Weynon Prior

"Do you have a moment to spare?"

"What is the matter? Has something happened in the Tenmar?"

"As a matter of fact, quite so - but that's not what I've come to discuss...If I may, a breakthrough at Balmarsh: the last of the Hesod terrorists have broken."

"A commendation to the Spiral College, then."

"Quite. Hmmm...Before her wounds made speaking too grievous, the Mothist revealed something queer, yet long anticipated."

"Eh?"

"A key genealogical matter. One that has been troubling for some time: while Seppetius The Spicer was the rightful,, if ill-ejected issue of Prince Juliek, late and latest of the Remans, as well You know. However, Epharoches was the last of that line, doutered by the Templars of Seth some twenty years before your supposed grandsire, founder of your supposed Sutcher cadet-branch, was even born."

"I see."

"I'm yet however undecided on what course to prosecute with this information; That will depend on how you answer my next question."

"Very well."

"Who are you, really?"

"Truly, I was whelped at Bangorwaith, a rough little speck in the westernmost fingers of The Reach. When it was clear I'd survive the damp and hunger, as the ol'Waith is little else but shale and rain, Mother named me Gwenin."

"And your father's name? Trade?"

"Would that I knew for certain, I'd spill. Not Gwenin surely; I was named for Grandfather, but Mother always said he was a brave knight of Camlorn; Street gossip maintained that Mother was a hag and made me out of briars and chicken-bones."

"She was an saint, I'm sure."

"Well, it's just that Mother had half the wits of an ox. Burning our supper-groats in the pot was all the black arts she knew."

"And how is it that such humble stock comes to me in Scarlet Majesty, at the head of ten thousand ranks, to claim the City-of-Cities and The World after?"

"That'd be a separate question. And you know what they say about curiosity and cats, 'Rin."

"I'm not interested in what They say."

"Very well. It was a plucky fellow by the name of Dubbhar gro-Zabdoom, a perfectly infamous skin merchant that kept fat ledgers doing business amongst the frankfolk of the northern Roque. He'd trot into a hamlet, demand the choicest tenth, and go on his plucky way. If you resisted, he'd still take that tenth, but only after slaying the remaining nine-tenths in whatever manner suited his ranks."

"You were given up, then?"

"I'd only forded seven winters, but already had too much vigor and guile for our Headman's taste. I was given over to the ropes without question."

"Were were you sold?"

"I wasn't. It was Dubbhar's custom to keep a skinny young whelp as a personal groomer - reasoning that if the little sod tried to flay him while rasing his whiskers, before they got too deep he could have their little heads off in a instant with just his thumb and choice-finger."

"What happened when you grew?"

"I proved so deft with the razor and shears that I actually wormed my way into whatever blackened and slimy heartspace remained in his chest. In fact, when he caught his ledgerman skimming thalers - and subsequently skimmed his recompense back in sheets of the man's skin - I was the natural choice for replacement. I was taught to read and write Bretonique, sums and ledgery, and the finer points of the skintrade. Seven years I served, keeping the books and shaving that damn orc as he stomped his caravan all over the north country of Hierroque."

"He must have trusted you."

"So you can imagine the look on his face when I slit his throat."

"Positively furious, I'd wager. Treachery will do that."

"Fortunately he didn't live long after that. But don't you scold me, it was a lesson that passed his own lips: Loyalty Is A Service Contract - so when the other party is not of service to you, Renegotiate."

"Quaint. Also, amphiboly."

" But then I strapped four fat purses of his thalers to my belt and struck for the Rivenspire, meaning to make my way down the coast to the Iliac, in luxury. However, I had all the financial talents of the typical fourteen-year-old and by Northpoint was turned out completely."

"How did you survive?"

"I signed on to a Wayrester merchant tub The Quick Young Vixen. True stuffed-shirted Southrons, had no ear for Reachtalk, they called me Weynon. I told them I had experience with razors, so they made me the Barber's broom-boy. And as I had no clan name to present, that earned me the after-name Sweeps."

"The indignity."

"I was promoted though, quite swiftly."

"You mean violently."

"If you're insinuating that I had anything to do with old Yarmouth's accident during that squall, that's a hideous accusation, but on the money - and he was musty and worthless besides, couldn't rase a stray hair on your elbow without a knick."

"I'm sensing an emergent pattern."

"I always knew you were clever, 'Rin."

"And how long did you stay aboard?"

" 3 full seasons. Halfway through the fourth, we were bringing a haul of Samari Dragonpepper, and some dead & disgraced princeling pickling in a brandy cask, all up from Kairou when King Jelly set upon us."

"Whom?"

"Redguard privateer, played a marvelous game of turning his coat between M'kai and the Direnni. Anyway, he took everything that wasn't nailed down, then pried the nails out, took the rest and even kept the nails. And ol'Jelly distained slavetaking, but kept the gentleborn for hostages and gave the commons over to his men for practicing boarding drills."

"Hmm. And who did you betray to survive that fate?"

"No one that felt it. And can you even imagine what sweet respite that the noblefolk of Ykalon's House Falck must have quaffed upon the draughted news their long-lost Gortham had not given his ghost after all, simply his liberty."

"And all it took was for you to steal a dead man's effects and papers."

"Ahead as ever, old chum. Anyway, an agent of my dear sister Lady Eddalie sailed to Redemption Rock in a modest three-mast and bough me back for three thousand thalers. We sailed straight away for Ykalon, the agent's intention was to stuff Gortham in carriage bound to the family's estate at Llugwych once we made Penbeth."

"And your common ways did not seem queer to the Falck agent?"

"Don't act as if gentility is a hard act to ape. As a recipe it's a pound of tacit scorn for every ounce of empty courtesy."

"What biting satire."

"Yes, I shall have to try my hand at scrivening once my marshaling days see their sunset. In any case, our quaint little barque was struck with a most peculiar misfortune as we clipped the straights of Betony - the stalwart Falck retainer had his constitution overtaken by a most sudden malady, and just a few days after the ship's doctor was lost out his cabin window after some rough ventilation."

"You did all you could for your loyal servant, I'm certain."

"But of course - Gortham asked, nay, demanded of our captain that we should disembark at Daggerfall post-haste to seek a new physician, for surely our man should perish without such. We sought the harbor with great alacrity, but to no avail, for the fever had spread amongst the ship's hands and officers. By the time we saw sight of the walls, it was a deathouse upon the waters."

"What cruelty that Orc taught you."

"Oh no, a lesson from ol'Yarmouth: always fire the blade after rasing a man, for there is wickedness in the blood. And after a quick bit of skulkin', it was a simple matter then to taint the grog stores."

"Hmm. And then?"

"All the industry of my being was put towards the noble pursuits good wine and beautiful whores. When the Falck money ran out, Gortham used all the worth of his name - calling on the hospitality of Daggerfallen gentles and borrowing on the credit of Ykalon's first family."

"And when that ran dry?"

"Gortham Falck invested his last fistful of thalers in barber's supplies and set up outside the better wine-sinks of the city, offering my simple service of a shave and haircut for just a wedge of a King's face. Then when they were good and relaxed and lathered on my stool I'd take a liberty or several and rifle their purses, making whole sets of old sovereigns some nights. Took the name Robb Klean and did brisk if modest business until I had to the good fortune to take a few baronial more.

Took to drifting then, just traipsing the Iliac- Shalgora, Anticlere, Urvaius, Dywnnen, Balfiera, Koegria, and more - while most often by whim, but at times by dire warrant, re-styled a thousand's thousand times - Justien Esquobarre, Christophe Nellesaint, Jacopo Machannaito, Jennat Bourgeosquie, Marck Ofcox, Jaime Crevaine, Michel Dioriaux; Truly, the full roster is beyond all attempt to even recall."

"It seems you had eked out quite the comfortable existence. Why trouble yourself with all this Eastern trouble and noise?"

"It was not by choice. Ander Ewer had no designs on true power, I swear; Arrivistism was Alexandre Homptine's game, to leech and suck just a few thalers more - yet, by a razor's chance, Ellits Stille made the fated acquaintance of Aleron Bardot."

"The surname is familiar...Anticlerian?"

"The Royal House of Alcaire. Aleron was Duke of Haute-Lys and King Medard's disgraceful brother, abdicated his blood's chivalry for the bloody chevalets of Sentinel's Muddy Quarter. Ellits met him there at the Rosewater Palace, losing many, many hands of Luette to him in the build of a fat hustle. Then, would you believe the luck, the very night I intend cash out the cad, he drags me off to second for him in a duel against some Redguard swaggerer."

"I take it he did not fair very well."

"No, though he did manage to walk way."

"Of course you did."

"Though I had no taste for politics then."

"Simply astonishing."

"And was thus quite oblivious to the stirring in Colovia - the death of Tubalcain, the war between Haafingar and Falkreath, and most critically, Daggerfall and Alcaire's alliance with Haafingar."

"So you were, hmm, what is the right word...conscripted?"

"No, Dragooned is the word. Aleron had the poor timing to be enjoying the hospitality of Lord Clotaire of Gauvadon when he received the officers of the Alcairian muster dispatched to bolster Daggerfall at Sancre Tor. At the head of them, was my nephew, Celestien Bardot. He had been born after my leaving, and was thus premiered to Aleron by our mutual host, and proceeded to act as a horrid scour, abrading my honor and filing at my dignity. I feared I should jettison from my place and rase his milky, unvetted throat then and there. Yet alas, I had to demure and receive the clumsy stroke of his pud-sponge against the wall, until Aleron Bardot's own spine was impressed out of shape with the hefty obligation of service."

"Had you even handled a blade bigger than a razor before that?"

"I'd carried duelist's foils as part of my ensemble. But yes, the endless riding over the Colovian frontier was sore like murder on my tenders, and as you know, I was never adept at plying spurs." "What stopped you from just slipping away?"

"Colovia is quite unlike Southron Bretony - go an easy league and you're in another country; Go a hard hundred in Ald Kolof and you're still in the same pasture. There was simply nowhere to slip to, not that Celestien ever let Aleron out of his sight. Yet I survived the fortnight, and finally the Alcairian muster arrived at Sancre Tor, held then by Tarleigh Hart and a woeful company of infantry. The hope was that they together could withstand Falkreath's advance long enough for Haafingar's main force to relieve them."

"Queer. Was this not the occasion of your first great triumph?"

"It was the very same."

"I see. But who commanded the Kreathman host?"

"None other than our beloved Titus Alorius, though in those days he was still called Tydav Alorr."

"You betrayed the defenders, didn't you?"

"..."

"I apologize; You renegotiated with the defenders."

"..."

"Tiber."

"Tiber..."

"Tiber, who is that?"

"Wulf, you've arrived just in time. Please bring me this man's heart - we're going to need it."