On the steps, the sergeant’s second gave them directions, with much pointing, to the market square, and the traveller’s inn there.
Unofficially, they already had their directions before they left the interrogation room. The captain paused before the map of the city, “The only reason my sister has been able to work at that tavern is the number of staff there that have siblings on the watch or in service means it’s less likely that they get hit with attacks like tonight. That means the boys we have here were either desperate or stupid to have pulled their stunt tonight. We will be holding on to this set, but there is a very good chance you’ll still be followed.” The captain pointed out the route to the meeting place. “Your path to the rendezvous will take you towards the market square, but there’s going to be an arch just before the square. The oil is going to conveniently run out in the lamp there just before you reach it. The phrase you want to hear is ‘Ioan has a long beard’, which is the signal that it is my sister, and not another batch of bully-boys. She’s going to lead you from there.”
“Dot is nut a phrase hyu use often iz’t?” Dal asked. He suppressed any outward reaction other than professional curiosity.
“No,” the captain chuckled. “First time I’ve heard it, actually. Crina’s idea.”
Dafi nodded, “So it isn’t likely to have been co-opted. Good. Thank you, captain.”
~=*=~
Had they not had the warning, Dafi would have tried to made a detour around the arch in the old town wall when the lamp ahead of them went out. As it was, she still took care to display a slight bit of caution while approaching. Internally, she was deeply aware there could still be another attack here, and was actively searching the shadows as much as she could without showing it. Walking on the left side of the street, as the captain had instructed, she clearly heard the quiet murmur as they walked under the arch. It was the proper phrase, with a young woman’s voice. Dafi gave the response, in a similarly quiet murmur, “As the son wills it.”
There was the sound of a door opening to their left as they passed it, and a beckoning “hist!” by the same young voice from the darkness.
Though her caution was screaming at her, Dafi moved into the dark doorway, her dagger hidden in her coat-sleeve. It could still be a trap.
Her fears were allayed by the the lantern being unshuttered after the door closed behind them. Dafi recognized the young girl barring the door after them as the one she had been defending when the thugs had made their move. The barmaid spoke, in hushed tones, “I’m Crina, please come away.” She motioned them to follow her, down the narrow hall within the wall. A few yards away, she opened the door to another small room. “Sorry about the subterfuge, but we wanted to make sure they lost you. We’ll need to go down for the next bit, but sound carries in the sewers, so we won’t be able to talk there.”
Dal groaned, but Dafi was the one to ask, “The sewers? The gangs watch the streets that much?”
Crina shrugged, “Yeah, I know. No worries, though. We haven’t had any monsters loose in the sewers for years, and the aqueduct engineers make sure none move in.” She lit another lantern, one meant to illuminate one’s path by reflecting the light downward, but not give away one’s position, because of the red glass that made up the bottom of the lantern. she blew out the other light in the room. “We’ll take a few moments to let our eyes adjust, but this is mostly to make sure there’s no lights coming up from the drainage grates to give us away.”
“Schmot gurl.” Dalibor’s eyes and grin were the only things reflected in the dim red light.
“It worries me that you know this sort of thing already, Crina” Dafi was more than worried, it spoke that there was a need for the legal peace keepers to keep their movements secret from those on the street.
“We send reports, but I guess they aren’t taken seriously, because for every three thugs we throw back over the border, another patrol seems to move in.” Crina sighed.
Dafi delayed, still somewhat dazzled by the earlier lantern. “How long has this been a problem?”
“It hasn’t been really bad until about eight years ago, according to my brother. For me, it’s been dicey for as long as I’ve been paying attention.” The girl confirmed her young age with a shrug. “I can remember noticing when late night meetings of the watch started at the house, but not what they were saying. Ready to go?” At their nod, she unbolted the door in the floor. “From here until we get to the shop, sound is going to carry really far, so we need to not talk, right?”
Descending into the sewers was not the noisome problem Dafi had feared. Yes, there was some effluent stench involved, but no more than a properly-maintained latrine trench in a disciplined army camp would have. That seemed to be the difference - maintenance. Without the monsters, the crews could make sure the tunnels were in proper condition and that wastes moved out of the town in appropriate fashion. She considered asking for the loan of an engineer or two, when she got back to the fortress. A system like this meant the springs and wells would not be fouled, and important point for a military outpost.
~=*=~
The trip in the sewers was not as long as the trek from the Wanderer’s Gate to the tavern, but longer than the walk from the tavern to the watch house. Crina led the way up, into an alley behind what seemed to be shops, by the markings Dalibor could make out on the bins near them. The girl lead them a few doors down from the drain hatch, to a place that smelled of paper and glue. A quiet tap on the door, and it swung open silently.
The low night-lamp inside revealed the workshop of a book-binder, and an elderly man with hands that marked him as the binder and a scholar as well. He bowed, “I am Eliezer Bârsănescu. Welcome to my home and hearth. I have a room ready for you, if you will follow me?” He led them through the small bookshop at the front, to the stairs up to the living quarters above.
Dalibor noted the titles of many of the books in the shop were Third Son stories, and mentally winced. He hoped Dafi did not notice them, but it was a faint hope, dashed when Dafi asked, “The stores of the Third Son sell well here?”
The old man chuckled, “Better than anything without him in them.”
Crina chimed in, “He could talk your ear off about them, given half a chance.”
Dalibor sighed inwardly as Dafi asked “Why are they so popular here?”
“Ah, now - that is the interesting part of the tales.” The old man crossed the main room of the living area to open the door to a bedroom. “Many years ago, I was afire to know that myself. I know part of the appeal, but -” he shrugged, “It is a long story. I do have some wine to go with the tale-spinning, if you are willing to hear it.”
~=*=~
Dafi knew this was a sore subject for Dal, but it seemed impolite to not share a glass with their host before bed. “Perhaps we have a bit of time.”
Crina shook her head, “I’ve heard it before, and oughta be home soon, so I’m off. Thank you again for the rescue, Commander. I’ll lock up as I leave.” With a bow of respect, she returned to the ground floor.
Eliezer nodded, and collected three glasses and a bottle of wine, bringing them to the table in the main living area. “I did not start out as a tale-spinner, but that is what keeps the taxes paid.” He poured for all three, and saluted their health before continuing. “When I went away to university, I had intended to read in History, but found out just how many historical ‘facts’ are less true than many granny-tales.”
“Are you a professor, as well?” Dafi asked, sipping her wine.
“Ach, no - I did not get far enough to even consider studying for my vivaes. You see, I kept digging for the truth, where no-one wanted it exhumed.” He chuckled. “Small university out here in the wilds, they don’t want to call attention to themselves, because it might involve working for their grants.”
Dal chuckled, but Dafi was just a bit annoyed. “They denied you the right to continue?”
“No, I left on my own.” Eliezer shook his head, sadly. “In my younger days, I had the fire of a zealot for the truth in all things. One of them was uncovering the truth behind local legends. I’d done some preliminary research into the history of our local tales. The deeper I got into the early tales, the darker they became. You look at the modern tales of the Third Son, and they are gay romps through fantastical environs. Earlier versions of the tales, the ones that you find told in the remote mountain villages, tell of darker doings. True enough, it was a much more brutal time, but there were hints here and there that the family members that survived the nine were not good people.” Here, the old man paused, and took a sip of his wine. “Then one morning I woke up with a note pinned to the headboard of my bed with my own dagger, warning me that some tales were better left untold.” He sighed, shaking his head again. “I am a scholar, and though I might be bold on paper, I am not a particularly brave man, physically. I left the university that week.”
She frowned, looking to Dalibor. His expression might have been calm to others, but she noted a twitch in his jaw that suggested to her he was trying to not grind his teeth. His voice was calm as he asked, “Hyu schtopped digging, but kept printing?”
“Oh, it was almost two decades before I went near the tales again. No, I wrote for the university presses, the sort of things that they appreciate. But there are only so many dry and bloodless analysis of drinking songs or battle histories one can produce before being bored to death. Then I started re-reading my university notes, and re-worked the story of the Dancing Princes to something for children, to help with the schoolteacher here.” He chuckled, “She appreciated the effort, and asked for more. Turns out I had the knack for getting boys who would rather be playing guard-and-bandit to actually sit and read.”
That got a quiet laugh from his audience, and Dafi asked, “Not everything in the shop downstairs is for children, though?”
“Na, na - that’s mostly the tourist shop. Though, when I get a new tale, I can generally sell about a half-dozen copies to the locals. I get some in from publishers to the north and east, any of them that are shipped around Movilă instead of through.” Eliezer rubbed the side of his nose, “Then again, some of them are newer than that.”
Dal raised an eyebrow, curious, “Newer talez? Who writez ’em?”
“I do,” the old man admitted, grinning as Dalibor facepalmed. “I started writing my own tales, but they sell better with a popular character. The one that sells the best if the favorite local hero. It took me years to get to the point of reprinting any of the traditional Third Son stories. After the first one was on the shelves for a year, selling well, and I still had not been threatened in my bed again, I added another. Maybe one or two a year, and still no warning, I began to relax. After all, I was not publishing what I’d found as history, just as granny-tales. I began to believe that as long as I stuck to flights of fancy, I was safe, and so far, I have been. After a few years with reprinting the traditional tales, I started adding my own, and actually making money at it.” He shrugged, “I felt bad at first, using the hero that way, but since I started making a profit, half of it goes to the Missionary Sisters of Saint Parascheva. I save the rest for emergencies, and my old age, since I have no children.”
“You never married the schoolteacher?” Dafi asked with a small smile.
“At first, it was fear that anyone close to me would be in danger, but later,” he chuckled and rubbed the back of his head, “I guess I got too busy. My nieces and nephews check in on me to make sure I eat and such, especially when I am researching. I still turn out the occasional scholarly tome, and someday, when I’m old,” he grinned, winking, “I might publish that unsavory history treatise.”
“A darink last act uf defiance?” Dal’s eyebrows were high.
The old man nodded, his eyes bright. “There’s a great deal of my thesis that I could publish now without getting into the history, but the longer I live, the more I find out. If you read enough of them, you can see a pattern in the true, original tales. Third Son is always the same, but never named. He is the third son of nine who went to war, but only he returned, and not as he left. A common phrase used is ‘he was changed beyond the ken of his kin.’ It is generally agreed that Third Son is a construct, but what type is never clear, so the stories often leave that part out. Still, I am not yet old, so my magnum opus is still waiting to be written.”
~=*=~
Sometime during the night, Dafi woke from a fitful sleep while Dalibor was still watching the street from the large upholstered chair beside the window. He quietly murmured, “Go back to schleep, Dafi. All is quiet.”
“You need sleep too, Dal.” She slipped from the bed, crossing to him. She had only undressed as far as taking off her outermost layer of her uniform before going to bed, as had he, nervous about a town where the law had to be sneaky to protect its citizens.
He noted she stayed away from the window, out of sight from anyone outside. “Hy will be alright, got a nap.”
She came up behind him, lightly touching his arm. “I cannot sleep. Not well. Not...” She exhaled a long breath, and finally said, “not since... I have to admit that I have come to care for you, and cannot do anything about it.”
“Aye. Hyu are the Dama, and nut free to do as ye might wish.” Dal covered her hand with his. He debated his next response, and settled on, “It vould be different, if hyu were just a soldier.”
She sat on the arm of the chair, leaning her head against his shoulder, and though she was quiet, there was strain in her voice for him to hear her frustration. “I cannot turn back from my duties, there are too many people that would be left to the wolves by the ones next in line, who are too far away to care for them. All I can promise you is a friendship.”
“I will write to you, if that is all we can do.” In his distress, he was forgetting to keep his accent in Mechanicsburg. As upset as she seemed now, Dal felt confessing in full to her would only make the sadness worse for her, but he could not leave her without something. He gave in, just a little bit, to his instinct, and pulled her into his lap. “Sleep, my friend, and we can worry about tomorrow when it comes.”
