Queen Tarnas Regalia

Aranthir V

A tense pall gripped the city of Crestwood, even as night settled over the city. All throughout the city, patrons leaned over tavern tables and close together in the streets, whispering of news from the palace on the hill. The queen was ill, they said, her old body close to death. The succession was endangered, with her young grandniece preferred by the dying queen, while the nobles preferred her late husband's grandson from a prior wife. And so the city shut itself behind their doors, hoping and praying for a peaceful succession but fearing bloodshed in the streets again.

Under the sign of the Cooked Goose, these rumormongers crowded together with their flagons of ale. The scent of pipe smoke intermingled with the slow roasting of a haunch of goat over the hearth. Over the constant murmur of the nightly chatter, the clinking of coins at the dice tables could be heard. A half-dozen tongues were spoken under this roof by everyone from day laborers to merchants to sellswords. A serving man navigated the tangle of tables with a full tray of drinks while in his wake walked a plain-faced harlot, her chest bared to attract customers.

Against the back wall, three men of the latter profession sat around a table. The shortest and youngest of them was a Cimbran, dressed in a short conical felt hat, a knee-length coat beneath a thickly padded vest, and breeches tucked into his knee-high boots. Around his waist his wore a sword belt from which hung not just a worn saber, but a battered wheellock pistol, accompanied by a powderhorn and a pouch of shot. At his feet was a traveler's cloak and heavy pack. The man to his left was a tall, broad-shouldered man of almost forty, with a thick black beard and hair in a ponytail running down his back. He wore a brigandine coat of dull red with a white shirt underneath, dark green trousers, and a pair of blackened riding boots. At his waist was a rondel dagger with an aquamarine stone in the pommel, a thick coin pouch, and broad-bladed messer. He leaned over the table with a mug of ale and a small ledger in front of him.

The last man was in fact no full-blooded man, but a half-elf. He was tall and slender, but with finely honed muscles. His eyes were green and piercing, glittering in the inn's candlelight, his hair black and short, usually hidden under a morion that now rested on the floor beneath their table. He wore a brigandine coat similar to his companion's, though in better condition and dyed forest green. Two iron poleyns covered his knees and a steel gorget enclosed his throat. Against the table leaned his long sword in its scabbard while a poignard and two wheellock pistols hung from his swordbelt. Across his chest was a bandolier from which hung twelve readymade cartridges for the pistol. While his companions drank and counted coins, his strange green eyes swept back and forth across the room, his swordhand cradling a simple goblet filled with strong red wine.

"Where to now?" asked the black-bearded man, tapping their ledger with the wooden end of a pen. "The reward will keep us fed and housed for another week, or less if you keep buying strong wine, and we've still some of the money from the Brythumbar campaign, but we're short of coin and shorter of work. Calinad is in need of men, though with their king dead, they will surely have trouble raising the money."

"We could always work for the other side," Krulles said, his voice heavy with the Wilds' accent, but his companions scoffed.

"I like having my head attached to my neck, thank you. Ironfist is not one to forget slights done to him, and our party accounts for many. Calinad will likely look to make peace while they still have something to give, but there are rumors that King Petarr will make war on Asharas next. Surely, they will welcome the king's enemies under their banner."

"Three months starving outside Hiborann and you are eager to enlist again?" the half-elf asked. He tapped the goblet with one finger and shook his head, all the while keeping his eyes on the other patrons. "With only three of us, we won't be so attractive to the kings' captains. Work such as the bounty are more our billet."

"Something to bring us into contact with the local magnates," the Wildman suggested in his heavy drawl, "get our names on their lips and we might find a position as their retainers."

"I've no desire to be an aristocrat's kept man," the bearded man snorted. "The life of a mercenary is what the gods intend for me, and only a fool spits in their eye."

"Suit yourself, Lutharis," the Wildman replied with a shrug. "While you spend your nights in muddy ditches and crowded roadside flophouses, I will live in a rich man's castle and never wonder where my next meal will come from."

"Perhaps in time you will come to realize the cost of being a pet to the aristocrats, Krulles," replied Lutharis, lifting his mug to his lips. "They are not so generous to their retainers as you seem to think."

Krulles sat back on his stool, his mouth twisted in annoyance.

"Lutharis speaks true," the half-elf said. "I should think that a Wildman such as yourself would hope to remain free, seeking his fortune on the road under his own power."

"I've done enough scrabbling for fortune in the forests and hills. The towns hold the worldly pleasures, and the rich men the coin I need to buy them with."

"Take it from Aranthir," Lutharis said, pointing across the table to their half-elven companion. "He has led the life of a mercenary for decades, but always turned down employment from the magnates. It always leads to trouble."

Aranthir nodded in agreement but said nothing. His eyes flitted across the room as a hooded man entered the tavern and looked around. He wore a plain gray cloak, but underneath it Aranthir could see he was well-dressed in a doublet of rich green, slashed with white at the neckline and white a ruffled collar. The man looked around the room from within the depths of his cloak. The other patrons paid him little mind, engrossed in their conversations, dice games, and drinks. Slowly, the man began to pick his way through the tables, giving each man a look over as he did.

"And where has that gotten him?" Krulles continued, unaware of the newcomer's arrival. "In all this time, he could have become someone. An enforcer for noblemen, or even kings. I've seen you work a sword. There are men who would pay good money to keep a blademaster like yourself on their retainer. But instead, you spend your long years wandering from place to place, never resting long."

"The life suits me," Aranthir replied, raising his goblet as he kept his eyes roaming about the room. "Lutharis has it right."

Krulles snorted. "Seems a wasted opportunity is all. Now we're stuck without a job, in a dingy tavern in a city about to erupt into war, wondering where our next meal will come from. At least we could sign on with one of the feuding factions for whatever hostilities are about to break out."

"Kings and princes play a dangerous game," said Lutharis with a shake of his head as he raised his drink again. "They spend their whole lives learning to play it. For someone unfamiliar to step into the game is like wading into a viper pit."

The hooded man approached slowly, his head swinging slowly from one table to another, hands beneath his cloak. Aranthir watched and waited, wine cup raised before him as his companions chattered on.

"A dangerous game with great rewards," added Krulles. "Many before us have played it and won. Think of the prizes to be won, Lutharis. Gold, silks, palaces, armies, slaves!"

"You're more like to end up dead in a ditch than seated on a throne. They all play for keeps, and dislike new entrants to their game."

The hooded man looked their way and Aranthir caught his eye. He squared his shoulders and began walking forward at a quickened pace. As he neared them, Aranthir's left hand drifted to the handle of a pistol.

"We have a guest," Aranthir said quietly. Lutharis and Krulles looked up, following his gaze. Lutharis put a hand to his belt, but the stranger raised a hand.

"I am not here to threaten you," he said in a soft voice, laced with the airs and accent of high society. "You are Aranthir of Ildranon, are you not?"

"You have found the one you seek," replied Aranthir. "But tell me, why do you seek me out?"

"I am here on behalf of someone on the hill, to ask your aid," the man answered, pulling his hood closer around him.

"The hill?" Krulles asked with interest. "Who on the hill knows our names?"

"Not yours," the man replied, "Just the half-elf. My master is willing to pay handsomely for you aid, sirrah."

"Continue," Aranthir said after a pause. The man shook his head.

"Not here." He looked around them, eyes passing over the other rough customers of the tavern, most disinterested. But a few curious stares turned their way, and the hooded man was clearly uncomfortable.

"Where then?" asked Aranthir. "I should hope you are not leading us into a trap."

"No, sirrah," the man replied. "But my master requires secrecy for this. We live in dangerous times."

"Hm," Aranthir grunted in agreement. "Don't we all. Very well. Give us a moment to finish our drinks and gather our things and we will follow you."

The man nodded, so Aranthir and his companions did as much as said. Shouldering their packs and strapping on their weapons again, they followed the hooded man through the press of the crowds. Some curious eyes followed their progress, and they were briefly blocked by a tavern wench carrying a tray of drinks, but they reached the door without incident and were soon through it, into the streets.

Aranthir cast searching looks up and down the street. Apart from a beggar squatting in the shadows of a tailor's shop, they were alone.

"Now that you have successfully lured us into the dark, abandoned streets, might you bless us with your name?" Aranthir asked. The man turned to them with a wry half-smile.

"I am known as Retta, and I am the deputy to Her Majesty's seneschal."

"You come on behalf of the queen?" Krulles asked, and Lutharis could hardly hide his amusement.

"Nay, the queen bids nothing of anyone in her state," Retta replied, "she will pass on soon enough. But we should not stand here long, time is of the essence."

He turned and headed off down the street at a brisk walk. Exchanging resigned looks among themselves, Aranthir and his companions set off behind him. Retta led them through backstreets with practiced ease, winding their way up the largest of Crestwood's hill, where it was crowned by the Royal Palace of Queen Tarna. The palace was visible from most streets, as long as the buildings were not too high. It was built of stone, but plastered over so that it shone in the sunlight or torchlight of the night. A great gilded dome dominated the central building, while the outbuildings were roofed in weathered green copper. A tall wall surrounded the entire complex, broken in several places by gates overlooked by barbicans that bristled with loopholes and machicolations.

Aranthir kept his guard up, always checking the alleys and doorways for an ambush or a tail. The streets were empty. Scarcely anyone was out in the streets, and those that were headed for shelter when they spotted Aranthir's party. Fear ruled these streets.

Before they reached the palace, Retta turned off the main street. Below the palace, the hilltop was ringed with streets inhabited by the luminaries of court. Their guide stopped at a side gate to one such home. The house was ringed by a stone wall that stood perhaps a foot higher than Aranthir's head. It was steep roofed, with slate shingles and buttresses. A narrow turret jutted out of the façade, overlooking the street. It was nearly dark, with only one room lit by the blurred flames of candles seen through curtains. Retta opened the wrought iron gate, whose old hinges squealed painfully in the cold, still night.

"Go in quickly," Retta urged, "We must make haste."

Aranthir peered ahead, one hand on the handle of a pistol. Krulles pushed past him impatiently and entered the side courtyard. Lutharis and Aranthir exchanged looks and Aranthir shrugged. They went in, hearing the clang of the iron gate behind them. Retta pushed past and knocked three times on the door, then paused and knocked three more times. They waited in silence. A solitary light flickered in the window.

At last, a peephole in the door slid open, and a pair of suspicious eyes looked out. Retta raised a gloved hand and lifted two fingers. The face behind the door nodded, and the peephole slid shut again. There was the sound of keys turning in locks, then the door swung open. Behind it stood a man in a servant's livery, though what master he served Aranthir could not tell.

Damned nobles are all so suspicious

, he thought to himself. From Lutharis' face, he could tell the veteran mercenary was thinking the same. Krulles, however, was eager to enter the house and learn more.

Retta entered first, exchanging wordless nods with the servant. Aranthir and his companions slowly entered the dark house behind him. They were led down an unlit hallway until they reached a door. Standing at it, the servant looked to Retta again, then unlatched the door. Light spilled into the hallway and Aranthir found his eyes adjusting too slowly.

The perfect time for someone to strike

, he thought to himself.

But no knives came for him in his moment of blindness. Instead, he looked through the open portal to see a lavishly appointed salon. The curtains were drawn to shield them from prying eyes outside, masking the light of the room's many candles from reaching the street. A velvet-upholstered couch sat in the center of the room, fronted by a polished wooden table inlaid with designs of men on the hunt. Other couches were arranged along the wall, and opposite them was a three-panel mirror, tall enough that a man might see his whole body in it. The walls were adorned in richly colored tapestries while the floor was covered in a thick rug.

Aranthir stepped slowly inside, looking around as he did. They were alone, no assassins laid in wait. Lutharis and Krulles followed him inside, the former loosening his grip on his rondel. He and Aranthir exchanged looks and shrugs. Krulles was in awe of the luxury around him. He moved close to the tapestries, running his hand along the thick cloth, which in some places was threaded with gold.

"Marvelous," he breathed, "just one of these would buy me a house in the Wilds."

"Don't start stuffing your pack yet," joked Lutharis, "we're here to hear about a job."

"And they're watching you as well," Aranthir added with a wry smile. The servant looked unamused, but Retta's expression did not change.

"Wait here. My master will be along in a moment," said Retta. Then he turned and left the room.

"Such luxury," Krulles went on, indifferent to Retta's departure entirely. "And this is not even the royal palace itself."

"All of this is too much for someone to afford on a retainer's wages," Lutharis cautioned. "All this is far beyond any station we are likely to achieve in life."

"If this is what a nobleman enjoys, think what riches the queen herself enjoys. She surely sleeps on silken sheets and dines on gold and silver!"

Lutharis shook his head in exasperation.

"What do you make of this?" he asked, drawing close to Aranthir. The half-elf shrugged.

"It seems to be what the man said. Someone on the hill wants our help. If they wanted us dead, there are easier ways to get it done."

"You plan to take sides in this struggle?" he asked.

"I'll listen to what he has to say, then make my decision. And you?"

"I'll go where you go," Lutharis said and Aranthir nodded.

The door opened and a woman entered. She was tall and slender, dressed in a blue dress embroidered with dancing cats and white mantle. Her blonde hair was long enough to reach her waist, bound around her brow by a woven headband that supported a sheer veil hanging over her neck and shoulders. She was young, no more than perhaps twenty-five, but stern beyond her years.

She looked over the three mercenaries aloofly, hands clasped in front of her.

"Good evening, your ladyship," said Aranthir, but he received no reply.

"They are as you requested, Highness," she said at last, looking to the door she had entered through. After a moment, another woman entered. This one was shorter and broader at her shoulders and hips. She wore a dress of dark red silk that shone in the candlelight, embroidered with gold design all along and ermine at the hem and sleeves. Gold and gems stone on her breast and her wrists, a brilliant red ruby sparking at her throat. Her face was wide and fair, with brown eyes outlined in black and a wide yet narrow mouth. She wore a tall, pointed red hennin, swept backwards so that the veil at its end floated in the air behind her as she walked. Her hair was mostly hidden beneath her hennin's lappet cloth, but Aranthir spied a few strands of bright red hair that had wriggled free. She seated herself on the couch in the middle of the room.

"You are Aranthir of Ildranon?" she asked, her hands folded in her lap. She spoke in the high language of the court, intelligible but also distinctly foreign to those of common birth. For Aranthir, who was no native speaker of her language but a seasoned wanderer of all lands, her speech was airy and aloof, as was she.

"I am," replied Aranthir. "These are my companions, Lutharis, and Krulles of Cimbra."

"You are the same Aranthir of Ildranon who won Petarr Ironfist his crown?"

"According to the minstrels, though surely His Grace would tell you he won it himself."

"And what would you tell me?'

"I would tell you that I served him once, for a few days before the war, when I thought he was a prince like any other. Anything he did after those days, he did without me."

She looked past him to Lutharis and Krulles, who was standing in awe of her silks and jewels.

"These are your companions? I had heard you ran with more rarified company. Last spring, we you not in the company of Janguld the Fox?"

"I was, but last spring was quite some time ago. I am now in their company."

"Very well," she said. "Hear me now. I offer you—"

"Hold on," Aranthir cut in. "We have not been formally introduced. I know who you are, but I would have you say it. Be upfront about what it is you are asking, and on whose behalf we will be serving. Do not take me for a fool."

Her mouth tightened, and she rearranged her skirts. She cast an annoyed look to the woman in blue and then raised her head to look Aranthir in the eye.

"As you wish. I am Princess Brokha, Crown Princess of Broidha, Duchess of Baeregon, Marquise of Kanyz, Countess of Jagion and Mahakson, and Lady-Mayor of Crestwood. This is my handmaiden and devoted servant, Lady Leaysa of Dainne, Daughter to Count Marsin of Preimar. Are you sufficiently introduced, Aranthir of Ildranon?"

Aranthir shrugged. "I am. Though I must say, if you intended to keep your identity a secret, you would have done well to come dressed in plainer clothes."

"I had no such intentions," replied the princess, "But enough of this. I require you to retrieve something for me, from the home of my cousin, Prince Janndar. For this task, I offer you the reward of three thousand silver marks."

Krulles let out a gasp, while Aranthir and Lutharis stood with their hands on their belts.

"We accept!" Krulles burst out.

"Hold on a moment longer," cautioned Aranthir. "Tell me more. What am I to retrieve? Where is the prince's home? How many guards does he have? Are there wards? You ask me to do something that no doubt puts us all in great danger."

Brokha sighed. "Very well. He has stolen the queen's regalia, a mantle, scepter, and sword. In doing so, he has confirmed that he wishes to have himself crowned as her successor, which bodes poorly for my future. Without those items, the priests will not crown me. My subjects will repudiate me. And so I need them back."