By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (33 page)

         The Briganston line was not what it once
had been; the men were not particularly skilled nor brave, and relied on their
reputation and money alone, unlike the Stormweathers, who were respected not
only for their illustrious past, but for their present skill-at-arms. 
Throughout the world, if one were to ask a room full of fighting men who the
Stormweathers were, at least half would know, and a handful, at least, would
have studied at one of their academies.

         Though the younger Briganstons started
the encounter, the Stormweathers quickly finished it in a flurry of flashing
fists.  They returned to their ladies and escorted them from the hall:  the
only
proper
thing to do.  Once outside, Selric thought his life forfeit
when his grandfather glared at him.  “Not another two years at sea?” he
worried.  Just then, Selric remembered Angelique and he looked back:  while the
Briganstons fixed their appearances, trying to regain lost respect at having
been beaten so soundly, Angelique stood alone, smiling and waving farewell to
him.  Selric shook his head in disbelief and smiled.  “Quite a girl,” he
thought.  When he turned to apologize to his family, his grandfather spoke
without hesitation.

         “Well, wasn’t that something!  I remember
it was twenty and some years ago...my father was still alive and I still had
strength in these arms,” Helmric said with a rare smile, but rubbing his aging
limbs.  “Your father and his wife,
your
mother, Mendric...” Mendric
perked up while they waited for the carriages.  He loved to hear stories of his
real mother, which were nowadays very rare:  she was just a distant memory to
them all now.  Grandfather continued, “...we were all over at the Velling’s
place when old man Velling remarked how your mother’s dress was too short for such
an occasion; it was his daughter’s wedding, you see.”

         “Well,” Helmric continued, his tone
lively, his hands moving all about and his face aglow, “your mother, a hellion
she was, full of spirit, feigned spilling her drink and it went right down
inside his ceremonial breastplate.”  The two older Stormweathers laughed
uproariously, as Selric looked in disbelief at them.  He could not believe he
had escaped sure death at their hands. 

         “After jumping around and swearing every
foul oath you ever heard, he said one about your mother and, drunk as we all
were...the hour was late you see...a full-fledged brawl ensued.  Oh, what a
night.”  Helmric and Andric laughed, recalling memories held dear to their
hearts.  Selric caught his father staring absently at his eldest, a tear in his
eye and a slight smile on his face, clearly seeing his departed first wife in
his son.

         “Why don’t you women head back home and
let us gents go out on the town,” Grandfather said and the women did as
requested, climbing up into one of the waiting coaches, while the four men
walked out the gate and down into the city.

         “I am so sorry,” Selric whispered to
Fiona.  “You will be my guest at the very next affair, I promise,” he said,
kissing her on the lips before being dragged away by Mendric.

         Grandfather led them first to the
Bastion
,
a quiet, upper-class establishment.  Selric was a little awed by his own
family; they were proud, regal gentlemen of strong personality.  For once, he
could relate to the pomposity they often showed at the pride in their lineage. 
It had been years since so many Stormweather men strolled through the streets
of the city, not in carriages or in the halls of lords and kings.  This night
they walked amongst their kinsmen, looking to mingle and drink beside them.  Many
who knew them stood aside, watching as they passed with an air of greatness
seldom seen in that day.  This air could not be explained; simply seen and
felt.  Selric thought of himself as a child tagging along.  Then, without
conscious reason, he thought of Will.

         “Lords Stormweather,” the barman said,
sounding slightly thrilled.  “What’s your pleasure?”  The four men moved to the
bar and stood, the elders in the middle, Selric by his grandfather, Mendric by
his father.  Helmric was looking around curiously, his eyes prowling:  an eager
kind of suspicion as he looked for some excitement in the quiet room.

         “Whiskey for us all,” the patriarch said.

         “Yes, m’lord,” the barman said and
hurriedly fetched it.  He spoke as he poured them four generous glasses, noting
the elder man’s fiery look:  “M’lord, this isn’t going to be a Stormweather
night as has happened in the past?  Your look worries me slightly,” he said
looking up at the old man.  A grin slowly came to Helmric’s face then he smiled
and began to laugh, as did the other three Stormweathers.

         “Though it has started that way, good
man, you needn’t worry,” he said.

         “Well,” the barkeep sighed, “I
am
relieved.”

         “Good,” Grandfather said.  “It is not
your
tavern, so the losses won’t come from
your
pocket.”  The Stormweathers
laughed again and even the barkeep could not help but chuckle.

         “M’lord doesn’t remember me, but my name
is Nedlock Fosrin.”

         “Ned!” Helmric said, looking closer at
the middle-aged tender.  Then his eyes opened in recognition.  “Why, it
is
you.  Of course I remember.  How are you son?  I see you’re not working for the
Vorunns anymore, but then, no, I recall the reason.”  He vigorously shook Ned’s
hand.

         “No, m’lord.  I left shortly after you.”

         “What could you do?” Grandfather said
comically, his hands held out in sympathy.

         “What happened?” Mendric asked, smiling
in anticipation.

         “Oh, forgive my manners, or lack thereof,
more appropriately.  Young Ned, this is my son, I’m sure you remember, and
that’s his oldest son, Mendric, and the whelp here, is our youngest, Selric.” 
He took a large gulp and began sputtering violently. 

         Andric steadied his father.  “Father, are
you all right?” he asked, while grandfather laughed heartily.

         “Good whiskey,” Helmric said, gently
pushing his son away.  “I’m fine, boy.  Now, where was I?  Oh, yes.  Well,
during the brawl, which went from one end of the room to the other, you see,
smashing nearly everything to splinters, everyone seemed to be fighting
everyone.  Nobody really cared, it was all just a good time and nobody ever got
seriously hurt.  Well, hardly ever.  It seems that Ned here felled one of the
Vorunns, who had forgotten his own valet and took a swing at him.”  Grandfather
laughed.

         “The talk didn’t die down for weeks that
Sigurd Vorunn had been knocked unconscious by his own servant in
self-defense.”  All five of the men laughed, as did several other patrons who
had drifted near so that they could listen.  Grandfather looked about and
smiled at being the center of attention.  Then a serious look came to his
face.  “Wait!” he called, raising his hand.  “Drinks all around, Ned.  We need
a toast.”  Ned had the serving girls top off the drinks of the twenty-some
patrons while Helmric Stormweather waited patiently and silently.  “To Sigurd Vorunn,”
he then said, “who died defending his king in The Erulian War.  He was a good
man,” Helmric said, his glass raised.  The room grew silent, honored the toast
and drank.  The quiet was broken by a long satisfied sigh from the eldest
Stormweather.  “This whiskey is better on every drink.  What a development in
beverage.  Another!” he called.

         “Well, m’lord, if I may ask, why aren’t
you at the Briganstons?  You seem dressed for such an occasion.”  Ned filled
the Stormweather glasses again and Helmric motioned for him to deal for the
guests as well.  All four men laughed peremptorily and Helmric broke into the
story.  Selric beamed brightly with pride for his grandfather as he told how
Selric exhibited the fierceness, honor, and bravery that marked a Stormweather,
defending the honor of Lady Von Yelson.

         “Hopefully,” Ned said, “your fighting is
finished for the evening.  I like this job and I need to keep it.”  Helmric
gently insisted, if it could be called that from someone with so commanding a
personality, that Ned drink with him.  The barman lifted his glass
respectfully, smiled with a gleam of respect in his eye for the old gentleman
and drank his whiskey down.

         Grandfather turned to the crowd and told
stories that were humorous or valiant, or somewhere between for over an hour,
totally enthralling the patrons.  Not one customer left, and as new people
arrived, they gathered around to delight in the regal old man’s yarns.  It
could be seen where Selric got his flair for dramatic storytelling.  But Helmric
wanted to see more of the city, and have more of the city see his heirs, so he
called for a last round on the Stormweathers, toasted his young namesakes and
nonchalantly waved for Andric to pay his healthy tab:  Helmric had not carried
coinage in a decade.  Calling farewell, Helmric Stormweather passed through the
crowd and was patted on the back or merely touched much like a conquering hero
who has returned to his adoring countrymen.

         Dirk was out walking.  Fiona and Selric
were at the party, Melissa was working, and, of course, Cinder was out with a
gentleman.  Dirk had actually grown a little tired of his friends after
spending the last month exclusively with them, so he walked, alone, with no
particular destination in mind.  His feet carried him to a small house on
Crescent Street and he looked up, actually surprised to find out where he had
ended up.  Dirk sighed, shrugged to himself and mounted the steps, knocking
gently on the door.  A fairly attractive girl, somewhere near age twenty,
answered the door and her jaw fell open at the sight of him.

         “Wow!” she gasped unintentionally to
herself.  “Come in, sir,” she then said aloud.  “I’m Beatrice.  You’ve never
been here before have you?  I mean, you don’t want any particular girl?” she
asked hopefully.

         “Well, sort of,” Dirk replied.  “I
brought Tallow here one night.”

         “That figures,” she said in
disappointment.  “It’s that red hair, isn’t it?” she asked, running her fingers
through her thin blonde strands.  “She always finds handsome ones.”  Beatrice
turned away and yelled, “Tallow, customer,” then turned back to Dirk.  He
nearly blurted that he was not indeed a customer then realized that it was not
really important.  “Come on over here,” she said businesslike.  “Sit.  She’ll
be right down,” Beatrice pointed to a small couch.  No longer seeming upset,
she sat next to him, facing him at an angle.  She started touching him softly. 
Dirk was annoyed, but said nothing. 

         Tallow came down and looked at him as if
he’d risen from the grave.  Her face became a broad smile.  “Dirk!” she
exclaimed.  “What are you doing here?”

         “I came...I came to see you,” he fumbled
then he paused.  “I don’t know.  I walked and I ended up here.”  He stood up as
if realizing where he was, ready to leave, but unlike his other female friends
she did not approach and kiss him, but instead kept her distance.

         “That’s very nice,” Tallow said, waiting
to see what he wanted.  “When Vanna, that’s my roommate, is done, we can go
upstairs, if you’d like.”  He shrugged and nodded, thinking that that would be
as good a place to talk as any, deciding that he might as well stay since he
had apparently gone there for some reason, even though he did not know right
then what that reason had been.

         “You don’t want a threesome do you?  Free
of charge?” Beatrice asked, standing and taking his hand into her two small
ones.  Dirk looked puzzled, still in a daze at winding up at Tallow’s house. 
He was surprised that he even remembered her name.   But there it was, as clear
as day in his memory.  Then he snapped to his senses.

         “No,” he said, annoyed.  Beatrice
shrugged, smiled and bounced toward the stairs.

         “Let me know if you change your mind,
darlin’,” she called once out of sight, followed by the sound of a door
closing.  Tallow looked at him still.  She was definitely enamored, though Dirk
was too confused to see it.  He was the kind of man she had come to the city to
find almost two years ago, but “isn’t he every girl’s dream?” she thought with
an audible sigh.  He was strong, handsome and well-to-do.  He was kind,
thoughtful, and quiet, and seemed so smart to someone like her from the
country.  But now she knew she could never have him, or anyone like him; not
permanently.  When she turned to prostitution to survive, she ruined any chance
of ever getting a man like him.  Now all she wanted was to raise enough money
and courage to go crawling back home.

         “Hi,” Dirk said simply when he saw her
soft green eyes focused on him with the innocence of a child and the pain of
hard years.  Melissa was innocent, but a woman.  Tallow seemed just a child; a
soiled, disappointed and beleaguered child.  Delighting her was easy and would
make any man feel like a hero, the kind of satisfaction, like praise and
recognition, he had sought his whole life.

         “Hi,” she replied, barely audible.  She
sat down crossing her legs, away from Dirk, as if uncomfortable with him.  Dirk
did the same, without the crossing of the legs, and they sat on opposite ends
of the couch, silent for several minutes.