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 Posted: Fri Oct 05, 2012 7:55 pm
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. Rules of the Road [PRP]
2. The Road to Persea [SOLO]
3. The Year of Lady Octavia: Harbors and the Customs Thereof [SOLO]
4. The Year of Lady Octavia: The Matter of the Visitant [SOLO]
5. Up Came a Magpie [PRP]
6. The Year of Lady Octavia: Follow the Angel [SOLO]
7. The Year of Lady Octavia: The Crossing [SOLO]
8. ¿MISSION STUFF?
9. ???
10. ???
11. ???
12. ???
13. ???
14. ???
15. ???
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Posted: Fri Oct 05, 2012 8:52 pm
  [PRP]
Rules of the Road with Artemis Kalends
In which Reynard Irving meets a curious fellow in the early days of his journey, and learns how not to perish of starvation in the unforgiving wilds of Imisus.
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Posted: Fri Oct 05, 2012 9:08 pm
The Road to Persea
or
Out of My Element The pheasant was dead. It lay utterly still in the grass except for the movements of is feathers, stirred by the restless winter air. It was stretched out on the ground, its banded feathers soft and beautiful, its head tipped back on a long, slender neck, as if it had swooned gracefully into the arms of death. In actuality, it had been bludgeoned there by a rock, but that fact did nothing to dispel the poignant beauty of the spectacle.
Reynard Irving supposed that he should feel something about this, the sight of the bird lying on the ground before him, one wing stretched out awkwardly beneath it. He had done it. He had killed this fragile, beautiful thing. Should he feel sad somehow? Accomplished? He could vaguely recall a poem that he had read, penned in one of the journals that one of his keepers had given him to peruse at some point in his young adulthood. It had been about a hunter who had unthinkingly mortally wounded a pair of birds. The lines sprang to his mind now, as he stared down at the delicate corpse.
“But I have hoped for years all that is wild,
Airy, and beautiful will forgive my guilt.”
Reynard dropped to his knees and pulled out the knife that Kalends had left him.
What he felt was hungry.
It had happened rather by accident, really. Reynard had been making his way carefully through the tall grass, a palm-sized stone gripped in one gloved hand, just in case he encountered some unsavory wildlife. It was rather cold for snakes, but he didn’t trust himself not to be wildly unlucky and encounter the one deadly viper that had decided to venture out on this winter morning. Panyma knew that his fortune had not been his friend as of late… or so he’d thought until he had been quite startled by a brace of pheasants rising up from the underbrush.
More on reflex than anything, he’d thrown his rock, and had hit one. While the creature flapped, wounded and disoriented, Reynard had scooped his rock back up and finished the job, moving with an animal frenzy that he had not known he possessed. He didn’t really know how to clean and dress the fowl, but that would not stop him from eating it.
He had one day, perhaps two, left until he made it to the outskirts of Persea, and he was convinced, by now, that he was actually going to make it.
Though he was not, by any means, well-fed, he could think clearly enough in the days before he arrived to know that he needed to have a plan before he reached Persea. The shock of his situation had long since worn off, but even so, he found himself at something of a loss. He knew that he needed a plan of some sort, but this entire situation was simply out of his scope. He would need to find employment somewhere, that much was obvious, because with that came food and shelter.
And that, unfortunately, was about as far as he got in the planning stage.
It wasn’t that he didn’t go about it rationally. It was that he wasn’t sure exactly how he could market his skill set, as it were. Reynard was more educated than the modern citizen, but so many professions were learned by practice, by apprenticeship. In addition, the only profession he could think of that would require the use of his greatest skill, which was his command of mathematics, would only be useful in an environment like the one he came from. Bookkeeping was not something just anyone could do, but that in itself was the problem. What was he to do, show up at the steps of the nearest bank and expect the people inside to trust him with the King’s taxes? Hardly. He wasn’t even sure if Persea had such an organized system. Banks were something of a novelty in Panymium, and certainly not found in every city.
These thoughts echoed around in his skull as he moved through the small towns outlying Persea. At first he was apprehensive that he would be regarded with leery suspicion, and maybe even driven out, but in fact nobody seemed terribly interested that he was there. Ragged travelers must not be that uncommon an occurrence in places such as this, he thought to himself one brittle winter afternoon. The sky was cloudless, and he was grateful for the meager warmth of the sun on his shoulders.
There was a dry rustle, and he glanced to the side. The sunlight glinted momentarily off of his spectacles as he brought the magpie into view. It was sitting on the edge of the roof of a nearby building, turned so that it may inspect the ground below it with its single eye. It had remained a common sight throughout his journey so far, so Reynard was not particularly surprised to see it there. There was a man below its perch, sweeping the dust from the stone steps outside of the structure, and his reaction when he looked up to see the bird was much different.
He spat on the ground, saying, “I defy thee!” And then he said it again. And again. Reynard watched, confused, as the man repeated the phrase no less than seven times total, before he went back to his work as if nothing had happened. The bird, for its part, seemed just as unperturbed by the entire affair. It struck Reynard then how different these people were than he was. He was, of course, used to the strange ways of the folk who shared his hometown, but out here, he was moving through towns he did not know, brushing shoulders with people whose ways were wholly strange to him. He didn’t have a lifetime of exasperated familiarity to help him cope with their idiosyncrasies, and he was going to have to make himself useful to these people somehow.
Not for the first time, and not for the last, he felt hopelessly out of his element. The former clerk sighed and turned to face the road ahead of him, which wound away across the grasslands like a dirty brown ribbon to Persea. A shadow flickered over him. He didn’t even look up, because he knew that it was the magpie, and in a few moments he could see the ragged shape wheeling away overhead, making its way through the sky, beating the air with its wings like oars.
He followed.
On the day he arrived in Persea, he woke before the sun rose. He had made a small fire the night before and collapsed by it, too tired to do anything but sleep. The meager blaze had died out, and Reynard had been woken by his own shivering. With little alternative, he’d started walking to keep warm, and he moved through the pre-dawn dusk, watching as it slowly lifted from the world like a gray veil. When daybreak finally arrived, bathing the world in misty, indistinct light, he could see the city looming before him as he paused at a marked crossroads.
Reynard, of course, was no stranger to cities. St. Cobb was an impressive metropolis (or, depending on who one spoke with, necropolis), but he had been out in the wild wastes for so long that he found himself stunned by the sight, and more than a little intimidated. For a moment he just stood there.
A dry rustle of feathers shook him from his stupor. The magpie had deigned to show itself again, and had landed on the roadside sign. It made no sound, but fidgeted in a restless way, its head swiveled so that its one eye was facing Persea, blind to all else but the city’s sprawl. Reynard stared, and then followed its gaze. Yes, it was a daunting task he had before him, but what else was he to do? Turn back to the road? Go back to St. Cobb? There was no way but forward. The bird had the right idea. It did not look back because it couldn’t, and neither should Reynard.
“Very well then,” he said, mostly to himself. At the sound of his voice the magpie took to the air again, and once more, Reynard followed.
Reynard did not know much about Persea, so the first task he set for himself was to remedy this. He wandered through the city, making his way slowly and methodically along the outskirts, taking note of the street signs, as well as marked or otherwise easily-identifiable buildings. A moment of focus was all he needed to commit a place to memory. Forming a mental map of the city would prove very useful, especially if he happened to run into trouble, and needed to make a quick escape.
The district he found himself in was quite hilly, which surprised him somewhat after the general flatness of the plains. No effort had been made to curb the growth of the twisted, tough trees that sprouted occasionally along the streets (which were loosely and haphazardly cobbled), and indeed they loomed over many of the buildings, giving the narrower alleyways a shadowed, sheltered appearance.
It was fatigue that finally drove Reynard to seek shelter. He ducked into a tavern, which was generally quiet, as it was quite early in the morning. Unfortunately, this also made it easy for the barkeep to spot a customer who had no intention of spending any coin, and after fifteen minutes or so of respite, the man behind the bar gave a polite, but firm nod towards the door.
Just like that, he was out on the streets again. Obviously he wasn’t going to be able to secure shelter just by finding it. He needed to make himself welcome. The next time he entered a pub, he did so with intent, speaking quietly to the barkeep, querying where he might find work. He was met with mostly noncommittal responses, and so the next logical step, in Reynard’s mind, was to keep trying, and doggedly, he did so until nightfall, hopping from establishment to establishment, when he was forced to collapse, exhausted and unsatisfied, on the streets.
The next morning, he did the very same thing. He met with no success as the second day wore on, but the owner of a small store of general goods took pity on him, giving him some stale bread and directing him to a nearby well, where Reynard slaked a thirst that had been raging in his throat since the night before. On the third day, the first establishment he queried mentioned something about a possible job at the docks, and Reynard hurried to the seaside district, where he spent the better half of the sunlight hours criss-crossing across the neighborhoods arrayed along the coast, only to meet with yet more dead ends and disappointment.
Still he persisted, blankly, doggedly. There was simply no other option for him. He could not steal--he knew he wouldn’t get away with any sort of thievery, he lacked both skill and experience--and he couldn’t return to the wilderness. He was hungry, so hungry, but at least he had water. On the fourth day, he made his way back towards the hilly outskirts of the town, mulling over his lack of progress as he did.
Frankly, he found that he didn’t feel much different than he had when he was stranded out on the plains. He might have been surrounded by buildings, but he was just as lost and alone as he had been in the wilderness. Sometime shortly before noon he found a place where he could rest; he’d been walking most of the morning, and lack of food had cast a permanent leaden weariness on his bones. There was a tree standing, largely by itself, in a plot of land that had apparently once housed a building. Veering toward it, Reynard sat at its base and leaned against the plant’s warped trunk, letting his breath leave him in a slow, long sigh.
He really was no better off, was he? These thoughts flickered through his mind before he succumbed to sleep.
When he woke, it was raining. It was not, by any means, a downpour, but it was enough to rustle the leaves above him. A few stray drops had fallen onto his face, and he sat bolt upright, quite startled. He was even more startled to see the magpie standing on the ground, staring at him quite boldly with its single eye. Reynard stared back at it. It was… it was silly to think he needed to say anything to the bird, but after being alone for such a long time in silence, he was frankly quite desperate for whatever company he could get. “I see you followed me to Persea.” His voice has regained some of its customary, deep smoothness, but there was still a rasping edge.
The magpie offered no verbal reply, but instead strutted back and forth, unconcerned by the sparse droplets falling all around it.
Reynard drew his legs closer to his chest and closed his eyes, sighing. It was no good giving into despair. He would simply have to persist. There was no alternative, he knew that in a detached, logical sort of way… but he couldn’t help but feel discouraged. Here in the city, he had souls to appeal to, rather than the vast impassive wilderness, at the very least. If it took scraping and begging and sifting through the refuse of others to survive, he would do it with the same single-minded determination that he brought to a ledger full of figures. At least he had this tree to sleep under while it rained.
In front of him, the magpie’s feathers began to ruffle, raising away from its body, and then it gave itself a shake, flinging tiny droplets and specks of black dirt everywhere. That ragged little bird was getting by, and it had even less than Reynard. As silly as it seemed, knowing that it was still there was… heartening somehow. He felt a little less alone.
Then, abruptly, it turned and fluttered upward weaving crazily across the lawn before rising into the air. Reynard watched it go, feeling oddly buoyed by the sight of that bedraggled creature taking off. It was a small, damaged thing in a huge, uncaring world, but if it was at all bothered, it gave no sign. Reynard stood. As unnecessarily poetic as that notion might be, there was logic to it yet. Determination would see him forward. He stepped out of the shelter of the tree, bringing his pace to a brisk trot as the rain began to pick up. He was moving back towards the outskirts once more, which seemed less densely populated, but rain drove him to take temporary shelter in a squat pub whose sign proclaimed it, simply, Fiddler.
The interior of the building hummed with history. It was evidently old, and knickknacks scattered the walls, flotsam of the years gone by. A broken sickle was secured a wall to the left, while directly in front of him was a skillfully-woven length of cloth, aged but still clinging to its brightness, of obvious Yurian design. A heavy, plain cast-iron plate brooded over a table in the corner, and behind the bar, raised near the roof in a place of honor, rested a battered fiddle. There were more bits and pieces secured about, all of them lined on shelves, affixed to the wall, or dangling from the roof.
A scratched and pitted countertop stretched across the back of the pub, and behind it the proprietor stood, a woman large-framed and lean, with muscular arms evidently honed by a lifetime of manual labor. She was cleaning industriously, as all bartenders are universally seen to do, watching her patrons with hooded eyes. The pub was quite full, but Reynard didn’t mind that. It meant less chance of him being noticed (and subsequently thrown out for having no money to spend).
All he needed to do was to wait out the rain, and get to work searching for… well, work. At first Reynard was content simply to crouch off to the side, watching the activity around him, but as he caught snatches of conversation drifting in and out of the general hubbub, it occurred to him that perhaps this would be a good place to gather information that might lead to his employment.
He moved from table to table, thin and pathetic and generally beneath everyone’s notice. The sector of the city was close enough to the outskirts that strangers were not an uncommon sight. He listened without speaking, but for the most part the conversations he intercepted were dull, rather humdrum accounts of lives that he had no place in. As he stood up from yet another table, glancing to the barkeep, he caught her eye. She tilted her head very slightly, her gaze a little too intense for comfort, and Reynard looked away. Rain or no, he might be leaving this building soon. He sighed, seating himself once more. If he was about to be kicked out, he’d at least rest his feet a little longer.
At the table in front of him, a man was playing a card game--or, no, he was performing a card trick. Another patron sat in front of him, and between them were a few pence. Reynard was not a gambler, not hardly, but it didn’t take someone familiar with games of chance to see what was going on. The better had clearly just chosen a card, which the dealer was about to guess.
As he rambled on, it became apparent that this trick was more complicated, because a second card was added. As Reynard watched, the dealer guessed both cards correctly, to the astonishment of the better, who exchanged glances with his countrymen. The dealer collected the bet, and the next patron leaned over to try his luck.
Reynard listened as this trick was performed again, and again. He wouldn’t have been particularly interested if numbers hadn’t been involved, but numbers were his language, and he found himself feeling absurdly homesick for them, for their clean, clinical sensibleness. He missed his books and he missed the orderly world he’d left behind. This place was simply not his element.
And then, somewhere in the middle of his misery, something clicked, and he understood the trick. He understood it completely. His subconscious had been ticking away, making note, comparing sums, and once he realized the link, it was so simple! An gray-haired gentleman had just pulled a chair up, and was about to lay his pence down, when Reynard found himself saying, “It is math.”
Both men looked to him at the abrupt outburst. Suddenly pinioned by their eyes, he added, “It is a math trick. It is not terribly taxing, as long as you remove certain cards from your deck. With your formula, you cannot fail to guess the correct numbers. They lie in the sum.”
The dealer gave him an annoyed look. “’Ere, what exactly are you trying to pull?”
Reynard stared back at him evenly. He was not intimidated by the man’s look or tone of voice, but this came less from bravery than from his lack of any sense of recognition of danger. He didn’t keep his mouth shut simply because he didn’t know better. “I could do it.” Reynard’s customary flat tone was perceived by his fellow patrons as bravado, and a good deal of laughing and elbowing ensued.
The dealer shook his head. “You want to give it a go, either on this side of table or the other, then you gotta lay down some coin.” He turned away.
Reynard’s mouth twitched into a slight frown. Of course he had no money. He had been penniless when he left. He slid his hand into one of his cloak’s inner pockets out of reflex more than anything else… and jerked in shock when he felt his a metallic hardness against the tips of his gloved fingers. He pulled his hand free, and resting in his palm were a few pence.
It was not a great amount of money, and certainly not enough to secure him any food or drink in the establishment, but it was more than nothing. All at once he realized where it must have come from. That man, Kalends, had left Reynard more than a cloak. Along with that revelation came the realization that he had been walking around Persea with money in his pocket. That would have been nice to know at some earlier point… but no matter. Without a word (but with a surge of gratitude for Kalends, wherever he might be), he leaned forward and placed the rather pitiful amount of coin on the table.
The dealer’s face reddened at the sight. Once again, Reynard’s strange calmness seemed to suggest infuriatingly cool confidence. The card-handler grit his teeth and laid his palms flat on the table, ready to pull himself up. Reynard watched on blankly, but before anything else could be said, the gray-haired man interrupted. “He laid some coin down, and he seems confident enough. Why not let him have a go?” The dealer looked to him, and knew in that instant that he’d been trapped. If he refused, he would be suspected a fraud. His best bet was to hope that Reynard was mistaken.
“Very well. Come then, if you’re so clever.” He rose from his chair and waved Reynard over. Only now did apprehension dawn on Reynard, whose eyes widened as he began to realize just what he’d gotten into, and just how irritated this card-dealer had become. He looked from the dealer to the other man, and then back again, and he realized he was similarly caught. The dealer smirked, obviously expecting this thin, scruffy fellow to demur…
Instead, Reynard silently stood and took his seat, taking the cards in his gloved hands and neatly shuffling them, running the steps over in his head. “Select your card, sir.”
The old man did, to the amusement of the patrons around him. The former clerk’s calm, even voice, with its hint of a strange accent, had drawn the attention of several of the men and women around them, and they watched on with interest. Reynard then instructed him to double the number of his card, and add five, as the dealer had. Lastly, the man was to multiply that number by five. Needless to say, this sort of arithmetic took the gray-haired man a considerable amount of time to accomplish (with a bit of soft-spoken advice from the small crowd), as it had the players before him. “Now select another card, and add that card’s value to your current sum. Please tell me what the final sum is.”
“One hundred four,” the man replied.
Reynard nodded and said, “Your two cards were a seven and a nine.” He knew this was correct, even before the old man gave a wry grin and nodded at him. “It is simple. I subtract twenty-five from your total. The final sum is your two cards, first and second. It would not work if there were tens in the deck, which I trust you will find there are not.”
Before he could say another word, he found himself seized by the collar of his cloak. “Listen, you--” the dealer snarled.
A large hand suddenly came down on his shoulder, heavily. “Steady on.” It was the barkeep. Up close, Reynard could see that her eyes were pale green, and quite piercing. “You haven’t been swindling my patrons, have you?”
“No, it’s not--he’s some kind of--if he hadn’t--” The dealer sputtered angrily, to the great amusement of all those gathered around (and to the irritation of some, for Reynard’s neat execution of the trick had proven that they had, indeed, been somewhat cheated).
“I think it would be best if you left,” the barkeep said gently, nodding towards some of the more disgruntled patrons. The dealer followed her gaze and very quickly realized the wisdom of being as far away from those scowling faces as possible. He beat a hasty retreat. Reynard found himself quite suddenly the center of attention. Someone clapped him heartily on the shoulder, and he rocked slightly, blinking dazedly.
“As for you,” the barkeep went on, turning to him, “what’ll it be?”
Reynard’s spirits sunk, and he looked down at the few scattered coins he had brought forth. He realized, belatedly, that he had not collected his bet from the dealer. “I…”
She shook her head and gestured for the door. Reynard nodded. The last thing he needed was to be thought of as a nuisance. Some of the patrons voiced disapproval as he gathered up his shillings and slipped them back into his cloak. They had found in him a curiosity and a new source of entertainment. “Now, none of that. The rain’s stopped, and it would be best if you scuttled along. There’s been enough of a ruckus in here for one day.”
Reynard did as he was bade. The air outside was damp and fresh, but it did little to raise his spirits. Still, all was not lost--he did have a handful of shillings, and perhaps he might be able to find himself some food closer to the docks.
“You, there.” The voice had come from behind him, and when Reynard turned, he found himself staring at the gray-haired man whose bet he has saved. He was evidently aged, but he seemed to have toughened with age. He was a sturdy-framed fellow, even if he did walk with a bit of a stoop. The man wore an air of wry humor about him like a garment, as if he were privy to a joke that no-one else knew. “I figure this rightfully belongs to you.” He held out his hand, and nestled within it were the coins he’d been intending to bet.
Reynard stared at the money for a moment. “I…” He knew he really should take the money, but instead he found himself saying, “I would much prefer if you would, instead, tell me where I might find work and board.” When the man tilted his head, Reynard replied, “I arrived in Persea a few days ago. I have nowhere to go. Your offer is generous, sir, but any influence you could provide me in a more permanent solution to my troubles would be infinitely more valuable.”
For a moment the man just stared back at him. “Hmm. I may be able to help with that.” He continued to regard Reynard intently. “You’re from up north. St. Cobb, yes?”
Reynard nodded. He hadn’t thought his accent prevalent at all. He was beginning to think that was largely due to the fact that he lived in an area where nobody was inclined to notice it.
“I figure you’ve at least earned a night’s stay. I run an inn nearby. Come along.”
Reynard hesitated, uncertain and feeling suddenly rather foolish for having turned down the money. It wouldn’t have been a permanent solution to his troubles, but he would have at least secured him some food. Having little other option, he fell into step beside the man as the fellow led him through the hilly district on the outskirts of Persea, in and out of the dappled shade of the dripping trees.
Eventually they came to a loosely-cobbled road, at the intersection of which stood an enormous building. It was several stories high, and everything about it was large. The doors were oversized, the planks were absurdly wide, and the stones that comprised the long, long chimney were all bigger than Reynard’s head. It looked very odd next to the more modern buildings arrayed along the streets, none of them so fanciful and so almost-comically out of scale with the rest of the world. A twisted tree grew alongside the building, shading one whole half of the roof, and hanging from a broad beam over the inn’s main door was a sign that said, simply, Lady Octavia Inn.
The inside was just as expansive. The very first room Reynard entered was intended to awe; it was bare to the roof, two stories tall, with massive oak pillars supporting the roof. A network of thick planks criss-crossed under the ceiling, and wide windows far from the floor spilled light down onto a dusty carpet rolled through the center of the wide-open floor. The chimney Reynard had spotted from outside ended in a huge hearth, clearly meant, in times passed, to cook large game. The entire place was old, but it gave the impression of something that had hardened with age rather than crumbled with it, much like the man who had brought Reynard there.
There was a countertop set up near the end of the lobby, and beyond it dark hallways stretched off into the heart of the behemoth building. Reynard would later learn that what he had taken for a smaller adjacent building was, in fact, a separate wing entirely, one that had been added years after the initial construction of the main building. Reynard was rather used to grand architecture, but even so, he was quite caught off-guard by the grandiose scale of the building, which was just as impressive inside as it was outside.
“This used to be a hunting lodge,” the gray-haired man said as he trotted across the open floor. “My grandfather bought it with prize money from his privateer days and made it into what you see here.” He gestured around him. “He was Nicholas Eliphaz Campbell. Lady Octavia was the name of the ship he served on. And I,” he looked over his shoulder, that wry humor returning to his voice, “am Owen Campbell.”
Reynard stared in silence for a moment. Then, without knowing quite why, he said, softly, “My mother was a sailor.”
“Mmm. So we’ve both got the ocean in our bones.” Owen gave a chuckle. “Have you ever set sail yourself?”
Reynard shook his head. “I rather think I would get seasick.”
This prompted a hearty laugh from Owen. “Here, then, I’ll show you where you can stay tonight.” As he walked, he went on, “So where did you learn the secret of that card trick?”
“Today, in the tavern,” Reynard responded matter-of-factly, “I do not know much about cards, but I am quite good with numbers.”
This prompted another glance over the shoulder. “Really? Hmm.” A pause ensued. “So why did you come to Persea, young man?”
Reynard hesitated, his mouth twisting thoughtfully to the side. “I seek a new life,” he responded. It was the honest truth. This seemed to satisfy Owen’s curiosity, and he remained silent until he showed Reynard his room. It was one of the first-story accommodations, rather plain, but it had a bed, and it was out of the elements, and that was more than enough for Reynard Irving.
“We have a kitchen and a small eatery, as well. You might have noticed that this inn rests at the crossing of several roads,” Owen was going on, “it’s often the first stop for travelers. We see plenty of faces throughout the weeks, merchants and messengers alike. If you like, you can wash up and help the cooks prepare tonight’s meal, and earn yourself a share of that.”
The wanderer didn’t need to be told twice. A full belly and a warm bed were commodities that he now knew he had taken for granted. Here, sheltered under the robust architecture of the Lady Octavia, it was easy to forget that outside the world was full of cold and hunger and exhaustion. Reynard would not let himself forget, not ever again. He never knew when he would be facing such hardships once more.
He was not helpless in the kitchen. Though Reynard was not proficient in the art of food preparation, he was competent enough, having honed his skills from his childhood to present age. He was required to wash up quite a bit before the head cook would allow him inside, but Reynard was quite honestly glad for the opportunity to scrub off the worst of the grime. The kitchen staff took one look at his seemingly permanent, vaguely sour expression and wisely decided that he would be ill-suited for serving, so he spent his afternoon and early evening in the stifling heat of the kitchens. When he was finally relieved, he stepped outside into the cold night, simply collapsing against the outer wall of the inn, underneath the twisted, massive tree that grew alongside it.
He had a stein full of thick soup, and a freshly-baked loaf of bread. It was curiously satisfying to feel the warm liquid slide down his throat when the air on his skin was so cold. He ate in a mindless daze, every particle of his being focused on the task.
Until a fluttering shadow swooped down from the lower branches of the tree and crashed into the ground. Reynard didn’t need to see it clearly to know that the creature (which was now flopping about in an effort to stand) was his magpie. “You again.” Speaking to animals, which could neither understand nor respond, was beyond foolish. Even so, this ragged little thing had followed him all the way from St. Cobb, had made the same journey he had. Now it was standing before him, regarding him silently, and he imagined that it was perhaps wishing him farewell.
More than likely, it was waiting to be fed.
Reynard pinched a bit of his bread free, dipped it into the soup, and tossed it to the magpie, who eagerly hopped forward to claim its share. Some things never changed.
After Reynard had dropped his dishes off at the kitchens, he made his way down the hallway slowly. The interior of the Lady Octavia was dark by now, but a dim glow was coming from the lobby. Reynard passed through it, and saw Owen sitting at the countertop that rested at the end of the room. A single candle was burning on the countertop, and books were sprawled over the remaining surface. No, not just any books: ledgers. Reynard would know a proper ledger anywhere. Owen glanced up as Reynard entered. “There you are. I found them. C’mere and see.”
Reynard trotted across the lobby. The circle of light cast by the candle did not reach very far into the vast interior of the lobby, and the wan moonlight from outside didn’t illuminate the darkness so much as give it detail, contour, and depth. Reynard felt rather like he was walking into an island of light. His gaze was immediately drawn to the ledgers, which had columns of numbers marching down the pages in neat, blocky script.
“It takes work, running a building like this. My father managed most of it on his own. He kept the books, hired the help, and cleaned the rooms. My mother did the repair-work, and she had to fight for even that.” Owen grinned fondly. “These are his expense accounts. What do you make of them?”
Reynard leaned forward. The candlelight reflected from his spectacle lenses: one whole and unbroken, the other splintered with fine cracks. This was his element, this was the world he was used to, and standing there, staring at the yellowed pages in the flickering candlelight, he felt, for a moment, at home. It was easy to imagine that the darkness that awaited beyond the ring of light was not of some strange building in a strange city, but the comfortably eldritch shadows of St. Cobb. “Mmm. A mistake here,” he murmured, bringing one gloved finger down on the page.
Owen checked the date and grinned. “There’s a confectionary by the sea that sells honey sweets. Every year, a winter festival is held here in Persea, and my father would bring us one each--my mother, my sister, and I.” He leaned over, tapping the date next to Reynard‘s finger. “That would be the day after. Good eye.”
“Why did he never make a note?” Reynard asked. This lack of organization, rather than curiosity over the man’s family, sprang first to his mind.
“He would say they were a gift, and gifts need no such record, because true gifts cannot be repaid. Still, figures are figures, and he couldn’t have the numbers off. That’s where the missing money went. Good catch,” he reiterated.
Reynard looked to Owen, but did not speak or give any other sign of assent. Owen stared back for a moment. “You say you’re looking for employment. We lost one of our assistants two weeks ago. If I had to describe her job, I’d have a hard time--she did everything from fixing broken locks in the rooms to keeping this.” He patted the countertop. “Free of dust. She was a good girl, but I don’t imagine we’ll be seeing her around here again.”
“I’m sorry,” Reynard replied automatically.
“Don’t be. She’s not dead--she’s married.” Owen have a hearty, snorting laugh. “She also helped keep the books. I wouldn’t trust you to that just yet. You…” He narrowed his eyes as he studied Reynard’s face, where the first signs of hope were dawning. “You’ve got a good heart. I’ve lived long enough and seen more people in my life than most men do in half such a span. I won’t lie to you, Reynard Irving. You’re a bit odd. But you’re smart, and you helped me when you didn’t have to. So I’ll give you a chance.”
Reynard opened his mouth to speak, but in that moment the innkeeper snuffed the candle, and he sat silent, blinking in the sudden gloom.
“Do you believe in fate?” Owen asked in the dark.
“Not particularly,” was Reynard’s response. Owen laughed at this, and Reynard stared at the patch of shadow where the innkeeper’s face had been, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
“Well, I do. And you could have walked into any pub in Persea, but you walked into the Fiddler. You could have stopped any of the card games, but you stopped mine. If it isn’t fate, it’s dumb luck, boy--or maybe some manner of arithmetic indiscernible to me.” There was a flicker in the gloom that might have been a wink. “I would say I’d wager my money on fate, but I think I’ve learned my lesson about wagering for the day.”
Reynard considered this for a few silent moments. “Luck, I would say.”
Owen laughed again. “Well, then who am I to end your winning streak? What do you say?”
It didn’t really take much consideration. This all seemed a little too convenient, but Reynard would settle for too convenient. It was certainly better than the countless hours of scraping and struggling he’d endured on the road to Persea. Maybe this would turn out for the worse. Maybe it would turn out for the better. The point was, the only other option to him was to go back outside, to try his luck against more comfortingly sensible circumstances, and he didn’t hold much faith in finding success in such an endeavor. If nothing else, he’d get a roof over his head, and a mouthful of food each day.
Sometimes there really is no choice.
That was a lesson he would remember for years to come.
“Yes.”  Note: The lines near the beginning come from a real poem! It is called Forgive My Guilt by Robert P. Tristram Coffin. Scroll down to the bottom of the page in the link to see it.
The card trick that Reynard figured out is also a real card trick!
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Posted: Mon Apr 29, 2013 6:18 pm
The Year of Lady Octavia
Part 1: Harbors and the Customs Thereof
or
All Arise! Reynard Irving shuffled into the kitchens of the Lady Octavia inn, which were no exception to the exaggerated architecture that characterized the rest of the building. They were less of a single room and more of a complex of rooms, separated by partitions that divided the broad expanse seemingly at random. Cupboards and drying racks crowded every available space, glass canisters of exotic teas (and a newer addition, coffee) gleamed on a high shelf lining the great outer wall in its entirety, and pans and vats crouched on the tabletops or on the floor, some of them empty, some of them bubbling and steaming. The kitchen has an organization system that made no real sense and could only be absorbed by familiarity.
Reynard sat heavily in an unoccupied chair, one of many tucked away in the few and far-between free spaces of the kitchen. "I have just spent and hour and a half talking to a man about cheese," he said. He wore the haunted expression of a man who had recently learned far too much about a subject he had once thought was simple. Slowly, he raised his head to look to the person to whom he had addressed the statement. "He did not repeat himself."
The person was a young woman who was doing her best to wipe the blood off the front of her apron and her gown. She was not having an easy time of it. "Ah, I see you've met the Rutherfield particulars," she replied, grinning and looking briefly over her shoulder.
Reynard stared back at her, his face still frozen. "I hadn't thought that cheese was so complicated."
"Reynard, everything is complicated, especially food, and particularly when you factor in travel." She looked down at herself and frowned, not at all pleased with the result of her efforts. "Come here, please. I'm going to need some help if I shall be exiting this building in a presentable state."
Adjustment to life at the Lady Octavia had seemed easy at first, but perhaps this was because Reynard's prime motivation had been a mixture of necessity and desperation. There were many things that needed doing around the enormous old building, from cleaning the rooms of the inn's temporary tenants, to feeding those very tenants, to cleaning up after them. Not every person who passed through the doors came with the intention of sleeping, however; the Lady Octavia's location, being as it was on the crossroads of several major streets, coupled with its size, which was enormous, made it a popular meeting-spot for both travelers and townsfolk alike.
Reynard had a particularly good memory, so it wasn't hard for him to adapt to most of the tasks set before him. He learned to navigate the haphazard kitchen quickly, and absorbed the details of his cleaning duties just as readily. For his efforts, he was given a loft space to sleep in above the kitchens; it was open to the lobby, but not easily visible from the ground, less of a room than a somewhat-crowded space below the roof. Still, the warmth from the kitchens below made it a pleasant enough space to sleep, and when the heat became too stifling, there was a small, round window that opened into the boughs of the oak tree that grew alongside the inn that could be opened.
Reynard had done what he could to make the space comfortable with a little help from Owen Campbell. He was provided with a straw mattress and a desk he could use for writing, should he desire, as well as to store any possessions that he owned. Reynard didn't use the desk much, but its presence was comforting, in a way; it made his strange new resting place seem more civilized.
All in all, within the first month or so he had adjusted quite well to his new life. Weak from his ordeals and desperate to be accepted, he passed his first few weeks in a haze of hard work and exhaustion, but each night he slept well, and each day he ate, and slowly his vitality began to return. By the time the month came to and end, rolling into another, all traces of haggardness from his adventure were meticulously swept away. Reynard once again held himself with the same sharp, discerning air that had compromised his identity back during his old life, and though the patrons found him a little odd, they were more often than not amused by him, or pleased to be waited upon by such a severe and attentive fellow. It leant an air of importance to what would have been an otherwise dreary detail of traveling.
Those very same patrons had proven to be the hardest part of his adjustment.
Reynard had long ago accepted that his hometown was an unusual place. The residents of St. Cobb certainly seemed eccentric by outsider standards, with their fascination with the macabre and their love of hard drink. Reynard knew them more intimately than any traveler, though. A poet might have described them as consummate survivors who could at times embrace life with an vivacity that could not be seen elsewhere, and who at times drove themselves half-mad with their grief, paradoxically laughing all the while. Reynard recognized these traits, but instead classified them simply as "odd," because he was not prone to poetic observations, except perhaps when he had a healthy bit of liquor in him. He had assumed that the oddness was something wholly unique to his birthplace, and that he could expect to find the rest of the continent possessed by people of a more temperate mentality.
He was wrong.
Persea was full of unusual characters, and they all somehow seemed to be drawn to the Lady Octavia. They rose from the general hubbub of the city, bright individuals who wore their unusualness around them like a cloak and filled the expansive spaces of the inn with the full force of their character, The local constabulary were perhaps the most mundane visitors, and they often checked in to ask questions about travelers passing through, or simply to gossip. Owen Campbell welcomed their presence particularly, because there was nothing he hated more than a group of rowdy travelers scuffling in his building. Reynard soon learned that it was an unspoken rule that, should Owen ever need their presence in a hurry, those who enforced the law in Persea would come running.
The Rutherfield Particulars were another common sight at the Lady Octavia. They were comprised primarily of wealthy old men, none of them alike except for their mutual enthusiasm for cheese. They would spent incredible amounts of money to have exotic cheeses delivered from all corners of the continent. These gentlemen were serious about cheese, as anyone who had spent half an hour around them would be able to see, and because of issues with climate, trade routes, and cheese aging, they were often only able to sample certain selections of cheese only once per year. For all their eccentricities, they were a jolly lot, and well-liked by the denizens of the neighborhood.
A local chapter of an (apparent) Panymium-spanning minstrel group also met at the inn. They would sit all at one table, poring over maps and discussing the movements of their guild as well as various types of instruments from Panymium and beyond (foreign instruments were always regarded with an air of wistfulness, as these exotic wares were far out of reach). Occasionally they could be called upon to play a song or two, or simply to sing in a pleasant a capella arrangement. Regardless of their visit's nature, between the lot of them they always consumed a considerable amount of tea.
Various deliverymen also came and went, some of them bearing messages, some of them carrying goods. Reynard often received them and at times even delivered their package to the recipients in the hotel. More often than not the items he ferried about were a mystery to him, tucked hidden inside a crate, or wrapped mysteriously with oilcloth. On one memorable occasion, the courier had dropped a curious-looking crate with holes all along the sides, which had split open to reveal a lithe, weasel-like animal that darted out of sight. Thus freed, it promptly took up residence in the inn's wine cellar.
The ferret, as Reynard later learned it was called, was primarily used to hunt rabbits, but it proved to be an excellent ratter. Owen named it Gyles, after a relative of his, and it could occasionally be seen in the cool darkness of the cellar.
It wasn't the only animal that had adopted the Lady Octavia as its home, though.
Winter was beginning to melt into spring when Reynard spotted the magpie again. He had just finished beating the worst of the dust out of a rug, which was strung up on a taut clothesline between the oak tree that grew alongside the inn and an iron hook just above the kitchen entrance's mantle. He was leaning against the wall, narrow chest heaving as he caught his breath; it was an old, heavy rug, nearly equal to him in bulk, and it had taken a lot of effort to clean.
There was a sudden flurry of blackness, and then the shape of the magpie sprung from the chaos as it alighted in the clothesline. It overbalanced and nearly tumbled to the ground, but caught itself with a flap of its wings. Reynard blinked at it, thinking to himself that surely this could not be the same bird. His magpie had been missing for over a month, and it must have moved on…
…but the bird cocked its head, turning its blinded side towards Reynard. He recognized the sunken mass of scar tissue where its eye used to be before it flicked its head again, bringing him into view. It croaked at him.
"You're back," he responded. Reynard, at this point, didn't think too much of speaking back to the bird. Aside from the fact that he felt a curious kinship with this ragged creature, he had also been engaged in stranger conversations about cheese with people, so this could hardly be any stranger. By way of reply, the magpie croaked again and leaned forward, dangling upside-down from the clothesline. It spread its wings and gave a few flaps, setting itself to rocking. Reynard watched this display with an air of vague disapproval. "That is very silly," he finally said.
The magpie made a very odd sound, a nonsense string of syllables almost like a human voice, before it fluttered off to the boughs of the oak tree. There, it stayed. Apparently whatever discoveries it had made in the greater city had not satisfied it. Reynard was just grateful that it had not fouled on the rug he had just cleaned, and was sure to leave a scrap of bread at the base of the tree by way of thanks.
Long after he'd entered the building proper again, the bird landed and accepted its votive. It scarfed the offering down quickly, pausing afterwards to scan the ground to be sure it had missed nothing, and then proceeded to hop imperiously along the lawn, twisting its head this way and that. Persea was a good place to be a magpie. The docks were full of offal, and the streets were lined with opportunities for an intelligent and enterprising bird.
Still, for all the excitement of the chaotic air patterns a city could provide (as well as all the cats the magpie would ever want to dive-bomb), one couldn't beat a steady meal. Insofar as the creature was able to make a decision, it did then. This was where it would stay.
For now.
It wasn't long after the magpie's return that a second female entered Reynard's life. She had a sack of pig guts slung over one shoulder when he first saw her, wearing a battered and bloody apron and a grin. "Could you direct me to the cook?"
Her name was Flora, and she was the daughter of the local butcher. She was slightly shorter than most young ladies her age, a stockily-built, her body shape comprised of a series of generous curves. She was a creature of unrelenting cheer, which was a fortuitous quality to find in someone who spent most of their time wielding knives as large as their forearm. She put Reynard in mind of nothing so much as a pony: small, sturdy, and strong. She presented an amusing contrast to Reynard's tall, lanky form.
Flora thought nothing of chatting to Reynard as they made their way to the kitchen. "My name," she began, once pleasantries had been exchanged, "is Flora, though almost everyone around here just calls me the butcher's daughter. Never mind the fact that my father is much too old for all of the really tough jobs." She rolled her eyes and shrugged. "I suppose that is simply the way of things until my Nicholas works up the courage to marry me--which he had better soon--and then I suppose I shall be the fishmonger's wife."
Reynard blinked at this torrent of information, borne on a tide of friendliness, his brow furrowed slightly. For a few moments, he didn't speak, but when he did, he said simply, "It seems to be it would be easier simply to think of you as Flora."
She glanced to him, a little startled by the statement, but her expression soon melted into that of a grin. "I think you and I are going to be friends."
And they were.
Reynard was not used to companionship aside from the strictly professional sort (avian interlopers aside). Flora was a regular sight at the Lady Octavia, more so during the spring, when travelers began to make their journeys while the weather was fair. Hungry travelers wanted fresh meat, and for that, they needed Flora. Reynard was somewhat uncertain what to do with her open platonic affection at first, wondering what exactly she expected of him, but as time passed, he began to realize that all she really expected was for him to be… well, him. Though she was known to chatter (a lot), she lacked no keenness, and picked up on Reynard's peculiarities and mannerisms rather quickly. She was a good-natured soul, which was another quality handy to have in a person as skilled at handling sharp instruments as she was.
Her consideration and cheer soon made him startlingly comfortable, and before he knew it, he had something that he had never really possessed before: a friend.
She never tried to touch Reynard when she saw how twitchy it made him, and didn't seem to mind that he never smiled (she did enough grinning for the two of them). Flora seemed to value his willingness to wrestle half the bloody carcass of a cow into a doorway not meant to accommodate half the bloody carcass of a cow more than anyone else's notion of what the former clerk should act like.
Through Flora Reynard learned even more about the city and the families that comprised his neighborhood, though he had already absorbed a startling amount. The Lady Octavia was the perfect place to learn about Panyimum, and for the first time in his life, Reynard began to feel a sense of connectedness with the rest of the continent. St. Cobb was an unusually isolated, insular place; Persea was not.
"It is somewhat disconcerting," he confided to Flora one afternoon while the two of them were resting on the floor after having delivered a string of sausages long enough to feed an entire regiment (this was because an actual regiment was staying at the inn at the time). "I do not know if this is common, but occasionally, when I stand in broad spaces, I become momentarily…" Reynard frowned, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Nervous."
"It happens," Flora replied with a shrug.
"It almost feels that way, only…" He shook his head. "Only in my mind. Rather like you are standing on the edge of a cliff and being afraid of being blown off, into the sky."
"That's a very poetic way of putting it," she replied sagely.
"I don't quite know how else to describe it," he offered with a shrug of his bony shoulders.
Flora was silent for a moment as she thought this over. "Well," she finally decided, "I suppose if you're so used to thinking that your hometown is really all that there is, the moment you start to comprehend the rest of the world for the first time… it makes you feel small and insignificant."
"I am insignificant," Reynard pointed out. "I have always been, and that doesn't bother me in the least."
"That's not precisely what I meant, Reynard," she replied with a chuckle. "I don't think I'd be able to describe it properly; I'm a butcher, not a wordsmith. I suppose that it would be best to simply say that the Profugus at large is… overwhelming. Panymium, only slightly less so."
Reynard was not quite satisfied with their conversation, but he let the matter lie.
The next event of important came when the inn received some highly unusual guest. Reynard was in the kitchens, carefully mixing scoops of loose tea leaves to be steeped for several pots when Flora poked her head into one of the doors that lead into the kitchens.
"Obscuvans," she said, simply.
Reynard blinked at her. "What about Obscuvans?"
"They're here. A lot of them, anyway," she slipped fully into the kitchen. "Out-of-towners, too. Rumor has it that they’re here to enter talks about establishing a new school in the waterfront neighborhood!"
Reynard did not know much about the House of Obscuvos or those who followed such beliefs. The citizens of St. Cobb clung too tightly to their own superstitions and mythologies. He was aware of the cult in the same vague way he was aware of followers of Panyma. "Good," he said simply.
"They're very mysterious," Flora replied gravely. "And Owen is going to have you serve them. He told me to finish up with the tea, and for you to fetch some wine from the cellar. We're toasting to the generosity of Obscuvos tonight!"
As soon as Flora had rattled off the name and year of the desired wine, Reynard set out for the cellar door, which was outside the building itself. He passed the cultists as he weaved through the kitchen, glancing over to them briefly; they seemed normal enough, though they were all dressed in black. They were engaged in polite, friendly conversation over their steaming dinners. He knew that, in other places on the continent, the Obscuvans had spearheaded the movement to educate the common man.
After stepping outside, Reynard lifted the cellar door and descended into the darkness of the cellar, plucking a lamp from the wall and lighting it as he did. The Obscuvans' mission was a noble undertaking, to be sure. He could see why Flora was excited about the potential opening of a new school in the city of Persea; educating their youth could only further improve the quality of life there for everyone. Besides, if Flora was to be believed, her Fishmonger was looking more and more courageous these days, and he might at long last ask her to marry him. She might want children of her own, and knowing that they would have a nearby school to attend could only make her more excited for the prospect.
Reynard peered at one of the bottle, gently turning it in its rack with one hand. He moved among the aisles, wondering to himself what it must have been like to have been educated in such a structured fashion. Reynard had been educated largely through the efforts of the tenants of the building he and his father had lived in. Though he had wanted nothing for quantity, he had never had what one might call a proper education.
He pulled the bottle free, and paused when a movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. He raised the lamp, and Gyles stared back at him, its dark beady eyes unblinking.
Reynard cocked a brow, and the ferret scurried on.
He was also given the honor of serving their guests their wine. The Obscuvans seemed to be caught somewhat off-guard by the generosity of their host, and hurriedly made an effort to clear their table, which was crowded with parchments and letters, some of them academic, some of them of a more businesslike nature, all of them relating to education and their newest venture in particular.
After Reynard filled the last glass, a soft-spoken lady led the group in a toast. Reynard meant to follow it, but he was distracted by a small square of parchment sitting on the table before him. The man he'd just served had been copying a poem, word for painstaking word, outlining each letter carefully in fine black ink. He was startled to find he recognized the words spread before him. This was the very poem that had come to his mind, in a very vague sort of way, when he has killed the pheasant on his way to Persea. When the toast was concluded, Reynard looked up from the paper with a start, but the man had already seen how it caught his attention.
"An eye for poetry?" He asked with a gentle smile.
"I'm afraid not," Reynard replied, his face as blank and humorless as ever. Since he was clearly speaking to a man of learning, he decided to be matter-of-fact. "I am more mathematically inclined."
"Is that so?" The man half-turned to face him, taking a sip of his wine as he did. Reynard was used to all manner of patrons, from the warm to the coldly dismissive. He didn't know what he had expected from a traveler, a cult member, and a receiver of fine wine, but genuine and friendly attentiveness was not exactly it. "Were you educated at one of our schools?"
Reynard shook his head. When the man expressed further curiosity, Reynard found himself obliged to explain, and then, quite by accident, the two of them began to talk.
None of the staff interrupted Reynard, since he was clearly making one of their honored guests so happy (and it downright baffled those that knew him well; Reynard could be counted on to be formal to a fault, but hardly anyone was ever pleased to see him). He did pause to obligingly fill the wine glasses of the black-garbed cultists gathered around the table, of course, but for the most part, he simply spoke. He was not ever a fellow inclined to be chatty, but the man seemed to have a strange pull about him, something that made Reynard want to speak.
The Obscuvan man was fascinated by his unusual upbringing and by the many things he learned from his building's varied tenants. He was passionate about education, and just as excited, in his own quiet way, as Flora had been about the new school.
"Have you ever considered furthering your education? Panymium's university--Triscia--isn't too far from here, in Gadu."
Reynard began to shake his head, but he paused. It was honestly something he'd never considered. The idea was attractive, to be sure. Reynard enjoyed learning, and devoured new knowledge hungrily and easily… but even so, he didn't see how it would be possible, even if he had the inclination. "I have not, before now," he replied, "but I do not think I would be able to manage it. I am not a wealthy man, as you might imagine."
"There are ways. A gifted intellectual can make his case to the University staff." The cultist shrugged. "Think about it. You are obviously intelligent; I'd hate to see a mind like that go to waste."
Reynard cocked his head, his face bearing its customary blank expression. Inwardly, he was a bit perplexed by this man's unprovoked kindness and his encouragement. Maybe he had let himself grow too hard, too cynical, in the rough days following his flight from St Cobb… or maybe this man was cheered from the the healthy amount of wine in his system. Likely, both of them were true.
Even so, there was something about the way he said those things, something about the quality of his voice that reminded Reynard of the great, unknown expanses of Panymium stretching out all around him, of a world outside the bounds of what he knew, where anything was possible… and for a moment, he didn't feel quite as insignificant. He replied, partially to his own surprise, "I shall."
But after that, the magic faded. Soon the cultists retired to their rooms, and by the morning they were gone. Reynard's life began to settle back into its familiar rhythm; there were other patrons to be taken care of, messes to be cleaned… and the Rutherfield Particulars.
Reynard and Flora together weren't able to do much for her ruined shift. She looked down at the pale brown smear all down her front, and sighed. "Oh, well. I suppose this means I shall be taking my work home again with me tonight, ha ha!"
Reynard neither smiled nor laughed, but acknowledged her joke by cocking an eyebrow. "I'm not surprised you're so messy. That was more meat than I think I've ever seen you bring in."
"Well, we're having something of a feast tonight," she replied. "The season's turning! Surely you've noticed that summer is here at last."
Reynard paused, eyes widening slightly. He hadn't noticed. Between one thing and another, he'd let himself slip into the tedious rhythm of his every day life.
"Our minstrel friends like to throw a little celebration once the season turns over proper. It's good for business. Honestly, the Lady Octavia is as much a pub as it is an inn… oh! That reminds me, we'll need to pick up some barrels of ale before it gets dark. And," she grinned, "it's getting darker sooner, so we'd better get a move on."
Reynard nodded, and in short order she had bustled him outside, and the two of them made their way down the street. Reynard walked in silence, possessed by an odd feeling that was beginning to well inside of him. It was a lot like that standing-on-a-cliff feeling he'd tried to describe to Flora earlier. Unable to make heads or tails of it, he just shook his head, pushed it down, and trotted to catch up to his stocky friend. They made an odd sight, walking beside one another--a tall, thin figure and a short, stout one.
The magpie flickered down to one of the oak's lower branches and tilted its head to watch them go.
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Posted: Wed Jul 17, 2013 4:04 pm
The Year of Lady Octavia
Part 2: The Matter of the Visitant
or
A Brief Interlude The first sign that Reynard got of anything going wrong was the sight of someone storming across the expanse of the Lady Octavia's oversized lobby. He was too far from the main desk to hear what she said to Owen, who had woken up early to help Reynard clean, but whatever it was, it didn't take her long to finish. She left quickly and without a backwards glance. Reynard was nonplussed, but not particularly curious. If this situation in any way concerned him, he trusted Owen would let him know. Until then, the monstrous inn wasn't going to clean itself.
Summer had come to Persea, and the air had ripened over the months to an uncannily oppressive heat. Reynard's loft space had become particularly unpleasant during the day, and only slightly less so at night, being near the highest point of the building and directly above the kitchens. The windows on either end of the space helped a little, but Reynard had simply resigned himself to the elements. Summer was a wet, smothering, smelly season, but the heat wasn't, at least, as dangerous as the cold could have been.
Nevertheless, Reynard was not happy about spending more or less the entirety of the summer sticky with his own sweat, and he did what he could to keep himself as clean as possible. It was for this reason that when Flora came looking for him, she found him outside in the shade of the oak tree, mopping the worst of the sweat from his neck with a damp bit of cloth.
"The inn is haunted," she announced gravely.
Reynard turned to look at her, blinking slowly behind his cracked spectacles. "That is absurd," was his succinct reply.
Flora tilted her head and leaned against the trunk of the tree. "Are you telling me you don't believe in spirits?"
"Of course I believe in spirits," Reynard replied matter-of-factly. "This is just entirely the wrong time of year for them." For all his no-nonsense attitude, some, at least, of his hometown's customs and superstitions had clung stubbornly to his consciousness.
"Oh." Flora didn't seem to quite understand, but she just shrugged again. "At any rate, Owen wanted to talk to you about it." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.
It turned out that the extent to which Owen wanted to “talk” about it was simply to inform Reynard that the room itself was going to be closed for a while. “She isn't the first to tell me her night was less than restful,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Guests have been woken in the night by movement in the room, and some have even told me they heard voices, or had their things disturbed in the night.”
Reynard stiffened. “You don't think it could be a thief, do you?”
Owen shook his head. “The window's too small for anyone to clamber in without making an unholy racket. I am uncertain as to what could be causing it—perhaps some flaw of construction that carries voices from other rooms, a strange placement that catches the breeze in a certain way...” He shrugged. “For now I think I'll err on the side of caution. Better to lose a room than to gain an unsavory reputation. These are grim times, and weary travelers, I feel, are less likely to be intrigued by rumors of spirits than further unnerved by them.”
Reynard nodded slowly. The idea, when it came, did so quite suddenly, but even so he hesitated for a few moments, standing still before Owen in the expansive lobby. “Sir,” he finally ventured, aware that he had paused perhaps longer than was comfortable, and making up for it by finishing his sentence rapidly, “if you'd like, I could stay the night in the room and see what could be the cause of this.”
Owen looked up, surprised. It was obvious that, like Flora, he had assumed that Reynard would dismiss this peculiarity outright. “Oh,” was his simple response. He was too taken aback to say anything else for a few moments. “Well, if you're sure you do not mind, then by all means, sleep there tonight and let me know if you hear or see anything.” The innkeeper knew he'd be hard-pressed to find a more scrutinous witness to the apparently-supernatural occurrences plaguing his inn, if only because Reynard's skeptical nature would compel him to attempt to discern the true cause of any unusual goings-on.
It was true that Reynard Irving would be carrying a healthy bit of skepticism with him to the room, but he was slightly more preoccupied with the chance of spending his night somewhere other than in his stifling little alcove above the kitchens.
It was after nightfall when Reynard shuffled to the infamous haunted room, and thought he sun had long since set, his accommodations could not exactly be called cool. Still, they were considerably less stifling than what he was used to, and at any rate, he was much too tired to care. He had been anticipating the event all day, and it had seemed to make each hour stretch on tortuously long as he toiled through his various tasks. It was all worth it, though, as he would be sleeping on a proper bed that night for the first time in months.
Or, well, perhaps not sleeping, at least not immediately. He intended to lie still and listen, to see if he would bear witness to the strange phenomena that seemed to be plaguing the room. His lanky form bent and shuffling from fatigue, Reynard crossed the floor to open the window partway. Compared to the largely-still air in his alcove, choked with the congealed heat of the day, the movement of the damp breeze drifting in from outside was pure heaven.
Reynard removed his glasses and set them on the low-lying table next to the bed, clambering up and settling himself gingerly on the woolen mattress. It was soft, so soft, compared to the scratchy straw pile of a mattress that served him most days, and he sighed, eyed half-lidding in instant gratification at the gentle yielding pressure against his sore joints. To a less-straightforward person, the notion might have occurred to perhaps simply sleep this first night, to report to Owen that nothing strange had happened, and then to suggest another try, so as to get as many evenings in the relative comfort of the “haunted” room as possible.
Reynard thought to himself, simply, I shall rest my eyes for a bit, and then we will see what is going on here. For his many other faults, he was not, at the very least, a duplicitous individual. He really did mean to stay awake, and to discern the cause of his guests' discomfort.
It took him less that two minutes to fall into a dead sleep.
He was awoken by the sound of something hitting the floor, which startled him into sitting up immediately, narrow chest heaving and eyes wide. He began to glance about in confusion, his mind still fuzzy from his dreamless sleep, confused as to where he was and what had startled him, and to add to this bewilderment, he could not see—he groped for his glasses, only to find they were on the floor. Squinting and blinking, he fumbled for them, and as he was raising them to his face a dark shape suddenly slid through the air of the room, startling him so badly he dropped them again.
Reynard immediately hissed in alarm, not because he had just seen a dark specter flicker across his vision, but because he had dropped his spectacles, which were already cracked, and he was genuinely more worried about breaking them than he was about confronting whatever unholy abomination was skulking in the shadows of his room. Finding them mercifully without further damage, he placed them on his nose and peered peevishly into the darkness, feeling simultaneously annoyed that he had let himself fall asleep so easily and irritated that some thing had seen fit to wake him up and risk the well-being of his spectacles.
There was a shuffling on the floor, and Reynard craned his neck, his features stern and unafraid. It was just as well, because no howling, gibbering monstrosity rose to greet him. It was just the magpie, staring up at him from the floor. Reynard gave a snort. He was quite inured to the creature's presence by now, but even so, he had not expected it to follow him indoors. “You are a nuisance,” he said.
The bird strutted across the floor and made a soft, rambling series of sounds to itself, a string of syllables plucked haphazardly from human speech and rearranged in a nonsensical fashion. Reynard blinked, and in that moment he quite suddenly understood. He had heard the magpie attempt to mimic human voices before, and though it had startled him initially, he had become quite used to it. Strange human voices in the night... “So you are our ghost,” he muttered. It made sense; now that it was very warm, most sleeping patrons would leave their door open, and the bird clearly had an eye for shiny things. It could easily have been lured in by the gleam of a button, a belt buckle...
Or the fractal reflections of light on a pair of cracked glasses. Reynard snorted and settled back against the mattress. The mystery had been solved, and there was really nothing more to do about it but wait until morning. Until then, he might as well enjoy the comfortable night's sleep while he could...
A sudden, slight pressure on the mattress drew his immediate attention.
Reynard looked up, and was very still.
It was much too hot to sleep under any blankets, so Reynard had simply opted to sleep on top them. The magpie had landed on the bed and was standing next to his legs, and then it hopped onto his shin, perching as easily there as it would on the branch of any tree. It was the first time that it had ever willingly come into contact with him. The magpie regarded Reynard with its single eye, its head cocked, the oily sheen of its feathers rendered simple and silvery by the moonlight.
There is a peculiar power that the wild world holds over the tame one. For a wild thing to willingly place itself in the presence of a man or a woman is a strange sort of honor. The feeling is hard to describe unless it has been experienced first-hand; it can be felt when a wanderer meets the eye of a deer and neither moves, it can be felt when a butterfly alights weightlessly on the sleeve of an unsuspecting passerby, and it was present then, in the gently-stirred summer heat, as the magpie and the man stared at one another. Reynard breathed shallowly in the significance of the one-eyed bird's stare.
And then, deliberately and delicately, the magpie squatted and defecated on his breeches.
Reynard blinked, the spell broken, but too startled to respond at first. “You--! Off! Off with you!” He waved at the bird, and it flapped off the bed with a noisy squawk, careening about the room. Reynard slid off the bed and grimaced in disgust, removing his breeches and grimacing up at the magpie, which had alighted on the windowsill, still avidly observing him.
“Menace,” Reynard declared, breeches in hand, the moonlight reflecting off his splintered glasses.
The black-and-white specter croaked before spreading its wings and flying away.
“We shall have to keep the window closed, I suppose,” Owen mused the following day. “Or put a bit of netting over it. Or,” he added, raising a finger into the air. “Shoo the bird away.”
“I do not think it's going anywhere,” Reynard replied, shaking his head. “It's... persistent.”
Owen shrugged and waved Reynard on. After receiving the former clerk's report, he has shrugged and began running down Reynard's list of tasks for the day. The mystery of the haunted room had been solved, and it was time to move on to other matters. “Besides,” he said as Reynard turned to leave, “it won't be long before it's too cold to keep the window open, anyway.”
It was hard to think of winter while working in the sweltering heat, but Owen's words came back to Reynard as dusk fell, as, just for a moment, he had paused, puzzled by what felt like a momentary chill in the air...
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Posted: Sun Sep 22, 2013 4:53 pm
[PRP]
Up Came a Magpie with Coyotl Coyotl
In which a weary traveler nearly loses something important, and Hanover makes a damn nuisance of herself.
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Posted: Sun Sep 22, 2013 5:02 pm
The Year of Lady Octavia
Part 3: Follow the Angel
♫ It was an uncommonly windy day, the sort where the air seemed to delight in its own unpredictability, shifting directions without any sort of regard for sensible and proper weather conditions. Bright leaves were torn from tree branches and made to spin up into the sky in brief, elegant spirals only to be dropped again without warning. A few of them skittered across the street as Flora made her way towards the Lady Octavia inn, the dry scratching noises that marked their progress seeming to mutter their discontent at such treatment.
Autumn had come to Persea. The creeping advance of seasons had sucked the heat out of the air, leaving the grateful citizens to begin the hectic business of preparing for the winter. The great harvest had begun, and not just of crops, but also of supplies both domestic and exotic. The caravans were few and far between in the harsher months of winter, and many of them had saved the best of their wares for these weeks, bringing them to hubs of activity in bulk.
It was a busy time for all involved. Flora had already begun preserving for the winter, drying and salting the meat she carved for her livelihood. In addition to these very time-consuming preparations she was also in the process of bartering with other merchants for different foodstuffs, arranging the sale and shipment of her own wares, and making time to visit sweet Nicholas, who was spending so much time smoking fish that the smell seemed to have formed a permanent attachment to him.
Fishy or not, he was still her Nicholas, and if that man hadn't gathered the courage to ask her to marry him by the turn of the year Flora had resolved to do so herself. She was far too busy in the autumn to celebrate any of the festivities that took place in those weeks, but though winter was a harsh season, it was also somewhat more relaxed in regards to the time she could spend with people she cared about.
Her mind was spinning with thoughts of salted beef, the approaching cold, and a very dear albeit somewhat smelly man when she approached the inn, where a package from a fellow crafstman in Gadu (a small but precious sachet of caraway, which she was going to save for her own private use) was waiting for her. Thus, as she gathered her package and thanked Owen for serving as its temporary custodian, she noticed, for the first time, that she had not seen Reynard. He'd been close to the last thing on her mind, but his absence had pushed him quite suddenly to the forefront.
“Is Reynard about today?” she asked, frowning slightly.
Owen breathed deeply and sighed. “In a manner of speaking, yes. He asked me a few weeks ago to set aside this day for him to celebrate some sort of tradition? I'm not familiar with it myself, but it seemed like a very grave matter.”
Flora's brow furrowed. She hadn't heard anything about a festival, and Reynard was an industrious fellow. Imagining him asking for even a single day's worth of extra rest was definitely odd. “Oh,” was all she could think of to say in response.
“He worked himself into something of a cleaning fit earlier this week. I suppose as means of compensation or... something.” Though Owen was fond of his newest employee, he was still occasionally baffled by him. “He was very quiet all day yesterday, though.”
Flora nodded absently. She was, at that moment, very busy, and had a good many tasks to complete before she would be able to lay her head down for a good night's sleep. No-one would begrudge her for simply taking Owen's word for it and going on her way, but something in Owen's tone struck a chord in her, and she felt the first prickles of worry travel up her spine. “Is he... quite all right, Owen?”
“He's... morose, I think.” Owen shrugged. “He's out by the oak tree, sitting on the side opposite of the street, if you want to see him.”
Flora nodded. “I shall. Thank you again!” She waved the parcel at him before she made her way outside, the hectic clutter of her mind put on momentary hold, noting the look of relief that had passed over his face as she turned to go. She would be no less busy after checking on Reynard, but he was her friend. As she rounded the oak tree, she was immediately struck by a familiar smell that seemed to punch straight up through her sinuses: alcohol. Reynard was sitting on the ground, his arms resting on his knees, a bottle clutched in one gloved hand.
He glanced up to her with more sharpness than she would expect for someone holding a bottle nearly as drained as his was. “Flora,” he said, simply. “Do you know what day it is?” She had expected his words to come out slurred, but he was surprisingly intelligible. The draught had had an noticeable effect on his speech, though. The languid, leaning accent that could be faintly heard in his usually-clipped tones had surged to the forefront.
“Reynard,” she replied, looking between his face, which seemed uncommonly morose, the bottle, which was sporting a label in Vossanian that she could not read, and to the ground in front of him. Sitting in the grass, watching him with a vaguely proprietary air, was the magpie. It had its head cocked to stare at Reynard out of its single eye. To Flora its posture seemed reminiscent of a worried friend. It was probably more concerned with whether or not Reynard was about to feed it. “Today is... the first day of the new month, if that is what you are asking. Unless you meant the day of the week...?”
Reynard shook his head. “Yesterday,” he said, “was All Hallows' Eve.” He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing. “It was the first time I had ever spent it away from home.” Flora stepped over to him and sat down. Reynard remained silent for a few long moments, before he added, quietly, “I am a very long way from my home.”
“St. Cobb, right?” Flora asked. Reynard looked to her sharply, momentarily confused, and she went on, by way of explanation, “Your accent.”
“Is it really all that noticeable?”
“Only every now and then,” she replied with a grin.
Reynard nodded slowly, resignedly, and slowly returned to staring ahead of him. He fell into yet another silence, this one marked only by the steady sound of his breathing. “Today,” he finally began, quietly, “we honor those who have passed on before us into the next life. We call it the Day of the Dead, or the Day for the Dead.”
Flora had never heard of the practice, and didn't know what to say. She half-wanted to ask if Reynard was mourning someone, more out of a desire to help than out of any sort of curiosity, but she felt it was too invasive a question. “I've heard of it, actually. It's celebrated off Panymium, right?”
“And in St. Cobb.” Reynard stared forward for a few moments, blinking with the slow concentration of a man whose liquor was finally catching up with him. “People have always been coming here. There. Before it was even St. Cobb. There were always ships, going in and out...” He trailed off. “They all found the same thing.”
Once more he stopped speaking. The magpie suddenly twisted its head downward at an impossible-looking angle, driving its beak between the feathers of its own breast as it began to groom itself. Reynard's attention snapped towards the bird at the unexpected motion, and it seemed to shake him from his haze. “They found death. So, they brought their ceremonies with them. We are all very different from one another, regardless of where we are born, but there is always, always death.”
He paused to take another swig of his drink. Flora caught a fresh whiff of the alcohol inside, sharp and arresting. It was strong stuff. “Today we stare death in the face, all of us, and find strength in the life we share. Joie a travers souffrance. You have to laugh through your tears...”
He trailed off uncertainly. It was not only a decidedly macabre thing top say, it was also uncharacteristically poetic. Flora once again found herself at a loss for words. Had she been sitting next to anyone else, she would have placed a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder, but she knew it would likely just make Reynard uncomfortable. He added, softly, “It is not an excuse to drink, even if people always say that.”
“I wouldn't think so,” Flora responded, not knowing what else to say.
The magpie's breast feathers had fluffed to an almost comical degree as it began to move along to its shoulder, the darker feathers of its wing fanning out slightly. “It followed me here. The bird, that is. I do not really know why.”
“He's certainly quite the character,” Flora said, happy to move on to less-depressing topics. “Things would be a little less interesting without your bird around.”
“He's not my bird. He's his own bird.” Reynard replied decisively.
“Well, if he isn't careful, Gyles might make him his dinner.”
“Oh, no, Gyles is terrified. The magpie attacked him once. I would not have even known he was out of the cellar if I hadn't heard it screaming so.” As if sensing that the conversation had turned to it, the bird abruptly stopped grooming and tilted its head to regard them with its single eye. Its feathers were still quite fluffy and ruffled, and Flora chuckled at how off-guard it looked.
Reynard did not smile, but his face relaxed in that way that the butcher had come to recognize as the closest as he was likely to come. He took another drink and once more passed into contemplative silence. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “I should be at his grave.”
Flora looked back to him. “Whose?” she asked gently.
“My father's. Today is the day to tend to the graves and mausoleums. It's the first year since his death that I've been away.” Reynard rocked slightly where he sat with each breath. He was too inebriated to hold himself entirely still any longer. “It's been a very long time.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It is not your fault. My mother,” he went on, looking to her suddenly, “has no grave. She died at sea. But if her spirit ever found its way to land... then I am sure it found its way to him. I do not remember her much, but I know she loved my father.”
“I'm sure she loved you too, Reynard,” Flora said.
“Yes.” He swallowed thickly and looked away once more. He stared straight ahead, but his gaze was unfocused—whether from the increasingly evident effects of the liquor, or simply because his thoughts had begun to turn inward, Flora couldn't tell. His grip shifted on the bottle. The magpie had gone back to grooming itself, and was making little nipping motions with its beak over its back. A stiff autumn wind blew, rustling the leaves all around them. “I have to go back,” he finally said.
“Now?”
“No. Not now. I... I have made a mess of things. I have made a terrible mess of things. I cannot go back as I am now.” He breathed in deeply. “Do you remember when I told you that I did not like broad, open spaces? That strange dizzy feeling—I feel it now. Like something huge is looming over me and I...” He blinked, bewildered, and looked down at his bottle. “I think I might have had too much to drink.”
“I should think such a thing would not need saying,” Flora replied somewhat dryly, “though I have to admit that I have never seen anyone handle something quite so strong so gracefully. It sounds to me like you are on the verge of some sort of decision, Reynard, but it is probably not one you should make while you are so drunk.”
Reynard considered this advice. “No, it is not. Tomorrow, perhaps. I... I need to speak with Owen. I need to try and fix this somehow. I do not know how to go back, but I must go forward somehow. I am... I am not sure that makes sense.” His brow furrowed as he tried to struggle through the alcohol-induced haze on his thoughts, to articulate the vague restless unease that had been festering inside him. “I...” He gave up.
“Tomorrow,” Flora reminded him gently.
“Yes. Yes, tomorrow. I will think. Tonight, though...” He raised his bottle. “Suives de l'ange.” Then he drank another deep swig, sighing heavily (and pungently) when he drew the bottle away from his lips once more. When he looked up to see Flora staring at him, somewhat confused, he said, “Follow the angel.”
His explanation didn't make her any less confused.
It was actually a week or so before Reynard spoke to Owen. He was somewhat apprehensive to broach the subject. He had been a passenger in his life for so very long, allowing circumstances to direct him, that he wasn't sure he knew how to steer his own course. He had ended up here by reacting to things (and reacting badly, he was ready to admit). He wasn't even sure what to do.
So he decided to begin with the beginning of the entire mess. He simply sat with Owen one evening and explained everything. It was quiet in the dining area, the tables still and bare of patrons. The innkeeper was the first person he had ever told about that day over a year ago, when he had woken to what he had thought was a normal morning and had slept in an evening that had become a nightmare. Owen watched him patiently, silently, allowing Reynard to finish before he asked any questions.
“Do you think it's still dangerous for you to go home?”
“I do not know. I can't imagine anyone is looking for me, or they would have found me. I didn't get very far.”
“Yes, you did, and you walked,” Owen pointed out. He, like Flora, had mentioned that he could detect Reynard's accent, but had not thought that his newest hired hand had come directly from St. Cobb, or that he had done so by foot. Such a feat was not uncommon, perhaps, for seasoned travelers, but Reynard was clearly not that sort of individual. “You're very lucky to have made it here in one piece, especially during the winter.”
“I know. Even so, I feel...” He sighed. Reynard was aware of the absurd turns of good fortune that he'd been privy to on his journey, but even so he felt lost, hopelessly adrift. Recounting the story to Owen had only intensified the feeling. He was not good with articulating abstracts. He understood the definite and predictable calculations of mathematics, but words were not his friend. He struggled, grasping for an appropriate phrasing, and finally said, “Like a ship, blown off course.”
Sometimes, it is the smallest things that change the course of the future: the sunlight glinting off a pair of glasses, attracting the attention of a truly remarkable bird; a familiar line of poetry glanced out of the corner of an eye...
...or a particularly apt metaphor.
Owen smiled. The subject of ships and sailing was ever-present on his mind, living as he did in a building named for one. “You might not have ended up where you intended to be, but at least you found a safe harbor. Now, we just have to chart you a new destination.” His thoughts were momentarily brought back to his and Reynard's first real conversation, which in turn reminded them of their first meeting. “At any rate, I'm very glad that I happened upon you in the Fiddler.” When Reynard looked to him, confused, Owen added with a grin, “Well, who knows where you would have ended up otherwise?”
“I couldn't say,” Reynard admitted.
“I am also lucky that you are quite so good with numbers, or else I would have found myself properly swindled.” Owen snorted. “It would have been more of a blow to my pride than anything else, but even so, it's a matter of principle.”
Reynard shrugged. “They have always come easily to me,” he said. In that moment, sitting as he was at a table not far from where he had said something similar to a stranger, he was suddenly reminded of the evening he had spoken with a cultist, a man who had told him not to let an intellect like his go to waste. A single word, two syllables, echoed across his mind.
Gadu.
“Well,” Owen said with a sigh, breaking the trance, “I'm not in any hurry to get rid of my hired help, but if you intend to leave, Reynard, and you want to try and make this right...” He looked Reynard in the eye, his weathered face earnest and his stare unwavering. “I'll do everything I can to help you.”
Reynard stared back. His face was largely as expressionless as ever save but a slight furrowing of the brow. It was the only outward sign of the gratitude he felt welling in him. Months earlier this man had been a stranger, and now he was offering his support—his assistance, even—as Reynard struggled to come to terms with the mess he'd made of his life. “Thank you.” He said softly.
Owen smiled. “One sailor's son to another. Or, er. Grandson, in my case. Sailor's kin, then. I might not be able to do much, but I have friends and family in some of the nearer cities. We might be able to at least send you on your way.”
Reynard nodded. They spoke for a short while longer, with the intent of touching on the subject again soon, and then Reynard was left to climb to his loft to sleep. He felt emotionally drained after his confession, and he welcomed the lumpy mess of straw that served as his mattress. The cooling of the season had made his living space considerably less stuffy, and in such comfort, it wasn't long before Reynard was drifting off to sleep.
It would be a while before Reynard made any kind of decision. There was still a lot of thinking to do, still too many variables to consider to commit to any one plan. That night, though, as slumber dulled the steady calculations of his mind, the echoes returned, faint but insistent.
Gadu.
Dry branches scraped audibly against the roof not far above Reynard's head. Somewhere in the dark, Owen was sighing to himself as he snuffed his candle, a fishmonger named Nicholas was nervously going over a long-awaited and carefully-planned proposal, and a one-eyed magpie was sleeping in an oak tree, motionless except for the ruffling of its feathers in the night wind.
Gadu, the echoes said, Gadu.
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Posted: Sun Oct 27, 2013 8:26 pm
The Year of Lady Octavia
Part 4: The Crossing
or
Life as it is Meant to Be It was several weeks before Reynard brought the matter of the university up to Owen. It had lurked in the back of his thoughts as he’d worked and wondered and tried to piece together his own frayed motivations. Even if he had no idea how to proceed, he was determined to follow through with the hazy course he’d set for himself that autumn night. One day, he would return to St. Cobb, but it would only be on a day where he could leave the city of his birth and still have something outside of its walls to return to.
Beyond that… he was unsure.
As he allowed his thoughts to drift occasionally to the prospect of Gadu, however, the first vague strokes of a picture began to form. Traveling to an entirely different town wouldn’t solve his problems. He’d already learned that he could not outrun then. But the university… it was an intriguing prospect. Reynard had something of an education already, substantial though haphazard, and he already understood how knowledge could increase the complexity of one’s world. The prospect of further learning, further exploration, definitely appealed to him.
At long last, he tentatively brought the matter up to Owen, who received it with much more enthusiasm than Reynard had honestly expected. “Yes, I’ve heard of Triscia. There’s no other place like it on Panymium.” he perked up considerably. “Are you considering going there?”
“I…” Reynard’s customary blank expression wrinkled into a frown. “I don’t know.” He explained, briefly, how he’d come to hear of the university from one of their guests, a member of the Obscuvan sect that had come into town. “It is just an idea, and a poorly-formed one at that. But even so…”
Owen smiled. “Very few ideas spring to our mind that don’t need some manner of perfection. It seems almost like a natural fit, provided you can make your case to the panel. Higher education is still largely the pursuit of nobles.”
Reynard didn’t need to say aloud that he was no noble. There was nothing significant about his bloodline in the least, nothing significant about him except perhaps the progress he’d made so far with his studies and his potential to succeed. He knew enough about the world by now to also know that such a thing was not as terribly uncommon as one might think, either; he might think himself intelligent, and so might his fellows, but Triscia was the pinnacle of education. It would undoubtedly attract the best and the brightest that the region, maybe even the whole continent, had to offer. What if he showed up only to make an embarrassment of himself? What if he was utterly mistaken about his aptitude and turned out to be a bumbling simpleton compared to the seasoned academics in those halls? Doubts churned in his thoughts, but he didn’t voice them.
Owen didn’t need him to. The young man’s uncharacteristically pensive expression and downcast eyes were message enough. “If you can get through the doors, Reynard, then I have no doubt you’ll do splendidly. It remains your decision, but I think it could end very well for you and it's more than just your future you might be changing. There are great things happening at Triscia University. You could be a part of that, I think, if you tried.”
Reynard remained silent for a few moments. “I am not certain that such a venture would end in success,” he confessed quietly.
“That,” Owen responded, “is no reason not to try.”
Reynard looked up from where he’d been staring at the table and met Owen’s eyes, and for just a moment, sitting right there in an inn he hadn’t known existed a year ago, in a city he thought he’d never see, he believed. Softly, he said, “I could do it.”
Flora was equally eager to accept the idea when Reynard presented it to her. He met her one day in the kitchen while she was parceling out wrapped bundles of dried pork to be delivered from the inn later. “It certainly seems like something you were cut out for doing. You work hard, but your talent lies in your head rather than your hands, I’d say.” When Reynard stared back at her, unsure whether he could be confused or offended, she gave a snorting laugh. “I wouldn’t care to attend a university. I’m a butcher. Maybe it’s not something a noble would consider as prestigious as sitting in a dusty library all day, but it’s no less important.”
Reynard stared at her for a few moments. Though he’d never really assumed that intellectual pursuits were in any way inherently better than practical work, he hadn’t come to fully appreciate how important so-called menial tasks really were until he’d found himself responsible for them. He had lived in something of a microcosm in St. Cobb, ignorant of the intricacies of the outer world. “We all depend on one another, then, is what you are saying.”
“Yes, something like that.”
“You are not wrong.”
“I know I’m not wrong, Reynard,” she responded with a laugh. “It’s a very difficult concept for some people to grasp, though. I don’t fancy myself the equal of someone of noble lineage, of course, but all the same I’d like to see a baronet trying to skin and quarter a cow.”
Reynard remained silent for a few moments, before he said, “You are very intelligent, Flora.” It was a statement made as dispassionately as any other that Reynard would have made, but it was said with absolute candid conviction. “I have learned a lot since I was a child, but nobody taught me anything like the things I have learned from you, or from this place.”
Flora was taken somewhat off-guard by the generosity of Reynard’s claim, but she didn’t doubt his sincerity for a moment. “Well, that is because you can’t really teach common sense. You could try, but I doubt you’d pass it along to anyone but your children.”
“If you have any, I am sure they will learn much about the world from you.” A pause. “As well as the skinning and quartering of cows.”
Flora’s hands froze where they rested on the last bundle and she stared at Reynard. His face was expressionless as ever, and his tones had customarily flat. “Reynard,” she asked slowly, incredulously, “did you… just make a joke?”
Reynard stared at her for a moment before he cocked a single brow. Coming from him, this was quite an extravagant gesture of surprise. “I think I did.”
Flora grinned widely. “I think there’s hope for you yet.” She shook her head and got back to work. After a few moments, she returned to the subject of the University. “It’s in Gadu, right?” When Reynard nodded, she cocked her head contemplatively. “I know someone there, a gentleman who handles my spices. I can’t guarantee he’ll be interested in taking anyone on, but if you do decide to go, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“I’d like that,” he concluded.
It had began as an offhand comment, but Flora hadn’t made it frivolously. She’d sent word for him as soon as she could, and received it with equal briskness. Reynard had been keeping the embryonic beginnings of his plan in his thoughts, so when Flora came to him and informed him that he would be welcome at Mule Street’s Apothecary and Spices, the news was met with an attentiveness that betrayed how eagerly he'd been waiting to hear the news.
“He seemed quite happy to oblige, actually,” Flora said as she dictated parts of the letter to Reynard, who had frozen with his hands elbow-deep in a basin in which he’d been carefully scrubbing a handful of sieves. “I was sure to let him know how you are with numbers, and I imagine that sort of thing would be very useful when so much measuring is involved.” She shrugged and looked over the letter to him. “There! If you do decide to go and you are unable to attend Triscia, at least you will have a place to be. Gadu is a big city, and you’d need a foothold.”
Reynard nodded slowly. It was beginning to sink in that what he’d entertained as almost a untouchable, idle thought was starting to form itself into a possibility. “I could do it,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“You could,” she responded sagely.
Nearly a week after that Owen came to Reynard as he was retreating to his room for the night and told him that at the end of the month, a caravan would be making its way to Gadu. “It’ll be one of the last from here to Gadu, as the winter will be settling in soon. It’s already quite colod out, and not the best time to travel, but… well. You know that.” He grinned.
Reynard shrugged.
“It would be easy if you wanted to travel with them. Plenty of rooms on the carts, and if my good word isn’t enough to grant you a place to sit, I’m sure a little coin will do the trick. That is,” he paused, looking Reynard over as he tried to gauge his reaction, “if you want to go.”
“I will… need to think a little longer,” the young man eventually responded.
Owen nodded silently in understanding and let Reynard retreat to his loft space. In the dark, Reynard lay there, staring at the bare eaves above him. Everything was falling into place. He had transport, a place to stay, and most of all he had a chance, which was much, much more than he’d had when he left St. Cobb. As Flora had said, even if Triscia did not choose to open its doors to him, there were plenty of opportunities to be had in the city. It was a place of learning, after all--one couldn’t constrain all of that raw knowledge in a single place.
And now, lying in the dark, he had a choice. The trials that had led him to Persea had taught him that sometimes life's course could not be altered, sometimes there really was no choice. He was just now learning, though, what it felt like to be presented with a choice that could be made, to be presented with a chance to take direct control of his life, for better or for worse. It was frightening and exciting all at once. Reynard took a deep breath.
“I will do it,” he said quietly to himself.
Owen didn't seem particularly surprised to hear Reynard's choice. The former clerk himself wasn't sure if he was surprised: it almost seemed to him like he was only reaffirming a decision he'd truly made long ago. The business of arranging his transport and leave were surprisingly simple. Reynard knew by now that he couldn't expect such lack of resistance in the future, but it seemed as if everything standing in his way had simply been waiting on him to take the first step. Every little convenience just made his choice seem more right somehow.
Except, of course, for the weather.
Winter was not a terribly good time for anyone to travel. Reynard had learned that lesson rather personally on his journey to Persea. Even so, he found himself preparing to leave the city in conditions similar to the ones in which he had arrived. He could be grateful that he was dressed for the weather, at least. His friends had pitched in to have a coat tailored for him: something similar in make to a doublet, but sewn with more brisk utilitarian lines and lacking the elegant embroidery popular with nobility. It was long, and thick, and though unlovely and a rather drab shade of dusty brown, was also warm and comfortable.
The gift it itself had been surprise enough. Reynard already considered himself quite fortunate and deeply indebted to the generosity of his host, and had not anticipated a further extension of such already prodigious kindness. Even more astonishing than the gift itself, however, was its source. It hadn't been just Owen and Flora who'd commissioned the coat, but his neighbors, the merchants he'd regularly done business with, and the familiar faces who spent their time inside the Lady Octavia.
The local constabulary, the tea-fueled minstrels who regularly met, and even the Rutherfield Particulars had all made a contribution. As Reynard had stood, holding the coat carefully in his gloved hands, staring in muted bewilderment at the gift, he struggled to make sense of why so many people he had barely spoken to would care so much.
When he expressed this to Flora, she's just grinned and shaken her head. “You've been here almost a year, Reynard. You might have never sat at their hearths and had deep conversations with all of them, but in some small way, you've been a part of their lives. You're a generally agreeable fellow, even if you are odd sometimes. I'm sure they'd all like to see you succeed.”
Reynard remained silent for a few moments longer. There were only a few days until the caravan left, taking Reynard with it. “I'm really doing this,” he murmured. His fingers tightened on the coat. He had long ago acknowledged that his life had wrenched itself out of his control and had been something to which he merely reacted to for a long time, but now... now he felt as if he were standing at the helm again, as it were.
Flora seemed to recognize the significance of Reynard's words, and obligingly fell silent for a few moments. She had nothing to say to this revelation that was going through his head. There was really nothing to say. Finally she spoke up, breaking her friend's stunned reverie. “You had better not forget to write me, you know.”
Reynard blinked and glanced over. “Of course not. I owe all of you a great deal.”
“Owing us isn't the point, you know,” she chided.
The young man considered this for a moment, he head tilted to one side. “Yes,” he eventually concluded, “I do.” Reynard had never been terribly good at maintaining friendships. Few people had the patience to deal with him, and he was more often than not helpless in social matters. Still, he was willing to put out the effort for the various and odd acquaintances he had made here, serving his year under the roof of the Lady Octavia. “I will write you all.”
Thinking of his acquaintances reminded him of something else, something very important he had forgotten.
Two days before the caravan was scheduled to leave, Reynard went to say goodbye to the magpie. It was patrolling the grounds by its oak tree, as always, and hopped, pivoting acrobatically in place to fix Reynard with its good eye as he approached. He squatted before it, and though it did not approach him, nor did it fly away.
“It is outrageously silly to be talking to you,” Reynard began, “but I can't help but feel that I owe it to you. I do not know what I might have done if I had been forced to travel alone. I might not have found water before I succumbed to thirst. Or,” he shrugged, “I might have drunk bad water and taken ill. Or perhaps I would have been perfectly well; there is simply no telling.”
The magpie had no apparent opinion on this. Likely, if it had possessed the ability to speak, it might have suggested edible recompense for its efforts. It began to strut back and forth across the grass in the jerky fashion of overconfident birds everywhere, and Reynard watched it with no small amount of amusement. The lone magpie had lived up to its legend, in a sense. It had appeared shortly before Reynard's life had taken a turn for the worse, and in its own haphazard way had been his constant companion throughout it.
Now he would be leaving it behind to begin a new chapter of his life. Reynard found himself feeling uncharacteristically sentimental. He would miss the bird, for all its absurdity. “Take care of yourself,” he said, simply.
The bird cocked its head at him quizzically, but made no sound.
As Reynard left Persea, he had to wonder whether or not it would be the last time he saw the city in person. Would he ever see the people who lived there face-to-face again? He couldn't be certain. Perhaps he'd never return—or maybe he would be back within the week, his new plans having sunk into failure. He watched the town slowly fade into the horizon from the back of a cart piled with hay, his knees drawn up and his arms looped loosely around them.
He had plenty of time to think as the caravan wound its way north. The driver of the cart he was hitching a ride in was a weathered woman well into middle-age, a clear veteran on the trails who had simply nothing to say. Reynard made no attempt at small talk, and she seemed just as happy to ride in silence, as well. He caught occasional snatches of conversation further down the caravan line, but he would only be able to follow them for a few sentences before they faded into inaudibility again.
It was a very small caravan, one that was kept moving at a brisk pace to avoid dallying in the inhospitable weather than was rapidly moving in. The trade route they were moving along was direct and obviously prepared for merchant use. Several stops were made at checkpoints to swap out fresh animals every few days or so. Reynard was willing to make himself useful, but he was surrounded by experienced and regular drivers of the trade route, and soon learned that staying out of the way was the best means of making their trip run as smoothly as possible.
He tried not to dwell too much on the possibility of failure. The landscape around him, in this regard, proved to be a welcome distraction. The plains were so very different than the closed-in darkness of the looming trees of the swamps he had grown up in. The hills were rolling, and quite lovely now that he was able to view them as a well-fed and relatively comfortable soul. He would never forget those harrowing days when he'd dragged himself forward primarily through sheer force of will. That fierce desperation still echoed in his memories, and he sensed that holding onto it was important somehow.
Perhaps it is because in some way, those experiences have changed me, he thought to himself as the cart rocked slowly back and forth in time with the footfalls of the mule pulling it. Or perhaps it is important to remember feeling that way so I do not take what I have now for granted.
After nearly three weeks of steady travel, they came to a river crossing. Reynard didn't recognize it at first. The carts had to be taken over the narrow bridge in single-file, and all passengers and guardsmen were obliged to cross on foot on a smaller adjoining bridge. He stared down impassively at the water below, which was flowing steadily eastward towards the sea. The surface of the water was mottled with leaves, varying in color from rich reds and brilliant yellows to dried, dead brown, all of them drifting slowly along in the lazy current.
Reynard allowed his eyes to follow their progress until he was facing the eastern skyline. There was a forest further along the river, the treeline marked by gnarled, primordial shapes of cypress trees. A swamp...
With a start Reynard looked back down to the water. It hadn't hit him before, but this was the river Styx, the same river that flowed through St. Cobb. His travels had taken him on a winding course south of it, and now, after so much travel, he had reached it again. He had never crossed the river before, and once he arrived on the opposite bank, he would then be farther north that he had ever been before in his entire life.
He was not emboldened by the knowledge, and the river crossing left him somewhat shaken for the rest of the day. That evening, the caravan stopped on the outskirts of Waterbury, both to take advantages of the city's outlying stables as well as to switch off some of the carts traveling along. Reynard sat on the fringes of a loosely-arranged group of fellow travelers, his back against a twisted and stunted tree of indeterminate pedigree. He was working his way slowly through a belligerently chewy loaf of bread, his eyes cast west, towards the setting sun.
The distance between the tree he sat under and Persea was staggering. He was risking a lot to be out this far, and there in the gathering twilight, Reynard was struck by how expansive the world around him was. The world and his future yawned before him. It was dizzying, like standing on the edge of a cliff, a sensation reminiscent of the first time he'd stepped out of the swamps he'd called his home to behold the full and terrifying panorama of the sky...
A dry rustling followed by a thump broke his thoughts. Blinking, Reynard looked sharply in the direction of the sound.
The magpie was already arranging its wings into a more dignified configuration, pulling itself up off the ground. Reynard didn't even have to see the scar where one of its eyes should have been. He would have recognized the bird from Hanover street by the way it carried itself alone: in that, it was distinct from every other creature he'd seen in his life. He gave a snort. “You again.”
The magpie swiveled its head to look directly at the bread in Reynard's gloved hands.
“You,” he concluded, “will go to a great many lengths for a meal.” He drew in a deep breath and returned to watching the sunset, allowing his thoughts to drift. They still had a lot of ground to cover before they reached Gadu. He supposed he should spend the interval preparing himself for the various things he'd need to do to present his case to the panel at Triscia. The confidence that he'd felt while leaving Persea had dwindled somewhat on the long road north. He'd lost it in the rolling hills, in the flow of the river. It was a big world, and he was alone in it.
His thoughts were interrupted yet again, but this time not by a sound, but instead by a sudden and slight weight on his knee.
The former clerk turned his head. The magpie was sitting there, perched on his knee as if it were the most natural thing in the world, looking between Reynard and his loaf of bread with a vaguely expectant air. Reynard pinched off a small portion of the bread between two fingers and offered it to the bird.
The magpie took it without hesitation, snapping it up with a quick jerking motion of its head. It remained there, still watching him, fearless and bold. Slowly, Reynard lifted his hands, wrangling the loaf as he plucked one of his gloves from his hands. Tentatively, he reached out with pale, slim fingers, gingerly brushing them along the back of the magpie's neck. It wasn't the first time he'd touched a bird. One of his caretakers as a child had kept a great many exotic feathered creature, and they were tame as hounds, eager to be scratched and handled.
It was, however, the first time he had ever touched a wild bird. The magpie didn't duck away, but rather just curved its neckt, exposing the back of its neck so that Reynard could softly stroke along the underside of the feathers, fluffing them with gentle care. The magpie tilted its head to the side, a thin grey eyelid sliding closed over its remaining eye as it luxuriated in the attention. The former clerk rubbed one fingertip with exceeding gentleness against the side of its head. It made a very brief, monosyllabic croaking noise, wholly unpleasant to the ear, but an obvious sign of contentment, even so.
With slow deliberation, Reynard smiled.
The magpie's somewhat dramatic crash landing had attracted the attention of one or two of the travelers dining closer to Reynard. A young woman drinking from a waterskin grinned as the magpie twisted its head to take full advantage of Reynard's stroking fingers. “There are some who would say that those birds are bad luck.”
Reynard shrugged with one shoulder, glancing up to her. The magpie took advantage of his distraction, opening its eye a sliver and sneaking a n** at the loaf of bread he still held in his free hand. “They are probably right,” he responded drily.
The traveler watched him for a few moments more before she took another swig, her expression softening into a smile. “Even so, you have a lovely bird.”
“You know,” Reynard responded, returning his attention to the magpie, a soft smile still playing over his features, “I rather think that I belong to it.” Thus Ends the Year of Lady Octavia
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