rix_scaedu

I wrote this to aldersprig's eighth prompt "The moon and what's wrong with it."

Sometime in the far future, when the seasons are stable and human civilisation has become capable of things Tarrascotti, Capalini and the others of their time could never imagine…

The space capsule was tiny on the inside. Weight was at a premium and that meant extra crew space was a luxury they couldn’t afford. That made the identity of the third crew member surprising. When the religious community had insisted that a priest of Lunifer had to be on the first craft to orbit the Moon, the Space Agency had refused because they could launch and return home three men, not four.

“You misunderstand,” the senior military chaplain, a priest of Aschaer, had explained patiently. “Not as well as, instead of. He can go up as the third crew member.” He placed a plain file on the table. “Here’s a list of Luniferan priests who meet the physical, educational and psychological parameters of the programme.” As it happened, some of them were better qualified than astronauts already in the programme.

Thus, the co-pilot, back-up engineer and guy-in-charge-of-the-cameras on this historic trip was a Luniferan priest. No-one mentioned that he had a better degree than the crew’s official engineer or most of the engineers on the ground. He sang beautifully and his short, wiry frame was a good fit for the capsule. He was such a good fit for the job that everyone had almost forgotten that he wasn’t the Agency’s choice. His team mates barely remembered that when he’d first arrived and they’d asked him why he was there he’d said, “Because you’re likely to have a crisis of faith when you pass the dark side of the Moon.”

Fabiano, the priest and co-pilot, started the cameras rolling as they went past the planet-facing side of the Moon the first time. Sartarelli, the pilot, had the flight controls while Radovic, the engineer, hummed over his readout dials. Cameras one and two busily transmitted live to the watching world while cameras three and four recorded so there would be a record of their flight over the dark side.

They passed the imaginary line that marked the edge of the full moon as seen from home, seeing new features for the first time, then Sartarelli gasped in horror.

“Keep on course,” advised Fabiano. “Our plotted orbit is still good. Do you need me to take over?”

From behind them Radovic asked, “Holy what?”

The moon had been a sphere, once. Now it was more of a hollowed-out cup, filled with jagged splinters that gave a vague indication of its original shape. The planet-facing shell didn’t look terribly thick.

“This doesn’t shock you?” Sartarelli would have indicated the scene, but his hands were busy. “Mission Control, are you seeing this?”

“Copy that, Moon Sweep One. We’ll have revised second orbit instructions for you when you come out from behind the lunar shadow. Good luck.”

“Copy that, Mission Control.” The radio went dead.

“It shocks me, but I was expecting something like this. It’s been a matter of doctrine for a very long time.” Fabiano smiled and began to recite a very old prayer. “Lord, let me lend thee of my strength while thou art weak and recovering, for I loved thee and thou became my shield and because of thee, I live.”

Back in Mission Control the senior military chaplain was saying, “And that is why Lunifer is accounted first of all heroes, before Aschaer Himself, all other gods and every man who have ever lived.” Then he recited, “For when he who had been Aschaer’s warleader fell, Lunifer took up the Shield of Invulnerability and slung it across his back, then turned his face from the enemy, wrapped his cloak about himself, braced and took a step backwards. And the Moon swayed backwards in its path with the step of its god and the killing bolt aimed at the world struck the Moon instead. The Shield of Invulnerability fell from Lunifer’s back in two pieces. He staggered and fell to his knees. The alien world approached, fast as screaming thought. Then the three child goddesses took up the reins of their dead mother, the Earth Queen, and joined hands in a circle with Lunifer. Then the four of them swayed in unison and the world and the Moon swayed with them, and the alien world missed. Thus both worlds lived and when they straightened again, the child goddesses were children no more but adult and in their glory.”

I wrote this to aldersprig's 13th prompt "The waterfall, and what lies behind it."  It follows on from He Put A Team Together and if anyone would like to know the significance of Faruma being abandoned, that's covered here.  It's folllowed by The First Stage.

Spatelli sat down in the fourth chair and pointedly ignored the broken trencher in front of Liana.  “Over winter I came across some information about a lost Dirividdi stronghold up in the high ranges.  I know how to get there and I know how to get in but don’t know what’s in there or why it was abandoned, if it was abandoned.”

“I won’t ask whose vaults you broke into,” grinned Capalini for a moment before the smile dropped off his face, “but what do you mean ‘if it was abandoned’?”

“The documents I saw seemed to indicate that the stronghold simply ceased communicating,” answered Spatelli.  “This was about the time Faruma was abandoned so there was a lot of turmoil going on but these records were very complete and this place just drops out of them.”

“So, theoretically, it could be a death trap,” commented Liana, “full of the dead and whatever killed them.”

“And if the dead aren’t already lying down, that’s where I’m useful,” commented Giuffre dryly.  “Putting the hungry dead to rest is a virtuous enough way to spend the summer and there should be a song or two in it afterwards.  You said this place is in the high ranges.  Can we get there yet?”

Spatelli leaned forward, “The entrance is behind a waterfall that’s fed by one of the glaciers that come off the Mother’s Saddle. It’s possible the glacier could have grown long enough to drop ice over the cliff as well as water but if we don’t go now…”

“We can’t rely on the length of summer or autumn,” agreed Capalini.  He then went on in a business-like fashion, “We’ll all need winter sleeping rolls and coats. I’ve got a few things I want to pick up for warming spells and I think we should have a Dirividdi primer with us.”

“And a dictionary,” agreed Giuffre.  “We wouldn’t want to come to grief because we couldn’t read an inscription.  I’ll need to lay in some healing supplies.”

“Rope,” contributed Liana.  “Pitons, wedges, torches, lanterns and oil, extra flint and steel.”  She took in a deep breath.  “Are we taking riding and pack animals or would they just be so much bear bait?”

I wrote this to lilfluff's sixth prompt.  More stories in this world can be found on my Trideian tag.

Bennoli and Edita had taken a house together for the winter.  They’d parted company with Tarrascotti after the king had paid for their services, heading towards the wider valleys along the lower reaches of the rivers rather than up into to the mountains as he had.  Edita had declined to take any road that led towards Montefulciano and Bennoli had acquiesced.  They’d spent a few weeks working for a merchant in Bruschano while his own guards recovered after a beating and followed that up by escorting a group of pilgrims on their way home to the capital as far as the Sign of the Moon’s Cloak at Fiveways.

From there they’d spent most of autumn helping a nobleman’s feckless younger son explore a patch of ruins on the edge of the family estate.  Papa had seemed happy to have him out of the way of the harvest and the village girls.  Then they’d surprised everyone by actually finding treasure three levels down and back into the hill.  Bennoli and Edita had not only been paid, they’ received a cut of the find, and when they’d moved on the feckless son had been having an unexpectedly mature conversation with his family about the estate improvements he’d be funding.

Chiero was three towns down the highway from the estate and the first one they’d come to that had a reasonable, sound house for rent.  After dealing with a bit of business and signing a lease that would take them well into spring, they stocked up with a winter’s worth of supplies and wood and settled in to be part of the town for six months.

They had their hearth blessed by the local Keviran priestess and attended the weekly militia weapons practice.  The boys and men who looked askance at Edita’s presence worked harder when she outshot most of them all at the butts with a short bow.  Bennoli was welcomed by the town’s small cadre of professional guardsmen as an addition to their sword-work class.  The two of them together frequented the market and the inn, being neither extravagant nor parsimonious.  They settled in.

They weren’t the only folk of their ilk who’d chosen Chiero for their overwinter.  Verdi and Scarlatti were swords for hire.  They’d moved into town for the winter but they’d not settled.  They changed inns three times.  They didn’t go to the militia practice and they didn’t frequent the market.  Soon it became noticed that they had a habit of suddenly ducking down streets and laneways like startled rabbits.  Anyone would think that they were avoiding someone.

Edita pointed them out to Bennoli on market day while they were debating the merits of buying another cheese.  He looked where Verdi had been and then looked further afield from there.  A broad smile broke out across his face.  “I think those two have miscalculated,” he told Edita, managing not to laugh.  “They came into town when the harvest was well over, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes,” she agreed, “they did.  What of it?  They beat the winter.”  She and the farmer’s wife selling cheese both took a moment to look at the sell-swords’ antics as they kept dodging around a group of stalls

“They miscalculated.”  Bennoli’s smile was turning into a grin.  “They waited until the harvest taxes had been collected and the tax collectors had moved on but they didn’t realise,” he suppressed a guffaw as Verdi got his feet tangled up in a cat and a sack of root vegetables, “that Chiero has a permanent tax collector, what with its size and the market.”

“I’d have thought,” observed Edita, her paid-tax token safe in the bottom of her purse, “that it would be easier just to pay their taxes rather than have all that carry on.”

Bennoli, equally secure in the possession of his own tax token, replied, “Some people will insist on being clever.”

“If they keep being clever like that,” the farmer’s wife observed as Verdi, the cat now clinging to the top of his head, peered around the corner of a stall to see if the coast was clear, “the Reeve’ll have their penny off them for setting up an entertainment.”

I wrote this from aldersprig's fourth prompt.  If you need/would like context Trailer will explain the situation if not the location.

The fight ended with the armoured warrior and the chiton-clad brunette dragging their kelp clad and haired opponent out of the ocean, up the beach and well away from the water.  Out of her element and reduced to one against two, she surrendered.

"How dare you try to kill my mother!"  The brunette was storming, energy beginning to grow around her.  "You sneaking, devious-"

"Her assassin killed my father!"  The kelp girl was as angry but more controlled.

"My mother wouldn't-"

"She does."  The warrior interrupted.  "She did.  The Shadow Archer has been busy."  He sniffed the deep fug that passed for air on this shore but didn't release his hold on their prisoner.  "We're not where we started.  This isn't our world and it isn't hers either."

"What do you mean?"  The brunette gestured with one hand and an image appeared, about a man's height in length and half that high.  "There's our world, hers still in its path, and we're," the image shifted, "over there."  She looked at her companion in confusion.  "How did we get all the way out here?"

The prisoner was feeling about herself as frantically as she could while restrained, kelp doing things that normally hands would.  After a few minutes she held something up in front of her, a broken round bauble made of glass and seashell.  "You broke it!"  It was a wail.  "This was supposed to take me-."  She broke off and her expression changed.  "Father always said dealing with Xchoriex was risky," her voice was bitter, "she didn't say this one would take me home, she said it would take me where I should be."

"Here?"  The warrior wasn't holding the prisoner with both hands any more.  "We're the only ones here.  Can't you feel it?  There are no gods and no life."

"Everyone's dead?"  The brunette cocked her head as if listening.

"No," the kelp girl rejected that.  "Thanks to your mother I know what it's like to walk in the halls of the dead.  This is an emptiness that's never been filled."

"Except now, we're here," the warrior said slowly, "and we can't get back."

"What sort of world could we make," began the kelp girl wonderingly.

"Without Mother's strictures," added the brunette, dropping her hold on the other girl.

"Without Father's requirements."  The kelp girl straightened.

"Or a Master's hand?"  The warrior finished off.  He dropped the prisoner's arm and strode up the beach to where the sand ended and the rock began.  "I, Enares, take on the mantle of Earth: cradle of life, source of tools and supplier of wonder."  Somehow he seemed solider than he had before.

Kelp girl skipped back into the water and calf deep in the ocean proclaimed, "I, Xorha, claim the mantle of Water: life's structure, source of succour and supplier of destruction."  Her hair was still kelp but now she was wearing a robe of water, coloured in ocean, lake, stream and river tones.

The brunette gave the other two, particularly Enares a dirty look, then extended her arms and said, "I, Hephaete, accede to the mantle of Air: the spark without which life dies, source of growth and supplier of inspiration."  Her colours of her hair and chiton maintained their intensity but changed to sky blue.

"We're still going to argue," Xorha said conversationally, coming to the water's edge.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," replied Hephaete, her hair extending like a massive halo around her.

"So, do I keep the peace or help you make up?"  Enares had walked back down onto the sand.

Both goddesses smiled at him.

"We might let you," allowed Hephaete.

Xorha ended the sentence, "Do both."

They reached the manse a little before noon.  It was built in a nook below the ridgeline, surrounded by trees above and beside it that reached down the slope to border the meadow where several horses and a cow grazed.  Of the buildings there was the manse itself, a barn, what looked like a woodshed and an elevated pigeon loft.  The buildings were surrounded by a low stone wall with a couple of gates in it and inside that boundary Tarrascotti could see chickens and geese going about their business.  It looked every inch a solid farmyard, but as far he could see there was no actual farmland.

They were expected.  It was a warrior priestess of Navira Sharptooth who met them at the gate, an older woman with greying hair and an athletic body.  “You’re late,” she commented, humour in her voice, “two weeks late.”

“We would have been here sooner,” replied Katinka, “but our husband tried to get himself killed by a rabid bear just before we met him.”

“So your message said,” the older woman acknowledged.  She looked Tarrascotti over, “He looks quite well for someone a bear tried to kill.  You three must be good for him.”

“We like to think so.”  Sofia was swinging herself down from her horse, “You must be Silvana.”

“I am,” the older woman opened the gate.  “House Mistress Lucretia and Nella left two weeks ago to go to their new postings, so I’m afraid the house probably isn’t up to your standards.  I admit I plan to show you around and leave almost straight away.  I’m supposed to overwinter at Penoa but the stars have been bright and cold these last few nights – I think winter’s no more than a week off so I need to make the most of these few days.”

She let them into the farm enclosure and led them to the barn, talking the whole time – not from garrulousness but to convey necessary information as efficiently as possible.  She covered stabling, the remounts in the field, the cow and the poultry, animal fodder and the carrier pigeons in the loft.  Tarrascotti noted that his wives seemed to be taking the information in effortlessly.  Apparently they all knew exactly what sort of establishment they’d come to.

Silvana surprised them all by adding onto her comments about pigeon breeding, “That reminds me, Katinka, your old pack sisters sent you a message thanking you for your recommendation and said the arrangement seemed to be working out well for this winter.”

“Recommendation?”  That was Ellabetta but Tarrascotti and Sofia were looking at her curiously too.

“My pack sisters wanted a man to den up with them for the winter,” explained Katinka, “and I suggested Tarrascotti’s friend, Luca, the wolf priest.  He’s smart, thinks as he ought to about what’s important, is good in a crisis, isn’t bad looking and I think he will make strong, healthy babies.  He’s not attached and he needs to overwinter somewhere.”

“That description almost makes me wish I was going to overwinter with your pack sisters,” commented Silvana, “but at Penoa I can see my son and his family.”

“I thought Luca was going over the pass to Belhedi,” commented Tarrascotti.  “He said something about a cave system there being important.”

“No-one can get through the low pass,” commented Silvana, “there’s been a landslide.  The king’s men have been working on it for almost a month but it won’t be open again until next autumn.”

Tarrascotti did some sums in his head.  “Given when he left the village, if he got anywhere near the low pass before he found out it was closed, then he hasn’t had time to get over the high pass.  I don’t know how your pack sisters persuaded him to stay with them, my dear,” he told Katinka, “but if winter is only a week away, they may have saved his life.  The high ranges in winter is no place to be alone on foot.”

“My pack sisters can be very persuasive when they want to be,” Katinka tossed a smile at him, “and the wolf priest isn’t stupid – the time might have been what decided him to accept.”  Her eyes widened as the penny dropped.  “Wolf priest, wolf cubs” and she giggled.  “There were a lot of wolf cubs in my dream.”

I wrote this from ysabetwordsmith's sixth prompt

She was standing in a field of short flowers and grass.  The flowers grew on mounded plants that barely passed her ankle, golden-centred ruffles of white and red combined.  Bees flew from flower to flower in a pattern that seemed to go with a tune she could hear in the back of her ear.  Sometimes the flower stalks moved to the bee so as to keep the rhythm.  The bees were important, but she didn’t remember why.

“You haven’t forgotten why bees are important,” said a whisper through the music, “you haven’t been told that yet.”

Wolf cubs, all of an age but not the one litter, rolled across the grass in a mock fight and tug-of-war.  A breeze raced across their small bodies, ruffling their fur as if someone were tickling them, and then twisted itself around her head with a laugh that she half recognized before racing off across the field to-

Katinka woke with a start.  It was still night, mid watch, but she was wide awake now in the aftermath of a god dream.  Some priestesses had them often.  Not Katinka.  From what she remembered of the few she’d had, this one had been unusually light hearted.

Tarrascotti had the watch and she was vaguely disappointed to find Sofia, her Keviran co-wife, awake and sitting beside him.  His third wife, Ellabetta, was still asleep in her bedroll.  If she envied the other two anything, it was their ability to sit with their husband and immediately feel domestic.  She hadn’t the knack of it herself and he always seemed more reserved with her, as if he were afraid she might bite.

She could, of course.  Sharptooth’s warrior priestesses would use teeth to rend flesh if combat were needed and they had no other weapons.

“Can’t sleep?”  Sofia smiled at her from the other side of the fire.

“Or did something wake you?”  Their drui husband respected her wildcraft skills, his own were good enough to make her wonder how often the old man had lived rough, and now he was scanning their surrounds and testing the warding he’d put round their camp.

“I had a dream,” she confessed, “that’s all.  A happy dream.  With bees, flowers, wolf cubs and one of Sharptooth’s dream forms.”

“Bees,” said Sofia, leaning forward in interest, “are one of Kevira’s dream forms.  If they’re feeding from flowers that’s a sign she’s pleased.  Wolf cubs don’t mean anything I know of.  Have you done something the rest of us should know about?”

“I don’t think so.”

This is written to ysabetwordsmith's first prompt.  It follows on from Unexpected Rewards.

Tarascotti’s wives were taking him to a Trideian manse for the winter.  They were travelling by horseback which he found an agreeable luxury, he could rarely afford a horse’s upkeep and would rather keep the coin aside for the lean times anyway.  Priestesses, it seemed, had more resources than wandering drui for hire.  Katinka was leading the way several horse lengths ahead on a brown mare, while Ellabetta was bringing up the rear on a much heavier black gelding.  Sofia rode companionably beside him on a sorrel mare while he was astride a darker chestnut gelding.

He was still getting used to being married.  The whole idea of three wives and his presence at the wedding not being necessary still seemed extremely strange to him, but they had certainly nursed him back to health after his near fatal encounter with the bear.  Ellabetta had replaced almost all his clothes, the bear having destroyed nearly everything, and he was rather pleased with her efforts.  As for spousal relations, well, none of the girls were shy and they didn’t seem to get jealous of each other but Tarrascotti wasn’t used to sustained, interested female company.

They were coming out of the woods into the farmland around the river, the fume from the waterfall just visible at the bottom of the cliff, when Katinka held up her hand signalling a stop.  When she rode back to them, Ellabetta having come up from behind, they could see she was worried.

“Willow song,” she spat out in her delightful accent, “and we came this way to avoid Grandfather Willow in the valley above the falls.  It doesn’t look like somewhere under a blackheart’s influence, but it’s definitely willow song.”

“Let me see if I can hear what it’s saying,” Tarrascotti offered, climbing down from his horse and walking forward to the edge of the trees.  The dip of the river valley lay before him, mainly farmland with the river marked by autumn yellow willow trees.  He cast his spell on himself, then listened to the web of wind, root and leaf and finally began to speak what he could hear.  “Milking cows stay in your fields and eat your grass; farmer cut here and here for your fence wood and some will grow into a tree in place; basket weaver, take you branches from here and let the light into the tree; wise woman, these are the best trees for the bark you need put aside for winter; and sweet, brown-skinned boys fishing for your dinner, don’t let the old pike pull you in!”

“It’s a whiteheart,” Katinka took a deep breath in, “I’ve never seen one before.”

This story comes after a sequence of stories that I wrote in the 30 days of flash fiction about a goblet being exchanged for a princess.  This occurs to one of the goblet couriers some time later.

Tarrascotti woke up, which was surprising given how much of his last memory was made up of rabid bear.  He felt sore all over, which was probably not surprising given how much of his last memory was made up of rabid bear.  He was in a bed, which was a good sign, and he wasn’t chained down, which was an even better sign.

The ceiling had been whitewashed.  The room was day lit.  He turned his head to the left and saw a window with tied-back curtains.  He turned his head the other way and saw a woman dressed in black who was sitting in a chair and sewing something white.

“You’re awake,” she sounded pleased and put aside her sewing.  “Would you like a drink of water?”

“Yes, please,” he agreed, realising that he was thirsty.  “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Oh yes.”  She had stood and walked to his bedside to pour a cup of water from a jug on the bedside table.  She was thirtyish, muscular, with brown hair in a bun and her black clothes were revealed as a three-quarter length, sleeveless jerkin split for riding over shirt, trousers and boots.  Wear on the jerkin above her hips showed where a sword belt sat.  “It seems you don’t get to leave us so easily.”

He raised himself to drink and she supported him with a firm, capable hand while the other held the cup for him.  When he’d finished drinking he said, “You’re a warrior-priestess of the Silent Bride.”

“Yes.”  She smiled.  “I’m glad to see that being crushed by a bear hasn’t addled your wits.  My name’s Ellabetta.  Now you need to rest quietly while I go get the others.”  She put the cup down, helped him to ease himself comfortably flat again and strode out the doorway.

Her youth, less than half his age, and her vigour made him feel very old.  Sitting up had been an effort.  Clothes would be nice but he couldn’t see any.  He didn’t want to deal with priestesses while naked and in bed.

Ellabetta wasn’t gone long enough for him think he might be able to get out of bed on his own.  She returned in only a few minutes, one of a triumvirate of Trideian priestesses.  The blonde in the Sharptooth’s green with archery guards sat on the end of the bed.  Ellabetta resumed her chair and took up her sewing again.  The redhead in Keviran brown with a smudge of flour on one cheek marched over to the bedside, picked up his wrist and took his pulse before leaning over to test his temperature with her cheek.

“No trace of fever anymore,” the Keviran priestess said cheerfully, “So now we just have to build up your strength again.”

“How long have I been out for?”  Tarrascotti sounded the way he felt, weak as a kitten.  “What happened with the bear?”  That seemed a safe way to put it.

“It fell on you, of course.”  That was the blonde, smoky-voiced and accented, on the end of his bed.  “Fortunately, you weren’t bitten, just clawed and crushed.  You would have died before we got here if that wolf-priest, Luca, hadn’t gotten the bear off you as quickly as he did.  We must have missed the action by what, a quarter of an hour?”  Her look appealed to the other two for confirmation.

“That seems about right,” agreed the Keviran.  “You got infections in some of the scratches from its claws, but you weren’t bitten so you didn’t get rabies.  You were unconscious longer than I would have expected with us looking after you though.”

“I remember trying to blast it with everything I had left, after it spun me around by the backpack,” Tarrascotti said slowly, “after all, if you’re about to be killed by a bear then having enough energy left to keep your heart beating isn’t an issue.”

“That would explain why it didn’t have a head left above the lower jaw,” commented Ellabetta as she clipped off her thread.

“I’m surprised I’m still alive,” Tarrascotti went on wonderingly, “and I don’t understand why you three ladies are looking after me.”  There’ll be a catch somewhere, he thought to himself, and I’m too tired and sore to figure it out before they tell me.

“Ellabetta’s already introduced herself,” the Keviran told him, smiling...fondly at him, “I’m Sofia and this,” she gestured at the blonde, “Is Katinka.  We’re your wives.”

That got him up, well half sitting, and damn the bedcovers.  “I think I’d remember being married!”  Three wives, all young enough to be his daughters!  No-one had three wives, it was riduc-

“I’m sure you would,” said Sofia calmly, “if you’d been at the ceremony.”

“The High Priestesses decided that you deserved an additional reward for your care of the Chasrubdel,” Katinka put in from the end of the bed, “Continuation of your bloodline and someone to take care of you.  I must say,” she added with some asperity, “that if you’re going to make a habit of rescuing remote villages from rabid bears then you’ll need to let us get into overwatch positions first!”

Edita was standing watch in the small hours while Doc Tarascotti and Bennoli slept when she heard a gun cock in the darkness beyond the firelight.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” it was a hard woman’s voice, “I’m coming in so we can talk.” The speaker came out of the night, rifle at the ready and a six shooter on her thigh. The long, silver-blonde braids marked her as one of the surviving Frost sisters, a daughter of Old Man Winter who died beside Barleyman in the range war of half a generation before.  “Give me the cup and I’ll be on my way,” she said. “No harm, no foul except I get the reward from Donna Kevira and her sisters, not you.”

“Problem with that,” Doc was awake but the old man wasn’t stupid enough to spook someone with a cocked gun by moving unexpectedly, “Federigo Rex has already half paid us to swap the cup to get his daughter back from the three ladies. Take the cup, you screw us and him. How long do you think you’d last with Rex mad at you?”

“Fair point,” Frost conceded, “But I still have to make money on this trip.” She smiled coolly. “I suppose one reward’s as good as another. So, you still have the ring that Giovanni fella gave you, Noniello?” When Edita didn’t reply at once she went on, “You do remember him don’t you? The one who threw you over for that little Eastern heiress his momma found for him?”

“And if I do?” Edita didn’t move a muscle, not even to change expression.

“His momma’s put it round that you stole that ring and offered a reward. You give me the ring, I hand it in for the reward and you don’t have to deal with the bounty hunters.”

“Sounds fair,” allowed Edita.

“You toss it over,” the other woman made a brief gesture at her feet, “Then I’ll be on my way and let you nice people get back to your sleep.”

“Edita, you sure you want to do that?” That was Bennoli, dishevelled from sleep, his dark blue cavalry jacket half open.

“Better than letting Momma Illesconi have me hunted down.” Edita pulled a chain with a ring on it over her head from under her shirt and threw it to the other woman.

Frost scooped it up one hand, keeping her eyes and rifle on the three of them as she did so. “Pleasure doing business with you all. Now,” she warned, “Don’t you go ruining things by trying to follow me. Honey,” she said to Edita, “Stop breakin’ your heart over him, you can do better than that Giovanni and his momma.”  She backed into the night, and was gone.

“That was interesting,” said Doc, resettling himself for the rest of the night. “See you in the morning.”

“I’m awake now,” rumbled Bennoli, climbing out of his bedroll, “Mind if I sit with you for a bit?”

They didn’t travel far to deliver Princess Christobella to her father. King Federigo was encamped, by arrangement, less than half a day’s walk from the exchange site. Despite patrols their group was not challenged until they reached the camp’s perimeter. There they were stopped by a knight in armour.

The afternoon sun shone on his polished, fluted, pretty, metal court dress. His head was bare and he looked vaguely familiar to Tarrascotti and Edita. Bennoli’s face blanked to an emotional neutral. The princess’ glance at the knight contained recognition and consideration.

“Your Highness,” the man bowed easily and gracefully despite the armour, “Allow me to escort you to His Majesty. These gentles are no doubt eager to see the Chancellor’s clerk and collect the rest of their payment.”

“Sir Piero,” the princess had a kind of tired grace, “You may escort my party and I to my father.”

“Your Highness cannot wish to spend anymore time than you must in the company of such a person nor to introduce him to His Majesty.” The knight was obviously labouring under a strong emotion and somehow it was clear he was talking about-

“We’re half-brothers,” Bennoli said. “He’s legitimate. It’s - untidy.”

“I cannot, in good conscience,” insisted Sir Piero, “Bring him into the king’s presence. It is not to be thought of.”

“Then stay here.” If the princess had any more energy she would have snapped. “I will take them to my father and he will order their reward.” Her glare killed his response stillborn.

Then Bennoli asked quietly, looking directly at his brother, “Is your mother there?”

Sir Piero nodded.

Bennoli pulled his hood up and over his head to overshadow his face. “She won’t know who I am.” He added to the others, “She doesn’t deserve our father’s mess.”