After Winter, a Spring Fair

[BDAdmin]

It is a sudden thing. One day the North Passage Down is quiet, a bare trickle of riders and walkers who can manage the rain-mired roads, still too sodden for heavier traffic; on the next - or so it seems - the Sagpa crossings echo with the rumble of cartwheels and hooves and the tramp of marching feet. Wagons roll inexorably towards Myrkentown, heavy carts laden with goods - with food, sacks of roots and grain, wicker cages of squawking poultry. A flow of Victuals that promises relief from the hungry Winter, enough to tide the land over until the early crops - already sending up eagerly-awaited shoots - can be harvested, and Myrken Wood can feed itself once more.

With the caravan, however, travels an unexpected company. Some march alongside the food wagons, clearly placed as guards and escorts; the rest form long columns of blue-and-gold at the back of the procession, the Spring sunlight glinting from breastplates and kettle hats, the dirt of the road dulling their boots and coat-skirts; pikemen, bowmen, a handful of mounted scouts, a train of supple wagons toiling along behind. A full regiment - a thousand men, maybe more - and here and there among them the blazon of a prancing stag.

By noon the convoy is in sight of Myrkentown's walls, but does not cross the bridge over the East Mavoiir; instead, under the soldiers' direction, they turn aside to the stretch of grassy common which more often hosts fairs and festivals, cattle auctions and carnivals. Further back from the road the men of the Golden Hart set to pitching tents and digging latrines, their long march apparently at an end for now; the caravaneers unhitch their animals and stake them out to graze, and begin erecting brightly-coloured awnings between the carts and wagons.

The intention, clearly, is for the victuallers and merchants of Myrkentown to come to them.

[Kestrel]

The Kestrel's men had long been out of their beds. They gathered upon the lawn of the tavern their illustrious leader called her home, dressed in crimson and white. The colors of their Lady. Their warhorses shifted where they stood impatiently and the men murmured to one another. The noise came to an abrupt halt when she slipped from the tavern in her very fine uniform. She reached to run the pad of her thumb over the gleaming metal of her seal. The dwarf was an ever-present shadow at her back and the made their while through the respectful silence to their own mounts. Peropis seemed to puff up his chest with pride, pawing the ground once, but otherwise behaving himself.

This he knew. Battle, he knew. It soothed his soul, calmed his blood. Mutely, the company began marching in rigid structure towards where the caravan arrived.

The men had their direction and moved off to dole out the details to those who had arrived to grant Myrkentown much-needed aid.

For her part, she made her swift way towards the Baron with her chin lifted high. She would exchange pleasantries with the man. It was only polite. She left Peropis and made her way towards the man with long strides. "Baron Surdemer." A hearty handshake and a gentle smile would greet him.

The responsibilities had been delegated, all was in order.

Soon, the Myrkeners would begin to arrive to see their the Lady appeared to have brought to them. Her men would send well-timed whispers through the crowds about what little their Governor had done as of late.

The plans were well in motion.

[channe]

In the morning, then, not long after the arrival of the retinue, rides Agnieszka River in full Myrken regalia -- greens and browns and the tree-tabard, but also wearing at her throat the Trae Kelsan blackstone sigils she wore on her shoulder as part of the King's Own.

She'll introduce herself, and say that as head of the Defense Council of Myrken Wood she will, of course, meet with the leader of the troops.

[BDAdmin]

The meadow is a scene of organised... well, to call it chaos would be a disservice to those coordinating efforts, so frenetic activity is probably close enough. The troops keep their distance, busying themselves with organising their campsite, an endeavour in itself.

Tents sprout like mushrooms after the rain, and small groups of men are dispatched into the forest to gather wood for the evening's campfires. The Baron himself, with a few of his aides, strolls through the ad-hoc marketplace as the merchants set up their stalls and lay out their goods for inspection. Already there comes an inquisitive trickle of gawkers, watching the proceedings from the sidelines, chatting curiously with the teamsters as they water their animals. Where are they from, why are they here, what have they brought with them? The caravaneers have been primed, it seems, as they make mention of Lady Egris as the figure responsible.

The Baron Surdemer leaves the business of making camp in the hands of his officers, captains directing sergeants, sergeants bawling orders at the rank-and-file. The Baron himself, boots and coat freshly brushed, strolls through the bustle with a proprietorial air, a couple of aides following dutifully at his heels. The lady's approach warrants a genial smile, a bow of his head and firm handshake in greeting; when he speaks his voice is hearty, almost jovial, and incidentally loud enough to carry to those townsfolk who have already begun to filter into the meadow, wandering wide-eyed along grassy streets of this makeshift shopping district.

"My lady Egris." A nod to the aide at his left, and a roll of paper is proferred for the Baron to take, and offer in turn to the lady. "A manifest of merchants, wagons and their cargo. You will find all accounted for here, and I now deliver them into your care." A formality, a symbolic transfer of responsibility to the Kestrel. "I'm glad I and my regiment could be of service."

---

Meanwhile at the edge of the meadow the rider is met by a couple of blue-and-golds sharing news from the South with a handful of crimson-and-whites; there's a moment of uncertainty as both groups try to ascertain which leader the Chairwoman wishes to meet, until it's noted that they're both standing over there; so, if the lady will follow? One of the blue-and-golds can watch her horse, if need be.

[channe]

Egris.

She should have known. She should have known that the woman who'd dismissed her so coldly was a Crown crony. Well, Agnieszka hadn't been wearing the sigil of the King's Own when she'd first met the woman -- so, of course she would have been dismissed for one of the puffed-up locals. But that blackstone sigil at her throat says that she is not only King's Own, but one of those who had made the Sacrifice, and that should be enough to give the two Razasani stuffed-shirts pause, she thinks. For it's obvious Agnieszka knows these colors and marching formations; there's not even a question in her eyes as she dismounts, hands the reins of her horse to the young squire-type following her, and stalks over to the two.

"My lord. My lady. I would expect you to have ridden straight through to the Pass and thus to Thessilane, from what I've heard of what happened at Orvere." A look from one to the other. "I'm Agnieszka Kaczmarek, the leader of defense here. Glad to see you. Some notification would have been appreciated, though."

[Rance]

Cherny was somewhere; not far off, of course, but upon their curious approach she'd been distracted by one of the blue-and-golds swinging his mattock into the rocky soil. Thunk, said the clawed mattock. The soldier stuck fulfilling less-pleasant duties was darker-skinned, primed by the Sun and glistening with a sheen of sweat. He looked approachable; he was digging a hole. All the others stood in stark lines and reminded her of gravestones. Some of them pitched canopies. But he was digging, perspiring, working. Thunk.

"What are you digging for," Gloria Wynsee asked, rolling her shoulder beneath the makeshift spaulder that kept steady her handless left limb.

"Making a hole. For shitting into," he clarified, not looking away from his work.

"There was once a very smart potter," she said. "He made the first chamber pot. It's become something of an institution."

"Better in a hole," he said. "You don't have to squat. You can even put a wooden seat over it. And you hang some modest drapes about it, and it offers quite a bit of priv-assee."

"Oh," she said. " But who carries the wooden seat when you march?"

"Whoever drinks the least the night before," he said, shouldering the mattock for another swing.

She didn't ask anything else. Nobody was drinking yet. She supposed that hole would be there for quite awhile.

* * * *

There were whole lines of blue-and-gold standing shoulder-to-shoulder, squeezed together in their clunky helmets with their broad pauldrons forming a single interminable line. They all smelled of the road, those soldiers: dank of sweat and dust, sour men with stern faces. She hooked a finger in the ribbon of her bonnet to keep it steady as a gust of wild spring wind threatened to pull it away. Gloria stood about, examining them with interest -- had they marched far, ridden further? Did they ever get tired of walking? Were any of them missing a hand, she wondered. Had they fought wolves before?

She turned her head to look for Cherny, but caught sight of a familiar gaggle. The Lady Egris cut a figure like a sleek water-ink painting, as tall as a siccamurr like those drawn in the botany registries at the Inquisitory. Across from the Kestrel, surrounded by a number of fine, smooth-shaven men, was one fellow in particular she'd never seen before: I and my regiment, she overheard; his, as though he owned or had staked claim over every pair of feet, every kettle-helm, every pair of elbows, every soldier scattered in the meadows.

And approaching them, like a flickering ember waiting to burst, was Agnieszka Kazmerrik.

The seamstress nudged her way through a scattered forest of curious townspeople. She lurched closer to the remarkable group, peeling back her bonnet-bill to expose an ear that she might listen.

[Kestrel]

Her agents did her own bidding, milling among the Baron's people and merchants in startling red and white. The dwarf, clad in all-black, barked orders to his own men and they stretched across the field, mingling with the blue-and-golds. They were, at once, companions. Remarking on one anothers' weapons, jesting about the others' emblem and jostling one another when out of eyesight of their leaders. They were all King's men, after all, under their regalia. Compatriots without knowing one another. Men of the sword and crown. Henderson was there, Gloria might note, stalwart at the dwarf's side. He glanced her way and then away again, resolute in his inattention, by his Lady's order.

Across the camp, Egris' eyes flashed with mirth as she spoke to the Baron. She accepted the manifest with a gracious nod of thanks and a wink directed towards the aide. It was tucked away into an inner pocket of her uniform for the time being. "Well, my lord, don't you clean up nicely," she teased the Baron, with a pointed nod towards his shining boots and coat. Her grin was cheeky.

As Agnieszka approached, however, her jovial mannerisms vanished behind a mask of chilled indifference. She shifted to the Baron's side smoothly and attempted to take his elbow as if they were merely out for a stroll.

"Ah, Kaczmarek, I was not aware that one needed permission to give aid to the townsfolk. Nor that you were one of the parties who could grant it," she remarked, her smile disarming, but the line of her frame rigid beside the Baron.

[Treadwell]

Somewhat earlier in the morning.

"My lord, Mister Jack Alldale has most unusual news."

Hazy fog of sleepiness. Hanger-ons of dreams of ale and food, of floating waist deep in an endless sludge.

"Mmm? News? Let me sleep, Gregory."

"They look official, sir."

"Official?"

One gummy, blurry eye opens--staring at not the butler's face but Mrs. Treadwell's round back with its liver-spotted mark of age at her left shoulderblade.

Rolling sluggishly over must follow to right this.

"Jack says, if he isn't mistaken, that they wear the king's colors."

Flubbalubbing heart flutterflumps in his chest.

"They're south of town, setting up a grand show."

The present.

Councilor Treadwell's great, round carriage, pulled by its matching horse and driven by the butler and town crier in question rolls lazily to the field where everything is being set. After it comes to a shlumpf of a stop, accompanied by an aggravated whinnying from Arnold, out hefts the Councilor, garbed, for once, in something somber and sober: black, with a white sash around his middle, with a pipe smoking in his mouth, all despite the summer heat. Fan in one hand, cane in the other.

Beady, wet eyes squint and study myopically.

There. Myrken colors. Green and golden brown. Stooped, aching-backed shuffling starts that way, staying clear of too many people. Agnieszka Kaczmarek is recognized first. . . and then the Lady.

Aloisius, old boy, you ought to have known she was here for something.

[BDAdmin]

It doesn't take long for the more enterprising townsfolk to spy an opportunity in the gathering of wagons; market days have been sparsely-attended, the stalls bare, the traders lean-faced and despondent. But this - this promises an end the hungry months of Winter, and not a moment too soon.

Before long there is a steady stream of traffic across the bridge, a rattle of hurrying hand-carts as street vendors join the fray, their little charcoal stoves sending plumes of blue smoke and savoury scents into the sunlit air. Some strike quick deals with the visiting merchants - a sack of shelled nuts from here, a jar of sweet honey from there, a cup of oil from yonder, and soon they are hawking hot treats to passers-by; others sell flatcakes or honey-drizzled confections of fried dough, whatever can be made quickly and sold hot.

Not far off a band of musicians strikes up a jolly tune on fiddle, pipe and drum, clad in finery unworn since the Lady's Summer, now hanging a little looser on their limbs; as the afternoon progresses the air fills with a clamour of voices, merchants advertising their wares, traders from town haggling over prices, and cries of surprise and delight at wares not seen for months, carried from the distant South. There is laughter, loud and relieved, as a man drowning might laugh as his feet unexpectedly come to rest on firm sand.

---

"One never knows when one will be on parade, my lady. It's important for a commander to set a good example." Mildly-spoken platitudes offered in return, amiable without straying into unseemly intimacy. His smile is sincere enough, in any case, though it settles into something more restrained at the approach of what seems to be a deputation of sorts; the Chairwoman might be encouraged to note the slight stiffening of of the Baron's shoulders as Lady Egris takes his arm, a sidelong flick of blue eyes at the familiar gesture. He doesn't draw away, however, instead taking a moment to inspect the newcomer's livery, the tabard and - a blink and brief lifting of brows - the token at her throat. A moment's calculation, and he inclines his head in greeting.

"Baron Almeric Surdemer, Colonel of His Majesty's Twenty-Eighth." Brisk, clipped tones, and a glance over his shoulder at the blue-and-gold troops as they bustle to and fro about their camp. "Mm. An oversight on my part, for which I beg your pardon. It's been a long march through Heath, but once we learned the urgency of the Lady Egris' convoy I deemed it best to see the merchants arrive as quickly as possible." Polite, professional as he calmly brushes aside the matter of notification.

"We'll be resting here for a short while before we attempt the mountains - the men will need their strength on the other side, as I'm sure you can imagine if you have word from Orvere." A tilt of his head at that, clearly curious as to what the lady Kaczmarek might know.

[Cherny]

Cherny moves carefully between the thickening crowd of townsfolk, grocers and goodwives and traders meandering from stall to stall or gathered in little knots around this awning or that.

He stops by the corral to greet Peropis and be sure the warhorse has all he needs, and spends a little while chatting with a farrier in blue-and-gold, soon joined by one of the wagoners, and listening as they banter over the relative merits of horses and oxen.

He watches as local youths hire themselves out to the merchants, hauling heavy sacks of grain and barrels of southern wine; he lingers near the musicians, grinning as a group of younger children dance to the merry tunes - though not without a brief chill in his gut as the fiddler plays a snatch from a reel he'd last heard the summer before, before everything changed.

He hurries away after that until accosted by a round-faced man with coppery skin, his stall set out with dishes of strange morsels to be sampled; he nearly breaks his teeth on the stone at the heart of the first offering, zaytoon, preserved in a golden oil; he more carefully tries something like a large currant, a tamr, and the trader is delighted by the boy's slow smile at its syrup-sweetness; he nibbles a small cube of delicate sugar-dusted pink lukoom, and the man laughs aloud as the squire's eyes widen at the taste of flowers infused therein. In the end he counts out a small handful of coins and walks away with a collection of little paper packets which he stows carefully in his satchel.

By the time he finds his sister again he is taking unhurried bites from a fried dough-cake, powdered sugar spotting the black of his surcoat. He's quiet for a moment, standing at her side and craning to follow her gaze, until eventually he nudges her elbow with his and holds out the remaining half of the cake for her with a grin.

"Hsst. Earwig." A stage-whisper as dark eyes flick to the little cluster of notable personages, interest piqued by the approach of what might be trouble. For now, though, he does his best to seem casual, waggling the dough-cake before Gloria's face. "T-try some. 'S g-good."

[channe]

Yes, Surdemer -- the token at her throat, and word from Orvere. She doesn't need to posture and prance to let you know that she's not just some local yokel to be railroaded with awe of the men in blue-and-gold with their glinty weapons and their good food. To Egris: "Seriously, what crawled up your --"

Shut the fuck up, Agnie, she tells herself. What would Aleksei do?

She pauses, smiles nicely at Egris, and inclines her head. "If we'd had notification, the Governor would have been here to meet you, of course, as he did Duke Kostroma..." a pause. "... as is your due as envoys of our glorious liege. Arranged for Kelsaen House to be opened before you got here, aired out a bit. But, you know, he's out at one of the larger farms near Foggy Bottom, participating in the very first plantings, and won't be back for a few days, I think, so... you get me." Here, her eyes distance for a moment on a cart unloading sacks of wheat. She's been expecting this for weeks. It was Glenn's decision not to petition Trae Kelsa for help, and now there are dead, and now the whole situation is out of their hands, but no matter what he thinks, Agnieszka knows they can't afford that kind of pride right now. Egris and Surdemer have won by the bare fact that they are rich and Myrken is not; that they have power, and Myrken does not, and it burns, and it hurts that she's lost this battle, but that is salted meat they are unloading, and she's hungry like the rest of them, now. Someone else has power, and she does not: Story of her sad little fucking life.

Maybe something can be salvaged, she thinks, looking back to the two of them.

"As you know, it's been a hard winter. We're grateful the Crown remembers we exist at long last. We fought against the weather and the famine as best as we could, and the assistance is appreciated. I know that we as a government would like to make sure that every family gets an equal amount of relief." A tilt of her head, a smile for Egris. "Just some advice, my lady. The last time a well-dressed, mannerly, beautiful Lady with money offered largesse, it... didn't work out too well, so while you're wandering around scratching your itch for being worshipped by the commoners, I wouldn't push your luck." And would Myrkenites remember that the famine was Rhaena's fault? That Lady Egris was wearing the same fashions as Rhaena? That some of those affectations came from the same place? That it was largesse -- very similar to this, yes -- that was truly the harbinger of doom over the winter? No, with Agnie's luck all they'd remember after a full belly was that they hated Agnieszka Kaczmarek.

Nevertheless: Lady Egris was from Razasan; like all the rest of them, Lady Egris would, at one point, get bored by the provinciality of it all, and flitter back to the parties and the power, that Agnie knew with a certainty.

But Lady Egris was a Lady, and she hated Agnieszka for some reason the chairwoman can't grasp, and there's no more use to be had there -- so she'll turn her attention to Surdemer, who hasn't decided she's chopped liver yet, at least. Like Egris's definite change of attitude when dealing with Surdemer than Agnieszka, Agnie also seems a little more pleasant when addressing the Baron directly. "My lord, I hope you've brought sappers." A pause. A crafted pause. "Or a detachment of the King's Own. The Asshole Duke has built a number of new fortifications on the Derry-side of the Pass, made it even more of a hellish choke-point than it was before."

[Rance]

There could be nothing advantageous about Lady Egris and Agnieszka Kazmerrik encountering one another in this way: with soldiers about in excess. And while she could only hear slivers and snippets of their conversation, it was all topped with the false treacle of pretense -- pleasant smiles, bitter eyes, exchanges that flexed and surged against one another while never overtly attacking.

And then there was Henderson, towering over the barrel-bodied dwarf, glancing over for just a split second--

Henderson is a bit taken with you, the Kestrel had told her.

She was grateful for the tacky lace of the bonnet. Her cheeks grew hot and colored. Her useless arm jerked against its leather sling and the harness strapped across her shoulder. You couldn't wave without fingers, she realized; then, in a flurry, she threw her right hand up, offered a small wave from her shoulder, and gave a pensive, nervous grin that part of her hoped he might never seen.

Then, a cake jumped up in front of her face like a wild animal.

"What is an earwig," she asked Cherny, wrinkling her nose at the bit of dough. For him, she complied. She plucked it from his fingers and carefully chewed at a hunk, leaning far enough forward that none of the powdered confection would fall to her dress and its well-embroidered sash. "I like it. The cake and the word. Earwig," she repeated. "Is it like a -- a sobriquet? It could be my much smarter and more clever persona. Earwig."

She offered the sweetcake back to him. She rubbed her fingers together. Flour and powder from their tips blew into the wind.

"The Lady and Agnieszka together--" Gloria tried to lead his eyes with hers back toward the collection of nobles, "--is a poor recipe. They'll snark one another until they're old and dried like jerky. And if you add Councilor Treadwell into the soup..."

The bulging, black-robed sphere of a man meandered toward the collection. She grabbed Cherny's elbow and pulled him with her through the mingling townspeople.

In his ear as they walked, she whispered, "Agnieszka wrote me a letter. She said she wants to kill something."

[Cherny]

It's clear enough that Cherny's interest in that meeting is limited - Lady Egris he knows from stablework and sword practice; the Chairwoman is at once known and disliked; the third of them, the man in the same colours as the soldiers, is of passing interest mainly for the fact that he is new. The squire's attention is more on encouraging the seamstress to eat something, now that there is something to eat.

"It's s-someone who, who stands around w-wiggling their ears at t-talk that's none of th-their business." An explanation offered in the dry, matter-of-fact tones of a dusty lecturers; he lifts a hand to his own ear to wiggle it in demonstration. "D-dropping eaves, like." A grin at last, teasing the older girl for letting him catch her at it, but no real disapproval in his tone.

"Th-that or it's a little bug that l-lives in old logs and, and under s-stones. I'll show y-you, n-next time I f-find one. They've g-got pinchers on their tails." The cake returned, he sets about finishing it off with steady, measured bites, as of a man pacing himself for some extended exertion. He nods in agreement with the seamstress' prediction, meanwhile.

"They'd d-do better to just get their s-swords out." Another mouthful chewed thoughtfully before he adds: "Sixp-pence on the L-lady Egris, if they d-do."

He's denied a chance to see if it comes to pass, however, as Gloria abruptly steers him away from that little convocation; that his sister received a letter from the Chairwoman earns her a curious look; what it had contained, though, is met with a roll of the boy's eyes.

"Ser C-catch. That's n-not a secret."

[Kestrel]

Peropis was a regal figure in the corral. Lording over the others as if the task belonged to him alone. The wind caught his well-combed mane and his nostrils flared as he searched for any danger that might befall his apparently-claimed harem of mares. Whenever a gelding drew close to one of them, his ears would pin back against his head and his lips would flare to reveal strong teeth until they wisely went to graze elsewhere. Cherny was greeted with a low whicker and the stallion moved forward to search the boy's pockets for sugar cubes before returning to his self-assigned task.

The corner of Henderson's gaze caught abrupt motion from the seamstress' direction and his attention returned again. His tentative smile in response was friendly, but surprised. He nodded towards her before his gaze was reclaimed by the dwarf, whose broad hand thumped his chest for the lapse in concentration. He grunted and rubbed at his ribs as if the offense smarted more than it should, grinning with good spirits renewed.

The gentle pressure of the noblewoman's hand settling upon the Baron's arm seemed more formality than anything else. And, perhaps, a protective gesture, given the wary way she watched the Councilwoman. Agnieska, who seemed volatile even on her better days. Agnieska, who wondered why she was seen as a threat when she had greeted Egris with little more than disguised contempt. When she seemed to go out of her way to threaten a precocious young woman like Gloria Wynsee at every opportunity. A brow lofted neatly when the woman responded with aggression, before it was smothered again. She never took her eyes from the other. Agnie was a rabid dog.

The Baron's confidant manner of speaking, his mention of the aid she brought to Myrkentown made her smile politely at the man. "Ah, Baron Surdemer. Again, I can not thank you enough for the escort. The bandits are becoming far more bold and the caravans would likely have been tempting morsels. I am in your debt." She dipped her head with the utmost sincerity. "I am certain that it will be no trouble at all for your men to linger as long as you require in these uncertain times."

Agnie's assumptions make her brows loft again. "The Crown remembers, no doubt, but this aid is mine to give. Arranged weeks ago. The people of Myrken, who have been so gracious to house me, have been suffering and I could not allow that to continue. This will bring about a prosperity that they have not felt in the harsh grip of winter months. They can begin to rebuild what they lost with the famine." The smile became further strained at the implication that she wished to be worshiped. "That was not my intention. I merely hoped to return a little of the kindness that was shown to me. I apologize if that is frowned upon by Myrken's leadership."

Angie's attentions soon shifted to the Baron and Egris felt comfortable shifting her attention to search the small crowd gathered around them, listening to every word. The Lady Verreaux noted Cherny and Gloria nestled amongst the crowd and lifted a hand in greeting. She made to squeeze gently at the Baron's arm before her hand slipped away. "If you will excuse me, Baron. Councilwoman."

Treadwell's form bobbed towards them and, for once, she slipped away to head directly towards him. "Ser Treadwell, my heart is gladdened that you have joined the festivities. Please do inform me if there are any fees that may be due for the festival grounds. I did not have word that the caravans would arrive so quickly and had not the time to discuss the matter with you. For that, you have my deepest apologies. If you will excuse me, I have matters to oversee."

With that, assuming she could earn her escape, she would make her way towards the grumpy dwarf and Henderson. She paused on the way to briefly claim one of the sugared cakes. She arrived licking her fingers like a child and offering the two of them a lion's share of the confection before she began to speak of the business at hand in earnest.

[Rance]

"I'll drop eaves whenever and however I feel," Gloria quickly retorted, throwing high her nose to leer at Cherny from over it as though she were royalty, "and I'll not have the likes of you hounding my ass about it." There was a speck of powdered cane on the corner of her lip, visible only when she smiled at him. "And I'll not take any bet on either of them. If Agnieszka won, we'd have to hear about it for years. Years! All the heroism associated, and the -- the self-sacrifice, as well as the pain constituent in her triumph, I ought to be heralded a savior of you lot and on and on..."

But the jibe went on too long. The seamstress' grin faded into a short, guilty frown.

"Maybe Ser Catch," she offered. "Maybe someone else entirely if she can't have him. Swords don't discriminate. They kill anyone equally. She hurts; she'll only be so happy to put someone else through agony."

And what she didn't say aloud was, I wish I could make her better.

The small gathering began to splinter. The conversation appeared to be fragmenting off into other nodes. Lady Egris lifted her hand in greeting; Gloria, having no desire to wave a stump despite how she could still sometimes feel its vaporous, phantom non-fingers, had learned quickly the strength of the deliberate, acknowledging nod. Add to it a respectable smile and it was a resilient expression -- a greeting, a confidence, and a salutation all at once.

And Henderson. He smiled back. The lump in her throat hovered and dropped. The dwarf knuckled him in the broad center of his chest. Her eyebrows shot up in playful -- and regretless -- apology; then, when the dwarf might have turned away from Henderson, Gloria threw out a little something to try to get the soldier to laugh: she pulled back her head, doubled her chin against her neck, crossed her eyes, blew out her cheeks, and gave the best visible imitation of the gruff dwarf that she could muster.

In the wake of that, she tugged on Cherny's arm. "We ought to keep someone from getting their jaw broken, even if maybe she deserves it. Come with me. Let's prove a point."

A pivot. She shrugged through the crowds, then tried to tug Cherny out into the meadow, carefully stepping over the pockets of horse-droppings browning the spring grass.

"Councilwoman," the seamstress hailed. "Agnieszka!"