The Puppethead War #11: Concerned Visitors

< < Issue 10

Issue 12 > > 

Today's issue begins with a recap in the form of a letter written by the Honch shortly after the original first encounter:

Sincerest others,

I am writing to inform you that a series of disturbing events have occurred in my home village, Yerz.  A hostile force known to us as "the puppetheads" recently attempted to infiltrate our society from their home deep under the lake.  The puppetheads can swap their own minds with those of any human they touch, making them very difficult to detect.  Ferran, a friend of mine who was subject to this mind swapping process, would have been trapped were it not for yours truly and a pair of young troublemakers called Talon and Daiv.

I intend on travelling with Ferran and Talon to the capital, to inform the Overarchy of the dangers that these puppetheads pose.  However, I cannot be sure that anyone else is trustworthy.  Therefore, I also invoke the right granted me to call a meeting of all available Keepers.  As you are aware, the first sign of the Quandomen's return is when a man is not himself.

We will leave with a pair of traders, Ogard and Leyh, later this week, and hopefully arrive in Carpol late on Saturday.  Until then, stay vigilant.

Keeper in Yerz.

***

SATURDAY

‘But I am the Honch!’

‘I’m sorry sir, but only a Lord, Lady or their representative is allowed to speak before the Overarchy.’

‘Well I’m sorry that you weren’t handing out peerages when we seceded!  This is an urgent matter that I can only present to -’

‘Then I suggest that you bring it to the attention of a Lord, Lady or their representative.’

‘You aren’t listening!  All the Lords and Ladies are in there!’

Verden pointed behind the receptionist at the great doors.  He’d kicked up a fuss shortly after the group arrived at the dome and for the past few minutes Talon, his teacher and Leyh had quietly edged away.  The wide circular corridor that surrounded the main meeting hall was a sort of national museum; by the time tourists and other visitors were staring at the Honch, the others were metres away pretending to be interested by a suit of armour.

‘This is impossible!’ Verden yelled, throwing his arms in the air.  At that moment, the central chamber doors swung in and a hundred high-class citizens came thundering across the room.  In a fit of impatience, the man stood in the path of the throng and waved a hand.

‘Hello there, does anybody have -’

Talon winced as he witnessed what could only be described as a stampede.  Various coloured cloaks and fancy hats surrounded the Honch until he was no longer visible, as Lord or Lady tried to reach the dome’s outer exit before other business caught up with them.  After the wave of people had passed, a significantly grubbier Verden collapsed to the ground, hand still stretched out.  He made squeeking noises.

Talon walked up to the land-owner and offered his own hand to help.  The Honch appeared not to notice and continued to lie on the floor.

‘Is he going to be okay?’ the youth asked.

Ferran folded his arms and cocked his head sideways.  ‘He’s physically fine.  But I doubt that being ignored like that was good for his ego.’

Leyh had turned away, glancing about at the other visitors.  She narrowed her eyes and watched suspiciously as two of the museum-goers approached.  One was a young girl who couldn’t have been more than a head below the trader, while the other was a very tall and striking southerner, with dark skin and dancing pale hair.

‘I hope your friend is alright,’ she ventured, trying to avoid the trader’s glare, instead looking at Ferran.  The Honch got up and mimicked the teacher from earlier by brushing down his light brown coat nonchalantly.

‘I’m fine.  Thank you.’  He took two deep strides towards the strangers and held out his right hand.  ‘I am Verden, current Honch of the village Yerz.  Who may I ask has the honour?’

Leyh saw that the girl shrunk back, her eyes becoming wide plates as Verden introduced himself.  Concerned, she thought, perhaps because of the Honch’s self-important attitude.

‘Pleasure.  I’m  Nairé,’ the southerner said.  With reserved grace, she took the hand.  ‘Irena thought we might be of assistance to you.  You need to speak to the Overarchy about your village?’

‘Yes,’ Leyh said.  The twang in her voice had returned and she raised an eyebrow.  ‘What exactly was so urgent?’

Verden ignored her and concentrated on shaking hands.

‘We would prefer to discuss it with the Overarchy or not at all,’ he said.

Ferran chimed in.  ‘Could be a matter of national security.’

The trader shrugged.  ‘And here I thought that tensions had mostly subsided.  I’m Leyh, by the way.  Been all over this country.’

Talon did a double take.  Did Leyh think that the threat of invasion was from the north?

‘I am not certain I understand,’ Nairé said, looking down at hers and the Honch’s hands.  ‘But if you want to bring something to the Overarchy’s attention you need to have a Lord on your side.  I happen to be employed by Lord de Postrem, who is currently represented by Captain Rudimar Gelba.’

‘Postrem?’ Ferran said.

 Nairé looked puzzled.  ‘Please stop shaking my hand.’ She withdrew and looked to the teacher.  ‘Shall I inform the Captain of your arrival?’

Ferran stepped forward and bowed.

‘We would be in your debt.  How will we know if the Captain has accepted our audience?’

‘I can have someone send word to your lodgings.  The house is at Five, Dean Avenue.’

‘The Hanged Bat,’ Leyh said instantly.  ‘We’ll return there about four.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Nairé said.  ‘Come on.’  She nodded to the group and dragged the girl, Irena, out the entrance way to follow the road back over the bay.

‘Curious,’ Ferran said.

‘What?’

‘Nothing important,’ Ferran shrugged.  ‘I’d just heard that -’

Verden had started towards the door, readjusting his big hat.

‘Hey, where are you going?’ Leyh said.  ‘I was going to show you the city.’

‘Been here before,’ the Honch said without looking back.  ‘You three have fun though, I’ll meet you back at the hotel.’

Talon rolled his eyes and turned to the fisherman, resigned to the continued presence of the trader.

‘There are a few things that you ought to know.’

***

Another Keeper strode into the Mucatedra.  That was all that bystanders knew or could know, as every single one that entered the large, pillared place had his identity veil drawn down.  Once inside, this Keeper veered away from the main hall and knocked on the door to the right.  After a small window slid back, he muttered something and the door was opened.

On the other side, Verden removed the veil.  There were three others of his sect in the private parlour, one drinking a cup of tea in a soft lounge chair and the other two pouring over a map spread on the parlour's big desk.

'Sincerest others,' the Honch said.  

One of the map-readers looked up and had to rub his eyes in surprise.

'Verden?  You're here already?'

'Sure,' the Keeper in Yerz replied.  'Most Sincere Nabbat, I was able to ride here from Bing-Milton in order to arrive early.'

The Most Sincere walked towards the Keeper in Yerz, shaking his head.  The corners of his lips turned up.

'Good to have you here,' Nabbat said.  'And your friends stayed with the traders?'

'No, Most Sincere,' Verden said.  'They rode with me, along with Leyh, who is giving them the guided tour.'

Nabbat Sing was a scrawny man, older than Verden but still razor sharp.  He appeared slightly crestfallen.

'So it's straight to business then,' he said.  'Not all of the Keepers in Ryndia have arrived yet, but we have a minor voting party between us.'

Verden motioned to the lounges.  'Can we sit?'

The Most Sincere nodded.

'A minor voting party will be enough,' said the Honch, easing into the comfortable chair.  'We just need a plan in case these puppetheads decide to take over the world or something.'  For now, Verden was unusually calm.  He knew the gravity of current events but being with his own fellows made him less concerned.

'And what about the fisherman, Ferran?' Nabbat asked.

'What about him?' Verden said.  'He can't remember very much.'

'Nevertheless, he has been associated with dangerous creature.  And how do you know that it's really your friend and not the puppethead?'

'I went through this last week,' said the Keeper in Yerz.  'As far as we know, puppetheads cannot extract information or memories from their victims involuntarily.  That's the only way we can tell.'

The Most Sincere looked away.  'Hmm.  I guess all that's left now is -'

'The brothers,' Verden said.  'If the Quandomen are coming back, we need to find our allies, and I don't think we will make it before the Overarchy until Monday.'

'Keeper in Yerz,' said the Most Sincere, 'It would behove you to bring your other countrymen here tomorrow.  We must all band together to defeat this.'

'Whatever you say.'

The Puppethead War #10: With Haste

< < Issue 9

Issue 11 > > 

By midday, the storm had reached more than a few miles inland.  Talon, the Honch, Leyh and Ferran took shelter on the leeward side of a grassy rise and waited.  Meanwhile to the north and west Ogard drove the hardy carriage with newly leased horses.

Though the trader was silent as always, his head filled with a jolly folk tune that he had learned to play long ago.  A man with lesser restraint may have started mouthing the ancient words to it, or humming to himself.  Ogard instead saved enough concentration for the landscape over which he travelled - this was why he urged the horses to speed up when the road passed into a grove thick with trees.

Rustling on either side put the trader ill at ease, his concern proved cogent as the grove began to thin.  A billowing shape darted between two bushes in the middle distance.  Ogard didn’t turn his head but scanned his field of view for any more hints.

These were probably Dirty Fighters, he thought, though hoping he was wrong.  Little was known about them other than their penchant for rippling clothes and quiet, surgical strikes.  Ogard knew there was next to nothing in the back that Dirty Fighters should care for; nonetheless he loosened the reigns and grabbed hold of his balalyre.  If the horses were worth their price they’d know what to do next.

A series of thumps behind the driver’s seat.  The trader gazed back along the left hand side in time to see one of the Dirty Fighters wrench the door open.

So, they were after something in the passenger cabin.  At least something that had been there.

Another noise close at hand.  Ogard turned around and was face to face with one of the attackers.  Iron knuckles glinted in the sunlight.  Scenery rolled on as the carriage rumbled through the countryside.  There was a disapproving growl from the man in the front cabin and a flock of birds squawked overhead.

‘Where are they, trader?’

Ogard said nothing, but he had the heavy end of the balalyre pointing at the man before he could even raise a fist.

***

The highway spiraled down to the outer reaches of the city, tending away from the rise of the eastern quarter until the land was more or less at sea level - not the incoming view that Talon had always imagined.  From this angle, the nearest buildings obstructed sight of the Overarchy dome and the taller, pillared Mucatedra of the Kept Sect.

This changed when the road banked left and took the travellers to a shiny and cobbled bridge.  At their end, hovels clumped together and a sharp incline bordered the valley.  On the eastern side of the river larger and more ornate buildings stretched as far as one could see.

Broken up by various snaking creeks, huge mansion-estates loomed over Carpol on the hills.  Closer and on the other side of the bridge, the road opened onto a bustling square.  Here the uptown scenery reminded Talon of Arten’s main street, only on a much grander scale.  As they crossed the river, he saw how the bay fanned out like a funnel, pouring the world’s tall ships and commerce into South Ryndia.  Another even shinier bridge extended over the bay in an arch from the docks to the rich seaside district.  There, finally, was the dome where lords and ladies from all over the country sat in Overarchy.  Also on the western bank was the pillared box shape of the Mucatedra, with a smaller pillared building nearby.  A high wall had been raised between it and the house of the Keepers.  The youth couldn’t resist a glance at the Honch as the horses were led into the plaza.

Hooves splashed in puddles left by the recent heavy rain and Leyh stopped hers and Talon’s ride in the shade of a wooden hotel.  As the Houch brought his own horse to a halt, the teacher behind him dismounted clumsily.  Ferran stared at the others, brushing trail dust from his green vest.

‘Not quite the same as a good old montiger.’

Leyh granted him a smirk and leapt to the ground.  She turned to help Talon climb down but the youth hesitated when he looked her in the eye.  There was that hint of shrewdness beyond her years, though the accompanying grin was absent.  Maybe, he thought, it would only come out at night around fizzy drinks.

The trader waved an outstretched hand.

‘Hello?  Hello Talon?’

‘Oh,’ he said.  ‘Right.’

He climbed down and saw the Honch beginning to unload their packs from the horses.  The first thing was the tall, pompous hat, which Talon had began to see in a new light.  His sect were want to wear masks when reading from histories or ministering.  Hidden identities protected Keepers in case of dangerous radicals.  For the same reason, Talon had withheld from the others the facts Verden had spoken while on the carriage.  When they had shaken Leyh, Talon would speak to his teacher about the Honch’s theories.

Verden might have noticed Talon’s continued study of the headgear and tossed him a bag.

‘We’ve got some business to attend to over the river,’ he said with as little interest as he could muster.  He focused on the trader.  ‘Thank you for your assistance.’

The young woman passed the reins of both horses into her left hand and rested the right on her hip.

‘You don’t think I’m just going to hang here,’ she said with a twang.  ‘You three paid to get here late this afternoon.  I intend on delivering that extra value.’

The trader winked at Talon again, somehow unnerving him beyond the sly face.

‘The least I can do is show you around the city.  Help you get to where you need to go.’

‘But, the coach...’ Talon began.

‘Still on his way.  Come on, I’ll take you to the bridge and you can explain this invasion to me.’

Verden’s defeat radiated in all directions.  ‘I told you I was joking.’

‘I thought you said that Talon was playing a game?’

The Honch tried and couldn't put a complete sentence together.

‘But you... and the fri- but I...’

Ferran rested one arm on the man’s shoulder and stroked his own ragged beard with the other.

‘The girl isn’t an idiot,’ he began.  ‘We owe her an explanation for all this.’

‘That doesn’t even make sense!’ the Honch said, but he realised that the teacher wasn’t joking either.

‘We should put our bags down and get to the dome.  Leyh can come with us if she wants to know but we have to make it quick.’

The Puppethead War #9: Up in the World (Part 2)

< < Issue 8

Issue 10 > >

A shorter post this week to finish Up in the World.


SATURDAY

Irena bid a reluctant farewell to her parents as they climbed into Osrum de Postrem’s extravagant coach.  Nairé, with whom Irena had stayed since early that morning, stood beside her, waving a dark-skinned hand out from under the umbrella.  

The rain eased off as the horses pulled away, leaving the noble daughter, her appointed custodian and old Captain Gelba the only ones in the courtyard.

‘I say it’s too chilly out here,’ the man said, though his modestly overweight frame made it difficult to believe.  ‘Care for tea, girls?’

The three of them wandered back to the house.  In the entrance hall the Captain waved to a servant before swerving towards the parlour.  Nairé left her umbrella by a marble pillar to help Irena remove her galoshes, looking out across the drive and the near gates.  Outside the grounds, commoners would be waking up soon.  The southerner could understand if Irena felt isolated.  The lives of the newly rich seemed so sparse and unreal compared to the rest of Carpol’s bustling metropolis.

‘Perhaps we should visit the gardens today,’ she said.  She patted her ward on the back. ‘I’m sorry that you weren’t invited.’

The rain redoubled its strength as if to put a kibosh on Nairé’s hopes and the girl gave a terse grin.

‘It’s okay.’

The southerner watched over Irena’s shoulder as the gates were drawn back again.  A lanky figure carrying a lantern rushed up the drive.  He arrived at the doors of the house dripping wet and the servant from before materialised nearby to help him out of his coat.

‘I would like to speak with Captain Gelba as soon as possible,’ he said, patting the rain out of his hair.  The man was dressed in a tight undercoat and smart pants and holding a folder in his off hand.  The servant, a man whom neither of the girls had learnt the name of yet, was much older and wore black and white.  He had an exasperated air about him, quite rightly too as he had probably seen more people at the house in the last twenty-four hours than in his entire life until that point.

The servant took the visitor’s lantern.  ‘Right this way.’

Irena, who had been silent throughout the proceedings, gave Nairé the kind of inquisitive, apprehensive glance that only children of her age could produce before stepping sideways to watch where the visitor was headed.  She followed the two men into the parlour with Nairé tagging along.  Somebody stood up and the Captain’s voice rang through the entrance hall.

‘Alright there, young miss?  I’m sure Wulmer would be happy to take some sweets upstairs.’

Nairé entered the room to see Captain Gelba guiding the visitor through another door.

‘Business as usual,’ the Captain said, winking to the southerner.  ‘If you could take Irena -’

The door slammed and the servant Wulmer shrugged.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said.  ‘Lady, Miss de Postrem...’

He took a plate of breakfast items from the coffee table and left them alone.

‘Irena, I think that the Captain would prefer if we weren’t here.’

The girl put her finger to her lips and smiled.

‘Irena -’ Nairé began softly, but trailed away.  The girl tiptoed to the wall that joined the dining room with theirs.  Nairé’s frantic body movements trying to get her attention went on unnoticed as Irena pressed an ear to the wall.

‘I don’t understand,’ the Captain said, voice low and muffled.  ‘There should have been some indication.  You can’t be telling me that the whole expedition was for nothing.’

‘Well, Captain, there was the mountain of treasure...’

The Captain briefly raised his voice.  ‘I don’t care about treasure.  We need to secure the other caches.’

‘With respect Captain, we should speak more softly.  Besides, there’s always the one in Ceeyn.’

‘That infernal forest?  You and I both know it’s a bust.  If my granddaughter had shown any signs, maybe we could have tried it, but as far as I can tell Irena’s just a regular girl.  Besides, we should talk about this somewhere else.’

Captain Gelba, grandfather?  There was little time to digest the fact as the sound of a chair moving raised her heartbeat.  She motioned to Nairé, mouthing ‘Go, go!’  The southerner pointed upstairs and walked away.

‘One last thing, Captain,’ the visitor said.  ‘Just rumours and the like, but Keepers have been arriving in Carpol since last week, apparently for a meeting called by the Keeper in Yerz.’

There was a long pause.

‘It’s not of our concern,’ said the Captain.

'Yes,’ the visitor sighed.  ‘Probably nothing.’

The dining room doors opened and Captain Gelba showed the visitor out of the house.  In a corner of the parlour, Irena emerged from behind a large couch and hastily joined Nairé upstairs.  The girl’s custodian was already planning for their day together as Irena planned to sneak into Gelba’s study that night.

Ongoing Adventures #2: The Plan

One day ago, Nuff and Renda had presented their dangerous scheme to the rest of the travellers.

‘Thing is,’ the mercenary said, ‘the gnome’s right.’

Nuff folded his arms and nodded smugly.  Dastardly-Fred was drooling in his drug-induced torpor.

Renda continued.  ‘We have to find out if Krotar followed us from the plains.  I say we use this fake Dastardly to set a trap.’

Sir Adrian held up his hands.  ‘I don’t know about this.  If this man is part of the freelancer, his face, shouldn’t we keep him safe until we locate the other remnant?’

Nuff tramped into the middle of the circle.  Standing up, his pointy hat reached only a little taller than the knight who sat next to him.

‘The way I see it, we do know where we can find the freelancer’s mind.  We just need to get there.  This twisted mistake of a man,’ he indicated Dastardly-Fred, ‘is not the freelancer.  This man’s mind is a confused wreck and of no consequence to us.’

Waory, who had been staring at the ground until now, turned to Nuff.

‘You’re suggesting he’s expendable because he’s not who we want?’

‘What we’re saying,’ said Renda, ‘is that there’s no reason we can’t leave the fake Dastardly with some kindly farmer and his wife and watch for a few days.  If only to be positively sure that Nius and Krotar won’t bother us on the way to the Liquid Library.’

‘That's one heck of a mouthful,’ the knight snarked.

***

Today they were at the nominated house.  Waory and Adrian staked out on a knoll above the back paddock, watching the mercenary and gnome as they dragged the invalid to the front door.

They left Adrian’s note on Dastardly-Fred’s lap.  The man’s mouth moved ever so slightly, and even from this far away the knight was sure of what he was saying.

‘I’m Dastardly... of course I am...’

Below them, Renda and Nuff would be finding hiding places for their horses.  While they waited, Adrian brandished the circular footing on which was mounted a shard of glass.

‘And you’re certain that using it to watch them won’t make me as mad as the old Land-Regent?’ he asked the government advisor.  Waory carefully grabbed the device, trying not to get his fingers cut.

‘If you are so concerned, let me watch first,’ he said, though he saw the knight’s expression harden.  ‘What, you think I am the kind of person to harbour megalomaniacal tendencies?’

Adrian spoke his mind, regretting it immediately.  ‘You are a public servant.’

Waory shrugged and flicked the shard, which rang like a muted bell.  ‘Well played.’

***

Erk, the Death of Trolls led the newly christened Stroeg through a maze of dank tunnels.  Here and there, the freelancer caught glimpses of other trolls, though they were often hard to distinguish from the dirt around them.  What exactly did a troll do?

‘I’m what ya call an aspect, friendly soul,’ the Death of Trolls said.  ‘My job is to work with the jotunn tribes.  Unfortunately that means I have no idea what your Death told you in the Dark.’

Stroeg used one arm to stroke his awful face.  ‘I thought I was dead.’

‘Yes,’ Erk replied, turning into a larger cavern, ‘but only mostly.  You’re alive now, anyways.’

The freelancer racked his new brains, trying to remember what Death had told him.

‘I think I’m supposed to... reunite?  Does that mean anything to you?’

Erk stopped and turned to face the room in front of them.  On the other side of the space a great curtain, taller than any of the trolls, covered something on the wall.  The thought occurred to Stroeg that he had little idea of the size of a jotunn, so he couldn’t easily guess the height of anything.

The Death of Trolls shouted a word that the freelancer didn’t understand and the curtain began to rise.

‘We’re in a bit of a pickle right now, friendly soul,’ said Erk.  ‘The jotunn live for a long time, but eventually we do die.’

The freelancer huffed.  ‘Good, otherwise you’d be out of a job.’

Erk squinted and lifted one leathery lip to show off a set of jagged teeth.  Troll body language, Stroeg thought, I think I get that one.

The Death of Trolls continued.  ‘We’re a self-serving and sometimes barbaric race.  Our tribe in these parts has been trying to pull the jotunn into the modern world, but we lost contact with the other tribes around the time of your World Congress.’

‘You didn’t miss much over there,’ Stroeg mumbled.  ‘Suffice it to say there won’t be another one.’

‘Regardless,’ Erk said, ‘we think that magic is slipping away.  Most lines of communication have been lost, families spread out across the underworld or the surface, machines breaking down...’

‘Might you get to the point of all this?’

The curtain had arisen, revealing a large panel, beautifully gilded and covered by shards of glass.  It almost made a cracked mirror except for two missing pieces.

‘We’ve decided to operate the Mirror d’Aseere to locate our missing brothers, but in its fractured state we cannot risk it.’

‘Wait just a second,’ said the freelancer.  ‘I’ve seen a piece of this mirror.  You really don’t want to be using it at all.’

‘Only while it is riven will the mirror eventually cause insanity,’ said Erk.  ‘It will be up to you to find the remaining shards.’

‘Well I know where one of them is...’

‘Yes, with your friends,’ Erk said flatly.  ‘They are not the issue.  The other shard is in the Great Western City, where it would be hard for trolls to go unnoticed.’

‘You mean -’ the freelancer begun.

‘You won’t be here much longer.  Just remember that the spell runs out after three days.’

Before Stroeg could reply, the Death of Trolls punched him square in the snout.

When he awoke, the freelancer was himself again, missing only his Dastardly face.

The Puppethead War #8: Up in the World (Part 1)

< < Issue 7

Issue 9 > >

A change of gear in this week's issue.  There may be some things that don't entirely make sense but any questions can be posted here or on the hub page and I'll try to answer them ;)

Irena woke up not long after three in the morning.  The dreams had been getting worse, leaving her skin clammy despite the cold.  For why or for what was no clearer, but she knew that there was a reason.

Her surroundings were as lavish as she could imagine.  Everything in the house was sumptuous, colourful and rich.  Oh yes, very rich.

She had not known what to make of it when her father's uncle Osrum returned from the southern lands on a boat laden with plunder.  The thought of her family's heritage being restored or the sheer wealth the expedition had attained did not properly enter her mind.

Instead, it was the little things that changed her.  Her parents had spent the day discussing trade routes and politics instead of the entrepreneurial schemes that they were infamous for.  Perhaps most frighteningly, they had agreed to spend the weekend with Osrum in the country.  Some place west of Carpol apparently still recognised the de Postrems as their ruling house.  More likely, an unusually cynical part of Irena thought, there was a county without a lord that responded pleasantly to gold and ancient artefacts.

She'd played nice with the other children at the party, and beamed sweetly to anyone who noticed that she was a noble, but Irena had been born at the bottom of the pyramid and felt that by associating with upper class she denied her own origins.

She had gone to bed early, in this, the most fantastic room she'd ever seen.  There were plenty of cobwebs still to be removed but the bed and toys and wallpaper and everything else was fit for a princess.  Irena had slept on the floor with but one of the voluptuous cushions.

The dark of the morning was broken by lamps lining the corridors of the de Postrem house.  Irena crept along the hall outside her bedroom and past living rooms where party goers lay slumped in chairs or over card tables.

She reached the far end and turned into an airy sun room where pillars and billowing curtains stood in place of walls.  Out on the balcony was a tall figure whose hair and shawl were waving in the sea breeze.

'Irena,' Nairé said in her soft, melodious voice.  'Why are you up so early?'

The girl looked confused.  'Why are you?  I couldn't sleep.'

'The nightmares,' said the woman.  Irena's expression changed to surprise.

'Don't be worried,' the southerner continued.  'Your parents told me.  I too cannot sleep.  My dreams are... well, never mind me.'

Nairé turned to gaze out over the balcony.  Carpol was mostly flat by the docks but the eastern quarter rose slightly where the little “Fingers”, tributaries from all over the lowlands, reached out to the larger river.  The sea was rolling gently under a partially obscured sky and the many city lights shone in twisted patterns, but Irena was more intrigued by the foreigner’s attitude than the view.

‘Please continue,’ she said in a small voice.  A gust of wind joined them on the balcony, then left for the streets below.

Nairé looked at the shivering girl.  She nodded, her shining white hair sticking to her much darker face as she placed the shawl around Irena’s shoulders.

‘In my homeland, they were using children to fight in the border wars.  My brother was taken when he was younger than you, and my parents did nothing.  I ran away.’

The young de Postrem kept quiet and Nairé continued.  She hadn’t been this frank for years.

‘I didn’t know that people from the north had reached our shores,’ she laughed.  ‘Hey, I didn’t know your people existed.  When I came to the monastery, I thought your kind might have been the Chuai.’

‘Sh-sh-shwhat?’

‘Shu-wai,’ Nairé said calmly.  ‘I think your Kept Sect call them by another name, the brothers.’

‘They told the story of the brothers last Sunday.  I'm always confused about the brothers and the Quandomen,’ Irena said.  Her eyelids were drooping, but she wanted to keep talking.  Nairé was here to play the babysitter, so why shouldn’t they develop a rapport?  ‘One of them was man's friend against the other.  The Keeper reminded us that the tirans don't count because they have no interest in this land.’

Nairé nodded.  ‘And the guernas have their own troubles to deal with.  That I realised when I met Keeper Haasque.  It was our trip to Omarin and the years I spent there that kept me awake this night.’

Irena’s curiosity was captured.  ‘Omarin is the city of thieves!’

Nairé chortled and corrected the child.  'The city of traders.'  The woman's eyes darted away and she shrunk sadly onto the balcony railing.  ‘But I guess you could call some of them thieves.  My people were being sold as slaves.’

‘That’s awful,’ Irena said, more by reflex than by thinking.  ‘What did you do?’

‘Haasque protected me for as long as he could, but eventually his identity was compromised.  Someone found out what he was behind the Keeper’s mask.’

Nairé paused and looked up at the partially obscured stars.  She assumed that Irena thought highly of her countrymen and decided to spare her a further account of cruelty in the Ryndian colonies.  What happened to Haasque preyed on her mind.  The guerna had been her mentor and the only Kept Sect member who had treated her like a being instead of an exotic pet.

Irena on the other hand knew of the old guard colonialists who still lived in South Ryndia or the ports.  Though it was less common nowadays, a guerna or even a human from the south like Nairé could be assaulted simply for sitting at the wrong table.

‘My uncle is a bit like that,’ Irena admitted, having guessed the train of thought.  ‘He isn’t a big fan of Keepers either.  I don’t know about the Captain, but Osrum doesn't treat outsiders very well.’

‘I disagree,’ Nairé said, lifted from her reverie.  ‘Osrum and Captain Gelba brought me here.’  She smiled and grasped Irena around the shoulders.  ‘And they made sure that I met you.  That’s better than anything that happened in the city of thieves.’  She winked.  ‘Let’s get inside.  I think the clouds are brewing up something fierce.’