My Sweet Prince;
                                It has come to my Attention that Your Grace has been disgracefully Deprived of the True Historie of that gentleman Lord Taryl dar Alklawi and his Varied and Divers adventures;  Adventures that, if  they each Failed in some Inexplicable Way to enrich that good lord who Performed them in terms of Base Lucre, have enriched Thy Realm in terms of Honor and Glorie, for it is by the Fruits that sprang from this Magnificent Soil that our Heroe was Nourished, it was this land’s Crystal Springs that slaked his Thirst, and this Kingdom’s unparalleled Tailors who Ensured their Patron Champion performed his Mightie Deeds in Presentable Attire.  And if Your Terrible Magnificence and Thine Friends find in the Lord Taryl a Pattern by which One might guide One’s own Actions, Thy Humble Servant can Think of Few Better Templates.

                                I thus humbly Present, as the First of Many Installments, this the Earliest Tale now Extant of that, regrettably, Departed Hero, Lord Taryl dar Alklawi; titled by Those who make a Study of such Legends as:

The Knives of Deceit
or
An Interesting Study on How  A Gentleman May Further Employ His Lackey In Ways Hitherto Un-Thought

                The rugged, ice-clad peaks of the Atlan Mountains that spiral out of the rolling forests of Wolfsguard (or, Wolffesgaard as the ancient ones would have it) have been celebrated by legions of poets and dreamers before this humble chronicler ever dreamed of lifting a pen, and the reader is thus referred to those noble works if assistance is needed in forming a scene in one’s mind in which we can place our players as they enter our lives for the first, but certainly not the last, time.  For it is to this majestic stage that we must first turn to be introduced to that paragon of virtue, courage, honor, and youthful spirit;  he who is sweet day-dream to his lovers, steadfast rock to his friends, and terrible nightmare to his enemies;  the last and favorite son of the ancient and noble House of Alklawi:  Lord Taryl.
                We have begun our tale in the shadow of the Atlan Mountains for it is Wolfsguard that that vibrant line of Alklawis call home and demesne, entrusted to their care by ancient decree of the crown of Corynth in an era now so long past that even the mists of time are yellowed with age.  And on this bright crisp morning in which we meet Taryl, we find his heart healing from sorrow, for it has been less than three new moons since the elder dar Alklawi, Taryl’s progenitor and the husband of Taryl’s mother, had regrettably passed from this world after an accident while mucking the stables that involved a shovel, thirty horses, and a mislabeled rope-pull that regrettably released a certain hatch. 
                Our dear hero had thus found himself in the position of Lord of Wolfsguard, and as a dutiful son should, allowed his mother to indulge her quirky predilection for involving herself in the estate’s businesses, thinking that it would distract her from her grief.  Nor were his efforts in vain, for after a few chaotic weeks of turmoil, Wolfsguard’s beet production was considerably higher, criminal activity (that is, Lucky Larson’s proclivity to drink from mugs of beer other than his own at the Druze’s Head tavern on Saturdays) was drastically reduced (Lady Alklawi banned Lucky from the Druze’s Head on Saturdays), and the mention of Taryl’s father’s name would bring at first only a blank, confused look from his mother. 
                Taryl’s own heart yearned to fly, to voyage beyond the horizons of Wolfsguard, and as in the bed-time stories he had heard as a child to earn his fortune by the strength of his sword and the sharpness of his wit.  Though he knew it would be a difficulty to those who now depended on him for leadership, he did not feel he could reside another week within the walls of Lupine Hall, the Alklawi ancestral seat, walls that drew closer about his ears and whispered to him of the horrors of middle-age, of marriage, of stability, and of prescribed days stretching on throughout the cycle of seasons punctuated by no more strenuous test of his mettle than how to keep the crows out of his grain field.  With a heart perfectly balanced by being both heavy at the thought of leaving his home and his people, yet light with the prospect of the adventurous road before him, he ordered a few things packed into the Trunk and sought an audience with his mother.  Once he was admitted into her presence, she proved herself to be a true Alklawi by the fortitude with which she accepted Taryl’s command that she assume the mantle of power and responsibility at Wolfsguard; a distracted wave of the hand was in fact her only answer as she continued poring over the shipping invoices spread across her desk.  Satisfied that his People were being left in competent hands during his absence, our dear hero gathered the Trunk and the faithful lackey that bore it, and took his leave.
                And thus we find the noble Lord Taryl dar Alklawi striding confidently this crisp morning through the halls of birch and spruce, beneath the lintels of oak and elm, across the carpet of fallen leaves that cushions the tread of the traveler on the road to Corynth.  Indeed, it was to Corynth that the dear Lord Taryl had directed his attention.
                See his chiseled visage riding proudly over a lofty and well-formed carriage, framed by a gleaming mane of long chestnut hair.  A bright eye beneath a noble brow bespeaks an intelligence sharper even than the jaunty long sword riding at his hip.  This fine example of the weapon-smith’s art is as ancient as it is jaunty, and alert observers would perhaps presume it to be a family heirloom;  in this presumption they would be absolutely correct.
                The costume of this fine looking young gentleman accurately reflects the confident and youthful spirit beneath; shirt, waistcoat, jacket, trews and boots of a cut fashionable for the spring season, though perhaps the most critical could be somewhat justified in pointing out that the fashion would have been more appropriate four springs ago.  And if this dastardly nay-sayer were to further point to the frayed cuff, the stained collar, the scuffed and worn leather, what of it?  Indeed, this foul pessimist has said more than enough already, and we shall turn our backs on he who would introduce such a gloomy aspect to our joyful morning.  Curse you, critics!
                With light, gay strides our hero is drawn through the emerald sunlight of Wolfsguard Wood, and behind him comes the remainder of his wardrobe, a few dozen cherished books, some sandwiches prepared by Dora the cook of Lupine Tower, and a potent hemorrhoid lotion all packed tightly and carefully into the Trunk, best described as an oversized sea-trunk provided with steel cable armstraps that the whole may be transported on one’s back.  And the back that currently ached and staggered beneath this wonder of travel accessory engineering belonged to that most faithful of lackeys, Borin.  Grey beard swinging so as to sweep the path before him as he waddled down the leafy road bent over and grunting, Borin’s piggy little eyes glittered through a warty and wrinkled countenance as he eyed his master’s back just ahead of him, and his stubby, gnarled fingers caressed the hilt of a knife protruding from his belt.  Borin’s emotions for his dear master could at times be overwhelming.
                As they trotted along at a rapid pace, Taryl found occasion to comment to his manservant wistfully, “Ah, sweet Borin, I must confess that I regret not having brought a horse for the journey.”
                Borin, allowing sweat to pour from his head in what would be an unsightly manner for any born of a more refined class of society, replied through clenched teeth, “A horse, master?”
                Taryl arched a sable eyebrow and favored Borin with a backwards glance of surprise.  “Yes Borin, a ‘horse’.  They have four legs, a pungent odor, and a taste for apples, and are surprisingly pleasant to mount and ride.  I wonder that you have never heard the term before, Borin.  We had quite a few in my father’s stables at home.”
                Borin’s answering words were lost in the grey tangle of his beard.
                They stopped for the evening in a small glade that Taryl found charming, and after Taryl had dined on the packed sandwiches and generously granted Borin leave to scrounge for acorns and berries in the forest, two pairs of eyes put up the shutters to these windows to the soul, and sought sleep beneath the whirling stars.  As the rosy red fingers of dawn speared the gloom of night, Taryl emerged from the halls of the Sandman fully alert, and just able to duck beneath a humming knife that Borin had accidentally dropped from the other side of the glade.  Borin cursed and chewed his beard, no doubt distressed that he had come so near to causing his master harm, but Taryl set the lackey at his ease.  “I understand, and do not blame you, dear Borin.  Ye of the laboring classes are inherently incompetent, and prone to mistakes.  This is why we have been placed on this earth with you, to guide and instruct your actions.”  Taryl then provided an example of his words by generously directing Borin through rekindling the fire and brewing a pot of tea that the young lord may break his nocturnal fast and fuel strength to meet the coming day’s trials.  Within the hour they had resumed their trek Corynth-wards.
                It was just after mid-day that the pair attained the crest of a rise just at the edge of the tree line, and saw spread before them the plains across which sprawled the magnificent city of Corynth, capital of the kingdom.  Towers soared over the clusters of peaked roofs, gargoyles, and squat battlements; spires punctured the noontime sky, while bridges that from this distance seemed as ephemeral as cobweb stretched from tower to roof to spire to tower again.  The whole threatened to burst from the formidable curtain walls that girded the city’s waist, while from beneath the feet of this wall spilled the ploughed fields that made this one of the most wealthy of cities in the Free Kingdoms, in emerald and gold colors as bright as jeweled blankets in the noon sun.  Behind this monument to the achievements of Mankind stretched the glittering ocean, upon whose waves rode the sea-merchants, the second source of Corynth’s wealth and prestige.  The very sight swelled Taryl’s heart with joy and expectation.  To accompany the expansive gesture that he made with his arm, he spoke thusly:  “Corynth, faithful Borin!  Corynth, city of riches and power, where one can expect opportunity to lurk around every corner.  Here I shall find my destiny, I shall carve a name for myself with my sword, I shall plan a campaign of success with my razor wit, I shall... Here, what is it that you are doing, Borin?” 
                He had turned to face his manservant while distributing these wise predictions and found the gnarled oak of a man lifting a knobbled club.  “A winged insect of some form had had the audacity to land upon m’lord’s head,” quothe that steadfast Borin smoothly.  “If the master would be so good as to turn around again, I shall resume my dispatch.”
                Taryl waved a hand airily.  “No, no, Borin, find in your heart mercy towards even the smallest and most winged of the gods’ creatures.  I have not the time to waste in pest control.  Come, we sally into adventure!”  And that noble gentleman leapt forward gazelle-like as a prelude to his sprint across the last mile and a half to the city gates, obliging the honest Borin to stagger along with the Trunk in his master’s wake.
                When one is blessed with such long and well-formed limbs as the scion of House Alklawi possessed, it takes but moments to glide across a mile or so, to draw to a halt before the magnificent oaken gates of Corynth.  Taryl executed exactly this series of events, while Borin lumbered in his wake and finished the brief exercise by sprawling in the dust at his master’s heels beneath the impressive weight of the Trunk.  Taryl’s bright eye took in the watchtowers, the stone arch that defined the portal soaring far over his head, the enormous doors that yawned invitingly open, and the two guardsmen who, from beneath rusting mail hoods, eyed our good gentleman in what could perhaps be interpreted as a bellicose manner.  It was to these last specimens of the Honest Soldiery that Taryl directed the focus of his attention, and he stepped forward while flashing the smile that had won him many friends and endangered the virtues of many women.  A “Well done, lads!  You may announce my arrival,” accompanied this grin.

As noble and ancient a house as the Alklawi may be, it should be noted that its members rarely found themselves as far east as Corynth; and even had these ignorant wage-serfs been acquainted with the House itself, they no doubt had never before been privileged enough to gaze upon the features of its last son.  An excuse therefore exists for their failure to recognize the fine Lord Taryl as nobility, and a generous heart may choose to accept this as a valid excuse for their next actions: the shorter guardsman spat into the dust near Taryl’s boot while the taller one just gazed blankly into the middle distance and chewed what appeared to be cud.  Taryl’s heart was just so generous... if not more so.  He offered a sad, forgiving smile and nodded.  “Unfortunate wretches such as yourself cannot be expected to be familiar with every one of the niceties of civilized culture.  Nor can the lower classes be expected to recognize their superiors on sight; it is a well known medical fact that your intellects are far too limited for such tasks.  I will therefore forgive your lapse this once and guide you through your duties, as a wise and caring shepherd should.  One of you is to hurry to the palace with the announcement to His Majesty that the Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, Master of Lupine Hall and Protector of Wolfsguard, has arrived in Corynth.  The other may then act as my escort in conjunction with      my lackey.”  And here Taryl indicated the faithful Borin, who had allowed blood to run from his ears as he lay stretched beneath the Trunk.

     As well meant and generous as this advise was, the vulgars received the lesson in a less gracious spirit than it was delivered. The height-challenged guard, possibly because of a defensive nature brought on by consistent short jokes made at his expense as a child, snorted in what could be described as a “derisive” manner.  The taller guard, apparently still unsatisfied with his progress on the cud, frowned carefully into the space unseen by the saner examples of his fellow men.  Taryl began to feel the warmth of his collar.  “Very well,” he replied to this silent snub;  “If you refuse to observe the most basic of courtesies, I at least demand that you stand out of my path, and I will enter the city in my own way.”  Defiance and nobility flashed from beneath his sable brows.          

Nor did this brave statement move the rudely-born wage earners; in fact, it elicited even greater impertinence.  Lolling in a manner that in some way managed to convey insolent sloth and a coiled belligerence at the same time, the shorter guard spake thusly: “Ach ye, ‘Lord’, we’ve ‘ad auwer orders, we ‘ave.  No young lords of lofty carriage and bright eye seekin’ their fortunes to be let inta th’city.  They cause trouble ‘v all sort:  robbin’ temples, seducin’ lady folk, leadin’ rebellions, an’ the like.  An’ that,” with the vague wave of a grimy glove at Taryl’s chest “me young sir, looks like a mighty lofty carriage, an’ that,” a second wave across Taryl’s vision, “looks the brightest eye I seen yet.”
                As a fair skinned lad, it was Taryl’s curse to blush with ease, and he now felt the warmth of his collar climbing upwards.  “You have a keen eye, my low browed friend, but let me draw its power of observation to the longsword hanging so jauntily from my belt.  It is long, it is jaunty, and I must once again repeat my order that you stand down and allow me unmolested passage into the city.”
                The guards, who like Taryl, the author, and perhaps the reader, were completely ignorant of the definition of the word “jaunty” either as a adjective or an adverb, nevertheless recognized a threat when they heard it.  The taller guard, against all expectation, paused in his mastication and took a sudden interest in the drama unfolding before him, while the shorter hefted the stout pike in his meaty fist, as if testing it for its own jauntiness.  As stated before, Taryl’s was a quick wit, and his bright eye had soon taken the measurement of the pike, multiplied it by two, then compared it with the well-known length of his own jaunty longsword.  The product of this mathematical exercise caused that noble brow to furrow in some concern; then a conclusion was no doubt reached, for our dear lord turned on his noble heel and sprinted back up along the road from whence he’d come.  Borin found himself motivated to follow his master primarily by loyalty, and perhaps also by the manner in which the guards continued to heft their pikes, yet now turned their attention to the innocent lackey.
                After some few minutes of this exercise, Taryl found it to his pleasure to slow to a trot, then a walk, then to actually halt his spirited jog.  He was now once again surrounded by the verdant luxury of the forest, at the crest of the hill from which he had first feasted his eyes on the distant Corynth, where he was able to enjoy the scents of the woodland, the calm beauty of the noble trees, and the wheezing rattle of his lackey’s lungs as the latter hauled himself and the Trunk up the hill to the master’s side.  “Ah, Borin,”  quothe the young lord,  “What a relief to once more return to our natural state, yes?  The stress of the urban life is not for those of our spleen, more used to the open air, it would appear.”
                That good lackey muttered what could only be assent into his beard, and sought to join his master in sitting on the log that had been placed conveniently at the side of the Corynthian road.  But this hard working servant’s labor was not yet at an end.  Taryl’s head abruptly cocked to the side, his ears seemed to prick up, and the young lord was suddenly on his feet and tugging at one end of the convenient log.  Borin’s natural confusion at this activity, the result of his insufficient lower class mentality, was diminished somewhat by the sharp order barked out to him:  “Borin, you fool!  Help me with this log!  Hurry!”
                With many a grunt and apoplexy, the pair managed to drag one end of the log ninety degrees to the east, as the engineer measures such things, with the unfortunate effect that the log now lay across the Corynthian road.  Borin, still struggling to gain a full lung full of air, forgot himself and asked, “But why, master?  Was the log less comfortable as it had lain?”
                Taryl scoffed and glanced down the road, away from Corynth.  “Nonsense, Borin!  It is merely my pleasure to sit in such a way that I may survey the length of this excellent road.”  And he cast yet another surveying glance down said length, as in proof of his words.
                Borin’s breath had by this time calmed down somewhat, and his heart had slowed to a more reasonable pounding in his ears, so he was now in a position to notice the sounds of the world around him. His eyes grew wide as he turned back to the Lord Taryl.  “Master!” he cried, anxious to avoid an accident, “I hear a team of horses approaching on yon road.  Should... master?  Is it now your pleasure to squat in the bushes?”
                “Of course it is, sweet Borin,”  answered the generous Taryl, as he reached out and dragged his serf to his side within the scratchy embrace of the bush.
                “But such a team, sire, must surely mean a coach is approaching.  Shouldn’t we--”  that stalwart lackey was interrupted by a swift punch to the back of the head, which was a nonverbal form of communication which roughly translated to:  “While I deeply appreciate your valued comments, dear lackey, this is neither the time nor place to express them.”
                Borin was unable to respond appropriately, for at that moment the first two foam-flecked black horses leading a team of six came into view down the road, lashed towards Corynth at a speed somewhat less than prudent by a crazed frock-coated driver half standing in the box of a gleaming black coach.  Like a midnight river the team of black horses tumbled along the road, the dark coach seeming to float in their wake, and the two observers in the bushes exchanged a glance that said; “Will they see the log in time, or simply pass over it as the morning gutterwater washes over the town drunk?”  This unspoken query was answered when a heavily armed man gripping the bench beside the lunatic driver gave throat to a cry and snatched at the driver’s reins.  The driver himself first voiced his own scream of rage at this hindrance to what he felt was his divine duty, but his was a quick wit, and in moments he was helping the armed man wrench back on the reins.  A tangled cloud of black legs, the protests of the horses, and the whole crowd finally piled itself to a stop just a few feet before the log.
                The coach bore no insignia, and curtains shielded its occupants from the glares of the outside world, but the luxury of the coach and the four liveried footmen posted at each corner spoke volumes about the owner’s wealth.  Intrigued, Taryl stepped smartly from the bushes, and while the two footmen at the front of the coach had employed themselves in response to the driver’s impassioned pleas to “move th’ d---m’d log!”, our young hero presented himself to one of the rear footmen while Borin addressed the other.  Out of consideration for the peace and quiet the coach’s occupant must require, Taryl decided to conduct his interview using nonverbal communication techniques.  Allowing the footman the pleasure of tasting his fist ensured that the footman would comply with Taryl’s wishes to maintain the lulling quietude of the woodland while declaring: “Good day to you sir.  May I share your perch upon this coach, only for so far as Corynth?”
                The footman’s reply was rapid, nearly instantaneous with Taryl’s remark.  A kick to our hero’s groin answered; “I’m afraid such a favor would be against our master’s policy.  I must therefore regretfully decline to grant you this simple favor.”
                Somewhat disturbed that the footman might at any moment attempt to introduce the driver and his companion to the conversation, Taryl’s return involved a sharp elbow to the footman’s diaphragm, which even the simplest observer could translate as: “I really must insist;  I do not wish to make this issue one of rank and privilege, but it is quite important that I be allowed onto your coach, and I do not believe I will allow a mere footman will stop me.”
                Though finding himself inexplicably breathless, the footman responded with, “Away, varlet!  My answer was given and I stand by it!”.. that is, an uppercut that only managed to graze Taryl’s forehead, thus lessening the impact of his statement.  Nevertheless, our gentle lord was cut to the quick by this insolence, and communicated his mind:  “Ah, ‘Varlet’, say you?” (a knee into the footman’s ribs, thereby making the latter’s search for a gulp of air yet more challenging).
                “Aye, I said the word!  And a fine word it is!”  (A wild swing of a fist that caught Taryl on the ear).
                “Not a word that I like me much!  Dismount from that coach, scoundrel!” (A smart jab to the footman’s nose, then grasping him by the throat and swinging the man off the coach and into the loamy road).
                “Ah, you wound me, sir!” (Hands scrabbling at Taryl’s wrists as the young lord continued to grip the footman’s throat).  This, of course, had not been our gentle hero’s intention, but some impudencies simply could not go unanswered.
                Throughout this regrettably brief interview at the rear of the vehicle, the coach driver had involved himself in flinging screamed commands at the two forward footmen laboring with the log.  The fact that the coachman’s voice had now receded to a quieter rumble of constructive criticism signaled Taryl that his tête-à-tête with the insolent footman must soon be at an end, as the log had been disposed of and the coach would no doubt be departing soon.  After a brief struggle he found the footman’s tailed coat in his hands, while the footman himself took an interest only in lying on the ground and groaning, succumbing no doubt to the slothfulness inherent in the lower classes.  Draping the coat over his shoulders rather than allow such fine velvet to lie in the muddy road, Taryl stepped on to the now vacant footman’s platform and glanced over at Borin.  That competent lackey had acquitted himself well using what communication was available to him through a forehead feared in taverns across three counties and a set of teeth renowned for their groin-gripping capability, though he had regretfully been forced to abandon the Trunk during his conversation.  Both  of our friends were now ensconced on the footmen’s platforms and gripping the rails as the limpet grips the rump of a lazy bather, as the coach jerked forward under the crack of the whip and the strangled obscenities of the driver, returning our two friends to the gates of Corynth for the second time in less than an hour.

                The guardsmen at the gate, as do all gate guards in every age and every society, completely failed to notice that the two odd looking “footmen” barely hanging on the the back of this coach bore a striking resemblance to the two men they had unjustly denied entry to only a few minutes ago.  The shorter guard snapped a sharp salute as the coach screamed past, while the taller deepened his frown and eased his weight on to the other foot.  Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, Master of Lupine Hall and Protector of Wolfsguard, had arrived in Corynth.
                The coach clattered over the flags paving the main avenue with only a slight reduction in speed, obliging peasants, merchant men, and nobility alike to snatch either embroidered hems, fresh produce, or children out of the way of flailing hooves, depending on what each rank cherished most.  But Taryl had no attention to spare to such inanities:  his senses were currently being overwhelmed by the thriving, ancient, swarming metropolis that is Corynth.  Being a young lad from the pleasant climes of wood and field, the largest permanent gathering of humankind in one place he had hitherto known had been a brief attempt at a university career in Arjeen, a city whose proud denizens could boast of but one building with three stories and an attic.  The shock which our fine country lad therefore dealt with needs no explanation for those whose generous fortune it has been to visit the magnificent Corynth; for those who have not been similarly blessed, we pray that the following will be explanation sufficient:
                The valley in which Corynth is nestled has been the scene of human habitation since the earliest days of civilization, when the first hunter-gatherer family gazed upon the idyllic landscape around them and said unto each other, “Bugger this nomadic wandering crap.  I could go for a sit-down with my feet up on the mantle.”  This of course necessitated the creation of a mantle, and what is a mantle without a fireplace?  This line of thought soon brought into being the first house, and other nomadic tribes of the valley said unto each other; “Will you look at what the Ug family are showing off around now?  Why can’t we have a nice mantel like the Ugs?  You bring home at least as many rabbits and berries as Mr. Ug.”  This resulted in the creation of many more fireplaces and mantles, yea, and houses to surround them, and roads between the houses that the residents may move freely from house to house and discuss the despicable way that Ook from down Tarnek Creek way treated our Eek last week.  And some of these discussion visits included the carefully dropped comment that someone’s mantel was looking a bit bare;  soon agriculture was developed to produce a surplus harvest which would allow for a market economy and thus the opportunity for some resourceful entrepreneur to manufacture and sell horribly tacky little pastel-painted statues of constipated animals and fat idiot-looking children with angel wings.  And lo, the obvious result of this was a dirth of foot-space on the mantle, and thus taverns were built to house those refugees of the population that still just wanted a bit of a sit-down by the hearth, and oh yes, a pint would go down nicely, thank you.
                Thus the valley was populated and the land about the houses tilled, but the cluster of wattle-and-daub lumps could not properly be called the City of Corynth until this new invention agriculture, as well as the increased efforts of the tacky statue maker (whose name was Nicholas Nack), created such a surplus of goods that the general population could no longer pass it around to each other, and a special repository named “government” was created to absorb all of this annoying surplus, which the village folk named “taxes”.  Great was that day, and it caused much rejoicing, yea, so much so that this new entity felt a bit responsible for the disorder caused by the drunken revelry and created laws to put an end to such things.  This was agreed to be a generally good idea by the population who disapproved of their husbands spending so many hours at the taverns, and gradually over the years control of the community’s collective actions and values was passed to this “government”.  This is usually agreed to be the birth of the modern city of Corynth.
                Other communities that desired a share of Corynth’s surplus sent representatives to attempt to get as much of it in return for cheaply made footwear and rancid perfume, and thus was invented a “merchant class’.  And in response to still other communities, who had no footwear or scents to offer but still coveted a share of the surplus, a new creation known as a “fortified wall” sprang up around the group of houses, which were no longer wattle-and-daub, but were instead of the more flammable timber and thatch.  At about the same time arose a new species of men who wore heavily padded leather vests or coats of linked steel rings, carried long spears, and spent their time sampling large amounts of the taverns’ wares and sneaking into quiet corners for a quick smoke whenever a superior approached.  The townspeople were indeed puzzled by these new men, for though they had arrived at the same time as the fortified wall, they seemed to have little connection to it, and their only purpose appeared to be that of ensuring that the local wine hadn’t been poisoned.
                Over the centuries Corynth continued to grow at a rapid pace, the timber and thatch homes burning down enough times to convince the populace of the value of brick and stone, the buildings swelling and towering, then spilling over the fortified walls and out through the valley, necessitating a second wall, then a third, and at last a fourth wall to contain the growth.  This resulted in the four concentric districts of Corynth, the innermost neighborhood being the royal palace and the seat of government, while the outermost ring housed the labyrinthian alleyways in which the commoners lurked and eked out meager lives from vulgar labor, theft, hair styling, and begging.  The streets were the cobbled twisting nightmare of any city planner who cared a whit for logic, and the swaying buildings had been piled upon predecessors so often that a foundation dug into actual earth rather than the ruins of the last generation’s homes could only be found a half mile deep.
                It was into this enduring testament to man’s ingenuity and his endurance to a long list of communicable diseases that Taryl rode on the back of a gleaming black coach at speeds considered less than prudent by many bystanders.  His bright eye took in the soaring towers, the elaborate building ornamentation, and the broad expanses of cobbled thoroughfares thronged with the jostling, arguing, spitting, bargaining, gossiping lifeblood of the city: it’s citizenry.  His finely tuned ears captured the clatter of hooves on stone, the cries of a merchant’s wares, the screams for mercy from the latest mugging victim, the apologetic blarting of Corynth’s native Corynthian tuba played by sweating and bug-eyed musicians for the few copper coins passersby attempted to fling at them with enough force to compel them to stop and go home.  Scents wafted past Taryl’s finely shaped nose, describing the sausages being fried by a nearby street vendor, the legendary (many even say mythical) Corynthian sewer system, and the venerable antiquity of air that has been trapped within the city walls among humans and often nervous livestock for more than a decade.  Though only three of his five senses were thus engaged with this new experience, the effect was so overwhelming that Taryl was fully satisfied for now.
                If our dear lord had had any thought of lingering in one place or another to completely soak in the atmosphere of the city, the driver of the coach had a more ambitious itinerary in mind.  The coach and its charges thundered past a wall that seemed to loom out from behind the swaying buildings and temples and through which the this main thoroughfare passed without challenge, and Taryl found himself in much more mercantile surroundings.  This was the ring of the city known as the Gold Strip, and it was separated from the more common outer ring by one of the ancient walls that had, before the expansion of the city, been Corynth’s outer wall.  Taryl would have been glad to dismount in this quarter, for it was here that fortunes could be made or spent, where the wonders of human artifice or nature’s precious bounty from the six corners of the earth were brought to be given a price, bartered for, and sold for a profit or bought at a bargain.  Any item, service, entertainment, or dream could find a market here, and were a buyer not to find what he sought on Corynth’s Gold Strip, it was not to be found anywhere in this or any other word.  But the coach currently felt there was more value ahead, farther down the thoroughfare, where the broad cobbled street once again ducked beneath an enormous arch in yet another wall.
                Centuries before the wall that separated the common district from the Gold Strip was considered the outer defense of Corynth, this third wall defined the city’s limits.  And beyond it lay the type of neighborhood that did not need guards at its gates or soldiers policing its clean avenues, for the very nature of the area discouraged the entry of any who did not belong, and caused the non-rich acute embarrassment and sharp stomach pains to remain there for longer than a few minutes.  Beautiful town homes marched gracefully down the cobbled streets now almost empty of pedestrians, and small mansions of exquisite and expensive taste lounged back on well-managed terraced gardens, the amount of opulent luxury on display making up for the lack of space in this third ring of the city.  For one giddy moment Taryl entertained the hope that the coach was going to continue past the last wall in the distance and thus into the palace grounds, but a sudden left turn on two wheels that nearly sent Taryl into the gables of an elegant tower and burned a hole in the seat of Borin’s trousers dashed such hopes.  After plunging down a slightly curving boulevard of modest size, the driver appeared to have noticed, from all evidence for the very first time in his life, the brightly painted brake handle at his side.  Hauling back on the reins with every ounce of the nigh-godly wrath possessed of that man, the driver employed curses to the winds and a booted foot to the brake lever.  The horses scrabbled backwards in a mad dance, the steel plates of the brakes screamed on the axle, and the party came to rest beside a dark rider swathed in a black cloak who sat motionless upon his steed at the side of the road.
                Most observers with an intelligence ranked at least at shell fish level, and even the gracious readers of these poor lines, will immediately recognize that a black coach pulled by black horses meeting a mysterious rider cloaked in black by the side of the road can mean only a plot twist in the current narrative, and an ominous one at that.  It is true that the scene of foreboding events would have been improved had the rider’s horse not been a wheezing, flatulent hack whose patchwork hide of almost every color imaginable stunned the senses of those who gazed at her too long, but Taryl was not to be distracted by this minor flaw in a perfect drama unfolding before him.  From his vantage point of the footman’s stand on the same side of the coach that faced the dark rider he was able to enjoy an unobstructed view as a feminine hand of unquestionable beauty and grace, even when thinly veiled by a white lace glove, drew aside the coach’s velvet curtain and rested upon the black glove of the rider.  The white lace glove was then brought momentarily beneath the brim of the enormous hat worn by the featureless rider, then reemerged from the shadow and retreated back behind the curtain.
                The participants began their conversation in a civilized fashion, each expressing their hopes that the other had been in excellent health since the last time they had reassured each other on that point, and regrets for any discommodation they may have caused by this mode of meeting.  The woman’s voice then floated musically from the coach the phrase;  “Have you made all necessary preparations, Haredin?”
                Only an experienced rider could bow from the saddle of a horse whose flanks heaved so violently and irregularly, but the man addressed as Haredin did just that as he answered.  “Exactly as your ladyship ordered.  After I see to one minor issue, everything will be in perfect readiness.  But that minor point may increase in difficulty unless...”
                “ ‘Unless...’, dear Haredin?”
                “Unless I have some sort of key that will fit every lock in this city, some type of credit that is accepted everywhere without question...”
                A graceful sigh escaped from the coach.  “My poor womanly brain at last begins to understand what you refer to.  Very well, take this,” and the white lace glove reemerged just long enough to pass to the rider’s black glove what seemed to Taryl to be a tiny living star, or perhaps a solid flame.  “Use this judiciously.  Ah, the waiting is almost at an end, and I am so very glad of it!  My business in the country took longer than I had expected, and I had harbored a small fear that I would not return to the city in time.”
                Teeth flashed in the shadows cast by the promethean hat worn by the rider called Haredin.  “And you had worried that we would not wait for you, milady?”  This witticism seemed a poor one in Taryl’s opinion, but it elicited sounds of hearty mirth from both parties of the conversation.  Most likely the lady was overcompensating to spare the man’s feelings, while the man was too taken with himself to notice.
                Disgusted with this dull conversation, and noticing that the driver of the coach had descended from his box to inspect the condition of the coach and not wishing to upset the man’s head with confusing explanations, Taryl shrugged off the footman’s coat, stepped away from the coach, and pulled his lackey after him up the street.  That sweet Borin had not wanted to relinquish possession of the footman’s coat he wore, but after a nonverbal discussion with his master was at last persuaded to leave it behind a shrub lining the well swept street.

                Striding down the street, it occurred to Taryl that he had not eaten since an early breakfast that morning.  This reflection was perhaps inspired by the door past which the pair now walked, over which creaked a panel carrying the portrait of a scowling monk, and through which drifted the smoke, laughter, wheezing accordion, and the congenial clank of pewter mugs on polished hardwood that were the signs of a public house.  A glance back down the street they had just traversed showed our dear lord that the coach’s driver had just inspected the rear of his vehicle and found it short two footmen, and considerable excitement was the result.  Without further hesitation, Taryl led the way into the welcoming gloom.
                After traversing a narrow entry corridor whose walls were bedecked with cloaks and coats, Taryl turned into the smokey and crowded common room and took a seat at the last table available along the far wall.  The noble lord’s entry seemed not to register among the Angry Friar’s patrons;  dicing, drinking, smoking, and murmuring continued without interruption.  Borin took advantage of the opportunity to seat himself at the same table as his master at Taryl’s invitation, issued out of necessity, for it seemed to be the last seat open, and the hard working servant deserved at least that.  As Taryl was exploring the seams of his empty purse to
ensure that no stray coin had lodged itself out of sight, a heavy breasted wench who no doubt still erroneously thought of herself as “buxom” materialized at the table and asked Taryl if she may be of service.  He honestly replied that she must surely be of no small help at another table, and perhaps she should inquire thither after the nature of such service.  The ignorant trollop affected misunderstanding and queried Taryl about what exactly it was that he required, to which our long-suffering gentleman rejoined that what he currently required was peace and solitude, and that the tart’s presence was counterproductive to both goals.  To which the hussy merely notified our dear Taryl that this public house was not the stopping place of dead-beats or beggars, a situation which Taryl proclaimed himself satisfied with, and the interview was at last at an end.

                As the broad-hipped harlot sank back into the crowded gloom, Borin’s raspy growl intoned “Master, I am hungry.”
                Taryl nodded.  “Hungry you may be, sweet Borin;  and dim, and not much to gaze upon either, but you shouldn’t allow that to oppress your spirits.  Turn your flaws into advantages!  That’s my advise, good lackey.”  And Taryl bent sideways to check beneath the table for any loose coins, the tiny hairs on his ear standing on end as Borin’s knife whirled past, burying itself in the dartboard just behind the head of the last son of Alklawi.  When Taryl straightened he noticed the shivering dagger.  “Ah, Borin, you have scored a 16.  Good play.”  He removed the instrument and returned it to his manservant.
                The two sat brooding for a few moments, enjoying the soothing wave of conversation  around them, the ruby glow of the fire on the hearth, and the strained off-notes of the accordion in the far-corner.  Borin was obliged to shift his seat as a group of three men squeezed past him to reach an impromptu darrow game near the one soot stained window, then that estimable lackey once more addressed himself to his master:  “Master, is it a financial consideration that keeps food from our lips?”
                Taryl bit back the immediate rebuke at this informality when he noticed the look in his servant's eye, and he merely replied, “What causes you to ask, Borin?”
                The honest man merely shrugged.  “Your lordship is a wise man, and wise men are by their nature frugal in financial matters.  But I feel that you may reconsider your decision to abstain from the lusts of the belly if you were made aware of the thing I have just found.”
                “And what is it you have just found?”
                “Why, this purse, in the wake of those gentlemen now playing at darrow.  The strings have a distinctly clean cut appearance, which no doubt made it difficult for the purse to remain on a belt, m’lord.”
                Taryl took from his lackey the proffered leather pouch, noting as he did so the return of the desperately helpful serving wench, now in the company of what at first sight appeared to be a small mountain with the features and limbs of a man.  Inside he found a number of gold coins lying slothfully about;  this caused our conscientious young lord some concern, for he had some care for the local economy and did not feel that monies should be allowed to lounge about so unproductively.  His contemplations were interrupted by the harpy voice of the serving wench once more addressing herself to our hero; “You gots t’have money t’sit here.”   After a preemptive sniff she added, “An’ it has t’be real money, none o’ that furrin stuff.”
                Taryl brought himself to pat her hand in what he hoped was a soothing manner.   “Ah, not only beautiful, but a head for finance as well.  You have done well on the lists of love, my friend;” this last was directed, with a sly smile and a wink, to the amiable looking giant standing just behind the least likely object of Man’s affections.  To allay further qualms the saucy tart may feel, Taryl placed the purse Borin had found on the table, allowing a few honest Corynthian coins to slide forth.  The wench then graciously accepted a request for an omelet and a tankard of ale, and a cup of warm water for the foul-smelling lackey, and flounced away for what Taryl prayed would be the next to last time.
                Our long-suffering hero had stepped into this establishment seeking peace and a restful atmosphere.  A young man from the country suddenly thrust into the manic pace and intimidating surroundings of the metropolitan setting needs time to adjust, he needs a place of quiet and repose where he may contemplate on and digest these new stimuli.  With the dispatch of the harpy serving wench and her pet colossus, Taryl had hoped that the Angry Friar could be such a safe-harbor for his own contemplations.  Alas, it was not to be.  Even before Taryl was able to return the coins he had placed on display to the purse, and the purse to a more discreet setting beneath his tunic, a mass of scented silks and luxuriant velvets slid into the space recently vacated by the wench.  A second inspection of this pile of wealthy fashion revealed the clean shaven face of a young man peering from between a high collar and an enormous floppy hat of the style worn this season.  Slashed suede and puffed silk separated from the main mass to reveal itself to be an arm, a limb that terminated in a lace cuff from which emerged a bejeweled hand pointed a delicately powdered finger to the purse on the table.  Preempting the formal courtesies, the young dandy lisped, “That purse is mine.”
                Taryl’s bright eye traveled slowly up the magnificent sleeve, down the length of the arm’s owner to the curled tips of gleaming patent leather slippers, then back up again to the expression spared from being completely vapid only by the slight air of haughtier than seeped from it unconsciously.  With what a suspicious observer might describe as a sneer, Taryl patiently explained to his new acquaintance; “This, sir, is happily the age in which Logic and Reason sit in full reign over the universe, and following the tenants of both Reason and Logic will bring one to the conclusion that a purse lying sedately upon the table occupied by one gentleman is not, in fact, the property of any second gentleman who may wander across the room.  This conclusion must be obvious to any who may apply their intellect.  Even to those who apparently do not apply their intellect when choosing a tailor.”  And his gaze pointedly swept over the newcomer’s somewhat ostentatious clothing.
                The foppish young guest seemed a tad confused and troubled at this reply, with an expression on his face as may be seen on the noble visages of those elderly citizens among us who pass wind then complain loudly about the fragrance.  But he was not one to be troubled nor detoured from his course once his course was set: “That is my purse,” he reiterated with an admirable tenacity.  “It has come off of my belt, here...” at this point he displayed a band that may have contained a few scraps of leather somewhere beneath the silver filigree and set gemstones.  “If it is on your table now, sir (and I use the nomenclature quite liberally, I assure you), that can only be because you have stolen it.”
                “ ‘Stolen’, you say?” gaped Taryl, astonished at the man’s effrontery.
                “I said the word, and I think it a fine one.  In fact, I say it again:  That purse on your table was stolen from me.”  The dandy turned to favor his comrades, each of them as equally abused by an insane silk and velvet merchant as himself, with what we shall charitably choose to describe as a smile.
                Taryl grew warm.  “I do not enjoy that word, sir, and I am confident that you will withdraw it.”
                “Though it pains me to have to refuse your request, I will do nothing of the kind.  In what way is this word not fit for duty?”
                “I dislike me its implications, sir.  To return to the subjects of Reason and Logic I am loathe to abandon for long: to accept the adjective ‘stolen’ as veritable, sovereign Logic and her consort Reason would dictate that I am responsible for the stealing.  That, though the idea is ludicrous, I am to be a thief.”
                The fop bowed.  “Then the word has performed its assigned service admirably.”
                Taryl nodded in understanding.  “In that case, my dear sir, I believe we have an appointment.”
                “My sweet gentleman, I find myself without immediate commitments and place myself entirely at your service.”
                “Happily, I am similarly independent of obligations.  Will you do me the honor of accompanying me into the street?”
                “The honor is entirely mine, good sir.”  And arm-in-arm the pair exited the smokey gloom of the tavern and stepped into the afternoon sunshine; the dandy’s friends, the steadfast Borin, and a few interested onlookers exchanging money and odds all following in their wake.
                The duel is a fiercely held tradition in Corynth, and is a right extended only to those of noble birth; the sweating proletariat must be content to slaughter each other under a different noun.  This particular quarter of the city was well stocked with those of The Blood, and thus its denizens were quite well aware of the protocols expected of them; traffic, both pedestrian and equestrian, halted or found detour routes as an unspoken but somehow tangible perimeter was formed in the avenue that ran beneath the creaking sign of the Angry Friar.  Taryl almost experienced a moment of discomfort when he realized that as a newcomer to this city less than a  full hour he did not yet know anyone suitable to serve as auxiliary, but one of the fop’s companions generously volunteered himself as Taryl’s second and the issue was happily settled.  Cloaks were deposited on Borin, and the dandy presented a very pretty blade.  “My lord, I beg you to do me the courtesy of placing yourself in your guard position.”
                Taryl nodded politely and did as he was requested, freeing from its sheath the jaunty long sword that rode at his hip.  It was much, much older than the fop’s blade, of a heavier style no longer in fashion with the modern methods of swordplay, and stained and notched with much use.  Nevertheless, it was as sharp as the east wind in autumn, balanced to such a degree that it seemed alive, and it was in the hands of a quick and calm young man not ill-acquainted with its use.
                The proceedings began as these things usually begin:  a half-thrust here, a feint and an easily parried counter there; much foot-shuffling, teeth-baring, and eye-glinting as the two studied each other in the oppressive silence and sought for the key that would fit into the lock of the other’s defense.  In an instant, and against the desires of both contestants, the duel suddenly erupted into a flurry of parries and jabs, and the avenue rang with the cacophony of steel meeting steel.  From this chaos the young fop took the initiative and executed a well-balanced thrust known in the East as the Striking Terrapin.  Taryl easily countered this with a magnificently executed parry called the Furious Sloth and returned a riposte named the Belching Beetle.  The dandy was perhaps caught unawares by this, and the Farting Llama he used as a parry was ill-timed and in need of improvement.  Similar ineptitude accompanied his next moves: the well-dressed young gentleman misremembered to fully chamber his balancing hand as he struck with the Defecating Cow, and his feet were crossed as he followed up with a Vomiting Chicken.  These mistakes made it easier for Taryl to parry the attacks with a well-practiced Masturbating Monkey, then return a counter attack with a technique that the skilled swordsmen call Shove Your Sword In The Bugger’s Chest.  The young fop paused, seemed to notice with some disgust the steel blade sunken nearly to the hilt in his velveteen tunic, then decided to stretch himself out on the cobbled street and allow blood to run from his body.
                Those in the gathered audience who had been observant enough to note that the calluses on the sword palm of the bright-eyed country youth were not the type earned by working a farm implement raised a heartfelt cheer and collected their winnings from those unfortunates too willing to believe that yards of expensive silk could be the sign of a successful duelist.  And in fact the young man who now rested himself in the supine and permitted a crimson froth to escape from lips now slightly blue had indeed been a fine hand with a blade himself... but not fine enough this day.  His comrades had expected a much different conclusion to this little adventure, and now milled about in a confused manner, unsure of what next to do.  Taryl leaned over to clean the notched blade of his jaunty long sword in the sea of velvet, suede, and silk at his feet, but kept the three companions well in his sight.
                By the time our protagonist was at last ready to return his blade to its sheath the companions seemed to have come to a consensus, and the result appeared to be one that made the sheathing of his sword an unnecessary task for Taryl.  Further developments in this direction were unfortunately interrupted by the clatter of hooves and an unpleasant odor somehow familiar to Taryl.  The dark rider our hero knew to be named Haredin had returned and was forcing his flatulent steed through the gawking crowd to greet the participants.  The appearance of this rider, in combination with the fragrance of his wheezing and shakey-kneed mount, resulted in an immediate dissolution of the audience.
                “What kind of spectacle are you making of yourselves?” hissed the rider to the three fops.  “Didn’t I specifically order you all to avoid drawing too much attention?  Does this” he swept a glove around to encompass the disappearing remnants of the crowd that had watched the contest, “seem very subtle to you?”
                To Taryl’s astonishment, not one of the three now demanded satisfaction for the disgrace of this public tongue-lashing.  Instead, they merely bowed their heads, and when the rider named Haredin went on to gesture at Taryl’s opponent with a riding crop and ask “What’s wrong with him?”, one of the three answered, “He is dead, m’lord.  Killed in a duel.”
                “Dead, eh?  Then why is he waving his hand?”
                There was a pause as this was confirmed.  “He is mortally wounded, my lord.  His life ebbs swiftly and Death’s icy grip squeezes his soul as we watch.”
                “Does it in fact, b’gads?  What do those gestures mean?... Never mind, he seems to have stopped now.  Ah, this is not good.  I am now short one swordsman.  It is absolutely vital that there be four, not three.  It will be noticed if we are short one man.”
                Time paused, Destiny held her breath, and Taryl spoke thusly:  “Borin, you are getting blood all over your hands.  Desist with your corpse scavenging and attend me.”
                “I attend you, master.”
                “Good.  Now collect our things and we shall return to our meal, which is no doubt ready for us by now.”  And he turned his steps tavern-wards.
                “I say there!” called out Haredin.  “Young man!”
                Taryl paused long enough to turn his head.  “Could you possibly be trying to address me?”
                The dark rider’s somewhat sarcastic bend at the waist from his saddle could be interpreted by some to be a bow, and we shall choose to do so.  “Forgive me, but we have not been formally introduced.  I know you only as the man who has slain one of my hired men.”
                Taryl nodded graciously.  “This can be a difficult social situation.  I shall remedy it: my name is Taryl dar Alklawi, and your man has provided satisfaction to an uncalled for slight to my honor.”
                The dark rider’s sad smile was unseen in the shadow cast by his enormous hat, but was heard in his voice; “I harbor no doubts that the circumstances were honorable , but the result is unfortunately the same; I find myself desperately in need of a competent swordsman immediately.”
                “And I wish you all the best of luck in your search,” observed the polite Taryl, “But if to be a swordsman in your hire is to be spoken to in the manner which you addressed these three, I want none of it.  I bid that you enjoy a good day.”  And he once more turned to reenter the Angry Friar.
                “I do realize that a man of your sensibilities would not be swayed by the mere fourteen pieces of gold for a day’s work,”  (Taryl’s confident stride stumbled, most likely the result of a loose cobble stone in the road), “but will such a man be swayed by loyalty to the royal throne?”
                Taryl turned to find Haredin reaching down from his saddle to display what at first appeared to be a tiny, fierce star winking from the blackness of his glove, or perhaps it was a solid flame, and on second consideration revealed itself to be a signet ring.  And though it had been many generations since the House of Alklawi had sent a representative to the royal court, the device on the ring was immediately recognized by our good lord to be that of the royal house.  The feudal spirit ran strong in the veins of Alklawi’s sons and daughters in spite of, or as some have suggested because of, the previously mentioned absence from the daily business of the royal court, and Taryl could not resist any call to his duty as vassal.  He stepped closer to the dark rider as one in a daze, his eyes fixed on the ring.  “The king requires my services?”
                The dark rider spoke softly; the bait had been taken and he was drawing the line carefully.  “If you look closer, you will find that this is the queen’s signet ring.  It is in her name that I ask your services, to aid me in completing the tasks she has honored me by laying at my feet.”
                Taryl thought of the woman in the coach, and the thought of whom that magnificent coach may have belonged to sent a lightning bolt of awe up his spine.  Refusing to allow himself the pleasure of dwelling on such possibilities, he merely nodded and offered his hand to the rider.  “For the glory of our queen, I will agree to place my sword at your service for this paltry sixteen gold pieces.”
                “Fourteen gold pieces.”
                “Yes, and what exactly is it that you wish me to do to earn these sixteen gold coins?”

* * * * *

                A mere thirty minutes later found the dearest sapling to spring from the mighty Alklawi oak ascending the marble steps of the Palace of Corynth two at a time, following the example of the three dandies he accompanied.  The task as outlined to him by Haredin was laughable in its simplicity:  Taryl and these other three were to relieve the Royal Guardsmen of their posts and stand guard over the person of the king himself.  This alone seemed to Taryl more than honor enough, but the dark rider also predicted that some commotion would take place during their shift, in which case Taryl and his three colleagues were to stop anyone from entering the royal chambers, regardless of rank or uniform.  The task seemed a simple enough one, and after Taryl had agreed to it, Haredin had turned his steed toward the palace, bidding the four proto-guardsmen to follow him with all haste.  They had complied, and even though the dark rider bestrode such a steed as the coughing palmetto, they still managed to arrive at the palace after him.
                Their way had apparently been prepared, for they passed from antechamber to outer courtyard, then through an audience hall and into the inner courtyard without being challenged by any of the stoically silent guards standing in inconspicuous and sometimes invisible positions throughout the palace.  Though Taryl longed to spend more time examining the details of the embroidered tapestries, appreciating the power of the sweeping columns and arches, or absorbing the peace of the gardens and fountains, he knew that such pleasures would have to wait till his tasks were finished, and that he was fortunate enough to simply have earned access to the palace within hours of having arrived at the city for the first time in his life.
                The quartet paced through the inner courtyard to halt at the archway leading to the throne room.  It was here that Taryl and his crew were to relieve the previous guards of their cherished duty.  Haredin could be seen now in a corner of the throne room whispering urgently to the captain of the Royal Guard, gesturing to Taryl and the dandies, and flashing the signet ring often.  At last the captain nodded, the crimson plume on his helmet that was his badge of office bobbing to keep tempo, and he approached the newcomers to give his instructions.  The king would soon be emerging from his bedroom to seat himself at the desk in the corner of the throne room indicated by the captain.  The newcomers were to take up their positions before the king emerged, and the previous guard shift would accompany the king only as far as the throne room, then return to barracks.
                So far none of this taxed the considerable mental powers of our brave young lord, and a feeling that this day would see sixteen of the easiest gold pieces he had ever earned filled Taryl with a soft, warm glow.  He took his position in the north corner, opposite the desk, with a feeling that the future, as bright as it had seemed this morning when he awoke, was practically incandescent now.
                The king shuffled into the throne room an hour later, and Taryl was able to gaze upon his dread sovereign for the first time in his life.  And though the monarch was not eight feet tall and as heavily muscled as a bull, as Taryl's imagination had been wont to portray him, the young lord from the country was far from disappointed.  The middle aged man of thinning hair and an expansive belly straining the the cord of his dressing gown shuffled into the room in slippered feet in such a regal fashion that Taryl could not imagine anyone mistaking this man for anything less than a monarch.  The majestic prince of princes glanced at the four new guards, announced “We will catch up on some paperwork; see that We are not disturbed,” flopped into the chair at the desk, and promptly fell into a light doze.  Taryl’s heart nearly burst with feudal pride.
                Slowly, slowly; as slowly as an idiot child struggles to read a note left by the frustrated mother who was at last abandoning him, or as slowly as the local drunkard regains consciousness after lying all night half-naked in a gutter full of his own and others’ vomit and urine;  this slowly did the long minutes and hours slide glacially through the cavernous throne room.  The only sounds were the light snores of His Majesty and the occasional buzz of a blue bottle that had passed as had our hero through the cordon of palace guards to this inner sanctum, and now found the honor tedious.  And as we could be nothing other than completely honest with you, sweetest reader, one must admit that Taryl was beginning to grow a little weary of this distinction himself.  As bright and active a mind as our lord’s could not long suffer to be idle, and to entertain itself this mind commanded that the eyeballs swivel about, studying the the chamber and pondering on the geometrical precision its architect here presented the viewer, admiring the skill of chisel its stonemasons had blessed each arcus and capitellum with, and musing upon the twisted horror that was the mind of whomever had chosen the tapestries.
                A gallery ran across three of the throne room’s four walls, about twenty feet from the flagstones of the chamber, it’s railing carved from a dark and rich oak that contrasted pleasantly with the white granite of the wall.  As Taryl ruminated happily on the staging effect this lent the whole of the chamber, his eye, which was indeed bright, caught a movement in the shadows behind this gallery’s railing.  Never one to leap to uninformed action, our sensible gentleman bided in the hope that further events would provide more information.  And further events obliged.  A short and bulky piece of shadow detached itself from the whole and leaned a snarled beard and glittering beady eyes over the railing.  It was Borin!
                Taryl felt he could blame only himself.  He had specifically instructed the lackey to wait for him at the tavern, it not seemly that a hired sword guarding His Royal Majesty at the bequest of Her Royal Majesty should indulge in the luxury of a lackey while on duty.  Taryl had, however, been too busy to follow his injunction with the requisite boot to the lackey’s britches that allowed instructions to take root in what passed for the man-servant’s brain and the result was as he feared: the stupid man had followed him as an ill wind follows the lactose-intolerant milk drinker.  The situation had the potential for embarrassment, and the proactive youth from Wolfsguard felt it was time to perform a little bud-nipping.
                With certain winks and hand motions that this chronicler declines to describe, Taryl gave his fellow guardsmen in the other three corners to understand that he was in urgent need of a chamber pot, and that he would return shortly (in this exposing his amateur status as a guard, who are men born by necessity without bladders, and whom simply urinate through their skins as do sharks).  Before any answering gestures could be made to dissuade him from this purpose, the young lord was behind the nearest tapestry and searching for a way up into the gallery.
                He soon found a wooden stair of the same material as the railing and was up its steep steps like a gazelle, were gazelles ever to learn how to climb stairs.  As he cleared the last few steps like an avenging angel, he found Borin kneeling on the balcony, industriously turning the winch that wound an impressively stout crossbow.  Conscious of the need to neither disturb the royal slumber nor to alert his colleagues below, Taryl was forced to summarize what he felt were the salient points of feudal duty, lackey disobedience, and predictions for Borin’s short and painful future to a hissed “Oi!” that caused the man servant to nearly choke on the tangle of beard he had been masticating furiously.  The lower born man’s eye’s both bugged and rolled, and in his surprise the poor lackey lost control of the crossbow; the weapon swung up from the floor and around to face Taryl, as the trigger slipped from the safe position to release the cord that propelled a thick iron quarrel through the air...

                Those who court the favors of Lady Fortune often report her to be a fickle mistress, as likely to shower her paramours with ill luck as with good, and sometimes with both at one time.  And so it was in this case with the scion of House Alklawi: bearing down on his lackey with every intent of exacting righteous vengeance, he happened to place his boot in the unfortunate result of Borin’s predilection to drool excessively, and the lackey had been sitting in the balcony for some time by this point.  Yet while our hero may have well had cause to bemoan the sudden loss of any traction that sent his heels into the air and his body to the floor, the happy result was that his lofty carriage was therefore not where it had been an instant ago, and the bright quarrel flashed harmlessly over his falling body.
                The sleepy silence was not broken by the thump of Taryl’s manly frame meeting the floor of the balcony, nor by this gentleman’s equally manly expression of pain, nor even by the metallic clatter of the quarrel spitting sparks off of a pair of pillars and falling to the flags below.  No, the quiet was broken by the hoarse and ragged cry of a just-awakened king calling “Guards!  To my aid!  Assassination!  Horror!”

                Should the reader ever take it upon his or her self to peruse the histories of great events, one will find that each of these moments that affect the course of the human experience happens in a much more rapid fashion than it takes to relate them, and even to study them.  Examples abound:  the Battle of Cartrine Ridge, in which General Zinari effectively loosed twelve hundred rabid Screecher monkeys on the invading troops of Arjeen, took a mere four macabre minutes to begin and finish, but four centuries for historians to study and argue about.  Or the Great Fire of 436, which began as a dare between two young boys in a fish market and which raged through the city in under an hour, yet still is not fully understood.  And the same phenomenon occurred now, as a dastardly and evil plot unfolded in the throne room of Corynth in mere moments.
                The cry for assistance from his king brought Taryl to his feet even before his body had finished falling to the floor, and he was at the rail and stretching over an instant later.  The scene below froze the blood in his veins:  His Majesty sprawled on the floor and performing an excellent imitation of A Crab Scrabbling For His Life, despite the blood that soaked the right sleeve of his dressing gown.  Over Him loomed a knife-wielding shape in cloak and hat that Taryl immediately recognized as Haredin;  the other three guards in the room were very desperately not watching the tableau before them and were instead staring at the closed chamber door expectantly.  A single word flashed like fire through Taryl’s mind: Regicide!  And they had tried to make him a part of their treasonous plot!
                All of this happened so swiftly it may as well have been instantaneous, and if the observer were to count this as one moment, the very next moment would be the one containing the strangled scream from the shadows of the gallery.  At its sound Taryl wheeled about, turning from the railing, and by that action just narrowly avoided an unfortunate collision with Borin.  It had been the poor lackey who had emitted that awful cry of rage and frustration, no doubt as a result of the same despair and horror at the sight of the crime below that had caused him to lift a hand axe and rush forward.  Taryl having executed his turn with the speed of a jungle cat, Borin’s momentum carried him unchecked to the rail and then over it, his little mind having perhaps not noticed that the difference in altitudes between his own position and the crime that so stunned his senses was quite considerable.  Over the railing the lackey flailed, his axe flashing, his beard streaming, his body odor hanging in the vacuum briefly before following its progenitor downwards.
                For Taryl, thought became as action, and the thought now was to descend as quickly as possible, without taking as damaging a road as Borin had.  Taking a few steps backwards in preparation, Taryl then bounded forward and leapt, first to the top of the railing, then out into open space, hands outstretched to grasp an enormous banner that hung from somewhere in the unseen rafters nearly to the flagstones of the throne room.  Thus with two fistfuls of material and a hissed prayer to the gods between clenched teeth Taryl descended to the chamber floor with a horrific ripping noise and followed by followed by yards of brightly colored cloth.
                After fighting his way clear of the enveloping folds and getting his sword clear of its sheath, our good hero was able to assess the situation before him:  Borin lay unmoving atop the equally still form of the dark rider in a confusion of arms and legs, the king was staring at Taryl with His royal jaw slackened in a most un-kingly manner, and the three hired swordsmen were once again thrown into a state of confusion as a result of unexpected events, as unimaginative people often are.  Their confusion could be read in their glances between the chamber door that now shivered beneath blows as the palace guards outside demanded entry, and the crumpled form of the dark rider who had hired them to ensure that the door was not breached before it was time.  Taryl, as quick-witted a lad as ever, took immediate advantage of the hesitation, and sprang forward to place the point of his sword to the throat of the closest one.  “Open it,” he told the man calmly, indicating with his head the shuddering door.
                If the reader would be so kind as to remember, we first met these gentlemen in the role of darrow players, and as every darrow player knew, a sword to the throat trumped a purse of money paid up front in every circumstance.  And further, the steady hand and icy gaze of this youth clearly told the hired sword that if he himself did not open the door immediately, Taryl would do it himself, and the swordsmen would not be alive to witness it.
                The mercenary threw back the bolt to the chamber door, a flood of crimson-uniformed guards obliterated any other scenery in the throne room, and it suddenly became the time for tedious explanations...

* * * * * *

                Taryl told what he knew of the events leading up to the assassination attempt and his own part in it many times; first with two soldiers sitting on his chest and with a knife to his ear, then sitting upright with iron chains being wound about his arms, and once the king had confirmed at least the latter part of his tale; vis, his heroic rescue of the king in the face of three-to-one odds, he told the tale on his feet, with his lofty carriage even loftier with pride,and was destined to do so again many times in his long career.  As the three hired thugs were led from the throne room to a fate better left unknown, the king summoned Taryl into his presence.  Taryl responded immediately and humbly, as a loyal vassal should, bowing deeply before his dread sovereign and remaining in that position for the duration of the audience.
                “We give you our thanks, and wish to know thy name, brave man,” the king began.
                Taryl was prepared to die at this very minute of pure pride.  “Taryl, of the House Alklawi, Lord of Wolfsguard, my liege.”
                The king’s answer arrived after a thoughtful pause.  “Wolfsguard?  Ah yes, we vaguely recall the place.  Lots of trees...  Well, dar Alklawi certainly breeds its sons well.  What an imaginative way of using your lackey; as a missile!  We will have the High Commander look into this as a method to be employed on a large scale on a formal battlefield.  Or perhaps it should only be confined to the individual melee?”
                “Your Majesty alone knows best.”
                “Yes, most likely we do.  How did the lackey withstand this employment?  Still usable?”
                “The palace guards tell me he is recovering consciousness now, my king.”
                There was another period of silence, one that lasted to such an extent that Taryl began to consider daring to lift his eyes to search for slippers in confirmation that the king was still before him.  He was saved such a risky endeavor, however, by the king’s voice softly asking, “Lord Taryl, how did this assassin convince you to come into his employ, as you say?  It was not just the money; we feel that you have been leaving something out.  Tell us.”
                Taryl’s head swam with a potent concoction of pride and shame.  He was ashamed for having been discovered as less than completely honest (though out of the best intentions of not wishing to sully a woman’s name), yet proud that his monarch had seen through the ruse.  Choking with the grief of having to impart such painful news to his beloved liege lord, Taryl told the king of the queen’s signet ring, and of the conversation between the dark rider and the passenger of the black carriage.  The king listened in silence, placed a comforting hand on Taryl’s shoulder and bid that he put his conscience to rest, then called to the royal chamberlain to bring the queen to His audience chambers as soon as possible.
                Taryl was released from the Presence, and after pausing to rescue a still swaying Borin from the royal barber, took his leave of this adventure.  Crossing the threshold of the throne room’s door he suddenly found a royal page at his elbow.  Without a word from the page, a heavy bag of coin and a roll of parchment was thrust into Taryl’s unresisting hand.  The parchment proved to be an invitation to the royal court, while the purse represented to Taryl a generous welcome to the city that would soon become to him like a second home. 
                Lord Taryl dar Alklawi had arrived in Corynth...

~FIN~