Episode 20: The Answers in Alkivaan

While Lord Chodvar Taibil, Vath'azen's Master of Commerce recovered from his injuries in the Karnwood forest North of Stoverj, Councilor Jenta Hua'zur set into motion plans designed to help reveal who might be behind the alleged murder of King Ga'jam. After stowing away the rescued Senior Historian Basr Saklay'n, one of the last people to see the King alive, she sent word to fellow Councilor and Lord Grand Marshall Davu Pa'lakh to make haste to Basr's location and protect him from some unspecified danger. To complicate matters, the Grand Marshall was under house arrest for the murder of a young Vath noble - a situation for which Jenta had planned by sending a look-alike to take Davu's place.
  Meanwhile, with the firm belief the King's murderer is likely somehow tied to the kingdom of Sanysgal, the raven-like Lord Yahri Negdahe requested from the Great Library the rosters of all nobles with ties to the rebel kynekin kingdom.

A light rapping on the ornate wooden door-frame disturbed the serenity of Yahri’s study. "My Lord Negdahe," one of his servants began, "the rosters you requested from the Great Library have arrived."
  Without turning, the raven-Lord motioned toward the rectangular table at which he was seated. "Leave them here, please."
  A cloaked form, short and slender, nodded to the servant before crossing the room, setting down a stack of dusty tomes.
  "Thank you. That will be all," he said absently, taking a sip of his deep red wine. It was a fairly recent vintage from Delgash with a bit of a bite. Probably could have aged a few years.
  The delivery person shifted subtly behind him. "Well if I'd known you weren't even going to acknowledge me," she chastised, "I wouldn't have bothered bringing these myself."
  The cloaked figure drew back her hood, revealing an attractive Shar'elum woman with an ash-colored beak and striking blue-and-white feathers framing her garnet-ringed eyes. With a wry smile she placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head to one side in mock annoyance.
  Yahri shot up in surprise, eyes wide. "Pwin!" He found himself standing like a schoolboy, smoothing his cloak. I must look dreadful.
  "I'm so sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean..." Words seemed to elude him.
  With a kind smile playing across her face, she reached out, gently placing her hand on his arm. "My Lord Councilor," she curtseyed, "Please forgive my jest."
  "What... What are you doing here?"
  Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she motioned to the books. "I saw your request come into the Library and thought it would be nice to deliver these myself. What are you doing with all the rosters of court nobility anyway?"
  Yahri glanced at the tomes then back to Pwin. "I am," he hesitated, "...trying to ascertain which families are key in ensuring the Kingdom is stable."
  Mostly true, he thought. Those are the families I hope to eliminate from consideration in order to narrow down who the traitors might be. But telling Pwindolyn could put her in danger .
  She chuffed, one eye raised in disbelief. Her beautiful plume of head feathers - black to red to blue - bobbed slightly in the air. "I see."
  Oh no. Now I've done it. "Pwindolyn, I," he began, but she cut him off, her voice flat and cold.
  "Then I shall leave you to your matters of State." She curtsied once again, and turned. Yahri stood dumbfounded, unable to find his words and watched as she exited the room with a "Good luck, my Lord" over one shoulder.
  He topped off his glass with wine and raised it to the bronze warrior statue in his study.
  “Looks like it’s just us tonight…”
 
  Several bottles of wine and countless hours poring over the rosters of court nobles later, Yahri had all but forgotten his brief encounter with his Pwindolyn the Librarian. He lowered his head at the desk, clasping his black-clawed hands around his long, curved beak and breathed slowly.
  Thirty one, he pondered as he once again scanned the parchment containing his notes. Thirty one families with ties to Sanysgal. And somewhere here is a possible traitor - perhaps even a group of traitors, if the Mistress of Whispers' story is to be believed. Traitors who collaborated to successfully murder King Ga'jam and are likely at this very moment moving to seize control of Vath'azen.
  "Now," he asked to his notes, "who amongst you had the ear of the King?"
  The Hycaches are out, as are the Songkas. Not the Ry'gaans or the Uttepis.
  One-by-one, he walked through the list, considering what he knew about each family, their overall level of engagement in the politics and machinations of the court, their history and aspirations, their relationships with the dwarves of the Stormbreak Mountains, and of course any of the tawdry affairs and courtly rumors making the rounds that Yahri so loved.
  Though he like to pretend otherwise, Yahri truly was, at heart, a gossip-monger. With all of this knowledge at his fingertips, he marked through those families he was fairly confident were loyal and should have no reason to undermine the crown.
  All told, he whittled down the list by twenty-five families, leaving only six. He must have read the six family names over a hundred times. As he drifted off to sleep over his work, his mind continued searching for anything that would make one of the six more or less suspect than any other.

The Alkivaan District's Riverwalk was a stark reminder of a bygone era. South and East from Yahri's home, the buildings were some of the oldest in Stoverj - still retaining much of their original imperial flare. Yet where once they had been homes closed off to all but the elven elite, now they were well-lit and well-attended shops, windows aglow with soft lantern light. Merchants hawked upscale wares to the more affluent members of the city - and to those who longed for a taste of the ever-elusive "better life."
  Davu Pa'lakh, Vath'azen's fox-like Grand Marshall, kept his head down, hood pulled forward to cover as much of his face as possible. A door from one of the shops swung open with a sudden crash. He flinched, hands instinctively reaching for the hilts of his twin blades. The shop's laughing patrons froze, eyes widening in alarm at Davu's shadowed form and billowing cloak.
  He lowered his gaze, hastening his pace – did they recognize me?
  Calm down, Davu thought, his jaw tightening. Everyone thinks you're still under house arrest. No one knows you're out. At least, that was his hope.
  He slipped between several shops, moving to the darker, less crowded alleys running parallel to the main thoroughfare. The shop where Jenta's agent – a frighteningly accurate double for Davu serving in his place under house arrest - had directed him was but a block away when a muffled crash and shattering glass caught his attention.
  He rushed forward, hands on his swords, back pressed against the building. Cautious not to expose himself, he peered through the window, between sets of shelves, through an open doorway.
  The shop's main area, he surmised.
  Through the open door, a brawny human had an arm cradling the neck of a tall arjeev woman, restraining her. With his free hand he a knife pressed against her ribs. The woman - a beautiful lioness in a silky black dress with a plunging V-shaped neckline meeting at her round-buckled leather belt – struggled ferociously.
  "I'm going to rip your throat out!" She snarled, her voice a growl of fury.
  Davu crept to the rear entrance of the shop and tried the handle. Locked. The orange fur on his arms bristled. A shiver ran down his spine.
  Danger.
  The thought took root in his mind as a whisper of dread coiled in his gut. Foreign, arcane symbols flared to life in cyan light along the door-frame. A clawed hand - as though part of the door itself - lashed out, its long, cold fingers wrapping around Davu's neck. Its grip tightened, choking off his breath. He swallowed panic as it effortlessly forced him backwards.
  From the door emerged an unnatural humanoid creature – wood come to life. Moving on two legs with arms too long, too strong, it bore a modest muzzle, a wide, tooth-laden jaw, and short, pointed ears carved into a twisted mockery of life. Pulsing golden eyes, like a fiery forge, locked onto his, a wave of dread slamming into him as the beast yanked him from the earth.
  His heart pounded. His breath quickened.
  The creature whipped him through the air one-handed, smashing him into the ground with such force it stole his breath. Pain shot through his back and lungs. His vision wobbled, teetering on the edge of consciousness as his swords clattered across the gravel alley, shattering the quiet.
  Davu lowered his chin into the crux of the creature's gnarled hand - an attempt to create the slightest amount of space to breath - while simultaneously pinning it with his left hand. His right forearm braced against the creature's throat, pressing it away. Arcing his hips upward, he barely managed to launch the heavy creature over his head. Unable to bend, its pinned arm snapped with a satisfying wooden crack!
  Davu rolled to his feet, spying his swords on the other side of creature.
  Typical, he thought, sucking wind and shaking his head. His forced his mind to focus, settling into the shared breath close combat fighting stance favored by the dwarven Deepwatch - the adnein vekhzu.
  Unfeeling and unfazed by the broken limb dangling from its body, the creature moved in awkward fits and starts, forcing itself from the ground with its good arm. It sprung forward in an impossible blur. Davu pivoted, seeking to capitalize on its momentum and redirect it, but realized his mistake too late. Instead of a strike, the creature threw its tree trunk of a body at him wholesale, crashing into him like a battering ram and through the shop owner’s door - a tangled pile of splintered wood and fur.
  In a frenzy of fox-claws and fangs Davu ripped and tore at any part of the creature where he could gain purchase. He gagged, its blood a sticky sap – vile and bitter. Its working arm reared back, striking him relentlessly over and over.
  The breathless lioness' form swept into the doorway.
  "Paohei!" She commanded with authority - Peace - in the language of the arjeev. The creature froze, fist raised high in anticipation of its next strike. Her long, flowing mane was disheveled and matted against a now-tattered black dress. She stepped through the doorway with a quiet hesitation, ochre eyes tracking the creature’s movement like a child following a firefly, her breath catching in a silent gasp. She reached out, the light-brown fur of her fingers, adorned with golden rings, lovingly caressed the heavy creature's dangling wooden arm.
  "Oh you poor dear."
  Davu, still pinned beneath the creature, cleared his throat. "Would you mind calling this thing off?"
  Her gaze turned downward, as if suddenly realizing Davu was there. The muscles around her snout tightened, pulling her mouth into a snarl. "My shop is in shambles," she accused. "Your cohorts have abandoned you. Give me one reason not to let my creature finish you off."
  "How about because I was trying to help? I'm not with whoever was giving you trouble. Jenta sent me – presumably to meet with you – and," he paused, "because I'm the Grand Marshall and asked politely."
  Her eyes snapped wide, the sudden clarity making her take an involuntary half-step back as realization settled in.
  He smirked. "I know you said one, but... I'm an overachiever."
  She swallowed hard. "Nerai veiré," she commanded - return to rest. The creature rose, retreating toward the now-broken rear exit.
  “Forgive me, Lord Councilor.”
  Davu rolled to his side, groaning and cradling his ribs.

A thick layer of dust and cobwebs covered most everything in the crowded upper room above the shop. Candles flickered on the small, mosaic-top circular table illuminating the raccoon-like vyrian Basr Saklay’n, Senior Historian of Stoverj, the lioness shopkeeper - Li'vary, as Davu had learned - and the Grand Marshall himself. A sweet yet earthy aroma - a painkiller of some sort she’d said - rose in wisps of steam from Davu’s warm mug.
  He pinched his snout, eyes closed and head swimming in a mild fog as he tried to make sense of the impossible story. Basr and Li’vary watched on in silence. “A coterie of conspirators,” he began. “Missing King’s Guard. A murdered King. A secret chamber. A false decree,” he recounted. “Abduction. Slavers. A Ruling Council member injured. A sabotaged skiff. Am I missing anything?”
  “An elven protector?” Basr replied nervously.
  Davu chuckled. “A phrase I’d wager has ne’er been uttered in this city since the end of the War. What was Mistress Hua’zur’s direction?”
  Basr sat up straight in his uncomfortable wooden chair. ”Mistress Hua’zur said it was imperative I document all of this, but only once someone she’d send took me somewhere safe.”
  “Of course she did,” Davu snickered, shaking his head in exasperation. He stroked the white fur hanging from his chin. “Your Order of Historians,” he began with a deep inhale. “Is it true they know secret paths through the library, and even many of the catacombs underneath?”
  Basr hesitated momentarily, then nodded. “Yes, my Lord Councillor.”
  “Is there someone there you trust?”
  Basr buried his black and white raccoon face in his hands. “The Chief Historian,” he finally replied. ”Uk’maad. He cares for little else beyond the Library and recovering, restoring, and safeguarding the knowledge that survived the fires of the Great War.”
  “Good,” Davu replied before turning to lioness. “Shopkeeper,” he commanded. “You will see this Vyrian delivered to the Chief Historian.”
  Her eyes lit up, her tea spilling over the brim of her mug as it nearly slammed into to the table. “What?! My Lord, you can’t…”
  Davu's eyes narrowed. “Can’t what,” he growled, leaning forward over folded elbows. “Order a loyal subject of Vath’azen to undertake a task?”
  Li’vary studied the stranger. Her jaw tightened and eyebrows raised as she weighed her choice of words. "As you wish," she responded slowly. "But the Council will pay double what it takes to refurbish my shop, as well as my time lost to this effort."
  Admittedly, he had no idea what that might cost, but whatever it was seemed worth it given the stakes. "Done. Perhaps we should spend a few minutes talking about why those individuals were accosting you?"
  The lioness sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. "A former customer of mine with an axe to grind. Nothing more. Suffice to say that had nothing to with..." She motioned toward Basr.
  Basr shrunk back a bit at the unwanted attention, clearing his throat lightly. "What about me, my Lord Councillor?"
  "At first light, go to the Great Library and do what Jenta told you. Also, see if the Historians can dig up any documents about passages around or perhaps under the late King's dwelling."
  "What about you," Li'vary interjected.
  "If Jenta asks? I'm going to explore several aspects about the Historian’s story that fall in my span of control. She’ll understand what that means,” he added before Li’vary had a chance to protest. “As far as anyone else? I was never here. I'm still at my home under house arrest. Are we clear on this?"
  He met their gazes, awaiting a simple nod of the head in acknowledgement. With a basic plan in place, the the conversation turned to lighter matters as the three nursed their tea into the wee hours of the night.

Kezo Haruchi’s boots squished and sloshed with every step through the sopping marshland.
  The air hung thick with the smell of sickness - an almost rotten odor that clung to the overcast morning like a shroud.
  He moved through the sad encampment just East of the city’s poorest district - Noiton - pejoratively known as Marshmanor Row. The scent of desperation permeated the unwashed masses, clinging to the mud. Some would say it was overwhelming, but to the horse-like Ja’nakh - with his heightened sense of smell - it was enough to make Kezo’s solid black eyes sting.
  Today’s mission was not typical of his role as the Captain of the King’s Guard. In place of the gold-rimmed, silver armor of his station, he wore a simple dark-gray linen tunic over tight-fitting black trousers. His tunic’s short-sleeves allowed him to more easily carry the heavy cauldron of grain porridge on one bulging arm without getting in the way. In the other hand, not his sword but a worn wooden ladel.
  The encampment had swollen of late with many citizens of Stoverj displaced by the city’s recent fires and violent protests. They held out dingy wooden bowls as he passed, allowing him to serve them this meager meal. Few met his gaze. Those who did revealed hollow eyes, largely devoid of hope. The entire scene broke Kezo’s heart, for his kind are a people of community. He paused next to one of the poor whose face remained huddled beneath the cowl of their dull cloak.
  “You there,” Haruchi spoke in a low tone. “Come with me.“ The figure rose in compliance, following through the camp and into a nondescript tent leveraged by the volunteers. Thankfully, it was empty. Kezo set the cauldron down and paused, his back still to the stranger. His long black tail swished like a pendulum from one side to the other, his body tensed.
  Even at a whisper, the bass of his deep voice carried considerable force. “You should not be here.”
  “I never could sneak up on you,” Davu replied with a smirk, pulling back his hood and shaking his head.
  Kezo turned with purpose, staring down into his mentor’s eyes. “This is no time for jokes, Davu. You’re supposed to be under house arrest. You being here putting both of us in a precarious situation.” He lowered his charcoal-colored snout, bringing both bulbous black eyes to focus on his mentor. "But you knew that before you came. "
  Davu nodded, sighing as he sat back on an old barrel. “I did, but you may want to sit down for this.”
  Kezo stood, unflinching, unblinking.
  “Suit yourself," Davu shrugged. "Who was guarding the King the night he died?”
  Kezo's large horse-head turned sharply to one side, his midnight-colored mane flipping over his shoulder. “Shibane and Angai. Why?”
  Davu swallowed, taking a deep breath. “Because a witness from that night said no one was guarding the King’s chambers in the moments before his death.”
  Kezo slowly lowered himself onto a stack of crates. “What?” He questioned at a whisper, shaking his head. “They would never leave their posts. If they were both absent at the same time, that might mean…”
  The Grand Marshall raised a hand, cutting off Kezo's thought. “I don’t know what that means… Yet. But I intend to find out.”
  “Not without me, you’re not,” Kezo challenged.
  “I thought you might say that. What time are you done here?”
  “Now seems like the right answer.”
  “I couldn’t agree more," Davu replied. "Let's go."