Recognizing the voice, Emlyn drops her face into her hands and sighs heavily. “I knew I should have gutted that man when I had the chance,” Emlyn growls.
“Who is that?” Benger hisses, amused by her discomfort.
“Jessop’s messenger,” Emlyn whispers, “I found him trying to sneak into my bath to leave me that message from Jessop.”
“And being enough of a pervert to want to watch you bathe,” Benger nods, “Duly noted.”
Thumping down the stairs, he heads for her table and drops the neatly wrapped bar of soap on it.
“Please accept this bar of soap with the humble gratitude of a previously unwashed traveler,” he says with a grin, “and allow me to buy you a drink.”
Signaling the innkeeper, he says, “Please bring my friends a round from my private stash.”
The innkeeper nods and then disappears. Glancing over, she sees that “his mates” all look highly amused and decides to play along.
“Your smell is certainly less offensive now,” Emlyn grins, “so I consider the loan of my soap to be a good bit of public service. Perhaps now, when you go sneaking through an inn and peering in keyholes, it will just be your clumsy footing and not your smell that gives you away.”
“Lovely maiden,” he dramatically grasps her hand, “I would happily limit myself to just peering in your keyhole if you would share your name with me.”
“In that case, I think I shall have to fit my keyhole with my sharpest needles to maintain my modesty,” Emlyn smiles, “but as for my name, you may call me Nia, Nia ferch Hayden ap Rhys. Now, how shall I refer to you?”
“I am Abato Simcock, at your service, fair Nia,” he grins, “Like Duke Arnet’s sons, I find I am quite taken with you. It is not often that I end up thrown bodily into a bath.”
“Had you perhaps smelled better and been better mannered,” Emlyn simpers, “I might not have been moved to such drastic action. As it is, I find it surprising that you haven’t cut yourself shaving since you stumbled so badly when I opened the door to leave. It wasn’t much more than a bit of a shove." She pretends to peer at his face, “In fact, I think I see a black eye forming. You should probably see the innkeeper for something to put on that."
“Couldn’t you just heal it for me?” Abato wheedles.
“I just took my vows the day before yesterday,” Emlyn shrugs, “My brother, Benger, can probably help you with that. Assuming, of course,” Emlyn grins wickedly, “that you don’t end up with a few more injuries.”
“I thought you were one of seven boys,” Abato frowns at Benger, wondering what game the two of them are playing.
“I’m adopted,” Emlyn says brightly, “A recent addition to the family, having lost my own.”
“I’m pleased to have risen to the notice of the duke’s spymaster,” Benger says quietly with a grin, “but you really shouldn’t be chasing after my little sister. She’s much too young and too sheltered for all of that.”
“Little sister,” Abato echoes, puzzled.
“I’m not yet old enough to be courted,” Emlyn says primly and withdraws her hand just as the barkeep bustles over with a tray of whiskey glasses.
“From your private stash, as you directed,” the innkeeper says before bustling off. Turning to look at Emlyn curiously, “If you’re too young to be courted, are you old enough to drink whiskey?” Abato asks her.
“I’m not sure,” Emlyn frowns, “What is whiskey?” Emlyn asks curiously, “It looks like some distillation. I think I know what it is, but I’d like to be sure. We have a word ‘wisgi’ that I think means the same thing... May I?”
Watching her intently, Abato hands her the glass, and she swirls it deftly before scenting it.
“Hmm… Caramel, Apples, and hints of something floral or maybe the tiniest bit grassy. Yes, definitely what we’d call ‘wisgi’. Distilled from some sort of a grain mash, possibly more than once, and left to age probably in.” She pauses and sniffs again, “Port barrels, at a guess. If my cousins were here, they’d be able to tell you better since that was my mother’s family’s business.” Abato continues to watch, transfixed as she takes a tiny sip and rolls it around her mouth, inhaling as she does, before swallowing. “Just a hint of the grass on the aftertaste, but chilling it might get rid of that,” Emlyn pronounces, setting her glass down. “It’s quite good. I commend you on your selection.”
“Be still, my hammering heart,” Abato exclaims, “When will you be old enough to be courted? I may have to come calling.”
“That won’t be for another three or four winters yet,” Emlyn shrugs, “and your attention will have wandered far by then.”
“So young?” Abato says abashed.
“Barely out of pigtails,” Benger confirms for him.
“Then I must most humbly apologize,” Abato says, “I mistook you for being quite a bit older and wanted to flirt with you a bit. You are a most intriguing young lady, and I shall count myself fortunate to watch you become even more intriguing. So, tell me what your mother’s family fermented?”
“Pretty much anything that there was a ready supply of,” Emlyn sighs, “Fruits, grains, some plants, honey when there was extra.”
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“What kind of plants?” Abato asks curiously,
“There were some flowers, some cactus, a couple of kinds of grass, and a few different kinds of roots,” Emlyn says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know your names for them. That’s probably not much help to you.”
“Can we ask your cousins?” Abato asks and catches a warning look from Benger, who mouths, “They’re all dead.”
“All?” Abato mouths back, and Benger nods while Emlyn stares down at her glass and looks sad.
“I wish that I could,” she says slowly.
“Well, never mind that then,” Abato says lightly, “Maybe you can tell me about these bandits instead.”
Without waiting for Emlyn, Benger launches into the tale, starting with Nia wanting to try a little hunting on the trip and deciding at the last minute to bring her quiver and bow. Knowing what the spymaster will want to hear, Benger skips forward to Nia riding up to talk to Jathon after deciding that she didn’t want to face these bandits with just the two of them. He finishes up describing the Goddess chewing her out for not calling for help sooner and racing through the treetops like a mad squirrel.
“All in all,” Benger grins, “Not bad for a first day.”
“Let me see if I got this straight,” Abato says slowly, “The two of you and some random travelers took on that nest of bandits the Duke’s Army has been trying to clean out for a few years now, and you won the fight.”
“I told you to stop by on your way back to Harito and count the graves,” Emlyn says grimly, “I wasn’t joking. Some of the other members of our order are still there, mopping up. I found their boneyard while chasing after their archer. They had a clearing where they’d just been dumping bodies. Apparently, even a shallow grave was too much effort.”
Emlyn pauses for a moment and almost growls, “It made me angry. We kept a few of them so that they can start thinking about who they sold and where they sold them, so we can try to get them back. I know that there’s at least one whole caravan of Tinker-folk. We found crates of temple ornaments from our temple, so likely that whole caravan too. Gods alone know who else. We found a whole cavern full of travelers that they’d captured and were planning to march over the mountains and sell in Zoran Bay.”
“That explains why so many people went missing,” Abato says slowly, “If they were sold off in Zoran Bay, they’d have been carried off all over the place and likely with no way to send word back.”
“Judging by some of the things we found,” Emlyn nods, “Some of the people who disappeared were likely quite well off, if not noble. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out it was being used as a convenient way for people to simply vanish without leaving much of a trace. With no ghost to raise and nothing to resurrect, how would they ever expect to be caught? There’s no murder, just a person whose entire life has been disrupted by being sold into slavery. I think if we can find out who more of them are, we’ll be able to find out what’s behind it and why the Duke’s Army wasn’t able to deal with some forty or so bandits in short order.”
“That’s a hefty accusation you’re making,” Abato says with a warning look.
“Maybe,” Emlyn shrugs, “but doesn’t it strike you as a near-perfect crime? Send your unwanted relative on a little trip down the Duke’s Highway, slip a few coins to the bandits, and voila—no more unwanted relatives. No cleric can resurrect the living. No medium can raise the ghost of someone still alive. No one will know what happened to them, just that they vanished here, where it tarnishes Duke Arnet’s good name. If they didn’t get where they were going, would anyone think to try a locator spell instead? Even if they did, would it be in range to find them if they’d been sold off and shipped far away?”
Abato sits for a moment, mind spinning, and mutters, “By the Gods! I think she’s right.” Looking up at Nia, he grins, “You’ve just given me an interesting puzzle to solve.”
“I’d like to think,” Emlyn says with a slow grin, “That your efforts might help us recover some of them.”
“Then you may consider it an Induction Day present from me,” Abato grins and pulls out a deck of cards. He waggles them at Emlyn, “Care to play?”
“Only if we play for matches or something,” Emlyn shrugs.
“Nothing more interesting,” Abato grins, “Are you sure?”
“You don’t want to do that,” Benger advises the man, “You’ll all be down to your skivvies in no time. She’s brutal.”
“What’s your favorite game?” Abato asks.
“Liar’s poker,” Emlyn laughs, “I grew up playing it.”
“I don’t think I know that one,” Abato shrugs, “How’s it played?”
“Like regular poker with a lot of cheating,” Emlyn grins, “It’s a bit much for most people, and they get angry, but we always had fun with it. That’s why we never played for anything serious. Then no one got angry about losing.”
Emlyn begins to demonstrate, and Abato’s associates wander over, first to watch, then to join in. Sometime later, when there are far more cards in the deck than the deck was ever meant to have, Emlyn yawns largely and calls a halt to the proceedings.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for a lovely time,” Emlyn yawns again, “but I must be off to bed. We’re leaving early, and we’ve got at least half a day of travel to make up.”
“I meant to ask you,” Abato says, “Where do you get your soap?”
Laughing, Emlyn replies, “Go visit Davilla at our temple in Harito. I’m sure she’ll sell you some of your own.”
Emlyn heads up the stairs and turns toward her room to find a young man trying to pick the lock on her room. Rushing him, she slams him bodily into the wall. Downstairs, the men can hear the ruckus. The boy Emlyn has pinned to the wall can feel the steel tip of her stiletto against his ribs and stops struggling.
“Who are you?” Emlyn hisses, “And what in the name of the ninth layer of hell do you think you’re doing trying to get into my room?”
“Abato Simcock,” the boy gasps out.
“Did he send you?” Emlyn’s eyes narrow dangerously.
“No,” the boy wheezes, “That’s my name.”
Rolling her eyes, Emlyn grabs him unceremoniously by the shirt collar and thumps down the stairs, dragging him. She returns to the poker table, drops the boy in a puddle at Abato’s feet. “He says he’s Abato Simcock.”
Emlyn says, gesturing with a stiletto, “If he’s your son, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree since he was rather ineptly trying to pick the lock to my room.”
Looking at Benger, she nods towards their rooms, and Benger goes. Suddenly, Abato’s eyes widen a bit as he feels magic swirl past him.
“State your name,” Emlyn says levelly.
The man replies placidly, “I’m Abato Simcock.”
Toeing the boy, Emlyn adds, “Your turn, junior.”
The boy swallows hard and repeats “Abato Simcock" again, but Emlyn knows instantly that he’s lying.
“Lie.” Without waiting, she says, “Grab him,” and sprints back up the stairs.
She finds Benger busily fending off some men who keep trying to get a black bag over his head. Sheathing the stiletto, she reaches down, never breaking stride, and whips one of the daggers out of her boots. Plowing into them from behind, she grabs one and throws him at Abato and his crew, who have pounded up the stairs behind her. The next one takes a solid punch to the jaw and goes down in a boneless heap. The third is trying to scramble out the window, and Emlyn takes her dagger and plants it through his foot and into the windowsill, nailing his foot in place. The fourth one is still trying to get the bag on Benger’s head when Emlyn pulls him off, knees him in the groin, punches him in the gut, and shoves his head into the bag.
A few swift kicks for good measure, and Emlyn stands there, sides heaving, while one of the would-be kidnappers wails about his foot.
Irritated, Emlyn pulls out her remaining dagger and waggles it at him, “Shut up that caterwauling before I give you something to truly scream about.”
Chuckling, Abato looks at the man, “Best do it, lad. She’s already threatened to geld me this evening. You might just be next.”
Just as he falls quiet, it’s apparent that a cart has started to rumble out of the courtyard. Abato signals two of his men, who peel off to chase down the cart.
A figure begins to materialize, “Oh, good. You got him. Now we can find out where that twit took the bandits so we can get them out of there before they spill all the secrets.”
As soon as the figure is fully materialized, Emlyn cold cocks him.
Emlyn looks at Abato, “Any ideas what this is about?”
“I think,” he says slowly, “that your idea has perhaps far more merit than either you or I first realized.”
“I assumed that the bag would have some kind of a spell on it,” Emlyn nods toward the man on the floor, “or they’d have left off trying to get it over Benger’s head long ago. I shoved this jackass’s head into it instead and waited to see what would happen. I don’t suppose you have somewhere to store these… these….”
“Geniuses,” Abato finishes for her, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Of course, I do,” he replies genially.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out what looks like a stack of squares of paper, pulls one off the top of the stack, licks it, and sticks it to each man’s forehead.The paper starts to glow, and when the glow fades, the man is gone. The only one left is the fellow with his head in a bag.
“I don’t know if this will work,” Abato shrugs, “but he’s likely not a great loss if it doesn’t.”
Licking the small square of paper, he sticks it to the bag and waits.
“You’ll have to tell me later how all this plays out,” Emlyn says, waving a hand to indicate the now-transported men. “I’d like to know how accurate my guesses were.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Abato grins at her, “just come to Duke Arnet’s palace and ask for me. I’ll leave word with the guards.”
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