In the foyer of St. Precious, Talumus was met by a friend, Brother Giulious, the one who had detected the magic use near the Fellowship Way.
"Brother!" Giulious exclaimed, gesturing at Talumus' bloodstained nose. "Pray, what has happened?"
"The issue of stone use near the Fellowship Way is settled," Talumus told him.
Giulious backed off and stared at him skeptically. "Did you not tell me that it was you with the stones? "
"Half truth," Talumus admitted, and Giulious' eyes widened with shock.
"I sought the services of a woman down there," Talumus lied. "Yes, brother, I was weak of the flesh, as are we all."
Pious Giulious nodded and lifted his hand in a customary, though little used, Church sign: raising his hand perpendicular to his chest, lifting it to his brow, then sweeping it down and to one side, back again, and down and out to the other —the sign of the living tree.
"This woman was ill," Talumus went on, "a sickness of the loins, it seems. And so I allowed her to borrow a soul stone that she might heal —"
"A street whore who knows how to use the sacred gemstones?" Giulious asked incredulously.
Talumus only smiled. "Street whores know how to do many things," he replied with a mischievous grin; and simple embarrassment provided ample deflection of any suspicion. "I went back to retrieve my stone this night, but the woman had decided that it was too useful an item for her to relinquish."
"Brother Talumus!"
"She hit me," the monk explained.
"But you retrieved the stone?"
"Of course," Talumus lied, and he hoped that Giulious would not ask to see it!
But Giulious, whom the others at St. Precious often called "Giulious the innocent" was a trusting soul, and he only made the sign of the living tree again.
"I trust that you will hold confidence about this matter," Talumus bade him, "and say nothing at all about the detection of magic use near the Fellowship Way. Bishop De'Unnero is not enamored of me, and I need no more grief from him!"
Giulious smiled warmly at his friend. "You should repent," he scolded sincerely, "and should be more careful of the company you keep."
Talumus smiled at this man, whom he considered a dear friend.
Satisfied, Brother Giulious went to the task of helping Talumus clean up his face, chattering about how the whore did indeed seem possessed of other talents —particularly in the area of striking a man.
Talumus grunted now and then to make Giulious think he was actually listening, but in truth, his thoughts were far from that room, were back in the alley near the Fellowship Way. So very much to consider, and all of it more than a little unsettling.
"Yo, ye boy, bring the cup over!" the drunk yelled, and he lurched so forcefully in the direction of the battered cup lying on its side in the alley that he overbalanced, even from his sitting position, and tumbled down against the base of the wall.
Belli'mar Juraviel, looking very much a street waif, his face darkened with soot to disguise the distinctive angular elven features, his wings folded under a cloak —uncomfortably so!—glanced at the wanted item, but made no move to retrieve it.
"Ye hearin' me, b-boy?" the drunk stuttered, pulling himself to a sitting position again, and then —with great difficulty and using the wall as support every inch of the way—moving up to stand. "Ye get me the cup or I'll give ye a beatin'!"
Juraviel shook his head in disgust. This man represented the worst example of humanity the elf had ever seen —worse even than the three trappers he had met during his travels with Nightbird. And he knew that his elven kindred, scattered all about in strategic locations, were equally unimpressed, and probably growing much more impatient than he with this drunk's tiresome and troublesome rambling.
"Ye hear me, boy?" the drunk yelled more loudly, too loudly. He took a step forward.
Juraviel exploded into motion, spinning a kick that landed solidly against the man's loins, then jumping up —and inadvertently and instinctively trying to beat his wings for support—and how that hurt!—and landing a pair of solid punches on the man's face, sending him back hard against the building.
"Oh, but ye're up for some sport," sputtered the drunk, and he tried to push himself off the building.
But then he jerked weirdly —and Juraviel did, too—as a brick bounced off the side of the man's head and fell to the gutter. The drunk went down, out cold.
The elf looked up to see one of his kin standing on the edge of the roof.
"You may have killed him," Juraviel whispered harshly.
"And if not, and if he awakens and begins that unwelcome noise again, then surely I shall!" said the other elf. Juraviel recognized the voice to be that of Lady Dasslerond herself, and knew from her tone that she was hardly speaking idly.
With agility beyond that of the most dexterous human, the elven lady spun over the edge and slipped down the building's side, coming lightly to her feet beside Juraviel, who was bent over, checking the man to make sure he was still breathing.
"Has she returned?" Lady Dasslerond asked.
"She is inside, tending tables," Juraviel replied, "as Belster's wife."
"Belster's pregnant wife," Dasslerond remarked, "for any who would care to look closely enough."
Belli'mar Juraviel didn't disagree; Pony's condition was becoming more evident with each passing day.
"She dispatched that monk with ease and grace," Lady Dasslerond said cheerfully. Juraviel knew that she was offering this only for his benefit, only to make him understand that she was not truly angry with Jilseponie.
"Yet you fear the consequences of her having met with a man of the Abellican Church at this unsettled time," Juraviel replied.
"It was a dangerous ploy for the soldier woman to bring him," Lady Dasslerond explained.
"Do you fear the Abellican Church that much?" Juraviel asked.
"Not I, but your friend certainly should."
"Lady Dasslerond, too, by my guess," the observant Juraviel dared to reply.
To his relief, the lady of Andur'Blough Inninness did not argue. "I fear any humans who believe that their god sanctions their actions," she admitted. "And this Church has shown a propensity for making enemies of those who are different. Witness the plight of the Behrenese at the docks. Could the Touel'alfar expect any better treatment?"
"Would the Touel'alfar care?" Juraviel asked.
"We are more tied to the humans than we like to admit," Lady Dasslerond replied grimly.
Juraviel didn't understand; the only ties that he knew of, other than those with the rangers, were dealings with a few selected merchants, trading boggle for those goods the elves could not get in their valley. And all that was done in secrecy: anonymous drops of goods, without even most of the merchants understanding the true source of the wine.
"The war is ended," Lady Dasslerond explained. "And after every war, the humans inevitably expand their borders. They'll not go south, for the folk of Honce-the-Bear have no stomach for a war with the kingdom of Behren, despite the Bishop's actions against the dark-skinned humans here. Nor will they go north, where they would inevitably face the undesired prospect of angering the fierce Alpinadorans. And east lies the great sea."
"And west lies Andur'Blough Inninness," Juraviel reasoned.
"They are already too close, by my estimation, especially if their leadership becomes entrenched in the fanaticism and self-righteousness of the Abellican Church," Lady Dasslerond explained.
"But how to stop them, short of war?" asked Juraviel. "And we could not hope to win such a struggle against the human masses."
"It may be time to speak openly with the King of Honce-the-Bear," Lady Dasslerond said simply, the stunning declaration making Juraviel's knees go weak, "as it was in centuries past."
"Would the present human king even remember the Touel'alfar? " Juraviel asked. "Are we not merely fireside tales to him or songs for children?"
"If he does not remember, then he will learn the truth," Lady Dasslerond replied. "Or perhaps it will not come to that. Palmaris may prove to be the keystone to the Church's aspirations."
"And the King is on his way here, or soon will be, by all reports," Juraviel put in.
"And so is the Father Abbot," Lady Dasslerond reminded.
Juraviel knew that already, of course, but he winced anyway at hearing the words spoken.
"We came here to gather information," the lady said firmly. "The opportunity to do such will be greater when the powers of the kingdom gather before us. So fear not, Belli'mar Juraviel. These events are to the benefit of the Touel'alfar.
"And that," she added pointedly, staring hard at him, "is all that should matter to you."
Belli'mar Juraviel gave a low whistle and stared hard at the wall of the Fellowship Way. The road was about to get darker for his human friend Jilseponie, he knew, and it seemed as if there was little that he could do about it.
As soon as she donned her disguise and entered the common room of the Fellowship Way, Pony knew there had been some trouble. One of Belster's primary informants glanced her way, offered a slight nod, and then headed for the door, leaving a sour-looking Belster leaning on the bar. The place was not so crowded at this late hour, and so Pony went to her duties efficiently, thinking she would be able to speak privately with her co-conspirator soon enough.
It didn't happen that way, as more and more people filtered into the Fellowship Way, many of them part of the underground network, seeking information, Pony realized. That only confirmed for her that something troubling had indeed occurred.
Finally, at halfway between midnight and dawn, the last of the patrons staggered out of the tavern, leaving Pony alone with Belster and Dainsey.
"A fight at the docks," Belster offered before the obviously curious
Pony even had the chance to ask. "A band of soldiers, drunk by all reports, wandered down to the docks in search of some fun at the expense of the Behrenese."
"Beatin' a child!" an outraged Dainsey interjected. "Ye're callin' that fun?"
"I'm calling it nothing but trouble," Belster corrected angrily. "And they weren't beating the lad —a young man more than a child—but just pushing him about."
"And askin' for what they got, by me own measure," said an obstinate Dainsey.
"The other Behrenese came to the boy's aid? " Pony asked.
"A dozen o' them," Belster confirmed, "matching the soldier's fists with clubs."
"Beat 'em good," Dainsey muttered. "And left 'em on the docks, one near to dyin', though we've heard that the monks saved him. Pity."
"Blessing, ye mean," Belster shot back. "As it's standing, there's a thousand soldiers moving near to the docks, or meaning to with the morning light."
"They'll not likely find a single Behrenese waiting for them," Pony reasoned.
"That'd be a wise choice," Belster grimly replied.
"Ah, but it'll blow past like a summer storm, and no damage done," Dainsey said hopefully, slapping a rag against a tabletop, wiping it briskly. "Short memories, and shorter still when men been takin' o' the bottle."
"More likely, the Bishop will find a scapegoat or two and hang them in the public square," Belster reasoned. "How is your Captain Al'u'met to like that? If the man is still about, I mean."
That caught Pony as more than a little curious. "Still about?" she echoed.
"Al'u'met's boat put out to the water and put up sail," Belster explained, "heading south down the river, so it's said."
Pony mulled that over for a moment. It seemed strange to her that Al'u'met would leave without informing her, so what had sent him on his way? To beg audience in the court at Ursal, perhaps, or to find allies along the towns south of Palmaris? There were rumors floating about town that the King planned to visit. Did Al'u'met plan to intercept him?
"Al'u'met will return soon enough," she decided, for she knew that the man would never desert his kin. "And as to this supposed hanging, he'll not stand for it. The Behrenese would likely choose an open battle before allowing one of theirs to be unjustly hanged."
"Then the Behrenese are stupid," Belster replied, his blunt and somewhat callous attitude catching Pony off guard. "If they give the Bishop the excuse he needs, they will be killed to the man, woman, and child."
"And how are we to like that?" Pony asked suspiciously. "Where do we stand?"
"In the gallery," Belster replied firmly, "watching."
"Acting?"
"Watching," the innkeeper said again. "We are not ready for any war," he added with a snort. "And likely, we'll never be ready for such a war. If you are thinking that you shall find many who will join you as you try to help the black-skins, then understand that you are wrong."
Pony forced several steadying breaths into her lungs to calm herself and give her a moment before responding. "And where does Belster stand?" she asked, though the answer was becoming painfully obvious.
"I told you a long time ago that I am no friend to the black-skin Behrenese," Belster admitted. "I have never pretended otherwise. I do not like the way they smell and do not like the god they pray to."
Pony looked to Dainsey for support, but the woman just kept wiping the same table, harder and harder.
"The god they worship is their own to choose," Pony said to Belster. "And for their smell —well, I'd guess that few would care for the smell of Belster O'Comely, with beer spilled all over him."
"Their choice, and mine, too."
"And what if I stand with them," Pony asked. "Will Belster then stand in the gallery of the curious cowards?"
"I am not going to fight you on this, girl," Belster replied so calmly that Pony understood her appeals would have little effect. "You knew how I felt about the black-skins all along. I never made it a secret. And I am not the only one feeling such. If the Behrenese mean to stand with us against the Bishop, then so be it, but —"