The Stole and Stiletto
Or:
An Energetic Endeavor to Entertain, Enlighten, and Enchant; Encouraging Enduring and Endemic Enjoyment.

Here Faithfully and Accurately
RECOUNTED
by
Your HEROIC, HANDSOME, and HUMBLE Historian
known to both the high and low of brow by the appellation
ORA CARBONE

The city of Corynth has been lauded by many tinkers, travelers, merchants, and wandering lunatics as the navel of the Free Kingdoms.  It has been described as a navel as well by many poets of the specie whom write only in the gloom of their tiny apartments as they smear charcoal upon their faces; yea, the navel these poets often compare the noble capital city to is often one of an unwashed hauler of nightsoil.  Others have throughout the ages also contributed their analogies of this teeming city to other orifices of the human body; some, to include your current narrator, have even made a livelihood of doing so.
            But, as ridiculous as the concept may seem to the rest of us, there does exist a counterculture population of those who prefer to build their nests not within the heart of the bustling metropolis, but just outside of it, within that orbital ring among the fields of rye and hemp outside the awe-inspiring city walls, where with a sense of misplaced pride they may continue to inform their correspondents that their postal address is “Corynth”, though in sooth they lie outside of the true Corynth.
            The vast majority of this specialized subsect of humanity also happened to be known by the term “wealthy” due to the vast amounts of wealth which they enjoy in their possession.  The domiciles which they erect without exception involve at least 20 acres of manicured lawn and hedgery, battlements, leaded windows, and all the fixings.  Gazing at these decent sized piles of rubble whilst one is on one’s after supper stroll in the cool evenings, one cannot but help but come to some sort of understanding with these people: trying to squeeze these estates into the limited confines of the capital city would be impossible when accounting for the high premium placed on such valuable land.  From this arrangement, everyone benefits: the self-exiles are left to wallow and despair among the gently rolling hills and fresh breezes of these cesspool country estates, while the good citizens of Corynth are spared the society of a group of people obviously suffering from some sort of mental dysfunction.
            And let it never be said from those who have had the honor and priviledge to meet our dear Taryl dar Alklawi, scion of Wolfsgaard, even if it be only through the pages of these tomes that seek to inform, enlighten, and entertain the readership with a few brief glimpses of this noble youth’s history, that his is a soul that lacks generosity.  No, this model of nobility, courage, and open-heartedness has never been one to willfully deny others the sublime pleasures of his company, and he has even gone so far as to sacrifice his own pleasures and relaxation to bring to the less fortunate himself, as a living, breathing example of what all manhood should aspire to.  No elitist he, for he has awarded time as such opportunities afford themselves to courtesans, parlor maids, kitchen staff, wives and daughters of the merchant’s class, and even the hard working young ladies to be found taking the air in the streets outside of the more popular taverns of Corynth.  To such a warm and munificent personality as our lord Taryl’s, there are no class divisions between young ladies of his acquaintance, and he would challenge any one who would dare intimate that a charcoal-burner’s buxom and lonely twenty-year old daughter was somehow less worthy of his attentions than a bored and rich lady of the court.
            Our hero’s liberal policies with his time extend even unto the mentally stricken unfortunates who have confined themselves to their sprawling exiles outside the city walls described above, as evidenced by his activities on this evening that we have chosen to look in on him.  For here, in a particularly rancid example of architecture from the later Douche period that includes one hundred and fifty rooms, two ballrooms, and a twelve acre horse stable in a repellent vision of carefully dressed granite and marble, we once again are fortunate enough to meet our protagonist donating the most precious gift of his time to the Lady Hutchins, the miserably lonely wife of a Corynthian councilman.
            One must excuse the Lady Hutchins, being as she was of the naturally weaker and more hysterical sex, for having become dangerously over-heated in the predictable excitement of entertaining such a lively and stimulating conversation companion as Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, which condition naturally must be the explanation for why we find her now in such a state of undress.  And our dear Taryl, who would rather chew off one of his own testicles than cause the discomfort of social awkwardness in a lady, must have felt it only prudent to remove his own habiliment in order to put the heat exhausted Lady at her ease.  Thus do we find these two figures at the beginning of our tale in what would otherwise be a situation that may cause some confusion, but is easily explained once one rationally looks at all the facts and logically plans backwards from what one finds.
            But it is not for us to make excuses for our dear hero.  We simply report what we find as we find it, seeking our solace rather in truth than in understanding, and seek not to be the judges of others.  Would that every man were the same!  Would that the Lord Hutchins adopt a similar policy, and leave the act of judgment and jumping to immediate conclusions to those who are paid to do so by either their governments or their laity!  But no, such a bull-headed and obstinate man as the Councilman Hutchins is one of those loathsome characters searching for any opportunity to think ill of his fellow man.
            It is a lucky thing that Taryl, never having actually met the Lord Hutchins, was strangely precognizant of this vile man’s penchant for ill will.  Within moments of hearing the ignorant bellowing of the councilman’s voice as he stampeded across the threshold a day earlier than expected (the planned all-night work session of the council had once again been postponed due to the violent fit of laziness that seemed to sweep through the Council like a plague every time there was work to be done), Taryl had bounded from the snow white sheets of the Lady Hutchins’s bed wherein the two had been engaged in a challenging and stimulating conversation about the nature of nature, had gathered up the scattered remains of his costume, belt, and jaunty longsword in one magnificent sweep, and dove into the wardrobe just as the Lord Hutchins burst unannounced into the sacred space of the lady’s chambers.
            When one aspires to the life of a scribbler of tales, one must make many choices: black ink or brown?  This printer or that?  Shall one use this advance for food or for tobacco and beer?  And of course, the labyrinthine questions about what style to approach a particular subject.  In the case of the histories of the dear Lord Taryl, this humble narrator has applied his meager talents to the third person narration, what is sometimes called the “omnipotent sense”, but the choice was a difficult one, sacrificing as it did a multitude of other forms of expression; after nearly two years of work, your hard working historian had to at last abandon his attempts to fully portray the scion of Wolfsguard through interpretive dance in fourteen acts.  Thus it is with a joyous heart that we find an opportunity to communicate at least a fraction of this righteous story in a different format.  Please join in imagining the next few minutes of Taryl’s life as a live stage production:
            LORD HUTCHINS (enters stage right, out of breath and flustered):  Egads, woman!  What are you up to in here?
            LADY HUTCHINS (demurely hiding nakedness beneath canopy bed’s coverlet):  Cuthbert, how dare you!
            LORD HUTCHINS:  Well?
            LADY HUTCHINS:  I—
            LORD HUTCHINS: Yes?  Speak!
            LADY HUTCHINS:   I pray thee remove thine demand from whence
                                                It yet hang o’er upon the air, unslaked, unsung;
                                                For ‘tis my tongue enwrapped by serpents fear
                                                That mine answer be not fair, from which the truth be                                                                                                                 wrung(eth)!
            LORD HUTCHINS:  What the f***?
            LADY HUTCHINS: Well, you asked. (From offstage: rimshot)
            LORD HUTCHINS (grumbling):  Well, I have been hearing some rumors about your activities during my absences, dearest wife.  And as I approached our home just now, I distinctly noticed a horse and buggy awaiting outside, manned by what I can only assume was a goblin, though I’ll be d—d if we haven’t been troubled by goblins in these parts for years.  (Begins to remove his cloak as he crosses to CENTER STAGE, where lies the WARDROBE concealing TARYL).  Nothing to be worried about, my dear: this particular goblin looked and smelled as if it had been dead and bloated for a few days already.  I’m just going to hang up this fur cloak in your wardrobe.
            JESTER (brief en passé from stage left): Now we’ll really see the fur fly!
(From offstage: rimshot)
            LADY HUTCHINS:  Cuthbert!
            LORD HUTCHINS (pauses):  Yes, m’lady?  Is there something I should know?
            LADY HUTCHINS (silently waves a hand in defeat).
            LORD HUTCHINS (opening door to WARDROBE): Egads!
            LADY HUTCHINS:  What is it?
            TARYL (fully dressed, and with a nod to the LORD HUTCHINS): Good afternoon, m’lord.
            LORD HUTCHINS: Mildred, there seems to be a servant in the wardrobe!
            LADY HUTCHINS:  Yes?
            LORD HUTCHINS: Yes!
            LADY HUTCHINS: And?
            LORD HUTCHINS: And what?
            LADY HUTCHINS: Cuthbert, I’m afraid I don’t understand your exclamation of surprise.  That is the homme d’wardobe.  It is the latest fashion in the city.  Am I to understand the homme d’wardrobe in your chambers is not as assiduous in his duties as is mine?
            LORD HUTCHINS: No, no, of course not.  My homme d’wardrobe is as dear to me as any of my hunting dogs, and has provided excellent service for weeks and weeks.  But this one is wearing a sword, begads!
            LADY HUTCHINS: Yes?
            LORD HUTCHINS:  Yes!  And it is worn at quite a jaunty angle, at that!
            TARYL: And I assure my lord that I am well acquainted with its length.
            LORD HUTCHINS: And he says he is well acquainted with its length!  It seems a long sword, begads!
            JESTER (brief en passé from stage right): It is that!
(From offstage: rimshot)
            HOMME D’WARDROBE (unseen from the depths of the WARDROBE, except a pale and scrawny hand reaching forth from the cascade of clothing hanging in the background): May I take that cloak from you, sir?
            TARYL (over his shoulder, in direction from which hand emanates): Hush, you!
            LORD HUTCHINS (exasperated): Well, I confess confusion.  Somebody, I don’t care who, take this cloak.  I’m off to drink whiskey!  (Exits stage right, bellowing for whiskey).

            Five minutes later found our sweet hero climbing into the buggy borrowed for the day to negotiate the long commute betwixt the city and this garden estate, and driven by none other than the irrepressible Borin, Taryl’s faithful manservant.  Taryl wasted no time in slapping back into consciousness the grizzled Borin, desiring with all his heart nothing more than to put a mile or two between himself and the scene of this most embarrassing confusion, where he had actually been mistaken for one of the serving class, but for the nonce his goals were stymied.  A tall figure dressed in the estate livery whom Taryl vaguely remembered having seen that morning serving the office of major domo, stood at the nose of the dappled grey, holding her reigns.  Before being given the chance to have delivered a scathing demand for explanation, the major domo approached the buggy on Taryl’s side and hissed, “Trouble yourself not.  It was a goodly attempt, but the time is not right!”
            Taryl could not fathom what might be the reason for this unsolicited commiseration, but felt it justly in season.  In a flash of magnanimity, he patted the tall figure on his uniformed shoulder.  “Perhaps not today, my good man, but soon, I assure you.”
            The enigmatic servant’s eyes flashed and he allowed himself to present a grin that Taryl could only describe as wolf-like.  “So you are yet committed, despite this brush with danger?  That is good.  I admit that I hold a position of some importance in our cause, and I encourage your optimism.  Should you need further encouragement, and perhaps even material assistance, go to the tavern under the sign of the Bloated Corpse every Thor’s day after sunset, and speak these words to the barkeep: ‘My prostate is swollen.’  We serve hors d’oeuvres until the second hour.  Till then, you must vanish.  The gods’ speed to you, hero.”
            Taryl, had he been forced to examine his feelings at this moment, would have been obliged to admit a considerable amount of mystification, perhaps in the same amount as Lord Hutchins had felt at an homme d’wardrobe wearing a jaunty longsword.  Our charming hero had no idea that his intentions with the Lady Hutchins qualified as a “cause”, nor could he understand why such a cause would involve shadowy major domos so ready to provide assistance.  But one of the many loveable character traits the Lord Taryl embodied was the ability to easily avoid pondering morosely over matters that were beyond his ken, so within minutes of the interview, and the buggy pulling rapidly away from the gates of Lord Hutchins’s estate, the matter of the major domo was dropped from Taryl’s mind.
            The events we have just described occurred on Wodin’s day, and the remaining hours of the day were filled with such matters as concern a young man in the prime of life and residing in the heart of a metropolis.  At this point in our tale, since as a narrator one is inherently privileged with information unavailable to the general readership, this particular narrator feels that diverting now from a minute by minute account of the young lord’s present activities in order to reflect on his current position would not in any way leave the audience handicapped in following the remainder of the plot.
            The horse and buggy Taryl had borrowed to make his way to the Hutchins’s estate was already well familiar to him before this day, by virtue of his having found his slumbering rest for the past twelve nights stretched across its upholstered bench as the buggy sat nightly in the coach house from which it could be rented during business hours.  The fact that neither the owner of the buggy nor the landlord of the coach house to whom the buggy-owner paid rent were aware of the nocturnal use to which both properties were being put troubled Taryl’s slumber not at all; Corynth, he reasoned, was a goodish sized city, one in which it was difficult to discern buggy-owners or landlords from the rest of the many-headed masses in order to thank or suggest paying them for this service.  The most critical narrators may also have included a barbed statement suggesting that had Taryl not found it to his pleasure to lie down in the shadows and practice holding his breath every time either buggy-owner or landlord had unexpectedly stepped into the coach house over the past fortnight, that Taryl would have had the opportunity of making such overtures, but such cynical narration is foreign to our policy.  If the honorable Lord Taryl suddenly felt an inclination to more closely study the spiderwebs and dustballs beneath the buggy at coincidentally the same moment the coach house door swung open in the night, it is most likely simply because he is a conscientious student of Nature’s wonders, no matter what the hour.
            Though we may not be able to provide an exact explanation for Taryl’s behaviors; why he should chuse such a bracing and Spartan place of residence over the decadent excesses of his peers who sleep in beds surrounded by fine furnishings, or why he should play “peek-a-boo” with the landlord; we are pleased to report that this new lifestyle had affected change on his magnificent appearance very little.  Framed by the mane of chestnut hair, his eye remained just as bright and his jaw just as square; his carriage continued as lofty as before, and “lissome” remains the mot juste for describing his well shaped limbs.  But Truth, the supreme guiding principle of the teller of histories, requires us to note that it pleased Taryl to allow his raiment to demonstrate evidence of this austere lifestyle: the already worn cuffs had been allowed to fray, and his soft leather boots had become much softer in toe, heel, and sole.
            Taryl’s accoutrement had happily suffered little change as well from when we last encountered him.  As the accurate Lord Hutchins has already been good enough to inform us, the Alklawi longsword continued to hang at a jaunty angle, his purse remained flat enough not to interrupt the cut of his jerkin, and the steadfast Borin remained just as wizened and putrid as ever, perhaps more so.  If the reader would be so generous as to spend a moment favoring this specimen of the servant classes with a moment’s notice, the reader will be rewarded with unique vision of the angry little face beset with two furious eyes stuffed behind a tangled grey mass we shall chuse to believe is a beard, a beard which is constantly masticated by yellow stumps considered to be teeth by their owner.
            Having refamiliarized ourselves with the last scion of Wolfsguard, let us turn our attentions once again to the activities of our dear pair.  Before even the cock found voice to his dawn cry, it pleased the Lord Taryl to rise from his slumbers, deliver a boot beneath the buggy and into the swollen gut of Borin, thus allowing that loyal manservant the pleasure of wakefulness, and to quit the coach house via the back window, as was our hero’s want.  As the grey light of dawn brought from their beds the various laundresses, pickpockets, street urchins, and goods-mongers into the streets, and likewise directed the night watchmen, footpads, burglars, and prostitutes from the streets to their beds, Taryl with Borin in tow trotted through the rising tumult of another day in Corynth.  Taryl, ever a resourceful young man, had decided to entertain himself as a hunter, and his prey was opportunity.  His favorite hunting grounds was that section of the city known as The Torments, and if he had competition in such a place, what of it?  The knowledge that he was one of many similar hunters in those tangled streets merely sharpened his skills and firmed his resolve.
            As with any style of hunting, various and many were the skills Taryl employed in the pursuit of his goals.  An alley dice game required both his skills of luck and supple wrists that could slip a loaded die from his cuff to his hand undetected by others.  An obese pimp, his purse bulging from a night’s labors, required unparalleled observation skills and knifework subtle enough to open the bottom of the purse without the notice of its proprietor.  A potential business partner, a former light acquaintance from Taryl’s days of all night revelry in the Gold Quarter last season who had recently inherited a modest amount from a beloved late uncle, required our dear protagonist’s most descriptive and influential use of words in describing the untold wealth possible from a business venture Taryl had been strenuously working to set up since he heard of the inheritance this afternoon.  But the gods did not favor Taryl this day in any of his attempts.  The loaded die slipped prematurely from his cuff and the alley dice game became an alley sword fight resulting in two gentlemen receiving minor injuries and a third allowing himself to die; the subtle knifework was not subtle enough and caused Lord Taryl some embarrassment; the suddenly wealthy business partner was indeed amenable to Taryl’s scheme but after then explaining that the inheritance was in the form of a trust and inaccessible for at least two years, Taryl felt the interview was at a close.
            As the gloaming crept through the streets to signal the end of another day, Taryl paused at a fountain to reflect upon the results of his labors since dawn.  In one of those rare but wonderful occurrences that result from years of close proximity, Borin put voice to the primary thought that remained unspoken in Taryl’s mind: “Master, I am hungry.”
            Taryl nodded wisely.  “I may have no training as a physiker, Borin, but I believe the cure to your present condition is food.  Eat, and I remain confident that you will soon notice the pangs of hunger disappear.”
            The lower classes are notoriously unable to prevent their emotions from dictating the actions of their body, and one can only assume that it was an overwhelming emotion of gratitude for this sage advice that cause Borin to rush upon his master now with arms outstretched.  The unfortunate result, surely unforeseen by this silly man of mean intelligence, was to carry the duo over the lip of the fountain and into the water, where Borin’s panicked thrashings brought his gnarled hands around the submerged throat of his master.  Taryl’s own hunger, however, had not robbed him of his faculties, and he was able to twist free from the burden of his manservant and out into the cool evening air, which he gulped into his lungs gratefully and in preparation for delivering a just and resounding chastisement for this clumsy behavior.  However, this rapid contemplation of the bizarre conduct of the servant orders reminded him of yesterday’s conversation with the major domo, and a single phrase sang in his mind: “We serve hors d’oeuvres until the second hour”.  Today was indeed Thor’s day, the sun had set, and Taryl reminded himself that he had an obligation to maintain the family’s reputation for kindness to the lower castes by continuing what promised to be a fruitful relationship with this odd man.  Thus Taryl’s original speech on the impregnable stupidity of his lackey, a speech which had in various forms been published almost daily, was arrested, and replaced with merely the command that Borin would remove himself from this unscheduled and unprecedented familiarity with a body of somewhat clean water and prepare to retire to the Bloated Corpse.
            With the number of taverns in the city of Corynth, it should stand as a testament to Taryl’s abilities that he was familiar with this particular one.  It stood on the edge of The Torments, on Miser’s Alley, which after a mile made communication with one of the many sally ports in the outer city wall officially sealed, but which had been opened so many times by those personages who for whatever reason did not feel obligated to pass through one of the city’s main gates, and thus the City Watchmen and attendant tax collectors, that over time the watchmen had simply stopped bothering to reseal it.  As Taryl had spent his day in The Torments, he was near the tavern in question, and thus turning his footsteps thither soon achieved his purpose in little time.
            The tavern was typical of the area; a low ceiling propped up by unfinished timbers loomed over the tableau of sour faced men and defeated-looking women past their prime huddled about stained tables or slumped on benches in the thick haze of tobacco smoke illuminated by too few lamps burning rancid grease.  A chest high (or in Borin’s case, head high) bar cobbled from planks of roughhewn wood dominated the far wall from the entrance, behind which lounged a few casks of watered lager, a sleepy-eyed man of few hairs but a commanding waistline, and the cooking fire whose spit currently boasted something significantly smaller than a cat but which offered four drumsticks.  Dreading with every fibre of his being the expected attempts at humor that the statement was bound to produce, Taryl strode to the bar and announced to the sleepy-eyed barkeep in a manly tenor: “My prostate is swollen.”
            The roundly proportioned proprietor deigned to sigh and roll his eyes.  “Why do you people do this?”  he asked in what Taryl could only assume was a rhetorical fashion, being as Taryl was obviously not one of “you people”.  “The entire purpose of a pass-word or phrase is to remain unremarkable by any possible opponents who may be within earshot.  It should be such a word or phrase that strikes the balance between being ordinary enough to cause no comment among the curious, but original enough that anyone not within the circle of trust would have no reason to speak it.  Marching in here without even a ‘Good evening to you, barkeep’ and shouting out the condition of your prostate is not, shall we say, tactful.”
            Taryl, relieved that the barkeep had not instead embarked on a merry attempt to amuse himself with puns over the pass-phrase, carried on doggedly.  “Nevertheless, my good man, my prostate is swollen, if you understand what I mean!”  And he followed this up with a sly wink, exaggerated for the sake of this obviously slow tavern owner.
            Said slow tavern owner stared at Taryl.  “There you go again.  Would you keep it down?  Why not come up to the bar, order something, and over a friendly pint engage me in light conversation, inquiring after my health, complaining about your own, during which time you would have the opportunity to casually—“
            “MY PROSTATE IS SWOLLEN!” thundered Taryl, causing the waxed paper in the windows to shudder, the other patrons to wince, and the barkeep to blanch visibly, quite an achievement for one already so pasty.  Without another word, the barkeep motioned Taryl to come around the bar; he then pushed hard on one of the enormous casks, causing it to slide backwards and revealing a small hole in the floor through which a man might with some difficulty pass.  A ladder graced one wall of the tunnel, for ease of descent.  Taryl quickly availed himself of it, Borin so close behind that Taryl’s fingers were in constant jeopardy of hobnailed boots.
            Having gained solid terre ferme once again, our hero was able to turn and survey his surroundings.  The shaft beneath the beer cask had taken him to an underground chamber that, considering Corynth’s long history of building upon the remains of itself, had once been a chamber of roughly the same dimensions as a contemporary dining hall, presumably of a wealthy household judging from the quality of the marble pillars that held the floor of the tavern above from coming down around the ears of the current occupants.  The current occupants just mentioned were a curious collection.  About a dozen figures, young, old, fat, skinny, men and women, they all wore some sort of livery, and sat around a large, round table steadily doing themselves proud at trenchers of food.  This last point interested Taryl greatly, and with hawk-like observation he rapidly spied the board against the wall to his left heavy with platters of edibles.  He applied a gracious smile, turned up the merry twinkle in his eye, and approached the round table, tacking to the left.
            A figure almost directly across the round table from the entrance shaft at last raised his chin from the bowl of onion soup to which he had directed his attention, and, upon spying Taryl, brought the rest of his body to its feet with outstretched arms and a welcoming sound of “Ahhhhh!”  Taryl recognized the major domo, his host, and reluctantly corrected the direction of his tack from the side-board-ward course on a more major domo heading.  Such are the burdens of polite behavior, which must at all costs be satisfied before those demands of the belly, or else where are we as a civilization?  Taryl met the major domo with a handshake, a familiarity he permitted the major domo in such unusual circumstances, and which Taryl felt more than repaid his host for the meal he was about to enjoy.  From over his left shoulder, Taryl could hear the animalistic snufflings and gruntings that indicated Borin had waded into the consumables in full force.
            “My friends,” announced the major domo to the table of liveried diners, “Allow me to introduce a man I trust shall soon be brought into our elite circle.  I only met this potential hero for a few minutes and that only yesterday, but in such circumstances that he has already won much of my trust and respect, something that I believe you can all attest is not an easy thing to gain, eh?”  The major domo allowed himself to laugh at this witticism, but the rest of the assembled declined to join in his merriment, and some appeared to be positively frightened.  So that his host may not be permitted the gaff of enjoying his own joke alone, Taryl joined in with a barking guffaw.  When this at last ran its course, the major domo continued: “Yes, I witnessed this brave soldier of our cause attempt to assassinate the vile Lord Hutchins with a sword from within a wardrobe!  The noble essay failed, but this proud man remains undeterred, and has fearlessly proclaimed to me, a man he did not know from a government spy, that he will happily make another attempt.  Though we here may have reason to find quibbling faults with his technique, it is only due to the advantages we have had of long years of study; none of us have any justification to find fault with his great heart!  So, allow me to present to you…”
            Taryl, fully aware that his host had no idea of his name, much as he continued to privately label the man by his station of “major domo” rather than any appellation his mother may have assigned, once more leapt to his host’s assistance.  “Taryl” he supplied simply, deciding that among this society of exclusively liveried members of the servant class he would gloss over the “Lord” designator, in order to keep the company at their ease.  Had Taryl been prone to examining deeply the subtle signs of human behavioral patterns, he may have noted the air of expectation as each member of the audience leaned forward after the last syllable of his given name, as if expecting more; Taryl, if he noticed this expectation at all merely filled it in with a dazzling smile.
            The host also seemed to pause a few heartbeats longer than was comfortable, then pressed on with the agenda.  “Taryl!” he cried delightedly.  “And I should introduce myself formally: I am John Yusgow, Speaker Pro Diem for Revolutionary Cell #47, Block North, Corynthian Department.  This,” and his sweeping arm encompassed all of those assembled who, the originality of a new face having worn off and most realizing it was back to the well-practiced phrases of an old familiar face, had turned back to that sustenance that Taryl craved even more with every passing minute, “is Revolutionary Cell #47 themselves.  Minus Old Hodger.”  Here Yusgow turned to a dame of certain age to his left, currently engaging a chicken wing in the purpose chicken wings are best employed for; “Where did you say Old Hodger was?”
            “E’s ‘roids is troublin’ ‘im might fierce t’night,” was the muttered reply half muffled by chicken wing.
            Yusgow did not seem to take this information in the most complete spirit of generosity Taryl would have liked to see a younger man demonstrate to the aged.  “Well, if the Revolution is subject to the whims of an old coot’s sore arse, I don’t think…” But here he trailed off, apparently remembering his duties to his guest.  The guest now received the full strength of the legendary Yusgow smile, when what he would have preferred was the legendary Yusgow hors d’oeuvres.  “My friend: do you yearn, as we yearn, for the glorious Revolution?”
            Taryl allowed himself another survey of the side board dishes.  “Rather!”
            Yusgow once more appeared to wait for more from this admirably taciturn young gentleman, but then proceeded.  “And will ye not allow rest for your heart or idleness for your hands until the goals of the Revolution have at last been fulfilled, as we know they must eventually be?”
            Taryl nodded.  “There is time enough to rest in the grave,” quothe he, at last able to put to use some small part of his expensive education abroad.
            Yusgow seemed to like him better this second response.  “Then join us my young friend; take your place within our circle, and know that from this moment on our hearts beat as one, our lives are as inextricably entwined as the lines of two drunken fishermen, our successes lie only in the success of our group as a whole!  You are invited to sit at the legendary Round Table.”
            Taryl was at heart a man of action, a doer of deeds rather than one of the more common pusillanimous of his peers one most normally finds who would rather make fine speeches than put policy into fact.  With a nod of acknowledgment for this acceptance and a brief “Excellent”, the last scion of Wolfsguard stepped away from Yusgow’s side, achieved the sideboard in three strides, and in less than a minute was steering a wooden platter heaped with a few pounds worth of fried foodstuffs to an empty chair between a leathery older gentleman in blue and silver livery and stable boots, and an enormous female shrouded in what could only have been the material for a small pavilion draped over her massive proportions to hide her shame.  During this, Yusgow suggested that the members complete the initiation ceremony with a rousing Revolutionary Song.  As Taryl began to at last fulfill his objective, the rest of Revolutionary Cell #47 haltingly followed the energetic baritone of John Yusgow:

                        Nobles, Royalty, you will die
                        Like the sun in night’s dark sky.
                        The working class will take your place
                        And thus save all the human race.
                        Nobles, Royalty, you must die;
                        But we can’t quite ex-plain why.

            As the lyrics to this little ditty, sung thrice in succession before the performers once again turned to the difficult task of ingesting the last of the available savories, filtered into Taryl’s consciousness, a feeling of anxiety began to creep into this noble youth’s heart.  Fear of physical danger was for our champion something he had read about it books, but this assonance seemed to be causing him some disquiet.  On reflection, he concluded that perhaps it was the forced meter, the elementary rhymes, the blatant disregard for any form of poetic discipline.  Or perhaps it was the delivery, a simple sing-songy melody that may have proven charming had it been produced by less tone-deaf performers, or performers capable of agreeing on a single tempo or scale.  On the third iteration of the musical blasphemy he even attempted to assuage the uneasiness that lay heavy upon his heart by providing a background harmony, but found the effect seemed to heighten the nausea that was stealing over him.  Regretfully, he glanced down at the wobbly chunks of fried masses wallowing in the fast congealing grease that only a moment before this abortion of music was committed had appeared so appetizing.
            Yusgow had formed a completely wrong interpretation of Taryl’s participation in the singing, and beamed at the newest member of Revolutionary Cell #47 with what one may describe as paternal pride.  “Excellent!” he cried after the singing had at last staggered to a merciful end.  “Sweet Taryl, you shall fit in nicely among our little family!”
            Taryl’s sword hand itched as he contemplated whether to chuse to interpret this comment as an insult or not.
            The night progressed on a disastrous trajectory.  The foodstuffs gone and with no prospect of a resupply, Taryl took solace in the few bottles of cooking sherry making their way around the Round Table in an attempt to blot out the rest of the proceedings.  Following what will charitably be referred to as a meal, Yusgow once again abused his position of leadership to seize control of the venue and deliver an impassioned oratory on the evils of the noble classes and the pious, humble virtues of the servant class, whom he represented as the final hope for the survival of all mankind.  There followed exhortations to those assembled to martyr themselves in the name of The Cause, which Taryl gathered to be synonymous with The Revolution, but for the life of him he could not discern the finer points of either, nor how the martyrdom was to be performed and in what way it would provide benefit to the inscrutable Cause/ Revolution.  Taryl yearned to share the talents of those around him who had managed to slip into a state of fitful sleep to avoid this onslaught, though none of them had quite matched Borin’s expert example of snoring loudly from the spread-eagle position he had assumed beneath the Round Table.  The calls for action were followed by yet more songs that Yusgow would, had he been interviewed, no doubt describe as “stirring”; the libretto of each shared the common thread of violence, what Taryl could shrewdly discern as a certain distaste for those born into a higher station than the present company, and a desire for suicide.  Taryl’s uneasiness remained, and this time was not ameliorated by the comfort of packing dense proteins into his colon as rapidly as possible.
            The evening at last signaled the merciful ending some three hours after Taryl had first clambered down the shaft beneath the strange barkeeper’s cask as one by one the original cast mumbled excuses about early morning duties, nocturnal commitments, and a case of the hives, and began to filter from the table to the ladder that would bring them once more to the surface world.  Taryl would very much have liked to be among their earlier census, but found himself delayed by the personal commitment of rousing Borin to a state of wakefulness, an operation that required just enough time for Yusgow to make his way from the pulpit to Taryl’s elbow, which he took in hand in a friendly, yet firm, fashion.  “If you can spare my humble self a moment of your valuable time,” breathed Yusgow.
            Taryl’s mood was not amenable to any more speeches from this man; indeed, he considered himself well past his quota of Yusgow opinions and not harboring any plans to return to this morbid venue no matter how hungry he may be, also felt his obligations as guest fully paid and then some for the consumables he had managed to choke down before the first assault on music had begun.  But we should note this fact in bold script, that Taryl’s noble breeding overrode any ambitions towards impolite behavior, and he stayed the hand that rose in preparation for a strike.  “Yes?” he sighed.  And he meant it.
            “I sense that you are no ordinary Soldier for the Cause,” quothe Yusgow.  “I have been waiting for someone with the talents and drive to perform a very special mission that will seal the fate of the Oppressors.  But I will reveal no more until I am sure of your interest.  It would require that you place on hold for only a few weeks your original admirable intentions regarding the Lord Hutchins, but I can assure you that it will advance the Revolution far more than any fate you may deliver to that admittedly deserving Councilman.  But as a byproduct, and completely irrelevant to the facts, I must warn you that you may stand to gain quite a bit of monies…Which I have no doubt you will reinvest toward the weekly expenses incurred by Revolution Cell #47: most notably rent and catering service.  Well?  What say ye?”
            Strangely, this man who over the last three hours had managed to strike a loathsome chord in the otherwise affable nature of the youngest dar Alklawi with merely the sound of his voice, seemed to grow in the latter’s esteem in the past few seconds.  Give a man a fish, and he eats for a day, but give the same man a large pile of gold coin and he is able to buy up all the fishing paraphernalia, rights to fish all the waterways within three days’ march, and develops a penchant for renting out the same to other fishermen for astronomical fees.  A night’s worth of listening to the bombast of John Yusgow may not have been worth a few mouthfuls of deep fried cat’s organs, but a few weeks of pretending to abide by his insane schemes while remaining drunk and in hiding may be worth a pile of coin.  Taryl nodded his assent that the man may continue blathering.
            Yusgow smiled, an activity which once again produced the surge of nausea Taryl had believed overcome.  “Very well,” intoned Yusgow.  “It is simply this: I need a man who can act the part of a gentleman.  A man unknown to be one of our birth among the nobility, who can integrate himself among the filth of the King’s court.  A man, in short, who can appear to be of the noble birth that provides him the right to wear a blade in the presence of the King himself, and thus…” Here Yusgow paused to feign what the major domo no doubt believed was the proper execution of a classic sword thrust, “…sink that same sword to the hilt into the chest of the King!  Again I ask: ‘Well?’  And: ‘What say ye?’  You have about you a natural air of dignity; as an homme d’wardrobe your face has never been seen by the noble visitors to Lord Hutchins’s estate; you even have a sword already, thus defraying from the initial capital outlay!  What is your answer?”
            Taryl redirected the man’s energies towards the only salient point.  “These monies you spoke of earlier.  What their origin?  To whither their purpose?  And most importantly, how soon would they find their way into my purse?”
            Once again, and for what Taryl fervently prayed would be the last time, Yusgow affected the smile.  “All will be explained tomorrow, sweet friend, if after a night’s meditation you remain committed.  Rest, and tomorrow at noon meet me at the New Market, at the bench of the cobbler missing a nose, where the details of the scheme will be laid before you in full.  As you ponder your decision tonight, realized that the concept is one that is fraught with danger.  Already one of our number attempting the same as Captain of the Royal Guard was brutally murdered some months ago by the axe-wielding lackey of some country hick.  I would ask you to weigh that potential danger with the certainty that having been informed of our plan, if you do not agree to carry it through I will certainly hunt down and murder you and your unique smelling pet,” this last he accentuated with a kick to the recumbent Borin’s midriff.  “But for now, good night, dearest friend, and sleep well.”  The repugnant smile was once more allowed public viewing, then Yusgow swept up the ladder himself, leaving only our hero and his lackey alone in the underground chamber.

bcbccb

            Taryl was less familiar with the New Market as he was with The Torments and other sections of the city infamous for their lack of attention by any variety of law enforcement.  The New Market was one of these spontaneous attempts, like fits of flatulence, various Kings of Corynth had undertaken to improve the reputation of the capital of the Free Kingdoms.  From a royal decree worded as “Let us at last dedicate a space in our city wherein honest merchants may gather to safely offer their wares and services to those citizens who expect quality goods at a fair price,” in such a city as Corynth, the City Council was at first forced to comply with the exact decree, and a three block long section of street was dedicated to the effort, and soon became the haunt of nothing but soft breezes, dust motes, and a lone man, recently arrived to the city from the south, who expected to pay a fair price for quality goods.  This man, by name Dillington, soon died of either starvation or exposure, it is unclear which, but the Council once again took action by carefully editing the King’s decree to remove the words “honest”, “quality”, and “fair”, and commerce once again flooded into the street now known as Dillington’s Folly.
            Though he may have been unfamiliar with the New Market, it was not difficult to find his way there, nor to make his way through the crowd until he found a cobbler sitting at a workbench outside his booth with a pipe clenched between his teeth, but which smoke seemed to emanate as a uniform cloud from the center of his face.  Yusgow had not provided Taryl with any pass-phrase for this particular stage in their tryst, so Taryl assumed he was to use the original phrase that had won him access to the underground meeting hall.  He hailed the cobbler.  “Good day, my friend!  And how is your health this fine day?”
            The cobbler paused in his important work, which Taryl noted involved stabbing the carcass of a squirrel repeatedly with a tiny knife, and peered at Taryl with glittering eyes through the curtain of smoke.  “I god doe doze, you baddard.  How d’yuh dink m’ealth iz?”
            Taryl rallied.  “I can certainly understand your frustration.  I myself have a swollen prostate.”
            The cobbler stared at Taryl, then shrugged and turned back to the squirrel carcass, which it appeared was in dire want of stabbing.  Taryl shifted uncomfortably, but pressed on, motivated by the vast sums promised by Yusgow.  “I say, sir, that my prostate is swollen.  Does that mean anything to you?”
            The cobbler again paused, sighing at this second interruption of his concentration to these careful ministrations, and regarded the blade of his tiny knife, well nicked but apparently of satisfactory sharpness.  “Fery well,” he said.  “Fer odly dirty copperz I can fix dat fer yuh.  Less sdep behind m’curdain ‘ere inna m’booth an’ I’ll fix yuhr prozdade.”
            Taryl breathed the relief of a man who has been tried and won the way ahead, and with Borin in tow stepped around the workbench to follow the odd cobbler through the booth’s curtain, when a hissed “Oy! Taryl!” issuing from the street stopped him.  He turned to see a short little man, dressed in the most outlandish collection of colored rags, hopping from foot to foot.  The man jerked his bald head streetwards, causing a cacophony from the ludicrously long and bejeweled earrings he wore.  “C’mon!” the strange little fellow declared in another forced whisper that carried the length of Dillington’s Folly.  “John Yusgow sent me to meet you here.  Sorry I’m late.  Come on!”
            Taryl confessed to himself a momentary confusion, but the little peacock man seemed to know his name and that of Yusgow, whereas the noseless cobbler had appeared nothing more than put out by the young lord’s entrance upon the scene.  Taryl retreated from the booth to follow this new acquaintance, which prompted a cry from behind the filthy curtain.  “’Ere!  Whadda bout yuhr prozdade?  I god experienze… I m’self wend do a docdor doo yearz ago complainin’ boud a runny doze…I seen dis done before!...”  But Taryl was no longer interested in the man’s medical credentials.
            Taryl would not originally have believed that anyone dressed as his guide was to be difficult to follow in a crowd, but the little man’s hyperactive style of movement, which closely resembled that of one struck with the St Vitus dance, meant that he passed through the crowded market like an angry hummingbird, and Taryl allowed his breathing to become labored in his efforts to keep up as well as pull Borin along.
            The obviously great admirer of the dyer’s art led the young lord and his lackey in a very haphazard circumnavigation of the New Market, then into the surrounding alleys on a similarly winding route that soon caused Taryl to suspect that the trio were walking in giant circles, either from the incompetence of his guide or in some attempt to further disguise their final destination by confusing the walkers.
            Their goal was at last achieved in the form of a faded red door set in the wall of a particularly twisting and pungent alley.  The tailor’s nightmare subjected the portal to a complicated series of knocks, the door responded with the sounds of many and various bolts and locks being disengaged from the other side, and the trio entered in victory.  Taryl was led to a pleasant little sitting room decorated after the fashion of the elderly for whom the last era is still a present reality and offered a comfortable armchair near the cozy fire.  Yusgow occupied the only other armchair, and an impressively tall, somber stranger stood next to the hearth, an elbow resting on the mantle.  As Taryl was rearranging his sword to take his seat, an ancient of the female sex (judged only by its mode of dress, which Taryl since coming to Corynth had learned is never a guaranteed indicator) shuffled into the parlor with a pewter tray upon which danced four china cups of some dark colored liquid, most of which had by now leapt the boundaries of the cups and converted the tray into a shallow bowl.  Taryl, Yusgow, the tall somber one, and the little former guide each took a cup and sipped politely at the hideous brew; such is the power of the commonality all men share that a pact never again to subject themselves to this exercise in courage was silently sealed among the quartet, and the china cups soon found new homes on end tables and the mantle.  As the antique specimen laboriously made its shuffling way out of the sitting room, intermittently emptying the spilled contents of the pewter tray to mark its path, Yusgow attempted to alleviate any suspicions of a poisoning attempt with the words “My mother,” and a slightly embarrassed shrug.
            Taryl, painfully aware of his status as the newcomer to the happy gathering, attempted to be the first to break the ice with what he believed to be the normal greeting of the common folk.  “So, my friends, what are the good words?”
            The tall somber one snorted and stared down his long nose at Taryl.  “Oppression’ is a good word, my friend.  ‘Resistance’ is a better word.  ‘The Revolution’ are words fine enough to die for.  Friend,” he added.
            Taryl had no immediate response to this, and even considered another attempt at the tea cup in the hopes that he would find relief in what may have been, after all, a poisoning attempt.
            Yusgow perpetrated the smile made notorious last night.  “Taryl, please allow me to introduce Yans Kuther,” here he indicated the tall one, “and The Sparrow,” this appellation drew a bow from the one Taryl would have thought “Jackdaw” a more appropriate totem.  “They shall be your closest comrades during this special project of ours.”
            Yans Kuther spoke again in the slow and sonorous baritone he had recently demonstrated while listing vocabulary.  “Is your pet monkey housebroken?”
            This was not the first time Taryl had been asked this question when first arriving to a social gathering with Borin in attendance, and assurances rose unconsciously to his lips.  “I ask you to set your mind at ease regarding—“
            “It is urinating in the corner,” concluded Yans.
            “Borin!” snapped Taryl, turning in his chair to deliver a solid backhand across Borin’s neck, producing a yowl from the latter and causing the stream of urine carefully aimed at an unobtrusive corner to spray wildly around the room.  With carefully placed kicks to his lackey’s hindquarters, Taryl managed to direct Borin from the room and into the entryway.
            Upon Taryl’s return, Yusgow halted the attempted apologies with a dismissive wave.  “As my mother’s march into her twilight years grows longer, these rooms become more and more familiar with hysterical urination.  Pay it no mind.  Let us return to business.
            “To begin,” began Yusgow, “Allow me to make clear that what I about to speak of, and what I intimated to you last night, are unknown to the rest of Revolutionary Cell #47.  I do not in any way mean to impugn these fine Revolutionaries, but they are not what I shall term ‘the elite’.  Should they learn of this attempt, they may by accident in some way alert those from whom we wish to keep our activities unknown.  Do I have your assurances of silence in this matter?”
            Taryl inclined his head.  “I for my part request that you sleep well tonight untroubled by any suggestion that I may breathe a word of this matter.  Already it would appear to me that it is my life, above any other, that would be at risk should the details of this venture become public knowledge.”
            Yusgow smiled broadly.  “I assure you my full confidence.  And now the details!  The concept you already know: you are to find your way into the society circles of the King’s Court, establish yourself as a young nobleman from some province no one has heard of, but fully entitled to all the rights of royal audience that a nobleman enjoys.  In this way you will maneuver yourself into a position wherein yourself, the King, and a weapon are all within close proximity…and you shall at that time strike such a blow for the Revolution as will be heard around the world!  Your name shall be sung throughout posterity as the spark that lit the fires of freedom for mankind!  Upon the shining example of your heroic deed will rise the tide of Righteousness, and the masses will sweep over the putrefied and decayed system of oppression beneath which we all groan.  There is absolutely no flaw to this plan.  It is perfect.”
            Taryl noted to himself that there seemed to be no talk of his surviving the heroic deed that would spark the fires of freedom; rather, his glowing eulogy seemed to be easier to plan than any escape.  But having no intention of actually carrying out the final act, he bothered with the thought but little.
            Yusgow came to what Taryl prayed were his final thoughts on the matter.  “Yans is one of our best strategists, a master in the arts of subterfuge and one of the sharpest minds in Corynth.  He will accompany you in your quest, ostensibly as your valet, but in reality this comrade will direct and plan your actions as you navigate through the inexplicable labyrinth of the nobility’s social circles.  Place your trust in his guidance, value his opinion far greater than your own in all matters relating to acting as a gentleman!  In his role as an actual assistant chef to a gentleman, he has had almost a decade of experience observing and noting the behavior and patterns of these people.
            “The Sparrow will be introduced as your footman.  He is excellent at his job, and his job is loyalty: his own and others’ loyalty.  His expertise extends to the use of many weapons and poisons, but do not let that fact become one of your concerns.  In fact, he should not enter into any of your operational considerations.  He is merely there to ensure that everyone conducts themselves properly, and fulfills their obligations.”
            Taryl now liked this Sparrow even less than he had when he had first been visually assaulted by the multi-hued spectacle that this hyperactive little clown had presented.  Nevertheless, our stout-hearted lord of Wolfsguard was well familiar with the dangers of steel and violence, and knew he well how to answer such matters.  The Sparrow held for him little anxiety.
            Yusgow now rose to his feet, and activity in which Taryl quickly joined him. “Have you any question for now that I may answer?” he asked our protagonist.
            Taryl shook his head.  “Only this: where do I start?”
            Yusgow laughed appreciatively.  “I find great hope in your motivation, my young comrade!  Yans will escort you to the apartments we have secured for you.  We have delved deep into the Revolutionary Cell #47’s treasury to fund this venture, which I have full confidence will yield much more valuable results than mere money could ever attain, and we have provided you with clothing, transportation, pocket money; everything one would expect at the disposal of an actual lord.  I trust you will find the apartments we have secured comfortable—“
            “Or not comfortable, as every nail used to hoist this monstrosity is another nail hammered into the souls of the poor upon whose living corpses it was raised,” interjected Yans.
            “—Or at least more comfortable than a buggy in a trespassed coach house,” gallantly finished Yusgow, then laughed at Taryl’s expression.  “Ah yes, sweet Taryl, I followed you to your bed last night.  I had to ensure that you were truly committed to the cause, and I not the victim of some misunderstanding, did I not?”
            Taryl burned with shame, an emotion normally so foreign to him that he had no method of dealing with it other than swearing vengeance by blood against this man Yusgow silently to himself.  The party then broke for the evening with Taryl’s back being assaulted repeatedly by slaps, and Taryl, whose retinue had in fifteen minutes swelled from one to three, now stepped out into the sultry afternoon.

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            The apartments to which Yans and The Sparrow conducted Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, known also merely as Taryl the Revolutionary, were in the Ivory Quarter of Corynth, within the second concentric ring of city walls: not quite among the ruling elite, but certainly carrying a respectable address.  As the strange party made its way through the increasingly respectable streets en route between the home of Yusgow’s mother and the Ivory Quarter, Yans briefed Taryl on his upcoming assignment.  The day of Taryl’s vetting turned out to be fortuitous, for there was to be a fête that evening at the town home of Baroness d’O_____, and this, Yans felt, would be the perfect opportunity to introduce the recently arrived Il Duce Syphiliutus from one of the islands in the Eastern Sea (this had been the identity Revolutionary Cell #47 had used to lease the apartment and acquire the other accoutrement, and therefore was the name by which Taryl agreed to be introduced.  As foreign as it may have seemed to be to his personality to assume a false name, it pleased him to consider it more of a lark than a lie).  “Can you perform an accent as do those from the Eastern islands?” asked The Sparrow, hopping from one side of Taryl to the other in a most alarming manner as they strolled down the street.
            “Mais oui, bien sûr!” exclaimed Taryl, thereby exhausting the full range of vocabulary of the barbarian tongues he had learnt whilst at school.
            Yans and The Sparrow exchanged a glance that we shall choose to believe was one full of admiration for Taryl’s linguistic skills.  “Move a bit farther east,” suggested Yans.
            “Vat? You are not likink off dere vordz ach am shpeakink?” replied Taryl, fully enjoying himself.
            Once more, the exchange of worshipful glances, augmented by a sigh from Yans.  “Ah, perhaps we shall explain to those you meet that you were educated in Corynth, and your title and lands are received from a recently deceased father now buried in the home islands you have unfortunately been too busy to visit since you were a young lad,” suggested The Sparrow magnanimously.
            “Ach, oy, an’ yer no wan’ me tae spak wi’ th’ wee lit’l wurds o’ the furrin shyte, oh aye, is a right kick inna arse, in’it?”
            The party enjoyed a few moments of peace, broken only by their steps and the shuffles of the hard-put Borin (who had been sulking in silence since his just chastisement).  Then Yans offered, “It almost seems as though you ended that last with a question, but I’m not sure that anything proceeding it is recognizable in any dialect.  It is of little consequence.  You have been poisoned by the bourgeoisie to believe that there is a fundamental difference in speech patterns between the races of the world, whereas we know that the Truth is all people speak the same language of Freedom.  Too long have we allowed the owners of the means of production to promote the disunity of the international workers; we will defy them once again by refusing to promote this oppressive fiction.”
            Once more the peaceful silence.  Then Taryl asked; “What dialect was that?”
            Yans breathed deeply through his long nose and answered with a satisfied smile: “The dialect of Freedom, comrade.  The dialect of Freedom.” And he fell into a reverential silence for the remainder of the journey.
            The journey’s end was an ornate building occupying the majority of the block upon which it squatted, and Taryl allowed himself to be escorted to what were to be his apartments for the foreseeable future.  While the suite was not what he would have chosen for himself given a generous budget, the rooms were nonetheless clean, spacious, and well furnished; an improvement over the buggy and coach house in terms of comfort even if less valuable in terms of ascetic reflection.  The Trunk had been allowed to quit Taryl’s possession in earlier adventures (elsewhere described), so Borin was left with none of his normal duties during the establishment of new living quarters, and thus found a comfortable corner to curl up in and commence snoring.  The Sparrow and Yans amused themselves by retreating to the balcony where they could enjoy the admirable view of the street below and engage in a hissed debate over some matter that both felt strongly about that seemed by their gesticulations to revolve around Taryl, while the latter carefully performed his toilet at the water jug, then inspected the bed chamber, wherein he discovered a new suit of velvet carefully laid out.  The cut was surprisingly close to his measurements, though would certainly have benefited from the ministrations of a halfway competent tailor.  Taryl carefully dressed himself, even tying his own points: Borin would awaken too groggy to make the effort worthwhile, and something told Taryl that requiring Yans his new valet to perform his duties this early in their relationship would cause something of a strain which he did not feel was worth the day.
            These attentions to his appearance, taking longer than normal due to the admirable refusal of assistance, meant that full night had fallen by the time our sweet Alklawi was once more presentable to the meaningful world.  Not having eaten since the previous night, Taryl felt an undeniable penchant for food, and expressed his desires to his new staff.  The tall man and the hyperactive peacock seemed perplexed at how to accomplish this daily activity in their new roles, and at last Yans pointed out that there was a sufficient quantity of what he described as “the blood and sweat of the working class in coin form” filling the gentleman’s purse that hung on Taryl’s belt beside the jaunty longsword.  He completed his editorial with an observation that up the street there was a tavern “operated by traitorous dupes of the bourgeois who would serve only the leeches of society rather than their own kind, of course for a fee justified only by the narcissism of the customer” and that thus it would not seem amiss should Taryl chuse to take his supper there.  Taryl did so chuse, and after rousing Borin the party once more assumed traveling mode.
            During supper, at the pleasant little bijoux specializing in fresh fruits of the sea, Yans took his leave, though missed little, for as Taryl pointed out upon their arrival, ordering such delicacies for his servants that could obviously not appreciate such fineries would be considered a crime against good taste among the other diners.  The Sparrow disappeared into the kitchens to discover what he could threaten from the staff in way of sustenance, leaving Taryl to be waited upon only by the trusty and steadfast Borin, who was rewarded by occasional tidbits flung from Taryl’s plates.  By the time Yans returned The Sparrow had reappeared to take up a station lounging in a corner picking his teeth with a long stiletto, Borin had managed to fill his ample gut via airborne chunks of salmon skin and organs, garnish, and (bountiful reward!) an entire dish of steamed spinach, while Taryl was mopping up the last of his ciopinno broth with buttered toast.  Yans appeared to actually consider taking a seat at Taryl’s table, remembered himself and his surroundings in time, and instead bent towards Taryl’s ear in what Taryl chose to believe was a respectful air.  “I have spoken to certain acquaintances, and secured your invitation to the gathering of the oppressors at Baroness d’O____’s townhouse tonight.”
            Taryl dabbed the corners of his mouth with fine linen.  “Excellent,” he opined.  “And having satiated many of my base desires, I am now fit company for the fête.  Shall we?” And this noble example of manhood rose, flinging coins twice the worth of the meal on the table.
            In the street, the conspirators once more held a hissed debate regarding Taryl’s mode of transportation to the Baroness’s evening, taking into account the fact that the town house was a mere quarter mile from their present location.  It was of Taryl’s opinion that anything less than his arrival in a coach and four would immediately give the game away, while the detestable Sparrow seemed unnaturally obsessed with such base concerns as the expenditure of Revolutionary Cell #47’s discretionary funds…the sum paid for the recent supper had seemed to excite the man’s spleen to unhealthy levels of temperature.  Borin’s only contribution to the debate was a series of flatulence after the rich meal, so it was left to Yans as the deciding vote, and in his Solomanic wisdom the tall man split the field and whistled for a buggy.  Taryl, familiar as he was by this time of buggy interiors, would almost rather have changed his vote to side with The Sparrow and walk, but his noble commitment to the cause brought him into the buggy that responded to the call.
            Even had Taryl not enjoyed the benefit of a guide in the form of Yans, he would have been able to correctly identify the town house of the Baroness d’O____; the building was so ablaze with lights and the constantly whirling maelstrom of coaches and buggys arriving and departing, delivering or receiving their well dressed charges outside the town house doors made it clear to the meanest intelligence that a soiree was underway within.  Taryl instructed the driver of the hired buggy to stop at the door, waited for The Sparrow to swing down from the footman’s stand to help him down (which required a reminding nudge and whisper from Yans to initiate), then swept up the marble steps, Yans close to his left shoulder, The Sparrow trailing just behind, and Borin bringing up the rearguard, masticating his beard.  Yans discreetly slipped the doorman a small something while dropping a few hushed words in his ear; the doorman did not outwardly register either the slippage or the droppage, but instead turned on his heel and announced into the bustling, rustling foyer: “My Lord: Il Duce Syphiliutus, Master of the Dolormian and Alluvium Islands of the Empire of the Eastern Sea, Protector of the Wondrous Genius Goat of Alluvium, and Lord of All He Can Survey from The Guest Bedroom on a Cloudy Day!”  Thus officially introduced to Society, and having completed the first task requested by Revolutionary Cell #47 in return for a life of deserved luxury for the hopefully long term future, Taryl swept across the threshold and down the steps into the foyer, allowing his cloak (now that it had served its purpose of sweeping into a room with flourish), to fall from his shoulders for one of his retinue to catch, which none of them did, two being quite inexperienced and one only technically not brain dead.
            Taryl did permit himself a brief moment of regret that his entrance seemed to cause little comment among the other guests, and the drone of dull conversation and occasional tinkle of forced laughter churned on unabated.  Reaching the bottom of the steps, Taryl attempted to follow up on the impetus gained by the doorman’s introduction by moving into the receiving line, where he acquired the Baroness d’O____’s gloved hand and with an elaborate bow laid the whisper of a kiss upon it, while at the same time favoring his hostess with the full force of his most effective Bedroom Eyes.  The Baroness received the complete strength of this maneuver that had melted the knees of so many ladies before her with her own Glassy Eyes, and Taryl realized he had arrived too many hours after the sherries to have much of an effect now.  He contented himself with exchanging small pleasantries with the large, crimson swathed Baroness, then moved into the crowd in the direction of any servant bearing a laden tray.
            Sherry at last in hand, Taryl made a circuit of the ballroom in careful search of anyone who may recognize him by any other name besides Il Duce Syphiliutus; having satisfied himself of the absence of former lovers, creditors, or the spouses of either, he finished his tour before the string quartet at the head of the ballroom.  He found himself standing beside a young lady of raven tresses and a bodice that accentuated a magnificent profile, who seemed completely enraptured by the sonata.  “It is sublime, is it not?” asked Taryl, “So perfectly refined, yet constraining a wild strength beneath the trappings of civilization.”
            “Oh!” quothe the young lady, “The music is beautiful, is it not?”  And long lashes fluttered over large, almond eyes from above her lace fan.
            Taryl was startled to find he had spoken aloud.  “Ah, yes, the music is not unpleasant either.”  The almond eyes broke away from his gaze to drop demurely to the floor, and the lace fan accelerated rapidly, attempting to quell a rising blush.
            As often happens in the affairs of great men while achieving greatness, the gods raised the stakes by twisting Luck against our hero.  Just as Taryl felt he was nigh to accomplishing something that would justify this dull evening, the doorman’s baritone broke through the strained sonata to announce “His Majesty, The King of Corynth!”, and Taryl knew he had lost the initiative.
            The raven haired girl’s reaction mirrored that of almost every other guest: first a gasp of astonishment, then a surge towards the foyer in an attempt to look over the heads of one’s neighbors, then two waves rippled across the sea of nobility as those in attendance knelt or bowed before His Presence.  The King Himself was promenading through the foyer, the Royal Consort upon His arm, and after a brief conversation with the nigh-prostrate Baroness d’O____, He bid the party rise, the quartet to once again strike up the music, and for the fête to continue, “For,” as He generously explained, “Though We had not originally planned to attend this evening, We are confident that We expect more from this soiree than observing a gaggle of backsides in the air all night!”  And he laughed the laugh only a man who knows he will be joined in that laughter by every person in the room, on pain of lengthy torture, can laugh.
            Above were used the words “almost every guest” to describe the activities of the revelers suddenly discovering royalty within their midst, and the words were carefully chosen for a reason.  While it is true that the overwhelming majority conducted the business of gasping, surging, and rippling, the Il Duce Syphiliutus formerly Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, preferred to remain where he stood, seething at this latest unfortunate turn of Fortuna’s Wheel.  So great was his displeasure and self-pity, that he even committed the cardinal sin of failing to bend knee before the Royal Personage, a remiss he would greatly chastise himself for in the future, but for now went unnoticed beneath his general displeasure with the situation in general.  His upright position was not noticed by His Majesty or His retinue, but was remarked upon by a voice in the vicinity of his elbow; The Sparrow said, “I understand your feelings, but you need to bow before you attract unwanted attention.”
            Sudden self-realization dawned, and Taryl hastened to place himself in that position most correct to show deference and admirable respect before one’s liege and master.  In this new configuration, he found that he was nearly brushing noses with Yans, who had also assumed the expected position.  Yans seemed to have allowed himself quite a significant amount of agitation, as the lower classes will often do.  “You have your sword, do you not?” hissed Yans to Taryl.
            “And what of this fact?” queried Taryl as courteously as he possibly could in the circumstances.
            “The King is here!” hissed Yans, quite unnecessarily, but further elucidation on this rather obvious statement was interrupted by the King’s command to rise, and then the requirement to laugh at the witticism it pleased His Majesty to make obviated any attempt to continue the conversation smoothly along the same tact.
            Upon rising, Taryl glanced to where the lady of magnificent profile had stood and found she had transformed into a drunk and flatulent Borin, an improvement from a domestic service perspective, but a net loss in terms of romance.  He noted that the entrance of the King had drawn to him his entire staff, as if looking for guidance, and though this was admirable on their part in displaying a firm faith in the abilities of their unspoken but natural leader, it did mark Taryl as unique among his peers, and thus completely defeated the purpose in bowing that The Sparrow had expressed.
            Taryl has been described before as an acute observer of the human condition, and for ample reason.  He discerned now a certain impatience and excitement in his comrades, and by a rapid series of examining scenarios that may account for this quickly deduced that these two Revolutionaries felt the time to achieve the greater purpose was now.  This did not square well with his own schedule.  The sooner the King met his end, the sooner Revolutionary Cell #47 would decide it no longer needed Taryl to live the lifestyle they expected of him and would finance…though it would matter little to a corpse (at this point of the thought process Taryl cast his professional eye over the six confident men with swords that accompanied His Majesty; their swords were heavy objects of utility, rather than the ornate rapiers of most of the guests, and the worn leather of the grips bespoke many hours of practice).  The result of these observations all led Taryl to spare a generous word to his servants:  “Patience, my friends.  The most painful lesson every soldier must learn is how to cure himself of genital warts, but the second most painful is tactical patience.  We have formulated no plan for the execution nor the escape; Cell #47 cannot possibly be ready to exploit the results of our adventure; and the baked mackerel à fois has left me feeling somewhat sluggish.”
            “Escape?!?” screeched The Sparrow, drawing enough glances to moderate his tone to a more appropriate volume.  “Escape?” he repeated in an enraged whisper, harping once again on this one point.  “What ever are you babbling about?  You have a sword, there is the King within twenty steps of you, you must put one and one together!  There must not be any cowardly thought of the aftermath…”  But here he ceased his flow of words, as the realization of the expression on Taryl’s faced came to settle on his consciousness.
            Taryl leaned in to nearly touch noses with the excitable little man.  “That word you have spoken,” he explained very calmly and carefully, “Will be answered, I assure you, sir, and within due season.  No living person has ever utilized the word ‘coward’ in any grammatical fashion in conjunction with my self, unless proceeded by a negation.”
            Yans inserted a shoulder between the two, and by now the ménage must have had an awkward appearance to any who were paying attention, but His Majesty, now having made his way to the center of the ballroom, remained the sole focus of every other guest’s interest.  “The Sparrow is right,” opined the tall one, thereby chusing his side in the quarrel.  “I officially deny the opiate of deity-worship, but I must confess that if there are gods they appear to favor us.  To merely secure you the invitation to this soiree was nothing less than a miracle, and it must only have occurred because some divinity wished to place the chief oppressor, the symbol of everything that is wrong in this world, before us tonight, and thus speed The Revolution to its glorious conclusion of prosperity and freedom for all.  The time is right, the opportunity is before us: let our spirits not fail us or confuse us with metaphors of genital warts; let us strike now, for Freedom!”
            Taryl’s unique talent for prediction once more revealed to him his future path.  Even if he were able to communicate some ounce of common sense to this pair, which by their nature they were intrinsically immune to, the report of the King’s attendance at the same fête to which Taryl was a guest would certainly reach Revolutionary Cell #47, and such questions would be asked that regardless of their answers would result in the committee’s decision that Taryl was not the Messiah they had longed for, and his financing would come to an end.  And after that, what?  Having tasted once again the pleasures of his former life, even for one afternoon, made the idea of returning to the buggy in the coach house an unbearable prospect, one that made death appear even sweet in comparison.  In addition, Taryl had been insulted by a member of the lower class, and his bloodlust raged.  Someone was in sore need of killing.  Stealthily, Taryl checked the draw of his jaunty longsword from its sheath, and grimly nodded at Yans.  “You will accompany me,” he said, and turned on his heel in the direction of the King.
            His Majesty was surrounded by other guests, nobles like our sweet hero, each demonstrating the right to wear a sword in The Presence even if their blades were designed only for being caught in a lady’s gown whilst dancing or for making visits to the garderobe more challenging than worth the effort.  Taryl felt no anxiety that he would be unable to make his way through the crowd, but did marvel at The Sparrow’s calculation of twenty steps: it seemed to be exactly accurate.  However, ten paces into the adventure, midway between argument and achievement, a sweet tenor rang out across the ballroom.  “Your Majesty, my liege!  I regret to inform you of mortal peril, sire!”
            All heads, this time including Taryl’s, swung towards the source of the dire prediction.  Perched precariously upon one of the chandeliers above was an abomination in red, a man (Taryl assumed), who had clothed himself completely in that color to the point that he apparently could not bear even his face to display its natural hue, and had affected a mask dyed of the same pigment, with a crimson feather cresting from the side of his head.  With one hand this wonder clutched the chain of the chandelier for support, with the other he brandished a rapier, and cried “Ahaa!”
            Yans cursed mightily and loudly, unconcerned with his audience.  “It is the Scarlet Pimp!” he declared.  “Some fop of a nobleman who is constantly seeking to rescue other noblemen.  I believe he merely uses that as an excuse for such a costume, but he has nevertheless spoiled many of our plans ere this.  We must abort the mission for now, and exercise patience!”
            But as Yans made this explanation, and as the Scarlet Pimp once more cried “A-haaaa!” and glanced about himself for a method of safely reaching the ground as the chandelier swung dangerously, Taryl achieved eight more paces towards the King.  The six men-at-arms had now been alerted and their swords were free, but this did not deter our fine Lord Taryl.  His own sword remained sheathed, but with a brief bow, the scion of Wolfsguard uttered these manly words: “My liege, the lunatic is correct.  There is a plot against your life…by that man!” and Taryl pointed unmistakably at the hapless Borin.
            Borin permitted himself an expression of animal-like rage and flung himself forward, no doubt incensed that his dear master should be placed in such an embarrassing public position.  Taryl found it to his pleasure to step to his left, unaccountably placing Yans between himself and the flying lackey; thus did that over-tall Revolutionary find himself the recipient of an enraged dwarf with a rusty knife, a brief tussle upon the ballroom floor, and soon the eternal sleep of Death, all in that order.  In the same moment this all occurred, Taryl shifted the momentum of his step to the left to propel himself forward, longsword now free of its sheath and proceeding his body, till he stopped just short of The Sparrow, who had permitted himself to freeze in an attitude of amazement.  “This for your ‘cowardly’, you bastard,” said Taryl, and drove the longsword into the strange little Revolutionary’s chest.
            There was no time to lose.  Borin had been marked as the author of a plot to commit regicide; how he had been marked so and by whom was to Taryl’s mind merely quibbling over irrelevances: he had had a difficult enough time properly training this lackey, he was not about to start from the beginning with a new one.  Four of the capable young gentlemen had formed a ring around His Majesty and were accompanying Him as He decided it was to His pleasure to explore other rooms of the town house, if not the street outside; one of the remaining two had attempted to detain Borin and was currently attempting to disengage himself from the squealing manservant who had latched onto a sensitive bit of his anatomy with what remained of his yellow teeth, so that both men were engaged in a surprisingly not unpleasant duo in the higher registers.  Taryl demonstrated an admirable leap over the pair writhing about on the floor and addressed the Alklawi longsword to the last of the King’s escorts, who had obviously had it in mind to aid his fellow in suppressing the irrepressible Borin.  This final fellow acknowledged Taryl wordlessly but with the respect one swordsman recognizes to another, and a heavy cutlass met the longsword.
            It took but a few passes for Taryl to accurately size up this gentleman: one who had first become acquainted with the work of a blade in an agricultural sense, and though he now demonstrated that considerable training in the classical style had occurred since his youth, he continued to rely at heart on the considerable strength of his arm and trust to the action of his steel.  Taryl, on the other hand, had since his tender years understood that the sword itself was merely a counter to assist in demonstrating which of the players had actually won in the end (the one who permitted the least amount of blood to escape his body), and that the real game was played with the rest of his body, primarily the feet.  Taryl allowed the large gentleman to have his amusement with a series of powerful and accurate strikes, but with each attempt maneuvered himself into a position relative to the big man so that within a minute, Taryl had arranged his stance in a ready position with the tip of the longsword resting under the gentleman’s chin, whilst the heavy cutlass ended its final swing on the far side of the gentleman’s body, completely useless as a tool of either offense or defense.  “I wonder if you will permit me a request, my lord.”
            The large gentleman attempted a short bow, was prevented by the pressure of the sharp longsword, and replied, “I remain at your service, sir, for apparently as long as it may please you to allow me the breath required to consider your request.”
            “Very well, my request is this.”
            “Yes?”
            “I ask that you do not in any way consider the termination of our exercise with my not killing you as any sort of insult on your honor, nor your skill as a swordsman.”
            The large gentleman frowned.  “This is a most unusual request.”
            “Nevertheless, I make it.”
            “And perhaps in exchange, you will grant myself a desire?”
            “Which is?”
            “Which is this---“
            “Yes?”
            “I wonder if you will explain why?”
            “Ah,” reasoned Taryl, “You ask why I will not kill you?”
            “I do.”
            “I have my reasons.”
            “And they are?”
            “Foremost among them is that I have no intention, nor had I ever harbored the intention, of harming His Majesty nor any of the noble gentlemen who attend Him.”
            The large gentleman considered this.  “That is reasonable.  But you intimated that there was more than one reason by your use of the plural form of the word.”
            “I did, and I did so because of this: I have more than one reason.”
            “Ah!”
            “Yes.  Another reason is that I wish to barter for the life of my lackey.  I confess I allowed myself a falsehood in pointing to him as the source of danger against the King; the actual potential regicides were the two men you see permitting themselves to die shamelessly on this exquisite marble floor of the Baroness.”
            To this the large gentleman frowned.  “But then why should you accuse your lackey?  Has his service been so worthy of this species of attention?”
            Taryl allowed himself a small smile.  “It has been said by perceptive and talented people that I am an acute observer of personalities.  I realized that even I could not deal properly with both men at the same time, and needed to rouse my lackey into action; my accusation was calculated to bring Borin into that state of emotional hysteria by which the base classes allow their activities to be governed.”
            The gentleman allowed himself a chuckle, though the action of his throat caused the longsword to bite deeper.  “They do that, don’t they, the scamps!” he agreed.  “And your third reason?”
            “I wished to impart to you this, and in such a manner that you would remain alive to act on the information: John Yusgow, the major domo to Lord Hutchins.  Also, any persons you may find each Thor’s day after sundown in the meeting hall beneath the tavern of the Bloated Corpse, accessed by a shaft beneath a cask.”
            The gentleman nodded.  “Observe: The major domo of Lord Hutchins John Yusgow.  Beneath the Bloated Corpse each Thor’s day evening.”  When Taryl smiled his confirmation, the gentleman asked: “And the fourth reason?”
            “There is no fourth reason.  Having considered, and I ask that you weigh the fact that I have granted your request, will you fulfill mine?”
            The gentleman gave this question the full benefit of inspection.  At last he answered, “I will consider your withholding of the deathblow no insult, but instead an admirable service to the Crown.”  And once the longsword was returned to its sheath, he bowed.
            The two men saluted, the large gentleman swept off to join his colleagues accompanying the King and to impart what Taryl had told him, while Taryl turned to the tableau on the ball room’s marble floor.  The squealing of both men had developed into shrieking, so it was some minutes before Taryl was able to acquire the attention of his lackey, and some minutes more before he was able to with word and the occasional judiciously placed punch convince Borin to slacken his jaw muscles.  But at last he was successful, and he helped both men to their feet, though in truth the King’s attendant immediately found it to his pleasure to curl up once again on the floor, no doubt due to the potency of the bacteria in Borin’s saliva at last working its way into his bloodstream.  Taryl decided that the fête was not to his liking after all, and his social obligations fulfilled, made his way to the door with Borin at his heels through a crowd that was strangely silent and very observant.  He asked the doorman for the whereabouts of his hostess, that he may properly thank her for the soiree, but was informed that the Baroness d’O____ had unfortunately decided upon a headache and was not available for conversation.  As the young lord Alklawi allowed Borin to fussily pin his cloak about his noble shoulders against the chill night air, he could hear the voice of the Scarlet Pimp drifting down from on high:
            “Hello?  A-haaa!  What’s going on down there?  Does anyone need rescue?  Could someone please demand a ladder from the chatelaine?  Perhaps if one of you gentlemen could release that rope…No, not that one, the—A-haaaaohgodswhaarggh…” And the last scion of Wolfsguard and his lackey stepped out into the night amid the crash of crystal and wood.

-FIN-