was rubbing his painful shoulder after depositing the last bags, one of beans and the other full of cured meat and a quarter of a cheese wheel, next to the wagon. Thoughts of leaving still tumbled around in his head. Murandy ... should I do it? With a sigh he picked up the bags again and with a quick knock, pushed open the door. "Where do you want me to put all of this?" He would have to ask her more about Murandy later.

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

My dear old friends,

 

I know I don’t ask often for favours, but I would ask that you keep your eyes and ears open for me in the matters of Andoran silverware. I’m looking for an especially exquisite piece – a dagger – with a lovely engraving in the hilt the same as mine. The same forge, a blade with a history of cutting things, will have made it and I would like to contact the owner so we can potentially reunite old friends.

 

It is quite important to me, so please look high and low. You know how to contact me if you need to.

 

Thank you again, dear friends, for helping to indulge a woman’s whim.

 

He was a quick worker, she had to give him that. Dilora had barely had time to write out a quick letter as she had promised, and as soon as she could find a bird to carry it at a courier-post along the way, she would do, but he was back within a half an hour. The provisions she had ordered were sitting outside her wagon as she signed her name, Dilora Fashelle, Peddler, at the bottom and rolled it up into a little tube. Tying it with a piece of blue ribbon, she left it on the side until she could do something about it, and tidied pen and ink away.

 

The letter contained several words that only people that knew her would recognise. Andoran silverware was an old one. That phrase meant “Andoran nobility” without a doubt – something shiny, prone to tarnish and needs frequent polishing to keep its lustre. Referring to the blade and how it was created at the same forge would use Dilora’s dagger as the sister-blade to the one she searched, and those she had sent the letter too would know where she had acquired the dagger. She was proud of it, and couldn’t help but show it off when she passed a fellow peddler on the road, or in a tavern. Which made the phrase “reunite old friends” a lot easier to understand because it implied that Dilora needed to talk to the owner.

 

Asking them to look high and low was a tacit instruction to ignore neither the nobility nor the commons.

 

“Oh, just put it in the large cupboard by the door, would you?” She dug deep into her belt pouch and pulled out a small sack of coins. Counting out three Andoran silver pennies, Dilora looked at him with a curious expression on her face. “I really appreciate you getting those for me. I’m not as strong as you are.”

 

“Did you consider Murandy?

[Arath Faringal]

Esy's mind raced as he slid the food stuffs into the cupboards. In Murandy he'd have a chance to gather himself together, maybe find some sort of lead. But on the other hand, if he removed himself from the area he risked losing everything.

 

Losing everything ... what have I got to lose? When it came right down to it, there was nothing but an attachment to his home. An attachment that had been burned away a year ago. Slowly closing the cupboard door, Esy looked thoughfully at the floor for a long moment. "Murandy ..." He took a deep breath and nodded. "I have nothing to gain by staying here. At the very least I can start over again there." He looked up at Dilora. "Do you really think I can find out something there?" Not that it really mattered. With even the possiblity of a better life, or a hint of a lead in front of him, he had to take the opportunity.

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

“Oh yes, I really do.” She nodded emphatically, swinging some more strands of her dark hair into her face. Clearing them irritably, she noted that traces of her morning-head still lingered. No more ale for me for a while! “If you don’t have any joy amongst the nobles (and I don’t think you’ll have any problem there) you’ll be able to find work. I mean, have you ever heard of feuding people that didn’t need knives or armour?” Unconsciously, her hand strayed to the hilt of her dagger.

 

“To be honest with you, I’ve always had a thing for Murandian lace. If it isn’t too much trouble, would you mind a little company for the trip?” Big brown eyes regarded him earnestly. Her innocent face was hard to ignore at the best of times, and given his options, he could hardly refuse her. Well, he could always walk.

 

“I have a few contacts in Murandy.” Dilora reached for pen and ink, and a scrap of parchment before scribbling a name down in her semi-tidy handwriting. “He isn’t a nobleman, but he does have contacts in high places, and he owes me a favour.” Ah, yes, Birkin. Dilora remembered him well. She had managed to find a crystal decanter and a small barrel of a rather fine brandy, and he had been effusive in his praise, but reluctant to give her anything other than a rather sloppy kiss on the cheek for recompense. She had wheedled a favour out of him, and now intended to redeem it. “You’ll find him on the edge of Lugard, working as a groom.” She folded the note and held it out to him, the other hand on her hip. “If you take the paper, I take you along with me. I like you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

[Arath Faringal]

Esy hesitated a moment, hand outstretched to take the paper. “If you take the paper, I take you along with me. I like you. I want to make sure you’re okay.” Something in her tone made him wary. Almost as if he needed her permission to go to Murandy. She wasn't trying to manipulate him ... was she? Her brown eyes felt friendly enough though ... light he was paranoid these days. Calmly reaching forward he plucked the note from her hand. "Thankyou," he said with a slight bow. "It will be a pleasure to accompany you to Murandy." With a smile he added, "I don't know the way anyway."

 

He looked down at the note in his hand. Resisting the urge to unfold it immediately, he stuffed it into his belt pouch. He would have plenty of time to look at it in the journey to come. And now he wouldn't have to face the road alone. For the next while anyway, he had a friend. A friend that looked at him like a wounded puppy, but a friend nonetheless. He wished that he had a way to repay her. Maybe he could repair the ragged sheath for her belt knife? He'd have plenty of time on the trip for that as well.

 

Standing up straight again he asked, "Do you need anything else done here? Anything at all? I'm in your debt." Immediately after the words left his mouth he fought to surpress a grin. His father had always said that those were the worst words you could say to a woman. She'd always find a way to make you pay her back. But Esy was willing to do so. Especially if this worked.

[Winter Mist]

~Dilora~

 

Fancy stating he was in her debt like that! Well, well, well. That would bear remembering a ways down the road when times got a little tough. If he managed to get in with the nobility, the lad would be a useful contact for information or acquiring rare items for sale in other parts of the world, and if he became a blacksmith he would still be useful for odds and ends and cutlery. As for anything that she needed right now … there were only two things on her mind, really. One was for a new lock and key for one of her strongboxes and the second was for the scabbard to her dagger to be repaired. Surely a blacksmith would have been trained in mending leather tack, so in theory he would know how to sew two simple pieces of leather together. Dilora wondered why she had not done it herself, but every time she had reflected on it, she remembered how terrible her needlework was, and vowed to find someone else to do it instead.

 

She threw a bag of coin to him. “For starters, take this coin and pay the innkeeper for the room in the stable, and then we’ll make tracks. Along the road we’ll get you some new clothes so you can pass for someone well-to-do, and you can have a bath - I’ll not watch, of course, but you can’t turn up to a prospective employer looking like that. They’d never take you seriously.” Dilora smiled at him. “Then, when we’re on our way, would you be so good as to have a look at my scabbard? The leather is coming apart at the seams again, and I’m terrible with a needle.”

[Arath Faringal]

Esy looked down at the bag in his hand. His father was right. Bad words to say to any woman, especially one you did owe. Fighting back the grin he quickly exited the wagon to pay the innkeeper. His father had always been full of wise words when his mother wasn't around.

 

A few minutes later he finished speaking with the innkeeper, settling Dilora's bill and informing her that he wouldn't be around any longer. She seemed almost ... disappointed ... to hear that he was leaving. Then she grimaced as Clara walked out into the common room and flashed him a flirty smile. Maybe not that disappointed. Cutting a hasty retreat, he returned to the stables and helped ready the wagon for departure. When asked again about the dagger sheath, he nodded. "Not a problem. If you have the materials, I can fix it good as new."

 

After stowing the last few things in the wagon and making sure that the horse was secured to it, Esyndor stood at the stable doors, looking out on the city that had been his home ... or my prison ... for the last year. So this was it. He was leaving the country of his birth, and who knew when, or if, he would return? Standing aside so the wagon could rumble through, he sighed. Light send his luck was better elsewhere.