Name : Andrew Ewington & Dennis Johnson

LIMPIT MUSKIN & COMPANY

Chapter 1

'Limpit Muskin! You downright devious son of a pig! How dare you! How dare you!! Why, I ought to turn you into cheese, you phlegm-inducing Pollock!'
        Simply Morgan did not so much enter, as erupt, into The Blind Bowman.
        Limpit Muskin looked up slowly from his empty tankard and stared at his old acquaintance without expression.
        The scrawny spell-caster's face was an even deeper shade of purple than the clothes he was wearing. His wizened features had nearly turned themselves inside out with anger, and crooked teeth were bared through a mass of crazy facial hair, like a ruined graveyard. You could almost smell his anger - you could certainly smell something.
        Long ago, Simply Morgan had been called by other, more impressive, names. In the glory days of his youth, before he had completed his apprenticeship, he was known as Morgan the Magnificent on account of the substantial allowance he received from his parents; when he had passed his apprenticeship people called him Morgan the Marvellous because of his splendid purple robes; a year later, when his allowance was finally stopped, he came to be known as Morgan the Miser; and then finally, following an incident involving his erstwhile employer, the Earl of Beaumont, Morgan himself decided it was about time that he became known as Simply Morgan.
        'Now I understand!' he continued to rant. 'You only stumped up the bail because you think you can use me as a tool for your despicable money-making schemes. Think again, Mr. Stump! I've got you figured out now. You don't care about me at all, I'm just more useful to you dead than alive!'
        'Alive?' Limpit said, suddenly animated. 'What do you mean, alive? You're practically brain-dead as it is, and your body's not far behind!'
        Limpit paused, deciding to adopt a more measured approach.
        'If you are alluding to the new, and perhaps unforeseen, lodgers in your cottage, I might bring to your attention the fact that their six months' deposit contributed greatly to the not inconsiderable sum of money required to secure your bail, without which you'd still be locked up in the Earl's castle.'
        'Six months!' Morgan clutched his head in alarm. 'If their deposit is for six months, how long are they contracted to stay??'
        'Oooh, I don't know,' Limpit said, puffing out his cheeks in an assumed position of thought, 'five years?'
        'Five years??' Morgan fell onto a chair that Limpit helpfully pulled out for him. 'I just hope they keep the noise down. Bloody singing kept me up all night, it did. Last thing I needed on my first night of freedom. I hope they're not going to make a habit of it. Who are they, anyway?'
        Limpit scrunched up one side of his face.
        'The Midnight Singers of Perpetuity?' he offered.
        Morgan's head hit the table.
        'I need a drink,' he could be heard to say.
        'Mulled wine!' Limpit yelled.
        While Otto the Barkeeper disappeared into the relatively safe confines of the kitchen, Limpit drew out that evening's edition of The Snooper, Rynn's very own State-wide organ of abuse.
        'While we're on the subject, you'd better read this,' Limpit said with urgency, spreading the newspaper noisily out onto the table.
        Morgan slowly lifted his head, and surveyed the paper.
        'Goblins Camp in Woodrise Forest,' he read aloud. 'No, they're not, say the Fairies.'
        'The article below it, you idiot!'
        'Beaumont Suspects Foul Play,' Morgan tried again. No sooner had he said those words than he turned deathly pale, and licked his lips nervously. He grabbed hold of the paper.
        'All efforts to find the missing Earl of Beaumont's niece, Guinevive, have drawn a blank,' Morgan continued, 'and the finger of suspicion falls once more on the recently sacked 137 year-old spell-caster, Margo the Miser.'
        Morgan threw down the paper in disgust.
        'Have you read how they described me??' he said, outraged.
        'Yes, I know,' Limpit said, 'they've called you a spell-caster! That's positively slanderous! You should write in and complain,' he chuckled to himself.
        'Not that, Muskin, and you know it! They couldn't even get my bloody name and age right!'
        'They never do!' Limpit said with a shrug. 'At least they only under-estimated your actual age.'
        'Yes, I kn-' Morgan began to say, before stopping in mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open, and his grey tongue gradually rolling to a saliva-filled halt. He eyed the Halfman menacingly.
        A moment of silence passed between the old acquaintances. They had never really been what you could call friends. Morgan would never have socialised with a Halfman, while Limpit, too, preferred the more useful company of the predictable.
        Morgan sprang into life.
        'You've got to do something, Limpit!'
        'Me?' Limpit said in mock disbelief.
        'Yes, you! You've got to sort something out, and permanently this time.'
        'It's cost me enough already to bail you out! I'm not made of money! And it's not as if I owe you anything, either!'
        'I know!' whined Morgan, 'but pleeeeeeeeeeease!'
        Morgan was now down on his knees.
        'Get off my leg, Margo!'
        'If you don't help me, Limpit, I swear I'll tell the Earl that it was all your doing, and that you sold her off to some lecherous, moustachioed, foreign race-horse owner for the price of five camels!'
        Morgan tightened his grip on the Halfman.
        'Relax, Morgan,' said Limpit, 'I've already been thinking about it.'
        'You have??' exclaimed Morgan in delighted surprise.
        He let go of Limpit and returned to his seat.
        'Yes, and that's why I called both you and Butwin here tonight, to discuss our next plan of action.'
        'Which is?'
        'Wait until Butwin's here and I'll tell you it in full.'
        The magician jumped up and down in his seat in excitement.
        'Oh, come on, tell me now!' he said childishly.
        'Shut up and sit still,' Limpit ordered. 'I'm not going to waste my breath repeating it all over again to Butwin. You'll just have to wait until he gets here.'
        'And when will that be?' Morgan complained.
        'Well, like you,' Limpit said pointedly, 'he was supposed to be here half an hour ago.'
        'Can't you just tell me now, and I'll tell Butwin so you won't have to?' Morgan persisted.
        'No, I can't! You'll forget most of the plan, make up some rubbish, and Butwin will then wander off and rob a bank, or something!'
        'Look, I'll write it down,' Morgan said, rummaging in his robes again.
        'By the time you finish writing it down Butwin will probably have arrived, would want to know what we were talking about, and I'd have to start all over again. Be patient, and put your energies to something more useful, like thinking up ideas for me to make lots of money. If it wasn't for your antics we wouldn't be in this position, so I think it's the least you could do.'
        Bailing out Morgan had cost Limpit a considerable sum of money, not to mention the amounts involved manufacturing enough evidence to convince the Earl that his niece was still alive. Limpit couldn't even be sure that the Earl's niece was still alive. Morgan had one month's bail, and if the Earl did not set eyes on his niece within that time, then the Warlock was for the chop. Not that Limpit was an ardent human rights campaigner. Slaves were expensive commodities, but emotional blackmail was relatively cheap, and Limpit knew its value all right. Not that he wasn't fond of the Warlock, in his own way, but he thought that Morgan could be very useful to him, and now he was in Limpit's debt, emotionally and financially, as Morgan himself realised well enough. Morgan did not realise quite how bad this was, though - Limpit charged interest at an hourly rate.
        'We could always go adventuring?' Morgan suggested. 'You know, the honest hard graft of slaying dragons, avoiding devilishly difficult traps, rescuing maidens from high towers, and all that stuff.'
        Limpit stared at Morgan in disgust.
        'I think you're forgetting that the odds of us actually surviving a proper adventure rate somewhere below the existence of little blue men, talking lemmings, and intelligent life found on Butwin.'
        'Oh, come on, Limpit! We'll be heroes! Women will be throwing themselves at us! We'll be rich beyond our wildest dreams! There'll be feasts, and parties, and orgies! Yes, huge orgies, with millions of well-oiled young virgins to obey our every whim.'
        Limpit interrupted Morgan's fantasy before it got messy.
        'Morgan, you're drooling!' he said. 'Anyway, what good is all that if we're dead? No, we need a more practical solution. Our cash-flow is at crisis point and I'm not sure how long I can keep putting everything on credit. One month of this and the bailiffs will be called in, and you know what the bailiffs are like; they don't so much go around knocking on doors asking people to settle up as go right through the door, slay the occupants, and pillage what they can. They make the most uncouth Ogre look like pleasant company for an evening of drinks and after-dinner chit-chat.'
        Morgan wasn't finished though.
        'I could always magic up some gold!' he enthused. 'You know, using some of my more powerful spells.'
        Morgan awaited Limpit's response to this latest suggestion with hopeful expectancy.
        'I think I'd rather face the bailiffs, if that's all the same to you,' Limpit said, crushing the magician's mindless, but fragile, optimism. 'Your reputation as one of the world's most unreliable users of magic is not without foundation. You've managed to make the Earl's niece vanish to God knows where, you caused the inhabitants of Blackbrook to sprout huge beards - it wouldn't have been so bad if there actually were some men in the village at the time - and you deep-fried the Archdeacon Paisley III alive!'
        Morgan looked defensive.
        'He did call me a womanising scoundrel and a devious braggart with all the manners of a decomposing goat.'
        'I seem to remember you were in bed with his wife at the time,' Limpit countered.
        'Well, technically speaking, I suppose I was, yes.'
        'And his brother!' Limpit added.
        'Okay, okay, I won't do any magic then. Can we please change the subject now?'
        'And the whole New Church Choir.'
        'I said OK!'
        'Heh heh!' Limpit cackled. 'Touched a nerve there, I think.'
        'I'll touch more than that in a minute!' Morgan warned him.
        Limpit was off again.
        'Isn't that what his wife said to you?'
        Simply Morgan's eyes narrowed. He could blast the Halfman where he sat, if only he could recall how that Fireball spell went.
        Hold on! No, that's not it. Maybe it's…no, that's Melvin's Magic Mousse, and as tempting as it is to fire after-dinner desserts at the Halfman I feel that it might end up being somewhat unimpressive as a combat spell.
        While Morgan lost himself in a maze of misspelt spells and unpronounceable incantations, Limpit made his way to the bar; the Warlock's mulled wine was far from ready, but beer flowed constantly from the tap, and his tankard needed filling.
        The tankard was Limpit's own, and had been personalised with a lengthy inscription etched around it, from lip to base. It was made from pewter, with a glass bottom, and an elaborate oak handle. He swung it vigorously, as was his habit, passing to the left of the central chimney rooted in the middle of the pub, with a fire blazing on either side. The bar itself was situated in the far left-hand corner of the pub, and Limpit clambered onto one of the stools fixed along it, shouting and banging his tankard on its beer-soaked surface.
        'Otto! Otto!' he yelled with unnecessary volume.
        Since there was no immediate response he yelled again, banging his tankard all the while.
        'Otto! Otto!'
        Limpit paused and drew in a breath.
        'Otto, you overweight lard-arse! Are you serving drinks tonight, or what? I've actually witnessed a mini-civilisation germinate in the bar-spillage. Even now they've chained themselves to the bar-nuts and are demanding the right to vote!'
        Glass smashed somewhere within the kitchen, and Otto reluctantly emerged, his dark eyes smouldering with resentment under thick, brush-like eyebrows. He lumbered the length of the bar to where Limpit was perched, banging his tankard in time to Otto's step.
        Otto's black beard quivered in irritation. If one thing was guaranteed to put him in a bad mood - and Otto was always in a bad mood, but if he wasn't - Limpit Muskin was that one thing.
        All Halfmen were bad news, according to Otto; they were forever getting under his feet on busy nights so that he had to keep checking the soles of his boots to see if he had trodden in one: but Limpit Muskin was the worst of them. He was the Halfman from Hell. If the Devil ever had a son he would be four and a half feet tall, wear closely cropped hair, possess an incredibly strong self-preservation instinct, but have the number 333 marked on his head.
        He snatched the tankard from Limpit's hand and slowly filled it with the Halfman's usual.
        It was still early in the evening: too early to shut, at least, and kick out the incessant Limpit.
        Otto was not the shrewdest of barkeepers. His considerable girth, unfriendly face, and gruff manner belied a timidity of character, and he calculated, when he dared to do the accounts, that on some days he gave away more free beer than he sold - usually when Limpit was around. Added to his timidity was his unsociability; he disliked both idle conversation and arguments over credit with customers. It was only because of his mother's nocturnal activities that the Blind Bowman was able to remain in business at all.
        Otto placed the filled tankard in front of the Halfman.
        'Seven brass pennies, Limpit,' he said, staring at the ceiling, palm out.
        'Ah, yes, I wanted to talk to you about this,' Limpit lied. 'I'm short on cash at the moment and would consider it a personal favour if you were to extend my credit ever so slightly.'
        Otto clenched his teeth and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to a sign on the wall.
        'Can't you read what that says?'
        'Don't drink and ride?' Limpit offered, squinting in the wrong direction.
        'No! It says don't ask for credit as refusal often offends.'
        Does it? Well, I'm not offended. Don't worry, Otto, I'll sort you out the money in the morning.'
        And with that, he jumped down from the stool and placed his tankard on a nearby table.
        'This is the last time, Limpit,' Otto grumbled, glumly wiping a dirty cloth across the bar.
        'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' Limpit said casually over his shoulder, sipping at the generous froth. He had more pressing business to attend to, like bracing himself for the Blind Bowman's toilets. He had used them countless times before, but that never made the crucial first step inside any easier.
        The Blind Bowman's bathroom facilities were legendary. They had taken more lives than any monster-infested dungeon could ever hope to claim. This had not prevented a number of foolhardy expeditions into their deeper chambers. Only one had ever re-emerged, and afterwards he could only gibber incoherently about white, tiled rooms and hand-dryers.
        Limpit stood nervously outside, already gagging at the yellow smell that slithered from underneath the door to the right of the bar. At last, he took in a deep breath, pinched his nose shut, and plunged in.
        As soon as the door closed behind him the heavy stench punched him on the nose like a Troll's fist. He reeled back against the door, but the shooting pain in his bladder forced him further in. Visibility was poor, but through the yellow fog he could just about make out the vague guttering in the floor signalling that he did not need to venture further inside. He stumbled forward, desperately fumbling with the fastenings on his trousers as his lungs began to expire. He relaxed suddenly, and what sounded like a torrential waterfall rushing over the edge of a mighty precipice followed. By the time Limpit had finished his heart was ringing loud in his ears and his lungs were burning, crying out for oxygen. He thought he was about to die. His knees shook, but he found just enough strength in his legs to leap to the door and out. He collapsed to the floor in a coughing fit, sucking in huge gulps of air as he lay spread-eagled in the sawdust, staring at the ceiling with eye!
s that only seconds before had had a good look at the Grim Reaper who, he was surprised to find, was dressed up as Little Bo-Peep.
        Otto gave the melodramatic Halfman a cursory glance from behind the bar.
        'I hope you washed your hands,' he said.
        The main door of the tavern then opened, and the cold evening air marched boldly in. It sat down next to Limpit and began to prod annoyingly at him until he rose painfully to his feet and turned around to see who had let it in.

        Postman #538, of the Rynn State Post Office (with their company policy of service with a smile and a cheeky wink for the ladies) whistled merrily to himself as he approached the outskirts of Slagholm. This was to be his last drop for what he considered to be a most successful day. He had joyfully delivered birthday cards and presents to the beaming children of the Bastard Lane Orphanage in Wistlow, he had soppily passed on cute letters from young grandchildren to their doting grandparents, and had handed over an interesting I demand the release of all our political prisoners or I will stake you down for the Penguins to find you postcard to a worried-looking councillor.
        As he strolled through the outskirts of Slagholm, his distinctive whistling attracted hopeful looks from high windows.
        He gazed around in awe at the beauty of the clear fresh skies, even though it was a dark, windy day, and it had begun to rain.
        He smiled at the beautiful young housewife who stood in a doorway as if waiting for someone, and gave her the cheekiest of winks. Otto's decrepit mother giggled and offered a tiny wave, lifting up her skirt in an attempt at demureness so that the Postman could catch a glimpse of her varicose vein-encrusted legs. The Postman winked again, while the rest of the world retched.
        He loved the great variety of existence; to him, it was all part and parcel of being a Postman. Nothing in Slagholm upset him, or cast a grey storm-cloud over his day. The birds sang merrily - even the one being eaten by a cat; the dogs were all friendly - even the one still chewing on his leg.
        He leisurely strolled along Open Sewer Avenue, breathing in the fresh air, until he stopped suddenly at a narrow alleyway. He briefly rummaged around in his post-bag, and pulled out the last two remaining letters, checking the name that was written on them both. He appeared to be satisfied, and called into the impenetrable shadows of the alley.
        'Mr Darkblade?' he said.
        Silence greeted him. He looked again at the name on the letter.
        'Mr….Arin Darkblade? I have a couple of letters here for you.'
        A tall man, wrapped in a heavy black cloak and with the hood pulled over his face, slowly emerged from the blackness. He looked around cautiously, a little confused that his hiding-place had been discovered with such apparent ease.
        'I am he,' he said quietly to the Postman.
        'Ah, good!' the Postman said with a grin, and handed him the letters. 'Here you go. Cheerio!' And with a wave of his hand he was away.
        Arin Darkblade surreptitiously pocketed the letters and slid back into the alleyway. He was due to meet a representative of the Brotherhood of Hoods at the Broken Arrow tavern in an hour's time, and had been gazing at the item he had risked his life to secure for them - for a substantial fee, of course.
        He slowly drew it out again and weighed it in his hand. It was a dark, glassy ball, about ten inches in diameter, and it glowed with a faint, golden aura. He held it close to his face and felt a pleasant warmth radiate from it. He stared closer into its depths, and then looked away.
        You fool! he laughed scornfully to himself, and returned the orb to its pouch.
        Since night was fast approaching, the rain was beating harder, and it was too dark to read his letters, Arin Darkblade stepped out from the alleyway and decided to make his way to the Blind Bowman tavern. This meant arriving there early.
        It was the usual Rule of the Blade never to be early and never to be late when it came to business transactions, and never to wait. He had learnt - the hard way, naturally - that anything could happen at any time, and that in order to ensure a trouble-free transaction, variables that increased as time increased should be negated by swift deals that allowed no window for fate to stick its nose in where it was not wanted.
        Arin spat on the ground, sneering at his surroundings. Only the firelighters were walking the streets as he made his way to The Blind Bowman. Lights began to appear in the doorways of small cottages, and in the high windows of unambitious town houses, but nobody else was about their business. Arin doubted very much if there were any variables in Slagholm. He had never before visited this region of Rynn, and hoped never to return. Nothing of interest had ever happened there, as far as he had heard, and the only quests he had been offered from this part of the world were to rescue cats from trees, and retrieve balls from next-door neighbours' gardens. He did not think there could be any harm in turning up at the pub early; he'd travelled far, and deserved a rest.
        The pub was virtually empty when he arrived. Through the window he could only make out the back of an old man and the burly barkeeper reading a newspaper behind the bar. Even with such a small audience, he thought he would make his customary entrance.

        The door of the Blind Bowman burst open and a tall, dark, mysterious figure stood motionlessly on the threshold, his form outlined against the blazing streetlights behind him. His cloak billowed as he stood on the doorstep, surveying all before him from within the deep folds of his hood.
        'Yes, yes, very visually striking,' Limpit called out to the stranger, taking hold of his tankard and walking back to his favourite table by the door where Morgan was just about to give up racking his brain for the right spell.
        Limpit hated adventurers; they were all far too image-conscious, arrogant, and cliché-ridden, and their quests ranged from the absurdly pointless to the financially catastrophic.
        'As you can see, we're all deeply impressed by your entrance,' he continued, sitting down. 'As chance would have it, I was just talking to my companion here about the total lack of gits - I mean, adventurers - around these parts nowadays. We haven't seen any in a long time. But now you're here, the wait's over, and we can all sleep easy in our beds. If you're feeling really adventurous you might want to get the next round in.'
        Otto nodded approvingly at this last remark.
        The stranger ignored the Halfman and strode to the bar portentously. His weatherworn boots struck the floor with a heavy, purposeful stomp until he stood facing Otto.
        He slowly raised his gauntleted hands and threw back his hood. Only one eye stared at the barkeeper: a solitary, expressionless eye. The other was covered by a black eye-patch, adding appropriate meanness to the heavy scarring, thick stubble, and overall effect of general ruggedness. His long dark hair fell over his face as he leaned forward and spoke quietly to Otto.
        'I'm looking for someone,' he stated simply. He leaned back, as if these words were enough.
        Otto leaned forward.
        'You're supposed to meet round the back for that sort of thing,' he murmured in reply.
        'No, you misunderstand -' began the stranger.
        'Of course,' Otto interrupted, eager to conclude this distasteful business, 'she's not as young as she used to be, but she has experience on her side. Just remember, you can talk dirty as much as you like, she lost her hearing years ago.'
        'No, I mean I'm here to meet a man,' the stranger hissed.
        Otto stepped away quickly, backing against the wall, and eyed the stranger in disgust.
        'I'm sorry, mate,' he said, indignantly, 'I don't approve of that sort of thing. You'll find some Fairies in Woodrise Forest who might be more accommodating, but you'll find nothing like that here!'
        The stranger's hand snapped out like a cobra-strike across the bar, and grabbed hold of Otto's shirt. The barkeeper was not without a degree of physical presence, but even he could not resist the stranger's unusually strong grip: a grip that not only held him by his clothes, but by his chest-hair as well, drawing him close.
        Otto sucked in his lips, expecting the worst.
        'I'm supposed to be meeting someone,' the stranger repeated emphatically, 'called Haslep Browne. Have you heard of him?'
        'No!' Otto yelped.
        The stranger stared at the barkeeper, unconvinced.
        'Have a beer on the house,' Otto said. His normally gruff voice was now high enough to break glass.
        The stranger relaxed his vice-like hold on the frightened barkeeper a little.
        'Free beer you say?'
        'Yes, of course. We always offer the first pint to strangers free in The Blind Bowman.' Otto wanted to satisfy this dangerous customer while at the same time trying to limit the unpaid goods. 'What'll it be?' he said.
        'I thought you said free beer on the house all night.'
        'Er, yes,' Otto said, unable to hide his disappointment, '…all night.'
        'And free board?'
        It wasn't a question. Otto was close to tears.
        'Yes,' he said in a small voice.
        'Good!' said the stranger, releasing his grip. 'Now, I'm going to be sitting by the fire, if you'll be good enough to bring my drinks over. And if one Haslep Browne comes in here looking for Arin Darkblade, be sure to direct him to me.'
        Arin Darkblade sat on the chair closest to the fire, put his feet up on the table, and took out the two letters that had been handed to him. He unsheathed a particularly vicious-looking dagger and slit open the envelopes. He recognised the handwriting on one of them, and decided to read it first.
        Otto, trying his best to make himself small, sidled from the bar to the nearest fireplace, where Arin was sitting, and slid the glass of beer onto the table. He was about to slowly side-step away when Arin spoke.
        'I'm feeling hungry,' he said without looking up from the letter. 'A platter of hot meats and bread wouldn't go amiss. Sooner rather than later.'
        Arin could be forgiven for being a little curt; any news from home meant bad news…

        My Lord,
                You will clearly recall, so many days ago as they seem to me now, leaving my humble self in sole charge of the day-to-day running of your most excellent estate - an estate of fifty persons, 15 horses, 6 goats, 4 cows, 31 chickens, and 1 rather over-worked rooster - and I can say again, freely, that it is with no small amount of pride that I am working out this responsibility as one upon whom a great honour has been bestowed, as it is to work under your name in the most menial of tasks; indeed, time passes so slowly in your absence the very sun is slowed in her orbit, and we, your grateful servants, are able to dispense ourselves of our duties within this unnatural time-span which would surely not be possible under any other sun. That is to say, we miss your steering presence, and would fain call you back to your true home, Darkblade Keep.
        It is my solemn duty, no matter how odious it may be, to write true words to my Lord and Master, and I undertake such a task now with gladness; not because the news is well, but because it is a duty duly performed well, and I write these words now to report to you grievous happenings at home, where your walls are no longer deemed sacred, and rude men make gestures at those of us who hitherto had never witnessed such gestures, and we ponder upon their precise meaning as we stand on the battlements, brave and erect, suffering the obscene sights that can unfortunately be had, and only in the one hope of sighting the long-looked for return of he who would rescue us, he who cares for us as for his own, which we are, that is, you.
        It pains me to say, pains me so that I almost shrink from saying it, that since you went away too long a time ago, an army of bailiffs have been constantly harassing us, entreating us to open the gates under the most vile threats and wild accusations, and have since been camped outside the southern fortifications for the last three weeks.
Lord, the situation is not favourable, as it never is when you are away, but now it is even less favourable, ill-equipped as we are to repel a siege, or to survive another fortnight without your charmed sword to ward off these ruffians who dishonour your name, or to pay them what they claim is rightfully theirs, to wit, the sum of two hundred gold coins and the collectable pair of Self-Abuse Dolls of which you are the much-envied owner.
        To their demands I listen not, lest I validate their claims upon your noble person, which I will never do though you yourself command me; your loyal subjects have all agreed that death is a more welcome thing, and a violent one at that, and one preceded by much torture, and followed by shameful public display, than that we should admit to your serial adultery, random violence, vanity, haughtiness, bullying, avarice, and many acts of oppression and vice which are well-known in the district.
        We desperately require your presence, if I may be so bold to require anything, and if it was for me myself I would say I require nothing except that you are well-pleased with my conduct, but as it is you who require your own presence, your very own Darkblade Keep and those who love you, human and animal, who require you to return home, we urgently request that you return home, or at the very least supply a reply full of loving guidance and lofty wisdom so that we may either repel or satisfy the rascals who hammer at your door (even as I write I have just been informed that a small detachment of bailiffs have given the gate-wardens some filthy looks).
        Please come home or send word soon.
                Your ever-faithful servant,
                        Lorimore Lickspittle
        Without a flicker of emotion, Arin crumpled up the letter, threw it on the fire, and opened the next one. It was mercifully short, and told him nothing that he did not know already, or couldn't have worded better himself. He scanned its contents, sneered at them, then screwed the letter up tightly, and threw it on the fire as well, watching intently as it caught light suddenly, blazed momentarily, and then blackened and vanished into the embers.

©2002 Andrew Ewington, Dennis Johnson.
Material may not be reproduced in any form without
the expressed written permission of the authors.

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