Lady Agnes let herself out of her suite and carefully locked the door behind her. From the exterior her suite was indistinguishable from the other suites lining the west corridor. She tucked the key into her bodice and walked slowly down the hall toward the back stairs that led to the servant's wing and the kitchen. Her silken skirt and starched petticoat rustled and hissed as she walked.

She descended the back stairs deliberately, with the elegance a queen might affect upon entering her throne room. Lady Agnes was the undisputed ruler of all she surveyed inside the walls of the Arch Duchess. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she grasped her gold headed cane firmly and paced regally through the small staff dining room into the bustle of the kitchen. Junia, the Chef, looked up and winked at her, but did not stop what she was doing.

Agnes passed through the spacious and well equipped kitchen and into the dining room proper. It was early; no patrons were seated, but the Maitre d’, Richard, stopped lecturing his fleet of waiters and turned to greet her.

Agnes listened to him attentively with a small smile on her lips. Richard had worked for her since the first day the Arch Duchess opened. They understood each other well. They exchanged a few words and Agnes started for the French doors leading into the entry hall. As she touched the door knob she heard Richard call her.

“Ma’am, if you are going to the tavern,” he crossed the room swiftly and spoke in a quieter voice, “I think you should be made aware that three of your nieces and nephews are there with their spouses.” His voice betrayed not hint of familiarity, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

Agnes gripped her cane tighter and stamped it against the polished floor.

“Damn and blast,” she cursed under her breath. “Impudent buzzards! Crows flocking to the battlefield before the battle is lost!” She stamped her cane again.

Dorian slammed the silvered brush onto the crednza, his chainmail making a slight noise at his movements. The man looked at himself in the mirror. His perfectly manicured hair, his well cleaned overclothes and tailored armor all in place. his green eyes staring back at him made him look away to the window.

The sound of the front door opening from below made him focus on something else for a moment. Then reality rushed back to slap him in the face. Dorian turned from the mirror with a resigned sigh. His spurs clicked into the washed and stained wood floor as he crossed the room and grabbed his cloak.

Each movement was measured, practiced and performed in city to city, inn to inn. Everytime he stayed in a place, he had gone through the same regiment. Such was the life of a soldier.

Dorian closed the cloak clasp and moved out of the door to his stately room. His silvered spurs clicked on the wood floor right before each fine-leathered footfall. He reached the stairs and adjusted his collar in his reflection in one of the lanterns on the wall and descended.

Dorian moved across the mainroom as any military man would, who entered a room with strangers. Chest up and out, head level, eyes ahead. He moved as he was taught, to command any room he entered. out of the corner of his eye he spotted two others talking.

"Good morning to you both. Well met." Dorian spoke. sincerity was in the words, butt hey were mechanical to him. something said out of habit instead of feelings.

How he hated the knighthood.

Lady Agnes hesitated in the hallway. Either she had to confront the rabble of hungry heirs or she could be elusive and return to her suite. Jingling spurs attracted her attention. A stern faced knight descended the stairs and nodded gravely at her. He turned to his left and passed through the French doors into the saloon.

Chest up and out, head level, eyes ahead, the knight entered the saloon. He nodded to two other patrons who were in close conversation. "Good morning to you both. Well met." With measured dignity he walked straight to the bar.

Aheem deftly flicked a cocktail napkin down in front of the knight. "How may I serve you, Sir?"

Aheem's melodious voice surprised the knight with its deep resonance. A Calishite, the knight thought, though the barkeeper's accent was slight. "Spiced peach water, if you please."

Aheem was a picture of grace as he served. He watched the knight without seeming to, taking in the details of the man's uniform. The Derluskian insignia on the clasp of the knight's cloak did not escape his attention. Ahem was well schooled in keeping his thoughts from showing on his face.

Lady Agnes followed the knight's progress with her sharp eyes. There goes a man unhappy with his state in life unless I miss my guess, she thought.

The knight's passage made up her mind and she followed him into the saloon. She was immediately mobbed by her unctious kin, but she quelled them with stern looks and took a seat in one of the secluded booths near the long bar. Aheem saw her and nodded slightly. Within seconds her favorite elven wine was delivered to her in a crystal flute reserved for her use.

Dorian smiled to the woman, as she passed, then leaned on the bar, taking the drink from the barkeep. The keep was well suited to his position. If information is power, Barkeeps around the world would run their city as kings. Dorian knew if anyone had the information he sought, it'd be a barkeep. He hoped it'd be the one in front of him.

"May I ask your name fine sir?" Dorian spoke, keeping his station and status in his mind.

"Aheem, sir." The barkeep replied with s cordial smile and a slight respectful half salute.

Dorian liked the cut of this man's jib. He held back so much it was almost as if he reveled in his position behind the bar, knowing things others had no clue about. Dorian took a slow drink from his glass. Placing it on the bartop, he used his palm side of his index finger to run down the length of his own jawline.

Dorian looked pensively at his glass. He swirled the waer around inside the glass as he looked from the glass to Aheem.After a bit, he sippd it and looked down to the contents.

"Cities, are like glasses. The juice inside could represent, say... the activity within the city. Dorian looked up as he softly spoke, making sure Aheem was watching, the knight's head never moving, but his eyes looked to ahem from an angle. Once he saw he had Aheem's attention, Dorian continued.

"Activity. Business deals, Auctions, decisions, proposals, even down to a man buying a glass of fruit flavored water. All just 'juice' in a glass." Dorian looked up and straightened his neck, looking at the tender, not imposing but just plainly.

"If a man, say, my finger here, were to merely stand near such...activity..." Dorian's clean and manicured pinky touched the surface of the 'activity' and brought up a small droplett of juice flavored water. Then the man would come out with some activity of his own. May it be political or governmental or what have you." Dorian tapped his finger softly on the edge of the glass, allowing the droplet to fall back into the glass. His eyes looked back to Ahem.

"Would such an important keeper of all things unknown, have such information as to where a man could..'be such a finger?' good sir, Aheem?" Dorian let his roundabout way of asking the tender for the heartbeat of the city's political hot zones sink in as he sipped his water again.

Aheem continued polishing a glass with his immaculate bar towel for a long moment after the knight asked his question. If there was a flicker of amusement in his black eyes, it was so slight that the knight did not see it.

"Indeed, sir. I might be able to put you in the way of some information." Aheem was a good judge of men and women ... and of ambition. The stolid looking individual before him had all the earmarks of a man who would interest Lady Agnes.

"If I might suggest, sir, you could visit with the lady in that booth She is a knowledgeable woman."

With a deft flick of his wrist, Aheem produced a gleaming coin seemingly out of thin air. With a slight smile he handed it to the knight. "Give her this token."

The coin was their signal that Aheem had reached certain conclusions about the knight and Lady Agnes would respond accordingly.

Mari walked down Academy Way toward the Arch Duchess Inn where she had already reserved a room. As she neared the Inn Pooka's presence in her mind strengthened. He was purring and trying not to laugh.

Mari ruefully looked down at herself. She thought she might try side entrance to the Inn, hoping there would be fewer people to see her disheveled and beaten appearance. The side entrance was also closer to the bar and she wanted a drink very much. Accordingly she turned the corner on Sentinel and entered the inn.

She had been partially right, the bar was closer, but there were plenty of people, guests and staff to notice her. A few of them drew away from her with haughty sniffs. She closed her eyes briefly and then strode toward the side door of the bar. Or, more correctly, she limped toward the side door.

The bartender, his name was Aheem she seemed to recall, raised his eyebrows at the sight of her. She quickly ordered a straight shot of dwarven whiskey and then advised Aheem that she would like the bottle sent to her room along with a tub and hot water for a bath. She met Aheem's dark eyes steadily as she spoke, daring him to laugh.

Mari downed her whiskey in one gulp and turned on her heel and left seeking her room on the upper story. When she pushed open the door to her room, Pooka came to meet her and twined about her legs. He was not laughing now. He was all purring solicitude. Mari scooped his large body up and buried her bruised face in his fur. He licked her cheek carefully with his raspy tongue.

Joren bowed as the new patron--a half-elf woman, and foreign by the looks of her dusty, well-used leathers--went up to her room. If she noticed the unassuming young human man--with his shoulder-length blond-brown hair and very blue eyes--standing near the stairs, blankets over his arm, she gave no sign.

He watched her climb for up the steps, tracing her progress with his eyes. She wore breeches, so there was no impropriety there, which clung very well to her shapely, muscular legs. Joren stared hard at the way her legs moved--swaying with the kind of cat-like grace only accomplished woodsmen and women might acquire. He was memorizing the image, filing it away for use later.

A discrete "hem" caught his attention, and he looked over to the part of the bar that served as a deck. Rick Bybee, the head steward, waved him over.

"I trust your pay is sufficient for you to work, lad?" he said to Joren.

"Aye, Master Bybee," said Joren, his voice quite polite. Bybee had that way about him, so all the servants at the Dutchess were quite used to it. New hires found themselves driven away or reduced to tears by the subtle condescension, but Joren had always been a strong one. He just distanced his mind from his ears and plied the old "nod-and-murmur" trick.

"Saw you the Lady Leafstrider, our new guest?"

"Aye, Master Bybee."

"Excellent. The lady has requested a bath, though--" Here his face took on a "why-oh-why" character--"no one seems to have asked when she'd like it."

"I'll go see, then," he said. He was thinking of the half-elf woman--how much more interesting she was than most of the folk who came into the Dutchess. Though he had indeed taken quite a few notes of the knightly man sitting at the bar--how well that would sound . . .

"See that you do. And take these--" Bybee handed Joren an open bottle of whiskey and something warm wrapped in a cloth. A chocolate tart, if he did not miss his guess. "The whiskey she has asked be delivered, and the tart--if she seems displeased, it is with our compliments. If she seems pleased, it is an apology for not asking when she wanted her bath. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Joren said. He had a flawless memory for these things--so long as he paid attention in the first place. His wandering imagination had followed the half-elf up the stairs, though not behind her door, of course. The servants at the Dutchess were discrete and proper, even in their minds.

"The Green Room, then," said Bybee, and smiled at new guests that were approaching. Joren was completely forgotten.

Joren took the drink and tart and climbed the stairs toward the green room. As he did, his mind pondered what sorts of colorful, romantic adventures she must have had that led her to this place--what sorts of fantastic lands she must have seen. His mind was already writing an imaginary story for her--a long lost love she had sought for many years, being alone and friendless in a foreign land, perhaps the victim of a dreaded, ancient curse.

He heard a low growling sound inside her room and froze outside her door, his hand halfway raised to knock. A voice--hers, he thought--spoke quickly in a language he did not know. It sounded like Elvish.

"Your servant, lady," he called. He felt chilled at the sound of an animal behind her door--how could a beast have found its way in here? "If it--if it please you to open your door. I am Joren, and I have brought your drink."

Around the same time that the ranger made her entrance a man came in... which may sound redundant as there is always a man coming or going out a tavern. But this was not just any man. Of course, some wise men would argue that no man is any man, but that is not for us to decide now. Suffice to say, without falling down the endless spiral of philosophical debates on human condition, that this man was different from all the others for reasons which will soon become obvious.

His clothing was lavish and clearly southern, perhaps Calishite or Halruaan. He had a black turban with a large coloured feather. A heavy black robe adorned with all sorts of jewelry smothered him but it did not seem to hinder the man's movement in any way. He gently caressed his rather long, grey beard as he looked around the tavern.

This man was accompanied by two other men who, again, were not like any other men... and one of them, in fact, was a woman. The man, the other man and the woman walked without exchanging a single word between them to one of the tables. The two that accompanied the turbaned man trailed some three feet behind him like they were an escort of sorts. When he took a seat, they did not join, but stood at his side behind the chair.

The man looked impatient as he waited.

A few moments later, the tavern door swung open and at first none could be seen entering but then a silhouette began to take shape. Was it simply the dark outside, or was this man... not like any other? Perhaps even more so than the other three. Those who were paying attention to the door for whatever reason could swear that the man appeared only after the door began to close. Or... perhaps it was only the drinking, and the dark...and the drinking again.

This man looked like he was a Bedine warrior who'd just returned from the desert and had brought booty with him as well- he was carrying a small, ornate box with him. Brown and black were the main colours of his garb, the latter being dominant. A brown sash was tied around his waist and another across his chest and left shoulder. The one on his waist concealed a deadly blade- its hilt, strangely, looked Eastern, like that of a samurai or ninja. A similar hilt stuck out from under his heavy brown cloak, over his left shoulder.

He walked over to the turbaned man's table but, unlike his escort, this desert warrior took a seat across from him. No words were exchanged. Quietly, the newcommer slid the box across the table. The other looked amused. He opened it and shook with a sudden chill but the smile did not leave his face.

"It is done, then?"

The other nodded in return. To the untrained eye it might have seemed that he was wearing a hood, but now at the candle's light it was clear that this was not so... but from the man's complexion, it is easy to understand why one would be mislead so. His visage was a dark brown and his short hair black. It was of a strange fashion... from the corners of his forehead a curved line was shaved on each side in the inch-long hair and another pair just above the ears.

"Excellent."

Again, his peer did not speak, but slid another object across the table, a sword this time.

"No, you may keep that. As a gift... for a job well done."

"I would rather not." said the dark warrior "This weapon is of such evil it would have utterly consumed me had I wielded it any longer than I did." His speech betrayed no accent and the harsh, hoarse voice was neither too low nor too sharp.

"But it served its purpose, yes?"

"Without it... we may not have been having this conversation."

"So?" He offered the weapon with both hands but the warrior refused it with a disgusted grimace. "As you wish. There is some business I would discuss with you."

"Of course."

The man with the turban handed him a parchment in reply and waited as he read it.

Aheem watched the exchange between the men at the table without seeming to. He had been instantly alert when they had entered. Though patrons from foreign lands were frequent visitors at the Arch Duchess, there was a manner about these men that put him on guard. The presence of the men he assumed to be bodyguards made him wary.

He cast a sideways glance at Lady Agnes and caught her eyes. The Lady had already seen the exchange. She flicked her fingers negligently on the tabletop and Aheem turned away. It was clear Lady Agnes was not alarmed and Aheem respected her judgment. She was as sharp now as she had ever been in her youth and her former position on the Coin ensured that she was aware of every underground pulse in Gothmoor.

Aheem would continue to observe the men covertly.

************

Pooka growled low and deep, alerting Mari to the presence of someone outside her door. She held out a calming hand toward him and spoke quietly, but she drew her sword with her other hand.

She had been beaten and humiliated all day. She was hardly in the mood … Mari flushed though the color hardly showed under her bruises

"Your servant, lady," a man’s voice said. "If it--if it please you to open your door. I am Joren, and I have brought your drink."

She was being ridiculous. Ma’tul would hardly come to her room at the Arch Duchess to harass her. On the other hand she had no idea what that diabolical man might do! Mari lowered the point of her sword, but she did not put it away.

She braced her foot against the inside of the door so that it could not be flung inward without resistance and then eased it open a crack. She was looking into the face of a startled young man.

“I h-have b-brought your drink,” he stammered, staring at her. Gods what happened to her? “A-re you hurt?” Of course she's hurt! One look at her … “I-is there s-something I can do for you?”

“Give me the bottle, “ Mari snapped, “and where is my bath?” She reached out to grab for the bottle and Pooka growled and stepped in front of his mistress.

Joran jumped back a pace and almost turned to flee. But there had to be a story here … He gulped. “I was sent to ask when you wanted your bath drawn,” he managed to say and also to … to apologize for … for no one asking when you came in.” His voice trailed off.

Those weren’t his exact instructions, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow the maitre d’s instructions. They seemed so cold and impersonal in the light of this woman’s battered face.

Mari took a deep breath. She had realized what a frightful sight she must be. She eased her sword back into its scabbard and opened the door wider. She tried to smile at Joren, but it came out so lopsidedly that it was more of a grimace.

“Sorry,” she said. “Bad day.”

Wordlessly Joren proffered the tart which brought a touch of warmth to Mari’s eyes. Now that she was looking at the lad in a calmer light she noticed that he seemed quite young and very ill at ease.

Well that was no wonder. She must look like yesterday’s dog’s dinner. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gestured for him to enter with the bottle and his silly tart.

“As you may be able to surmise, Joren, I’d like the bath immediately.” Her voice was light and friendly with a hint of humor that took away any unintentional tartness. Pooka sat at her feet, tail curled around his paws and gazed lazily into the distance.

Dorian nodded his thanks to the bartender and moved with his waterglass to a standing table near the window. He absently moved his hair out of his collar and onto the ack of his armor, beginning to pull nd kink next to the back of his neck. Dorian sighed emphatically, as boredom began to set in hours earlier than usual.

His eyes watched two children playing in the street. Fineries and shoes made this month adorned their bodies, marking them for noble children. A third child also watched the two, from the opposite side of the street. His unkept hair and dirty leathers told Dorian more than watching the boy put sacks of wheat onto his father's merchant wagon. The boy paused and smiled briefly as he watched the children. Dorian sighed again and sipped his water.

"Oh son, Oh do I know your pain. Work before play. Work instead of play. Such is the way for us." The knight thought to himself.

The knight moved away from the window and moved over to the table, where the woman sat. He gave the Bartender another look and got a nod in return, telling Dorian he picked the correct "woman". He approached slowly, and with mechanical ease, he put his smile up he used to greet royalty and dignitaries.

"Pardon me, Might I sit and have a few words with you?" Dorian spoke in a light tone, looking to the woman.