How to begin?  Perhaps we should try the beginning...
            The magnificent city of Corynth, the shining jewel of the Western Kingdoms.  A gentle zephyr, having originated in the Wolf Trap Mountains, passes lightly over the ploughed fields surrounding this urban wonder, lingering to caress the sweated brow of a merry and dehydrated peasant, graciously cooling this son of the soil moments before his collapse.  The breeze then continues past the fecund fields and quaint hovels of the happy farming community till it reaches the mighty walls of the city itself.  Unheeded by the guardians of Law posted at the gates, it passes into Corynth over the heads of the river of humanity that flows into the city each day to seek their individual fortunes (or the fortunes of others): the merchants, pickpockets, street mimes, and young men of adventure.  Let us follow this breeze and observe its first visit to the metropolis.
            Just as its human counterparts do when entering Corynth for the first time, it pauses in wonder just inside the gates.  It tarries, experiencing the sights, sounds, and smells found nowhere else in the world.  The unfortunate lack of a competent sewage system, the vendors crying their wares mingled with the vocal expressions of those meeting the city’s famed cutthroats and muggers, the excitable bustling of the largest population per square foot in the world... all this come together to help form the unique (and sometimes fatal) experience that is Corynth.
            The breeze passes over the heads of the bustling humanity packed into the main cobblestone avenue, past the stalls of haberdashers, songwriters, and butchers displaying relatively fresh slabs of flesh of questionable origin.  It ducks down a small winding alley, then a smaller one, finds itself in an open space boasting a public fountain, a gaggle of chattering women with buckets, and the prone form of the local drunkard.  Choosing another narrow meandering alley, no longer of cobble but of packed earth and brackish puddles, it lifts itself through the second story window of an apartment over-looking the alley, lingers a moment to toy with the room’s occupants, then passes back through the yellowing lead paned portal and continues it’s exploration of the city. 
            It’s visit to the room did not go unnoticed by the two who at the moment took their repose there.  With the gentle reader’s permission, we shall turn our attention from the wind to these two men.  Cast the mind’s eye over the first, he closest to the window.  He takes his rest upon a simple wooden chair, lounging with the practiced ease of those of noble blood.  A silky mane of chestnut hair frames a handsome young face of bright eye, smooth chin, and unbroken nose.  A less charitable observer would note that while his dress is of a fashionable cut, it is a cut that was fashionable three years ago.  This unwholesome pessimist would also draw certain unfavorable impressions from the frayed cuffs and the oft-repaired condition of the tunic, jerkin, leggings, and other accouterment; but we hold not company with such nay-sayers, and wish them good riddance.
            This fine specimen of youth had, at the moment of the zephyr’s visit, been engaged to the task of lovingly oiling and sharpening the longsword across his knees.  This sword’s craftsmanship and venerable age suggest that it is a family heirloom; the suggestion in this case is correct.
            The small room’s lack of a bed had allowed its second occupant the opportunity to stretch himself out on the floor, a blanket unnecessary in the mid-summer warmth of the day.  This man is possessed of a formidable number of years, and is thus entitled to a noon day nap.  While not sprung from the same noble stock as his younger room-mate, the heavy set brow, tangled grey bush of beard, and close set little black eyes bespeak his heritage as that of the lower class upon whose shoulders those tasks not befitting the gentry are laid.  A rumbling from deep inside this elder’s ample gut echoes now about the room, and from between the yellowish stubs prided by their owner as teeth comes a voice:  “Master, the hunger chews at mine belly most awful.”
            Hark the youth’s sage advice, wise beyond his tender years:  “Well, Borin, fill again thy pipe.  It is well known that tobacco soothes an empty stomach.”
            “But master, we ran out of tobacco three days ago,” whined the manservant unbecomingly.
            “Ah, then the perspective is an even happier one, for tobacco ruins the health, heating the lungs beyond their endurance and swelling the spleen.  See how Fortune smiles on her sons, Borin!”
            Borin nodded dutifully, but his below-stairs heritage did not allow him to grasp this higher concept.  He chewed his beard, which was one base habit of which he was inordinately fond of, and his face darkened in anger, which was another.  Stubby, gnarled fingers caressed the hilt of a knife hidden within the folds of his jerkin, then the clouds passed from his visage as the ale passes through a man’s bladder.  Quothe he; “The landlady asked me again for the rent monies, master. She says it has been now three weeks late.”
            Taryl (for such was the young man’s name, and thus such shall we call him) nodded slowly and continued to draw his whetstone along the blade.  “A wise head for numbers on that good woman, I’ve always said.”
            “She seemed quite excited, yer lordship, and was wondering when you may pay her.”
            “Was she, then?  Fascinating.”
            Borin seemed encouraged to continue.  “Aye.  She also has four well-grown sons, two of whom are enrolled in the ranks of the City Guard.  I’ve heard of their reputation, master.  Perhaps yer lordship is in some physical danger?”  This last thought seemed to please Borin mightily.
            Taryl did not deign to answer, instead wiping down the blade with a soft cloth, then rising to his feet.  “I shall consider paying the gentle landlady at such time as I allow coin to fill my purse, Borin,” he explained as he buckled on his sword belt.  “As things stand for the nonce, I could not allow such an unworthy thing as money to sully the crystal pool of my thoughts.  Nor could I allow myself to break this spirit of optimism our good hostess now lives with.  After all, dear Borin, were we to pay her now, what would she have to look forward to?  No, I firmly believe that hope is the greatest gift one person can give to another:  I have given her something to hope for, and would not shatter that sweet anticipation for the world.  And now,” continued Taryl, having delivered this remarkable philosophy, “we shall go for a stroll in the fresh air.  If you would be so good as to bring the Pack.”
            “The Pack?”  asked Borin, wit a frank curiosity unbecoming of his station.
            “Yes, Borin, the Pack.  Our kind landlady may wish to sweep the room during our absence, and I see no point in leaving it in her way.  You can just bring it along, there’s a good lackey.”
            The faithful Borin pointed out under his breath that he believed it highly unlikely that the gentle hostess would pick this day to perform an operation she had studiously avoided during the entire past two months, but could find no fault with his master’s reasoning that a chance did indeed exist.  Allowing himself a few muffled grunts, Borin climbed into the steel-cable reinforced shoulder straps that had been fitted to a functional, though not ostentatious, sea trunk that, when stood on end, was taller than himself.  The Pack contained the entire personal effects of his master, Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, and in the past few days had remained ready-packed, in case of just such a sudden whim.  Taryl paused to check that the feather in his cap was pinned at just the right height, that the long sword hung from his hip at the jaunty angle so much in keeping with his youthful spirit, and the pair quit the room.
            Unwilling to chance disturbing the landlady previously discussed, Taryl found it to his pleasure to drop from the window into the alley, with Borin following suit.  Once the noble Taryl had then shifted most of the Pack’s weight from the unconscious lackey, Borin revived himself and the two enjoyed the open air at a reasonable jogging pace.
            Fresh air was in fact a rare commodity in the center of the metropolis, and thus Taryl turned his steps toward the port, seeking the solace of wholesome sea breezes.  A half hour of winding through the labyrinth of Corynth, slipping through the jostling crowds as prunes slip through the elderly, brought them to the wooden planks of the docks.  Here rough men bred of the salt-sea air and the crashing roar of the surf bellowed orders and encouragement to each other as they busied themselves with the labors of freight, tackle, and playing cards.  Sea gulls wheeled above, sounding their lonesome cry, a fact not immediately interesting or pertinent, but which may help to set the scene.  Here Taryl paused, bright eye poised to encounter any opportunity for breakfast, as Borin, wheezing and coughing up small pieces of some organ in a most unattractive manner, stretched himself on the wood planks.
            Taryl did not have long to wait for entertainment.  Moments after his pause, the young lord was surprised to hear his name being called out across the throng of busy sea-folk.  He looked about for the source of the hailing and noted two Guardsmen approaching, chain mail jingling and spears held nonchalantly.  Always ready to brighten the day of those hard working servants of the peace, Taryl favored them with a gracious nod of recognition.  The pair did not seem satisfied with this alone, and in fact it appeared as though they desired speech with our gentleman.
            “Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, isn’t it?”  asked one with undue familiarity, when the pair were within speaking range.
            “Aye,” responded Taryl.  Behind him, he could hear the faithful Borin laboring to resume a standing position.
            “My name,” continued the first, “is Natin...”
            “That is indeed unfortunate,” sympathized Taryl magnanimously, who wished to end the conversation with as mush haste as courtesy would allow.  “Yet I assure you that I am in no way at fault.”  He began to turn away.
            The guard was reluctant to end the acquaintance, and went so far as to lay a large gloved hand on the young lord’s sleeve.  “And my brother here is Jason, Jason Forsmythe.  Helga Forsmythe is our mother.”
            “Ah, most likely the guilty party in regards to names, thought Taryl.  The name ‘Helga Forsmythe’ did seem to ring a distant bell of recognition.  Nevertheless, Taryl had plans for his day that did not currently include spending it in the company of these agreeable Guardsmen.  “Well, as intriguing as your genealogy is, my good man, I don’t wish to hoard all of your time.  I’m sure you have your duties to perform.  Good day to you both.”  And again he turned to leave.
            This time he found his way blocked by the second party, he who had previously been introduced as Jason, Jason.  This Jason, Jason was quite large, and the countenance he bore spoke of an intelligence beneath bordering on the dull side.  This mortal mountain now showed his teeth to Taryl in what could favorably called a grin, leaned closer to allow the lord a better examination of his dental work, and breathed “You owes mama rent money!”
            Taryl snapped his fingers as recognition dawned.  “Ah yes, Helga Forsmythe the landlady!  Of course, I remember now.  You know, for the life of me, I couldn’t understand where this conversation was going. The rent monies.  Very well:  pay these gentlemen, Borin.  I’ll leave you to it.”  And he did so, at a fast sprint.
            He was already a quarter of the way down the dock when he heard the scream of rage, for his lordship was equipped with a quite healthy pair of legs, and now found it to his pleasure to exercise them.  Borin had been in Taryl’s service for many, many years now; he knew well the ways of his master, and therefore surprise did not slow him from sticking to the young lord’s heels like pine pitch.  But age and poor diet, not to mention the Pack, weighed heavily on the faithful lackey, and despite his enthusiasm Borin was unable to match Taryl’s speed.  It was therefore the brave manservant who became the recipient of the spear so carelessly flung by Natin Forsmythe at the retreating pair.  The spear point entered the lackey’s meaty shoulder, the iron biting deep, and with a scream and a gurgle Borin flung himself to the ground, snatched out the spear from his flesh, scrambled to his feet and found wings.
            Taryl had found wings of his own, lent to him by Borin’s cry.  He decided that now that sharp objects were being hurled about recklessly, the docks were no longer a source of pleasure for him, and Taryl knew when and when not to be among those counted as “Present”.  He decided to quit the place, and ahead saw a likely candidate for assistance: a low hulled sip bearing the improbable name of the Belching Cow, prepared to sail and just minutes from drawing in its gangplank.  A slight turn of direction was for Taryl but child’s play, and he was soon pounding up said gangplank.
            His arrival on deck was met by open-mouthed stares from the crew-- no doubt they had not expected such a noble personage on board; and then a fist in his jaw-- no doubt there was some mistake.  Taryl found himself in a less than comfortable prone position across the deck with a large black man standing over him, shouting “You brought the Guard down on us?”
            Taryl was prepared to explain that he had not in fact brought anything, that he had not known he was expected to, but the man did not seem prepared to listen just at the moment.  Instead, this strange son of the seven seas was shouting orders: for archers to come up on deck, to pull in the gangplank, to cut moorings, and to shove off.  These orders were being obeyed with all haste by the gallant crew, though those assigned to the task of bringing in the gangplank were having some difficulty.  Taryl rose to glance over the gunwales and found the reason.  “Ah, my luggage,” he explained; for the faithful Borin, complete with Pack, was clinging to the now vertical gangplank like a troglodyte.  The black man advised the crewmen to simply “Bugger the gangplank”, and said object was immediately dropped into the heaving depths with a splash, though not before Borin had grabbed the gunwale and scrambled aboard.
            The Guardsmen who had been so intent on further developing a more intimate relation-ship with our hero had now apparently changed their minds, and were instead running full speed back up the dock, away from the ship, with a trail of falling arrows to mark their route for posterity.  As for the Belching Cow, fifty-four strong arms pulled at the oars that drove the ship’s long prow into the empty horizon.  The sounds of Corynth were already fading in the distance (though it would take longer to forget its smell), and Taryl began to feel at peace...
            ...Ill-mannered hands gripped his arms and spun him round, breaking the youth rudely from his reverie.  Taryl just had time to glimpse the large black man, who by all appearances was the nominal ring-leader of these discourteous ruffians, before a kick first to his knees and then, once he was at a more reasonable height kneeling on the deck, another kick to his head allowed him no other view besides feet;  booted, sandaled, and bare.  Squeals somewhere to his unseen leeward let Taryl know that Borin was still among the living... at least for now.
            And now there was another set of boots directly in front of him.  A pair of roughly calloused hands at the back of his neck did less to encourage than to actually hinder Taryl’s ability to look up  and examine the owner of these boots, but something told him that not all was as he suspected.  And then the Voice confirmed it;  “I should have you gutted, you filthy worm.”
            It was a voice that immediately arrested Taryl’s attention, spun is head, lit fires in his heart and groin.  A velvety, husky, sensuous, sultry voice with lilting back harmonics of a summer’s lazy afternoon, of birdsong and flower’s bloom, of fiery nights of unrestrained animalistic sex;  in short, it was a voice that made our impressionable hero fall head over heels in love with its owner without ever having laid eyes on any part of her other than her boots.  And the angelic strains teased his ears once more: “You have obliged me to depart with only half my cargo, and Baraka here says you brought half the City Guard around our ears.  So: who are you, madman, and what am I supposed to do with you?”
            Taryl could not bear to correct the Voice’s apparent impression that the City Guard consisted of only four men; he was now dragged unceremoniously to his feet by the scruff of his neck and another voice, this one belonging to the calloused hands that gripped his neck and was as far from angelic as is the barmaid from virtue, hissed in his ear “Answer the captain, worm!”  But by this time Taryl had laid eyes on the earthly abode of the Voice, and his brain shut down beneath the overload.
            Had a new sun tumbled from the starry vault above and landed at Taryl’s feet, our hero would have been no greater affected than by the sight of this monument to Beauty and grace.  Nay, nay, thought Taryl, such words as Beauty or Grace pale and wither before that which stands before me, and must take knee... Taryl turned his face from her, unable to endure such rapture.  The captain stepped even closer, and breath that seemed to Taryl the sweetest and most intoxicating vapor known to man fell upon his turned and burning cheek as she spoke.  “You have decided to play coy.  Very well, I have no patience for it.  I will have you tortured and then killed.  You have cost me dearly, madman, and you shall now repay me by entertaining us with your screams.”  She stepped back and asked her first mate, the large black man named Baraka, to notify the ship’s torturer.
            The prospect that he would be in such a position as to bring this wonderful specimen of femininity even an ounce of pleasure filled Taryl’s breast with joy.  He struggled against the one who gripped him to twist around and speak to Borin, that honest lackey being held in the same manner as his master.  “Do you hark that, Borin?” cried Taryl.  “We shall provide her with entertainment!”
            “Yer lordship?”  asked Borin, whose attention had been diverted during the past conversation to the rogue that continued to kick him repeatedly in the belly.
            “We are to pleasure Her!”
            “Oh, ah... er... very good, master.”  Borin was not, as has been mentioned, very well informed as to recent events, but he was feeling content with his lot in life.  The bleeding from his shoulder had slowed, the gentleman who was kicking him was growing tired and would soon be seeking other distractions, and now his master informed him that it was his duty to pleasure that frisky wench he had just seen up on deck.  Not too hard on the eyes, that one.  Yes, life held both sweetness and storm, and the good Borin felt himself owed a bit of sweetness.
            The good man previously identified as Baraka reappeared on deck to inform the bounder who held Taryl that Lysol, the torturer, was presently available for appointments.  Our worthy pair were then escorted below ships, through the gallery, and to a compartment located at what Taryl knew from his brief nautical experience was called “the pointy end” of the craft, and there left alone in the company of their new host, the hard working Lysol.
            The room enjoyed by the three was not large, obliging all three occupants to shift about when any one member of their group decided to change position.  This tall, gaunt Lysol seemed to exude an invisible shield, and shied from the slightest physical contact with any of his fellow human beings.  Before making their welcome departure, the two uncouth villains who had treated our heroes so roughly had further outraged common decency by “clapping them in irons”, which is another nautical term for the act of placing heavy iron cuffs on the wrists of both Taryl and Borin, these cuffs being joined by a forged link and thus, when operating, severely decreased the subject’s range of motion in regards to his arms.  Taryl bore up against this indignity with the true stoicism of his ancestors, but Borin wrestled and flopped about in the tiny space most alarmingly, and had Lysol positively dancing to avoid any unnecessary contact.
            “Stop that!”  cried the sorely tried Lysol.  “My dear sir, do stop that at once!  What is the meaning of this?”
            Taryl valiantly came to the aid of the sufferer by gaining control of his lackey with a look that could have turned an apoplectic to stone during a fit.  He then explained to his host, “We are to pleasure the goddess that commands this vessel with our screams, and I believe it is your duty to assist us in this.”
            To make a side note, with the gentle reader’s permission; we must mention that the honest Lysol had not wanted to be a torturer.  His lifelong ambition had been gardening, the raising and care of clean and wholesome plants that carried no infectious diseases to shorten and make miserable what few years man is granted on this earth.  But he had accepted this post on board the Belching Cow as a favor to an old friend, and with it the duties and responsibilities inherent.  He would stand by his duty, cost him what it may.  Thus with a sigh, it was a despondent Lysol that now chose from the tools hung along one wall of the cabin an instrument resembling a massive corkscrew with sharp bits attached at seemingly random points.  “Very well,” he said listlessly, “Shall we begin?”
            Taryl immediately obliged him with an earth-rollicking shriek in the high tenor.  His overwhelming passion to please the captain motivated him to what could perhaps be called excess, but it was an excess committed with the finest intentions of providing happiness, and he yodeled with every ounce of his strength.  Borin, who had finally realized the exact nature of the proposed event, Lysol’s position, and his own position, and liked them he not, added a bellow down in the bass, with a layer of background whimpers.  The harmonics of the duo set the planks rattling, and caused Lysol, who had first stared with dumb amazement at Taryl’s gaping yaw, to drop the unused instrument and snatch at his ears with both hands.  Lysol now honored the choral with a melody of groans, and the overall effect was one that, Taryl considered happily, would far exceed the sweet captain’s expectations.
            And his diagnosis proved itself to be quite accurate, for soon a crewman was hammering on the door to the cabin in a fashion that can only be described as “frenzied”.  The performance was brought to an intermission long enough for Lysol to examine the matter.  “The captain,” the crewman informed Lysol, with a somewhat pained expression, “was wondering if you could be a bit less enthusiastic in your attentions.  ‘Ask him to lead them along slowly, to build to a climax’ were her exact words, sir; ‘I am working on some delicate calculations right now, and the noise is distracting.’  And on a personal note, sir, the rest of the crew are chilled with fear.  Including myself, sir.”  And the young crewman tried to peek over Lysol’s shoulder and with bulging eyes in whitened face steal a glimpse of the horrible remains his imagination had peopled the cabin with.
            Lysol may not have fulfilled any life ambition by accepting the post of head torturer on board the Belching Cow, but he knew an opportunity for reputation when he saw it, and was able to shut the cabin door before the crewman got a look inside.  “Women!” he could easily have muttered to himself at this point;  “’Make them scream!’  ‘Don’t make them scream so loud!’  ‘Do this!’  ‘Do that!’” our dear Lysol might have said, but Lysol is a man of honor, who would rather chew off his own tongue than speak lightly of a woman.  He instead turned to his two subjects, one of whom was happily warming up his throat and performing breathing exercises to be prepared for his next round of exertions, while the second was staring about the room in a quite bug-eyed manner, drooling a bit as he softly gibbered and chewed his beard in terror.  Life was toil, Lysol realized, but there would be time enough to rest in the grave.  HE regained his instrument from the floor and advanced on the younger one, who was completing a warm-up allegro in a soft, pleasant tenor.  Taryl turned to meet his appointment, content in the knowledge that he was prepared.
            But Lysol was not afforded the precious time needed to begin his work in earnest.  Suddenly cutting through the slap of waves and the incessant whimpering of Borin came a voice verging on the edge of panic from above-decks.  “Off the port side!  Off the port!”  This was followed, or further communication drowned out by, two heavy, dull thumping noises in quick succession, then two more, then one.  The cabin rocked alarmingly, sending Taryl and Borin into a heap against one bulkhead and Lysol prancing about on tip-toe to maintain balance and avoid joining the merry pile.  Before any response or comment could be made by the cabin’s residents, another voice, unmistakably belonging to Baraka, bellowed across the rising din  “All hands on deck!  ALL hands!  Lysol, you too!”  There was a pause, during which Lysol expressed himself to the gods in a manner that brought a blush to Taryl’s cheek and a thoughtful expression to Borin’s, then Baraka continued,  “And bring what’s left of that mad fop.”

            Lysol paused a moment to remove the wrist irons from the pair, then the three piled out of the cabin door as two more dull, heavy thuds smacked into their ears and the ship rolled so that floor became wall and the wall, floor, then back again.  Taryl found the whole thing rather difficult to maneuver through, but realized that their destination lay at the end of the corridor they now crawled along.  He was just ruminating on various topics;  how the last two thuds had sounded so much closer than their earlier brethren, how silly it felt to be crawling along the floor one minute and the wall the next, and where on earth Lysol had found the mad tailor who had produced such an unfortunate waistcoat.  His thoughts were viciously interrupted by a crash and a roar that threatened to burst his head apart.  He had just reached the end of the corridor ahead of his two companions and had placed a hand on the ladder to the decks that was their goal when the crashing noise nearly smacked him to the ground.  The acrid stench of carbon assaulted his nostrils, and the square of sunshine above that delineated the hatch was smeared with greasy smoke.  Fear for the Captain’s safety lent a peculiar weightlessness to Taryl, and he practically flew up the ladder, emerging from the hatch just in time to be stretched flat on the deck by another horrible crash, roar, and now he could hear the unmistakable scream of rent air as a cannonball passed over the waves.  Through the haze of smoke that hung over the deck, our astute young lord recognized that the hatch opened between two five pounders, around which a bustle of human activity proved they had just earned their keep. 

           The deck was a scene of chaos.  The Belching Cow now sped through the waves shrouded in a cloud of gun-smoke, men dashed about shouting, and there were more explosions of discharge and answering thuds from somewhere beyond the veil of white.  A cannon had jumped its blocks and was now racing back and forth across the rolling deck, scattering men from its path, as a small group of suicides worked feverishly with axe and hammer to open a hole in the gunwale through which the heavy gun might escape into the deeps.

.  From out of the mists and confusion Baraka presented himself, braced against the roll of the deck and bearing weaponry.  “Arm yourself,” he said simply to Taryl, perhaps forgetting in the passion of the moment the proper forms of address.  And he handed Taryl the jaunty long sword that had been taken from him during the process of “clapping in irons” our dear hero had previously endured.
            “But what is happening?” cried Taryl, for the nonce allowing himself a moment of excitability.  “Pirates!” shouted a passing sailor in response to this question, for Baraka himself had once more faded into the mists.
            Borin had also received arms, in the form of a broad axe.  A strange light was in his eye, and his giggling had resumed.  He now performed what were apparently warming-up exercises, which would have taken Taryl’s head off had our quick-witted hero not ducked his head at the appropriate times.  “Borin, you idiot, have a care!”  corrected Taryl severely.  “Wait for the enemy pirates.”
            “Oh, I’m not sure that I trust their competence, master!”  was Borin’s cryptic, and half mad, answering giggle.
            A multitude of metallic clanking noises resounded across the milieu, and Taryl noticed grapnel hooks falling out of the smoke and onto the deck, then mysteriously hissing back across the planks till they found some purchase on the gunwales.  The smoke itself was now dissipating, for cannon fire had not been heard for a few minutes.  Out of the brightening gloom, closer than Taryl would have imagined, the flank of an enormous galleon loomed alongside the racing Belching Cow.  A roar of human voices went up across the decks of the larger ship, the Captain’s own crew answered, and Taryl soon noticed quite a lot of new faces among the crowd on the Belching Cow’s deck, mingling with those that he recognized when first boarding.  Swords were a predominate accessory to the local fashion, as were poignards, hatchets, and horse pistols.  Screams and grunts replaced the much louder shouts of the cannons, and men were stretching themselves along the planks at irregular intervals.  The Belching Cow was being boarded!
            Taryl’s first concern, obviously, was for the safety of the Captain.  Love’s attraction is a powerful magnet, and it took no time for his searching eye to find her standing on the poop deck, a cutlass in one perfect fist and a musket in the other, propped against a curve of hip that nearly made Taryl swoon to consider.  His heart bled at the thought that this delicate flower of the carefree waves should be exposed to this most brutal display of man’s cruelty to man, and Taryl hastened poop-deck-wards with the idea of shielding her sensibilities from further harm.
            With Borin at his rear, Taryl made his way as fast as possible through the struggling mass to the ladder that led to the poop-deck on which stood the object of his every desire.  The way was being blocked by a scrawny man of dubious character, who was also attempting to mount the ladder in spite of a second man’s attempts from the poop-deck to introduce a spear into his flesh.  Taryl did not recognize this rat-like fellow, and strongly suspected him of being no invited guest to their company;  his suspicions were born out when the man now turned to ace Taryl, swinging a cleaver at his head in a most truculent manner.  Taryl neatly sidestepped the careless disregard of safety, but this left the luckless Borin open to receive the return swing, which he did by the flat of the blade. Borin was no stranger to his responsibilities at this juncture, and fell to the deck to emit a howl that chilled the bones of one and all.  The shriek was so effective that it gave the rascal a moment’s pause, and during the interval Taryl, for no poltroon was he, took the opportunity to introduce a good four inches of his long sword to the man’s third waistcoat button.  At this point the scoundrel permitted blood to escape from his body, seemed to consider the situation for a brief moment, then he lay himself down next to the half-senseless Borin.
            Taryl flew to the top of the ladder in much the same manner as he had exited from below decks minutes before, and was at the Captain’s side in less time than it takes a blind man to stub his toe.  “My angel!” he cried breathlessly, “Have you been hurt?  By the gods, don not torture me with this silence!  Have you come to any harm?  I shall dismember the responsible party with my bare hands!”  And he waved his sword for effect, unintentionally taking off a piece of Borin’s left ear, as the hapless lackey was now climbing up the ladder to take his proper place at his master’s side.
            The Captain favored Taryl with a look that could perhaps be described as utter loathing, but which we will choose to join Taryl in interpreting as one of gratitude.  “What are you doing on my poop, idiot?” she asked, declining, likely out of brave humility, to elaborate on any wounds to body or spirit she may have suffered.  “Get down to the deck and fight.  It is certainly in your own best interest to avoid being captured by that crew.  They are headed by Black Humperdink, Lord Bootle.”  She turned her attention back to the fray rocking on the deck below her, and pointed the musket indiscriminately into the crowd.  A click, the pan flashed, a hiss... and nothing.  With a string of vocabulary Taryl’s mind simply could not process as having fell from such soft lips she threw the disappointing firearm into the melee.

            Her words, prior to the expressions he had refused to believe were uttered, had struck another cord of memory in Taryl’s brain.  Lord Bootle?  Why, he knew a Lord Bootle...
            And then, like the old Eastern lands folk tale of the old man who had divided a sea in twain to allow some tribe or other to cross in safety, the sea of struggling humanity on the deck suddenly parted, and looking down this sudden corridor from their higher vantage point, the Captain and her retinue were able to make note of a bearded, aged gentleman, whose massive girth was swathed in yards of black.  Another unexpected expletive hissed from the Captain’s mouth, followed by “Lord Bootle!”, and then the large man was moving down the corridor of men to the foot of the poop deck with a certain waddle that emitted an aura of “striding”.
            When he was within range, the large man boomed out, “Captain!  Let us dispense with the formalities of my men slaughtering all of your men, and you just hand over whatever special cargo you may be in possession of this voyage.  I know all about the activities of this ship, Captain, and I expect... I say, I expect... Confound it!  Who is that fool who keeps waving at me like that?  Is he having some sort of fit?”
            “Lord Bootle!” cried Taryl in answer, for it had indeed been he guilty of the waving, “I say, Booooooootle!  It is I!  Taryl dar Alklawi!”
            Lord Bootle, known and feared across the coastal cities of the Free Kingdoms as Black Humperdink, advanced to the foot of the ladder for a better view.  “Well, bless my boots, so it is!”  he cried in his gruff, lovable manner.  “Taryl, lad, how are you?”

            Taryl had been conscious of the danger of allowing a man of Lord Bootle’s formidable proportions to test the strength of the ladder, and he now graciously slid down the rails to accept the smothering hug in which he soon found himself enveloped.  His bright eye was quick enough to note, on closer inspection of the fellow, the smudge of gunpowder over one eyebrow and two bullet holes in his jerkin from which his massive acquaintance leaked, but his young brain was quick enough to halt any comment on the man’s condition.  Courtesy dictated that the farthest he may go would be to offer his lace, which he now did, and Black Humperdink took it gratefully, blew his nose into it, then stepped back to admire the young lord.  “Why, you’ve busied yourself with a bit of growing since I last saw you, boy,” he commented, “How is your dear father, anyway?”
            A pang of sorrow pierced Taryl’s breast.  “He is dead, m’lord.  An unfortunate accident in the stables whilst mucking the horses.”
            Black Humperdink slapped Taryl’s shoulder with a meaty paw.  “Ah, well, don’t sorrow, lad.  The old man was an ass anyway,” he bellowed.  “To be honest, I was only his friend long enough to make the acquaintance of that lass he married.  Now there was a wild wench!  How is she;  still kicking, I presume?”
            “My mother is in good health, thank you,” answered Taryl weakly.
            Lord Taryl surveyed the wreckage of manhood that now littered the deck: the fighting had brought itself to a halt to allow the nobility these pleasantries.  “So what are you doing here?” roared Humperdink.  “I always considered you a bit of an idiot.  Certainly not capable of the kind of operations this vessel has taken upon itself.”
            Taryl’s face now brightened at this opportunity to speak of his latest passion.  “It’s not my ship, Lord Bootle.  It belongs to the woman I love, the most exquisite specimen of mortal beauty to ever lay an ivory foot on the earth’s lucky soil, a woman who--”
            Lord Bootle was well acquainted with Taryl’s mode of speech, and in the interests of time raised a hand to halt the flow.  He glanced up at the Captain.  The Captain, for her part, had not become the Captain by indulging in the dull wittedness infecting the rest of her fair sex: she was quite able to recognize a gift of Providence when he met it, and now took this opportunity to wave and, after what may have seemed to the callous observer to be a grimace of self-struggle, blew Taryl a kiss.  This last, though the sons of dar Alklawi were well known for their fortitude, almost brought the younger lord to the prone position in ecstasy.
            “Well, I don’t know...” rumbled Lord Bootle, thoughtfulness creasing his noble brow and bringing his usual boisterous volume of voice to a more conversational level.
            “And, with the help of the gods, we are to be married,” chattered Taryl, who may be excused his excesses if the reader is generous enough to take into account the excitement of the past hour, and this most recent kiss, which had brought his overwrought imagination to near fever pitch.  At this last intelligence the Captain seemed to suffer an inexplicable coughing fit, her knuckles went white as she gripped the rail, then she displayed her pearl-like teeth in what we shall choose to describe as a smile.
            Lord Bootle seemed to reach a decision.  “Alright, lad.  Out of respect to the memory of the father, I can’t bring myself to stand in the way of the son jumping a wench like that.  Just remember to do her up well, yes?” he bellowed, and he again slapped Taryl on the back, roaring in laughter.  “You two youngsters run along now.  I’ll just get back to my ship and let you get on with it.”
            “But, Lord Bootle, your ship is on fire,” pointed out Taryl helpfully.
            Black Humperdink turned to confirm this latest piece of gossip.  “So it is, lad, so it is.  Well, it was good to see you again.  Don’t be shy about dropping by like this again.”  That gracious nobleman pumped his younger companion’s hand energetically, winked roguishly at the Captain, then mounted the gangplank that had been thrown across the two ships and returned with the remains of his crew to what could only be described as a floating inferno.  As the galleon pulled away under oar power, the crew of the Belching Cow could hear the excitable gentleman’s unique roar directing the activities of a spontaneous fire brigade floating across the water.  In an awed silence, the Captain’s crew watched the dreaded Black Humperdink disappear over the horizon, and themselves still alive to witness it.  The privilege had not been granted to many before.
            Taryl lost no time in moving to join the Captain on the poop-deck.  Her eye glittered with an odd light, as she now surveyed the good lord in a different manner than had been her habit, and she said, “Your name is dar Alklawi?”
            Taryl’s answer arrived on shortened breath.  “From your lips, my sweetest flower, I am simply Taryl.  From your lips, indeed, my name is your every whim.”
            The Captain considered this.  “Very well, Fool.  And you hold the title of Lord?”
            “I have that honor, which I am at this moment most anxious to share with--”
            A flash of the Captain’s gloved hand cut him off.  “Lastly, and most importantly, do you retain all the rights of a Lord, in all the cities of the Free Kingdoms?”
            Taryl now drew himself up, his lofty carriage becoming loftier as it swelled with the pride of centuries.  “My good lady, there are none upon this earth that do not recognize the House of Alklawi.  Ours is a noble, ancient blood that has been shed and emerged victorious from countless campaigns in service to first the Empire and then the Kingdoms.  Those rights accorded my position have been earned, and are held, by the sword and by the direct decree of Providence.  Doubt you not my pedigree.  It is secure, and I am worthy of it.”
            This speech most likely impressed the Captain, for after a moment’s thought she spake thus; “Join me in my cabin for a moment, Fool.”  Taryl’s imagination, already described as over-heated, now exploded, but was quickly confused by her next words:  “Baraka, you will be there as well.”
            The Captain had spared no expense in ornamenting her chambers;  in Taryl’s view this was all perfectly right and proper for the abode of Venus.  The cabin was also small, it being a small ship, and the good Taryl was finding it difficult to concentrate on the conversation when his knee was practically touching the Captain’s.  This had come about during the placement of the persons present:  Taryl, Baraka, and the Captain around a small, tasteful table, and Borin and a crewman acting as a guard standing at the door.  Wine had been served in silver goblets.
            “The nature of our business,” began the Captain without preamble, “is a sensitive one.  Without having to go into boring details, let us just say that my crew and I dabble in the import and export industries.  Unfortunately, not every city, due to certain obsolete and prejudicial laws, is ready to welcome us into their ports.  This becomes a bit trying in my line of work, for importing goods often necessitates a certain amount of cooperation from a port’s authorities when it comes time to unload said goods.  As I have said, not all port authorities are sympathetic to our desire to render services.”  A pause, during which Taryl felt it beholden upon him to say something :  he settled for clicking his tongue disapprovingly at such dastardly authorities.  The Captain, perhaps encouraged by this, continued, “But the same outdated laws that make difficult, expensive, or sometimes impossible our importation can also be used in our favor.  I speak, of course, of the nobility’s right to freedom from search within the Free Kingdoms.”
            Taryl nodded, though he was still a bit confused about the direction this conversation was taking.  As overjoyed as he was to hear any words this soft voice may caress his ear with, he found thinking through the mists that overhung his brain in the presence of the Captain’s natural perfume difficult.  Feeling again as though something were expected of him, he said “Ah.”  When this did not seem to measure up to sample, he followed up his comment with “Yes, I see.  Jolly good.  Ah.”  And then he took another sip of wine.
            The Captain’s gaze pierced him like an auger.  “We have decided that as you yourself are of noble stock (the gods alone know why), that you my come to be of use to us when we land at Arjeen.”
            “Only too happy;  my joy flows from my heart as fire at the thought that I may--”
            “This means that we will not be killing or torturing you for the moment.”
            Taryl nodded.  “Any tiny little thing you desire, my cherub.  As I was saying--”
            “But if you do not get us and our cargo safely into Arjeen, I promise you that you will indeed wish we had killed you now.”
            Taryl now took pause.  It was not that he feared pain or death; as has been mentioned before and no doubt illustrated by the many adventures in which we have followed our brave lord, he was no poltroon.  What the latest son of Alklawi found disconcerting was the expectation that he would be capable of bringing a ship’s cargo to its proper destination unimpeded by local authorities.  As has also been shown:  while Taryl was fully conscious of his place in society and his rights as a nobleman, he was not so fool as to forget that he had always stood on rather shaky ground with the servants of the Law, be they of whatever city, for these same servants often interpreted Taryl’s rights in a much different manner than Taryl himself did.
            But it was of course impossible for him to deny his angel anything.

**********

            “Every moment apart from you, my sweet,
             I am at the end of my wits.
             And if you perchance agree to meet,
             I dream of kissing your--”  Taryl, that gentle lord of many talents and divers, found that the Muse had left him suddenly.  He now lay in a hammock, gazing at the wall of his new quarters, while Borin squatted across from him, fiddling with a pistol he had found on deck in the childish manner so familiar to those of his station.  The barker absorbed Borin as fully as Taryl’s latest literary creation absorbed our good nobleman;  he had three pages now, inspired by the Captain, all of it ripe stuff, but he was still unable to bully the quill into the office of a satisfactory emissary of his heart.  The Captain.  Ah, the Captain!  With a sigh, he laid the sheets of parchment across his lap and spent valuable time ruminating on the object of his desire, which is recommended by the author as a noble and good exercise for any young gentleman in love.
            The quarters assigned him and his servant can be described as “cozy”, for the ceiling was not high enough to permit a grown man to stand upright; the only reason two men could pass each other along its length was because, except for the one hammock, it was devoid of any scrap of furniture or decoration; and the floor had hidden itself shamefully below a sheet of water six inches deep and rising.  Taryl would have had hard thoughts for any other person who had assigned him such living spaces, but as it had been the Captain personally, he took it only as an honor, and considered this smallish niche far preferable to the eternal Gardens of Paradise promised by the priest-men of the East.  To add to its cozy nautical charm the room even had a name, pronounced from those sweet lips as “The Bilges”.

            “Borin,” said Taryl, breaking the silence that had been filled only by the tapping of a ramrod and the click of wheel-lock mechanisms, “What is the best may to a woman’s heart, do you think?”
            “Directly, sire, is my only humble advice.”
            Taryl considered this.  “No, no, Borin, it is too messy.  There’s a rib cage in the way, you know, and some other things... spleens and organs or something.  No, it won’t do at all.”
            Borin was always eager to bring satisfaction.  “Well master, there is talk of the medicine- men of the southern lands, how they reach inner organs through natural orifices.  Perhaps through the rectum, sire, and--”
            “Oh, desist, simpleton!”  shouted Taryl, suddenly angered.  This outburst can certainly be excused as love’s passion unrequited, and his utterance was immediately followed by a popping noise, a hiss, then a loud bark that echoed most unpleasantly in the small chamber.  Taryl, feeling his formidable patience sorely tried, coughed and passed a meticulously manicured hand through the smoke that now filled his quarters in an attempt to excuse the gray clouds in an exchange for fresher air.  “And do put that beastly pistol away!  Had there been a ball in the charge, someone may have been hurt!”  Borin glanced quickly at a small purse of ball shot forgotten in a corner of the room with a whimper of regret;  regret, no doubt, at having been the cause of his master’s discomfort.

            An hour later Borin was given the enviable task of delivering the completed poem to the Captain, who for her part, perhaps not understanding the sincerity of the offering, uttered a high and beautiful laugh upon reading the missive, then had Borin whipped back to his quarters by a chortling rogue.  Taryl’s joy that he may have brought some ounce of amusement to his beloved was somewhat sullied by a small nagging disappointment that it should be his heart poured upon a page that caused such amusement; we are all, from the lowliest beggar to the most honorable gentleman, guilty of some small selfishness at times.  Undaunted, Taryl spent two days sequestered in his quarters composing another ballad;  this next attempt was sent again to the Captain by the faithful hand of Borin.  This time Borin was obliged, to satisfy the Captain’s pleasure, to eat the paper upon which the verses were scrawled, then chased back to his master’s room by an impressively large dog that Borin suspected was kept on board for specifically this purpose.  A third day, a third poem, and Borin found himself being escorted back to his quarters stripped naked and in the company of glowing hot irons.
            Nor could Taryl plead his case of the heart in person.  A lesser man may have been daunted by the continuous bad luck that accompanied every attempt of our hero to speak privately with the Captain, to gain her ear for but two minutes.  Should he find her taking the air on deck, his approach would coincide with some new business of the ship that required her immediate attention;  if he were to find her taking her meal in the galley at the same time as himself, the conversation of her crew distracted her from any attempt of Taryl’s to have himself seated at table with her.  Throughout the course of the next week, Fortune smiled no longer on our young gentleman during his sorties into the field of Love.
            And then one day the cabin boy’s clear voice sang out from the yard arm upon which he had found it to his satisfaction to sit: “Arjeen!  Arjeen ahoy!”, which means, loosely translated from the nautical, that the young scamp had caught sight of the coastal town of Arjeen.
            Taryl was on deck at the time of the cabin boy’s discovery, taking his morning exercises in the fresh salt air, and thus was granted one of the first sights of the white city sprawling back from its port along the flanks of green hills.  “Ah, Borin, cast your eye yonder!  Have you ever seen such a welcome sight?  Land!  Solid terror ferment at last!”
            “We’ve only been out of sight of the coast for a few days, master,” muttered Borin, who had been commanded into participating in the bracing calisthenics and thus allowed a note of pique to enter his voice.
            “Yes, Borin, perhaps, but this is Arjeen!  Exotic city of foreign heathen parts.  This is the magic of the sea-faring life, Borin, to explore new worlds.  You would do well to take advantage of the opportunity for exploration for as long as we are at port before sailing off to some other gods-forsaken pocket of the globe.”
            “But master, Arjeen is only a day’s ride from Corynth.  We have often traveled to Arjeen to meet your tailor.  I remember him exactly from last month: fat man, bald head--”
            “Yes, yes, Borin,” muttered Taryl, permitting a small measure of pique for himself.
            “In fact, we could see if he has that natty vest prepared for yer lordship yet, though perhaps we haven’t given him enough time?  But I do marvel, master, at how long it took us to get here.  Perhaps the Captain got lost--?”
            Taryl drew himself up and stared down his nose at his lackey with an expression that could not fail to bring the most obstinate manservant to heel.  “You surprise me, Borin.  Perhaps your time aboard ships has brought out a certain Viking strain in your nature, a certain propensity to express your views freely.  ‘Authority?’ you seem to question to yourself, ‘What need have I of such?’  The salt air has no doubt entered your blood, and engorged the intestine, as I understand such matters, and left your spirit bordering on anarchy.  Do see that you check this impulse of yours in the future, or I shall be forced to sever our engagement and leave you to your fate on the high seas.”  This last was with a sweeping gesture that included the crew of the Belching Cow, a crew that Borin had not seen eye to eye with during the voyage.  The good Borin took the well meant correction to heart;  meanwhile, in his secret soul Taryl felt that the explanation for the Captain’s delay was none other than a ploy to provide Taryl an opportunity to win her heart.
            The Belching Cow slid gracefully through the heaving green swells and past the breakwater, tacking about to meet the harbor head on.  The crew scurried this way and that, as a crew will do in such circumstances, pulling ropes in here, playing ropes out there, shouting and waving arms and generally displaying an excitement unbecoming to any but a sailor coming into port.  Taryl leaned against a rail with folded arms, indulgently watching the bustling scene.  A voice of pure honey and fire dropped the following words into his ear:  “Now is the time for you to earn your keep, Fool.”  The Captain stood at his elbow.
            That vision of enchantment fended off the protestations of love that fell undisciplined from the amorous young nobleman, but waved a hand in the direction of the docks.  “Look ye, Fool,” she purred, and Taryl now noticed that the wave had not been just a general, and perfectly graceful, wave, but had in fact been directed at two men in chain-mail hauberks that stood on the docks watching the ship’s process of docking.  “If they come over to investigate, which as battle-scarred as this ship looks they most likely will, then you shall explain that this is your ship and therefore immune from search, by right of noble birth.”
            “Do you wish me to...”  Taryl could not bring himself to utter the syllable in this angel’s presence;  “...to wrongfully take the honors as the superior mind who has brought this ship safely to port through such a hazardous journey?”
            The Captain’s lips, of a red that would put roses to shame had that plant any sense of decency, seemed to curl.  “Yes, Fool.  You must lie.”
            “But... but...”  Taryl was taken aback, and was experiencing what was for him a new phenomena in the form of speechlessness.
            Now the reader will no doubt have realized by this point that the Captain was no fool.  And while the chronicler of this tale does not wish to pass judgment on any of the actors involved, the reader must also realize that Taryl’s perceptions of the Captain’s nature may not have included a certain... manipulative is the only word... a certain manipulative quality to the Captain’s personality.  This was no doubt an unfortunate result of the difficult life lived by such a woman in her dealings with the rough-hewed sons of the sea, and such a quality should therefore be pitied, if not excused completely, from a lady whose motives were without doubt honorable and just.  But such a quality did exist in her breast, and it was this quality perhaps that caused her to reach up a gloved hand now and stroke Taryl’s chin, breathing “Well, it could very well be your ship as well, couldn’t it?”  with a soft smile.  All of this was done, no doubt, with the best intentions, and most likely truly heartfelt.
            But the effect of such words and such a touch, not to mention the batting of the eyes, on our hero would be indescribable.  When the gangplank had finally rattled on to the dock, and the Captain had made her departure for her cabin some minutes previous, Taryl was finally able to breathe again, and raise himself to a standing position on knees that had regained their strength.  The merry labor of unloading large crates from the hold had begun amongst the crew, and two of the men in chain-mail on the dock were strolling towards the ship with a certain inquisitive air.  This was his opportunity to prove to the Captain that her trust had not been placed in vain, and Taryl strode down the gangplank with a chest near to bursting.
            The first guard to meet him, for guards they certainly were, was a fellow with peaked features and a look of quiet distrust, a face that Taryl could not help disliking from the moment he saw it.  Nevertheless, he was able to overcome such qualms and speak to the man with more than his deserved share of civility.  “Good morning, my dear chap!”  said Taryl.  “What can I do for you?”
            The guard was apparently bred from a clan that placed less emphasis on sharpness of brain, and more upon the command of bladder that allowed one to stand in chain-mail for long hours, as most guards are.  He took some few moments to formulate his question, his piggish eyes never leaving the crates beneath which the Captain’s crew staggered down the gangplank.  “This yer ship then, squire?”  was the end result of his meditations.
            Taryl drew his lofty carriage even loftier.  “I do believe you meant to address me as ‘Lord’,”  he corrected haughtily.  “And for further correction--”  but a nudge from Borin sparked our hero’s excellent memory, and his duty to the Captain took command of his tongue.  “Why, yes,” he amended.  “Yes it is indeed.”  He punctuated the statement with a jerk of the head towards the Belching Cow, as if in an attempt to lend more credence to his statement by that gesture.
            “Then ye wouldn’t mind if’n me and my friend here,” this last punctuated by the guard’s own head-jerk in the direction of his similarly armed companion, who was staring intently at the unloading crates, “If’n we took a look around yer ship and cargo, now would ye?  Yer lordship,” the villain added, but with a certain something in his voice that caused Taryl to doubt the man’s sincerity.
            Taryl assumed a look of shock.  “My dear man!”  he exclaimed.  “Have you never been acquainted with the rights of the nobility?  You to search me?  The very idea!”  And Taryl shuddered in genuine and well-deserved horror.
            Again the studied pause from the ill-bred rogue, which at last produced: “Aye, that is in fact the exact idea.  We don’t hold with them nobbly obli-jay practices down here.  What precisely is yer name?  Yer lordship?”
            It was best to let this scoundrel know who he had just had the impunity to insult.  “Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, last son of the House Alklawi, and you, my fine fellow,”  (this appellate was spoken with all the sarcasm our gentle-man could muster) “will certainly be hearing the name again, and count yourself lucky if you live to hear it a third time!”
            The guard’s infamous pause was this time only half the normal length of time, then a broad grin broke out beneath his helmet.  “Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, eh?”  The man seemed positively ready to burst into song.  “Hey Lenny, it’s that Taryl chap!  The one Natin and Jason from up Corynth way was talkin’ about.”
            The name of Jason was no doubt common to half the ruffians and hoodlums across the Free Kingdoms, but the given label ‘Natin’ was a unique phenomenon that fortunately only happened once a generation;  that Taryl would have heard the disastrous nomenclature twice in a week seemed to him far more than a coincidence, but he found himself without the leisure of perusing his copious memory for a clue as to what it all meant.  At the receipt of his colleague’s intelligences, the second guard, he who had been addressed as “Lenny”, gave tongue to an ample war-whoop, and positively swooped down on our hero, a massive oaken club gripped in a fist.  Taryl, of course, was quick to draw the long sword and defend himself...
            “His arm!  Grab his arm!”
            “Have thou this, scoundrel!”
            “Watch it, Lenny!”
            “Master!”
            “Crack the old man one, he’s got a trunk!”
            “Garrrgghhhh!”
            The chronicler of these unhappy events cannot supply for the gentle reader the name of the man who uttered this last exclamation, for the end result affords too many candidates:  Borin lay stretched out on the dock after having allowed blood to seep from a largish bruise on his head, Taryl was slumped forward into the arms of the one named Lenny with a matching head ornament, and the unnamed guard was prancing about with a sword wound in one foot.
            During the brief struggle more guards had appeared, and the planks of the dock rattled to the impact of running boots, the cry of the seagull was drowned out by the merry jingle of mail.  Confusion ensued;  crates were tossed down, guard and seaman milled about shouting, the decks of the Belching Cow were packed with armed and inquisitive guards.  Taryl was half roused from his stupor by the ignominy of rope being wound about his wrists, but it was the Voice that brought him fully to his senses, the Voice of the Captain.  She had appeared on the quarterdeck during the fight, and had earlier traded in her worthy sea-togs for a stunning (if nautically impractical) ball gown of a cut low enough to threaten Taryl with another swoon.  She was in conference with a bevy of guardsmen that had clustered around her, and her Voice could be heard cutting through the din of confusion, causing every actor of that scene of naval Hell to pause for a moment;  it was registered in the higher notes of panic, and the words were thus:  “Oh, thank the gods you’ve rescued me!... yes, rescued me!  I have been a prisoner on this ship lo these many days... Yes, yes, I’m unharmed, thank you... No, I don’t know... The only one I know is the brutal pirate captain of this ship:  HIM!!!”  And Taryl realized with a certain astonishment that her delicate little finger was pointed at none other than the last son of House Alklawi.

           
            During his short but illustrious career, Taryl had enjoyed many forms of transport into cities, but none less comfortable than this procession into the bowels of Arjeen, of which he was in the lead.  His transport was a rickety open cart drawn by two sickly and flatulent oxen, in lieu of a seat he was offered only a splintery wooden pole in the center of the wagon to which he was directed to stand with his back against and then tied to, and the cart’s driver was wearing a full-faced black hood, possibly to defend himself from the oxen’s ample vapors.  In credit, Taryl had the cart to himself, besides of course Borin, who was lashed to the opposite side of the same pole.  The route chosen by the driver was certainly an active one at this time of day, for the mucked cobble streets were thronged with the sweaty slack-jawed masses, who seemed much addicted to shouting “Pirate!” and “Smuggler!”  Why, wondered Taryl to himself, are they not seeking shelter or preparing some kind of defense if they are so convinced there are pirates and smugglers in the area?  Instead, the peoples seemed overly preoccupied with our hero, as well as being very careless with vegetable matter, of which many specimens were being hurled through the air, and many unfortunately lit upon the young lord and his lackey.
            Taryl did not know whither the cart was bound, for his circumstances during the process of being loaded into the cart had been that of utter confusion, caused by an ungentlemanly blow to the head, the chaos of the docks, and the Captain’s peculiar performance.  Having come to an understanding between himself and the guards, whereby he agreed to be bound by rope while they agreed to drag him into the pitch black darkness of a deserted warehouse, Taryl had then decided there was nothing left on his agenda but a good sleep.  He had awoke the next morning to rough hands generously helping him into this vehicle, but his limbs and head had received no solace from his slumbers.  Residual pain had weakened our brave man’s ability of speech, and an apparent deafness inflicting the coachman had precluded any answers to the faint inquiries Taryl had been able to utter.  Nor had Borin been able to offer any satisfaction, for the recent events had apparently been too much for the worthy lackey, and he now employed his time strictly to chewing upon his beard.

            The young lord’s curiosity was soon satisfied however, as the wagon breached the street they had favored with their presence to draw up in the city square.  Here, across from an imposing marble fountain featuring the city’s crest of a duck rampant, a wooden platform had been raised, upon which stood a long table.  Behind this furniture were seated several gentlemen of formidable aspect, whigged and gowned.  They struck Taryl as legal types, bearing in their mannerisms that of men used to dealing out the justice of life and of death both.  The one in the center, a very aged master perched upon a chair higher than the others, was entertaining himself with a book whose title, embossed in crimson on the leather cover, Taryl was just able to catch a glimpse of:  The Butterfly’s Indiscretions; or, Memoirs of a Youth Spent in Daria.  At this Taryl felt it necessary to shake his head.  No doubt the venerable elder had every right to read whatever may take his fancy, but an account of that infamous city Daria, that cesspool of lust and wanton, indiscriminate revelry, did not set the most shining example for the youth of today.
            Taryl was unleashed from the pole and invited to step down from the cart and stand before this platform in a most improper manner, that is, by tugs on the ropes that still bound his wrists and the occasional kick delivered to Nature’s portable seat cushion.  Several other carts had been following Taryl’s;  these were packed with the crew of the Belching Cow, minus the Captain herself, of whose whereabouts Taryl knew nothing, and his anxiety over this fact was relieved in part by the knowledge that at least she was not to be subjected to these ignoble proceedings.  The elder who had been wallowing in the inappropriate tales of unrestrained youth had his attention brought to our young lord’s presence by many a cough and clearing of throat by the members of the bench, and the good gentleman laid the book aside with a sigh and fitted a monocle to his eye.  “Now, what have we here?”  he asked in a cracked, but kindly, voice.
            “Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, standing before your eminence on charges of smuggling, your honor,” quothe a serious looking robed gentleman who sat at the elder’s right elbow.  “His ship, the Belching Cow, which entered our port yesterday, was searched on the grounds of previous intelligence received, and found to be transporting into our city limits jars of olive oil for which no import duty has been paid.”  Taryl immediately decided to dislike this gentleman;  his obvious impatience with his older colleague, his self-important air, and his foppish whig all combined to create in Taryl’s liver an instant, and perhaps justified, loathing of this one.
            “And don’t forget his failure to pay rent!”  shouted a voice from the crowd gathered behind the accused.
            The unlikable gentleman sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.  “Yes, and apparently failure to pay rent in Corynth, which has become an issue here in Arjeen since certain Corynthian Guardsmen have offered a bounty in reward for a conviction of the latter charge...”
            “A bounty I plan to collect!”  came the shout from the crowd again, accompanied by a few ragged cheers.  Taryl suspected that he could recognize the voice of the guardsman who had first greeted him on the dock of Arjeen less than a full day ago.
            His Honor had listened to all of this with a faint smile wreathing his features, his gaze never leaving the speaker, the gentleman so odious in Taryl’s view.  At the end of these explanations, he spoke.  “Very interesting, ah yes, very interesting indeed.  Privateer, eh?  Something about renting Corynthian Guardsmen?  Very good.”  A cloud seemed to cross his noble, if wrinkled, features, and he once more addressed the unlikable gentleman to his right.  “I’m sorry, my good man, but who are you?”
            Another heavy sigh and grimace from the odious one.  “I am Master Holbrecht, your prosecuting attorney these twelve years past, your honor.”
            His Honor’s face lit like the day at dawn.  “Ah yes, you are that ass Holbrecht.  Good gods, man, I thought I had managed to get rid of you years ago!”
            A forced smile from Holbrecht, and a stiff bow from his seated position.  “Fortunately not, your Honor.  I have the privilege of serving you indefinitely.”  And a strange grimace creased his features.
            But his Honor was not one to be distracted by petty details.  “Never mind, you ass, never mind.  What were we talking about?  What’s going on here?”
            “The privateer Lord Taryl, your Honor,” hissed Holbrecht with inexplicable vehemence.
            “The alleged privateer, your Honor!”  shouted Taryl from his position below the platform, allowing a rare display of agitation.  As with all nobility, his education had not lacked schooling in law, though our hero was now entertaining regrets that he had not spent as much time studying his lessons as the law tutor’s comely wench of a daughter.  “And I do feel obliged to ask the court:  if a prosecuting attorney is available, where is the defense attorney?”  No, our wise young lord was not ignorant of his rights.
            “The usual defense attorney met with... aha... an unfortunate accident a few months ago,” Holbrecht informed the defendant with a strange simper.  “And his replacement has been somehow... ahum...detained on the road, yes indeed.”
            “Eh?  What?  What the d--n is going on here?  Who are all these people?”  contributed his Honor, much agitated.
            Taryl, once more drawing his lofty carriage out to the position that would have made his ancestors proud, endeavored to take upon himself the task of informing the older gentleman of recent events.  “I stand before your honorable presence unjustly accused of the crime of privateering,” he told the bench, “a crime which I understand all coastal cities of the Free Kingdoms are plagued with, and seek a remedy for.  This policy I can understand and support, sir, but the charge of my being a part of such heinous crimes is simply ridiculous, and due to an unfortunate lack of proper representation, I shall seek to demonstrate my innocence myself, without the aid of legal counsel.”
            That good ancient peered through his monocle glass at our hero and seemed to find favor in the bright eye and lofty carriage (the jaunty long sword had been confiscated, but no doubt Taryl was still able to impart an air of jauntiness as well).  “The charges are ridiculous, you say?  Very well, then I suppose we don’t need to hold court, and I can get back to my reading.”  His veined hand strayed towards The Butterfly’s Indiscretions... as he began to pronounce those majikal words: “This case is dismi--”
            “Your Honor!”  broke in Holbrecht the prosecuting attorney, who was visibly moved, and with this outburst secured Taryl’s disfavor for eternity.  “Propriety at least demands that your Honor should hear the argument of the city before dismissing the case.”
            His Honor’s patience had no doubt been sorely tried by this Holbrecht for several years, and it now showed in his demeanor.  “Yes, but this nice young man says he is innocent, while you, who are a consummate ass, say he is guilty: thus far the case is obvious.  What more can there be?”
            Holbrecht rallied magnificently.  “If your Honor would only listen... The evidence against this man is overwhelming.  By his own admission, he owns and commands a ship that for years has been suspected of illicit activities at every port city in the Free Kingdoms, from Kundawa to Presella.  And yesterday he was found docking here, and unloading into our city jars of olive oil that bore no mark of duties received--”
            “And he jumped rent in Corynth!”  came a helpful shout from the crowd, though Holbrecht had apparently decided on deafness for the nonce and plowed on ahead:  “Nor could he supply any customs documents on demand, nor was the oil listed on his manifest.  The evidence clearly points to--”
            The detestable prosecuting attorney was once more interrupted by a few scattered shouts, then a unified roar from the crowd, which syllables could be understood as  “Black Humperdink!  Black Humperdink!”  The unwashed lump of proletariat separated, and down the cleared avenue paced yet another ox-cart, this one bearing a large, lone figure tied to a pole.  Upon reaching the square, the figure was, as Taryl had been, cut free from the cart and prodded to stand beside our hero beneath the shadow of the platform.  And the new defendant was indeed none other than Humperdink Lord Bootle, known as Black Humperdink.  Taryl nodded courteously to the old family friend as the latter came to stand at his side, but his distress at seeing Lord Bootle in this predicament almost overwhelmed the anxiety of his own fate.
            His Honor was disconcerted by this recent change of events, and demanded of Holbrecht an explanation;  Holbrecht confessed himself just as confused.  At last a guardsman, not of the same herd that had led to Taryl’s downfall, stepped forward.  “We caught him on th’ beach, yer Honor.  Ship-wrecked, he was... had made it t’ land by skiff.”
            “Eh?  Why do they bother me with every unfortunate soul who lost a ship?” soliloquized his Honor.
            “Because this, your Honor,” breathed Holbrecht with a gleam in his eye, “is Black Humperdink, a pirate known and feared across the five seas!”
            While this sensational news was being imparted to his Honor, and the stinking rabble executed their expected exclamations of awe and admiration in unison, Lord Bootle had been gazing at the table at which sat the court, particularly lingering on his Honor’s choice of literature.  He now favored a wink to Taryl, and whispered in his gruff tone,  “I’ll take care of all this, lad.  You just remember to grab some horseflesh for us the instant you are free, and stand ready to ride at a moment’s notice.”  These cryptic words made no sense to Taryl, but he had no time to seek further illumination, for Lord Bootle was bellowing over the last dying strains of the crowd’s appreciation.  “Your Honor!” he roared, “I was not merely ship-wrecked, but bested in battle.  I managed to limp away from the conflict with a crippled ship, but when she finally burned beyond salvation, I stood to the task of rowing a skiff for six days.  With no food, no water, and no rest since my good ship sank in flames I stand before your Honor, and this city.”
            This romantic tale, and the melodramatic circumstances in which it was presented, stirred his Honor’s fancy, for his Honor’s temperament was of a nature as to enjoy such scenes.  “Did you, now?  My, my!  An adventurous method of visiting our fair city, and no doubt!  Ah, the roar of cannon, the crash of waves, the desperate six day struggle of man against water, wind, and sun!  I can see it all now.  And how are you now, sir?  No doubt in need of refreshment?”  And that gentle Honor began to cast about for a serving boy to supply this ample embodiment of swashbuckling high adventure with whatever he may need.
            “Your Honor, I seek only to refresh my conscience.  I have been beaten fairly, and wish to acknowledge this with all the dignity of my noble lineage, rather than cower beneath technicalities like a sniveling cur.”  This last seemed for some reason to be directed at Holbrecht, and Taryl was happy to see that his old friend could so quickly perceive that prosecutor’s obviously black soul.  “I know well the price on my head, your Honor.  It stands now at sixty doubloons for the man who brings me to trial, as well as amnesty for any past... indiscretions... that man may have committed.”  His Honor nodded happily, quite willing to accept any word of this archetypical hero of the high seas as Truth;  even Holbrecht had to acknowledge the justice of this statement, for it had been well known and publicized for many seasons now.  “Then, your Honor, my only concern is that you recognize the man truly responsible for bringing me to your court of justice.  Not that simpering dog of a guardsman,” this directed at the chain-mailed man who had first introduced Lord Bootle to the court, “but the man responsible for putting me on that skiff, and thus on these shores, and an easy prey for your jackals.  In short, I wish to ensure that you award the bounty-- and the amnesty-- to the man who sank my ship in battle: the captain of the Belching Cow, Lord Taryl dar Alklawi!”
            The sensation created by this statement was indescribable, so the chronicler will not even attempt to do so.  Suffice it to say that a mighty enough din arose from both the crowd and the bench that Taryl was able to speak to his father’s friend undetected.  “You needn’t do this!” cried our honest hero, “Do not sacrifice yourself for me; I can defend us both legally!”
            “This is legal, boy, and besides, they’ve got me anyway.  I can take care of myself:  you just be ready to ride us out of here, like I said!”
            Taryl nodded, and stayed alert as the roaring died down, and Lord Bootle was once more able to bellow, demanding the immediate release of, and payment to, dar Alklawi before his own trial was to proceed.  His Honor had not spent such an entertaining day on the bench since Arjeen had burned its last witch, and thus was in full humor to comply with these wishes;  Holbrecht’s legal blood was up, and he was ready to pay anyone anything to begin the process of prosecuting Black Humperdink onto the gallows.  Thus fifty doubloons were counted into a satchel, Taryl’s binds were cut, and gathering up Borin and his long sword (though the Pack had unfortunately not survived the most recent adventures), the young gentleman made his way back through a crowd now completely disinterested in his fate.
            To the rear of the press of bodies Taryl found a stables, and sent Borin in to inquire after the price of three of the man’s best steeds.  That faithful lackey returned bearing the answer given  him: fifty doubloons for three horses (whereas a horse in those fine days normally cost its owner a mere two doubloons).  “News travels quite fast, master.  The man seems quite unable to come down in his price.”
            Taryl nodded.  “Never mind, Borin, thank you for your efforts.  I shall have to speak to the man in person.”  Taryl entered the stables, there was a short series of screams, then Taryl emerged leading three fine pacers.  “Now, Borin, let us depart this place.  I feel a certain delicacy about remaining here a moment longer.”  And with these words, the two mounted and rode back through the crowd to the square, leading the third horse.
            Taryl had not known what to expect on returning to the seat of justice, but was not completely surprised to find Lord Bootle shaking the hand of his Honor with vehemence, while Holbrecht looked on with an expression of stunned astonishment.  “Many thanks, yer Honor!” roared Lord Bootle.  “An understanding betwixt gentlemen, and I shan’t forget it.  Well, I do believe I’ll be off now,” he added, as he spied Taryl arrive with the horses.  “A good day to you all!”  And with only the minimum amount of grunting and heaving he got his formidable girth into the saddle and was in moments cantering through the shocked and silent crowd in Taryl’s wake, his horse’s nose pointed towards the open country.
            They rode together in silence for hours, past the walls of Arjeen, beyond the neat and well tilled fields of jolly farmers, into the wild woods and the craggy cliffs west of the city.  Here no law prevailed but the law of the sword, tooth, and talon.  Here lurked no hidden ear upon which words of a delicate nature may fall.  And so Taryl reigned in his horse to ask Lord Bootle the question that had been irritating his curiosity since Arjeen.  “Lord Bootle, where ever did you get those boots?  I don’t think I’ve seen a finer pair in all my life.”
            Lord Bootle gazed down at the footwear proudly.  “Yes, they are fine, aren’t they?  I had them made by a certain mad cobbler I know in Arjeen.  It’s a shame I can never see him again.  The man was a gem.”
            “Why can’t you see him again?” asked Taryl.  “Arjeen is but a day’s ride from Corynth.”
            Lord Bootle wagged a finger.  “Ah, it may be only a day’s ride there, but it would be a lifetime to leave.  It is in the nature of this most recent escape of mine that I have had to make these sacrifices.”
            Taryl nodded, chewing his lip as another question now dawned on him.  “Touching that, dear Bootle, how did you manage to prove your innocence to the law?”
            Lord Bootle laughed heartily, in his own explosive fashion.  “I proved no innocence, for I possess none!  I simply hinted quite strongly to his Honor that were my trial to continue, I would be forced to speak of my past, including those reckless nights that his Honor and myself had spent in Daria during the summer of ‘67, and the damage we did there.  He wanted no part of any scandal, and released me before Holbrecht was able to muster serious argument against such action.  And so you see me here.”
            “Why, Uncle Bootle, that’s blackmail!” cried Taryl, his joy warranting this affectionate form of address.  “I didn’t know you had been in Daria in your youth!  And with his Honor?  What a coincidence!”
            Bootle snorted.  “Coincidence my foot!  I’ve never been to Daria, I’ve never seen that Honor before in my life, and I highly doubt that he has ever set foot outside of Arjeen.  But I know his type, I have learned to manipulate them before, and when I saw that excellent piece of literature The Butterfly’s Indiscretions at his elbow, I knew what route to go.  No doubt he will realize by tomorrow that he has never actually been to Daria and that the examples I hinted at of certain events were taken word for word from that text.  But by that time,” concluded Lord Bootle, wheeling his horse about, “I plan to be in Corynth, safely ensconced at the Beggar’s Head tavern.  Ask for me there if you’re ever passing through.”  And he rode off, Corynth-wards.
            Taryl’s own recent experiences in Corynth had planted the germ of discontent in his breast, and he resolved to explore other lands before returning to the metropolis.  Thus, with Borin in tow, he pointed his face into the southern winds and kicked his horse into a gallop.  Adventure beckoned beyond...

-FIN-