“But then, I must find the Avenue of the Vintners.”
“Oh, but that is the easiest thing in the world, for it runs into this very market in which we sit, and, in fact, if you follow my finger, I am pointing to it now.”
“Very well,” said Clari. “I believe I can follow these directions.”
“Can you? Then I think you must be a most remarkable girl.”
Clari shrugged.
At this point Ibronka broke in, and said, “In thanks for your directions, my friend, I should buy you a glass of wine. But in fact, well, I think I will buy you an ale.”
“Ah, that is best, because I prefer ale.”
“Then here it is, and may you enjoy it.”
“I thank you.”
By some chance, though it took them several hours, they did, by following the Teckla’s instructions, eventually reach the Iron Bridge, which took them into that part of the city that was referred to as the “north side,” even though it was directly adjacent to the district called “South Adrilankha,” which was, in fact, in the easternmost part of the city. From there they managed to learn the location of Lord Shellar’s manor, which was called Nine Stones, and proved to be a tall structure made of stone and sealed within a large estate, surrounded by a wall, with an iron gate. Inside the gate, they could see three large stones, and assumed (correctly, in the event) that there were six more elsewhere on the grounds.
They stood outside of this gate for some few minutes before noticing a pull-rope, which they made use of, and soon a servant appeared and inquired as to their business.
“My name is Ibronka, and this is my friend Röaana. We, along with our servant, have come, at the wishes of my mother, the Princess Sennya, to visit the Lord Shellar of Alban.”
“Shellar?” asked the servant, frowning.
“Why yes. Is this Shellar’s manor?”
“It is,” admitted the servant. “Or, rather, it was.”
“How, it was?”
“My lady, I must inform you Lord Shellar passed away two years ago, and his son is now Baron of Alban.”
“How, Shellar is dead?”
“I regret to admit it, my lady.”
“But then, whose home is this now?”
“His son’s.”
“His son’s?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, but may I request the honor of an audience with him?”
“Of a certainty, my lady. I will cause the gate to be opened, and if you and your friend and your servant will be good enough to follow the path directly ahead of you, you will be met and your horses tended to. While this is done, I will inform His Lordship of your presence, and he will then decide if and when to grant you an audience.”
Ibronka nodded and said, “We will do exactly as you have said.”
By this means, then, in only a few minutes, Ibronka and Röaana stood in the fireplace room of the manor (Clari had been shown to the kitchens), where they were greeted by a Dzurlord and an Issola.
“Greetings,” said the Dzur. “And welcome to Nine Stones. I am the son of the late Lord Shellar. I am called Shant, and this is my friend Lewchin.”
For it was, indeed, none other than fiery Shant and graceful Lewchin, Piro’s old friends from the Society of the Porker Poker, who were now greeting the pretty Ibronka and her attractive friend Röaana. The Dzur and the Tiassa—that is to say, Ibronka and Röaana—made polite salutes to the Dzur and the Issola—that is to say, Shant and Lewchin—after which Lewchin said, “We welcome you to our home, and as you have been promised hospitality of my lord’s father, and as he is, alas, no longer with us, well, we hope you will be good enough to accept from the son what was promised of the father.”
“I give you my word,” said Ibronka. “Nothing would make me happier, although as for my friend,” here she indicated Röaana, “she has promised to accept the hospitality of her kinsman, the Countess of Whitecrest.”
“Ah,” said Shant. “Well, in that case, as it is late, we hope you,” here he indicated the Tiassa, “will at least consent to share a meal with us, after which you may use our coach to reach Whitecrest Manor, for you perceive it has become late, and the streets are, alas, not safe at night between here and your destination.”
“I should like it of all things,” said Röaana, bowing.
“Then it is settled,” said Lewchin, smiling.
The fare was plain but good—what Shant called an “omelet” and actually consisted of a combination of eggs, potatoes, fieldrice, and a bit of kethna, all of it from the area near Adrilankha. Ibronka remarked, “I had thought you only ate seafood in this city.”
Lewchin smiled gently. “In the old days, I am told, there was very little seafood eaten here; it was too valuable for trade.”
“And now?”
“There is some fishing now,” said Shant. “The catch is mostly sold in the local markets. But as for us, well, we have land not far from the city, and bring in what we need.”
“That is good, then,” said Ibronka. “It is, in fact, much the same as the Princess my mother does, although she says that in the days of the Empire the land produced more, which is something that confuses me.”
“Does it?” said Lewchin. “And yet, is it not possible that sorcery was used to aid in growing?”
“Do you know, I had not thought of that!”
“Lewchin,” said Shant, smiling, “reasons like an Athyra.”
“It is sad,” said Ibronka, “that sorcery is now so much more difficult.”
“And there are no good fights anymore, either,” said Shant.
“I know,” said Ibronka sadly.
Röaana caught Lewchin’s eye for just a moment, then looked away, each of them suppressing a smile.
When the meal was over, Shant proved as good as his word, summoning a servant to drive Röaana to Whitecrest Manor. The coach was brought up, Röaana’s horse tied behind, and the Tiassa bid Shant and Lewchin thanks and farewell, while warmly embracing Ibronka. “We will meet again, I think” said Röaana.
“Well, I am convinced of it.”
“Until then, embrace me.”
“Gladly.”
After a warm embrace, the Tiassa climbed into the coach, which, at a word of command, rattled away through the gathering dusk. While in the coach, Röaana closed her eyes, and
let the motion of the coach, which had a certain regularity to its bounces and jostling, lull her into a sort of sleep, for which reason she wasn’t certain how long they were traveling before the coach at last came to a stop. The door opened, and Röaana looked out.
“But this is not Whitecrest Manor,” she said.
The answer came, “It is, nevertheless, your destination.”
These words, which appear so ominous on the page, were delivered in a tone of kindness, or, at any rate, with no menace, so that the Tiassa took no threat from them.
“But where are we? I see two roads meeting, and both continue, forward and backward, left and right.”
“You are, then, where you need to be to go anywhere.”
“Who are you? You are certainly not the servant I remember when leaving Nine Stones.”
“I am the coachman.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A coachman is a man who drives a coach.”
“No, I don’t understand what has happened to me.”
“Ah, it is nothing. You are dreaming, that is all.”
“Dreaming? Now?”
“Certainly.”
“Then why can I not awake?”
“Because you are in my dream, and so it ends when I wake.”
“Oh. Well, I must be dreaming, because that very nearly made sense.”
“Well.”
“But what am I doing here?”
“Making a choice.”
“Ah. Well, but is it an important choice?”
“For you? It may be.”
“Well, but I do not feel ready to make an important choice.”
“To put off choosing is to choose.”
“Is it?”
“Sometimes. At other times, well, it is merely to put off choosing.”
“I beg your pardon, Coachman, but, do you know, you are not helpful.”
“I am not helpful? But you must understand that I am not here to help. I am here to bring you to a place.”
“Well, yes, but what place?”
“Oh, as to that, sometimes it is where you tell me to bring you. Sometimes it is where you wish me to bring you. Sometimes it is where you require me to bring you. Sometimes it is to a crossroads.”
Röaana considered. Then she said, “I am not certain what I am being asked to choose.”
The coachman nodded. “That makes it more difficult, does it not?”
“But—”
“Well, consider that you are choosing your future. Does that help?”
“The Gods! It is worse than I had thought!”
“Well.”
“What if I continue on? What will I find?”
“Who knows? Most likely love and contentment, or something else as worthless.”
“How, you pretend these things are worthless?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never had them.”
“And if I turn back?”
“There are too many directions to discuss them all, my dear.”
“And yet, you say I must choose.”
“At any rate, you may choose.”
“I can have what I wish?”
“Whatever choice you make.”
“But then, I could ask for love, and adventure, and wealth, and happiness, like those tales of helping a spirit to Deathgate Falls, and his demon appears and grants one whatever—”
“It is not a wish I offer, merely a choice.”
“Well, I do not understand.”
“I promise nothing. I give nothing. You may chose a path, that is all.”
“Well, then I choose adventure, danger, and to risk all in pursuit of fortune and glory.”
“You choose that? And yet, it is your friend who is the Dzur.”
“Well, and why should she have all the fun? She can have the love and contentment.”
“Very well. That, then, is your choice.”
“Do you think it a good one?”
“It is not my place to judge.”
“Well, but I still do not understand.”
“That is natural.”
“But can you tell me why was I given this choice?”
“Why? Perhaps it is a stroke of Fortune, good or ill. Perhaps you have pleased or displeased some fate, because of your looks, or your manner—”
“Manner?”
“Manner. Whitecrest Manor.”
“I fail to comprehend.”
“Whitecrest Manor, madam. We have arrived.”
Röaana opened her eyes, and saw that she was, indeed, outside of the very manor which we have already had the honor of visiting. Röaana glanced quickly at the manor, and then looked hard at the servant who held the door for her, but he seemed to be the same servant with whom she had left Nine Stones some few hours before.
After some hesitation, she permitted the servant to assist her from the coach. By this time, the night-groom had become aware of something occurring, and had come out to meet the coach. After acquiring Röaana’s name and errand, he escorted her to the door, promising to attend to her horse as soon as possible. This established, the coach drove off, leaving Röaana’s horse tied to the rail. And only a few minutes later, Röaana found herself in the presence of Daro, the Countess of Whitecrest.
Röaana gave her a courtesy and said, “I present to you the respectful greetings of my father, Lord Röaanac, and my mother, the Lady Malypon.”
“Well,” said Daro, “you must tell us of them, after you have refreshed yourself. You understand, I hope, that you are welcome here for as long as you wish.”
“You are very gracious.”
“Not at all. Was the journey difficult?”
“No, my lady, merely long.”
“The longer the journey, the more pleasure in the rest at the end.”
“I had not heard that before, my lady, yet I testify to its veracity. But, if I may ask, I had heard that the Count, Lord Khaavren, was here as well.”
“He is here, but is resting at the moment; no doubt you will meet him to-morrow.”
“I shall look forward to that very much.”
“Well, but in the meantime, have you eaten?”
“The Lord Shant and his friend Lewchin were kind enough to feed my friend Ibronka and I.”
“Shant? The Dzurlord?”
“Why yes, my lady. Do you know him?”
“He is a close friend of my son, Piro, the Viscount.”
“Ah. I had not known you had a son.”
“Indeed, my dear, and very much your own age. But he has been on an errand these past several months, and I cannot say how long it will be until he returns.”