Tales I Tell

Chapter Five

            “Corta, my lass?” The voice and the knock on the door jolted all of them out of their reverie. Corta jumped, accidentally tossing Fidelius into the air. Fortunately, the skylight was still open, and he was able to catch the breeze and glide down to the workbench.

            “Ah—Tim?” Her voice squeaked, and she blushed furiously. I wasn't doing anything wrong! There is absolutely no reason to feel like this!

            “Is everything all right in there? Got a bit noisy a moment ago.”

            It probably had, too. She hadn't noticed at the time, but several bags had fallen off their shelves, and she'd knocked her wrench off the workbench when she'd jumped up there to open the skylight. Plus, the skylight itself was rusty and squealed like an inconvenienced three-year-old whenever it moved, so that had probably got his attention.

            “Uh—yeah, everything's okay.” Corta glanced down at herself and her mouth dropped open. “What the—”

            “Corta?”

            “I'm good!”

            Indeed she was. Though rather unusually dressed. She held her arms out, gaping. She was still wearing Bruan's corset, though it now looked burnished and gilded. But her pants and blouse had vanished, to be replaced with an elegant gown. It fell to her ankles, a rich, iridescent golden-green that looked fabulous with the leather corset and cuffs. The sleeves were slashed, practically falling off her arms, attached only at the cuffs and an amber gem just under the shoulders. Her shoulders were also bare, though her bosom was securely covered and there was a high neck. Corta's questing fingers encountered a ring of smooth stones circling the nape of her neck; they felt warm. Altogether it was the most gorgeous thing she'd ever had, though from no style she could recall—

            She gasped, leaning against the workbench for support. “Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “I have seen this before.” Minus corset and leather cuffs. It was a different color, but it was the same style as the dress the woman in her vision had worn. The woman who had first carried the staff. Slowly, Corta turned to look at the length of wood propped up against the workbench. “Was this you?”

            Yes. It was not my immediate intent; but when the power began to flow, your clothing became … wrong … for such an endeavor. I made such changes as were necessary to properly channel the magic.

            “I see.”

            Tim thumped the door again. “Corta?”

            She could only guess how weird everything sounded to him. “Just a minute!” She hurried over to the workbench and started rattling tools around, loudly putting them away. Under the cover of the sound, she hissed to the staff. “Can you turn them back? If Tim sees this, he'll freak!”

            As you desire. Touch me.

            Corta placed her hand on the staff's head. She felt the power flowing through again, and when she looked down, her gown had been replaced with her knickers and blouse. She breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

            She opened the door. “What's wrong, Tim?”

            He fixed her with a stern eye. “I might ask you the same question, my lass. Who was that I heard in here with you?”

            Oh. Oh, duh. Corta laughed. “That was Fidelius.” She turned and held out her arm, whistling a quick trill. At once, Fidelius leaped from the workbench, winging his way over to her and settling on her arm. He turned his black-diamond eyes on Tim, then bowed his head slightly.

            “Sir,” he said.

            Timothy jumped. “A speaker, is he?”

            Corta nodded, stroking his back. “Yep. I gave him a voice box so he could carry messages. More reliable than a blinks system, anyway.”

            Tim sighed. “Aye, ain't that the truth. Never can tell if the fools are at their posts or not.” He gazed curiously at the falcon. “Beautiful creature; looks true to life.” He gingerly reached out to stroke Fidelius's head. The falcon watched him calmly, submitting to his hands without protest. “What did you call him, Corta?”

            “Fidelius.” Corta smiled proudly. “Isn't he wonderful?”

            “Aye, he is. Got to congratulate you, my lass; you got your bird working and then some. Wish the other automatons in this city were as reliable.”

            “Uh-oh.” She knew that tone. “Got another job?”

            “Yep. A house call. Not too many details, but the message was all kinds of frantic.” He sighed. “I'll be headed up ready for disaster.” Then he frowned. “And I want you to stay inside. I know how independent you are, Corta, but this is serious.”

            “How so?”

            Timothy's eyes were grimmer than she'd ever seen them. “Reports of a rape gang, down in the factory areas. Don't know how high up they're coming. I know how feisty you are, but I don't want you takin' any chances.”

            “Yes, sir.” Corta shuddered. Then she chewed her lip. “Only—”

            “What is it, my lass?”

            She shifted self-consciously. Rat's-piss fever. This is going to sound crazy. “I just—I told Seil I'd meet him tonight, to talk.”

            For several moments, there was silence as Timothy stared at her. He opened his mouth and closed it several times. He cleared his throat a few more times. Finally, he spoke, choosing his words with obvious care. “And what, exactly, do you mean by that, my lass?”

            Her face grew hot. “I—well, Lizzie started screaming at him after he'd made it down from that tower. I could tell...he's a good fellow, don't get me wrong, but she teed him off pretty well. I was scared he'd really hurt her. I got up there, got Lizzie focused on me and gave him a chance to calm down. He looked like he wanted to talk to me, but I didn't want to, not with Lizzie right there. So I said I'd meet him tonight.”

            “I see.” Tim rubbed his beard, frowning. His gaze slid over to Fidelius. “You gonna take your falcon?”

            “Yessir.” Is it going to be that easy? Well—

            “Good.” Timothy fixed his gaze on the clockwork bird. “Fidelius, I ain't going to try to usurp your lady's authority there, but this order is for her own darn good. You keep an eye on that Lord Seil, and if he so much as gets fresh with her, you run him off. Got it?”

            “Tim!” Corta covered her face, now so hot her hands started to sweat. Oh, man, I thought I was blushing before. “What—why—”

            “I understand.” Fidelius half-opened his wings. “And I will obey.”

            “Oh, brother.” Corta shook her head. “Tim, you don't have to do that!”

            “Don't I?” He shook a stern finger at her. “I shouldn't have to remind you of this, Corta. You of all people should know that most men will want more than you're willing to give, and I don't want this fellow gettin' the impression that you'll give him what all he wants.”

            “I don't—he won't—” Corta threw her arms up, accidentally tossing Fidelius. The falcon caught a breeze and came to rest on the back of a chair. “He don't know my real name, for heaven's sake! I told him my short name was Corta, and he thought it was short for Cortelaine!”

            “Be that as it may, lass, it may not matter all that much to him.” Tim folded his arms, immovable. “I won't object to you meetin' this fella for a talk, but you're darn well takin' your bird, and that bird is darn well drivin' him off if he starts makin' you uncomfortable.”

            Corta rolled her eyes. “Fine. You want me to haul a flashrod along too, just in case?” He's got to admit that would be overkill. Sheesh, I can't imagine Seil so much as hinting, let alone—

            “Good idea. Never hurts to have insurance.”

            “Oh, for the love'a Mike!” Corta groaned. “You really think I'd need a flashrod?”

            “Not for this Seil fella.” Tim's eyes were serious. “Just in case. A rape gang might go after a girl with a clockwork bird, but they'll think twice about a girl with a bird and a flashrod. In fact, I'd turn up the power on yours a little. You want to make it clear that comin' after you is a bad idea.”

            “Oh. Yeah, I'll do that.”

            “Good. Be sure you do, my lass.” Timothy stepped forward and kissed her on the forehead. “I'll be waitin' up for you for when you get back, so don't stay out too late.”

            Corta kissed him back. “No worries, Tim. I won't.”

            Since she was unsure at which point Seil would decide it was 'tonight', and had also failed to specify a meeting place, Corta sent Fidelius out as soon as the sky began to darken.

            “I'm bettin' your eyes are at least as good as his, so you should be able to see him once he heads outside. Nice tall fellow, broad-shouldered, with copper-colored hair. Once he comes out, try to figure out where he's going, them come find me.”

            The falcon nodded. “I shall do so, my lady.” He launched himself up and quickly vanished in the gloaming.

            While she waited for him to come back, Corta dressed for the occasion. She didn't really have any particularly attractive clothes, so she just pulled on a set that was clean, not stained with oil and grease or sporting patches of ground-in mud. She combed her hair and put it in a fresh braid. After several moments of deliberation, she finally put on her corset, lacing it up and muttering at her foolishness. Foolish or not, the effect was nice.

            Once she'd finished dressing, she pulled the flashrod out from beneath her bed. For a moment, she simply ran her hands along its slender length, enjoying the feel of its weight. Then she examined the settings dial at the end. “Hmm...that's enough to stun a fellow for about a minute.” She gingerly turned the dial up a couple notches, raising the voltage and the heat output. “Better find something to test this on; I don't want to kill anyone, just kick him on his butt and make him think twice—or even three times—'bout comin' after me again once he unscrambles his brains.”

            She walked down into the cellar, choosing an old washbasin as her target. Being sure to keep her arm straight—flashrods had a bit of a kick and could throw her aim off if she wasn't careful—she sighted down its length and pressed the trigger.

            Flashrods were called that for a reason. The electric discharge accompanied a flash and a pop like an overpowered lightbulb. With the dial turned up, it was more like a small lightning bolt unleashed, with the appropriate thunderclap. Corta staggered back, momentarily blinded and her head ringing. “Wow!”

            She rubbed her eyes, blinking until her sight came back. “Yeah. I think that's good.” She stared at the innocuous bulb at the end of the rod, then at the blackened, toppled washbasin, the sootmark on its side smoking. “Wow. Even if I don't hit anyone, that'll send 'em running.” She gingerly slid the flashrod into its rubber holster, being careful not to bump the trigger by mistake, and climbed back upstairs, still seeing dots every time she blinked.

            Fidelius had already come back when she reached the top of the stairs. He perched on the back of a chair, preening his wing feathers. He looked up as she opened the door and entered.

            “My lady.”

            “Just call me Corta.” She shook her head, trying to clear her hearing. “Is he out already?”

            “Aye.” Fidelius flapped his wings and flew to her, gently alighting on her shoulder. “He is waiting for you where you met earlier.”

            “Outside Lizzie's shop?” She laughed in spite of herself. “Yeah, that's a safe place. Nobody'd ever hang around out there if they meant trouble.” She started for the door, then paused. Should I take along my staff?

            For a moment, she deliberated, weighing the various pros and cons. Then she shook her head. Nah; rather not have to lug it around if I don't have to. Besides...it looks kinda funny for here. “Got what I need, then,” she said aloud. “Come on, Fidelius; let's go find my crazy nob.”

            There was an odd thrill in slipping outside after the sun had gone down. The moon was full and bright, riding high in a sky speckled with thousands of stars. The bustle of the streets had gone, replaced with a strange peace. Corta's footsteps sounded loud in the quiet, but no one came to investigate. She strode along, following the bird drifting from perch to perch, guiding her through a town that seemed suddenly new and strange.

            At first sight, there was no one waiting outside the dark shop. Corta looked around, wondering if Seil had left already.

            “Ahem.”

            She jumped, quickly looking up. “Se—Lord Seil?” She squinted, trying to figure out if he was on the tower or just on the roof of the house.

            He chuckled. “You don't have to call me 'lord', Corta. Seil will do just fine.” He moved out of the tower's shadow, so that he was silhouetted against the moon. “Care to join me?”

            “On top of Lizzie's house?” Corta laughed, being sure to keep her voice down. “She lives over her shop, you know. You think she was bad about you bein' on that tower? She'd kill us both if she caught us on her roof.”

            Seil leaped down, landing lightly on his feet. He smiled down at Corta. “I do not fear her; but if you often do business with her, I certainly don't wish to alienate you from her. Do you know of a better place, then?”

            “Not many places great to relax here.” Corta grimaced. “But I do know a place we can at least sit down.” She beckoned. “Kind of lower down, so we may want to be on the alert; there's been some creeps hanging around.”

            Seil smiled a slow, fierce smile, and fingered the top of his cane. “If they 'hang around' us, rest assured they will soon be on their way.” He tucked the stick up under his arm and gave her a courtly bow. “Lead on, Cortelaine.”

            Fighting back an insane urge to break into giggles, Corta beckoned again and led him down the cobbled streets.

            The Watering Square was just that: a small square with a fountain in the middle. As it was there solely for the refreshment of passers-by, the fountain was not ornate, merely functional. Two black stone blocks rose from the square, the taller with a shallow channel grooved into it, the shorter one with a deep basin. Several tin cups stood, abandoned, on the rim of the fountain.

            During the day, when the water pressure was turned up, the clear liquid gushed freely into the basin, available to everyone who passed. At night, though, the fountain was turned off. There was still a stubborn trickle running out of the top channel, but the water in the basin itself was too low to make any effort to get.

            It was a cheerless area, even in the kind moonlight. The pale radiance gleamed off the wet stone, making Corta think that, if the water had been running, it would have made a mysterious, even beautiful image. As it was, it was just depressing. But there weren't any more pleasant places, not if you stayed outdoors. And Corta knew enough about public houses to prefer the peaceful gloom of the Watering Square to drunken chaos.

            Besides, the Watering Square had benches. Hard, uncomfortable benches meant to discourage loitering, true; but at least one could sit down. And after a nearly half-mile hike down from Lizzie's shop, sitting down was a priority. Corta dropped gratefully onto the nearest stone bench, lifting her right foot to ease pressure on what she suspected was going to turn into a blister. Behind her, Seil seemed to deliberate for a moment. Then he settled onto the fountain, taking advantage of its taller build to stretch his legs out. He, too, let out a contented sigh, looking around in bemusement at the strictly useful area.

            “Not much in the way of ornamentation down here, is there?”

            Corta chuckled dryly. “We're midway between the true Middle district and the factory level. If they get anything down here at all, it sure ain't going to be ornamental.”

            “A great pity.” Seil leaned back slightly. “I've discovered that nearly all things benefit with some added beauty.”

            Corta glanced at Fidelius and smiled. “No argument here. But you can't tell His Nibs that; at the very best, he won't listen.”

            Seil grimaced, a golden flicker running through his eyes. “I imagine.” He picked up one of the tin cups, turning it over in his hand.

            Corta leaned forward slightly, rubbing her arms. “And I can say I sure as hell don't want to find out what the worst might be.”

            Seil looked up at her, his face suddenly concerned. “Corta? What's the matter?”

            She chewed her lip for a moment, then forced the words out. “I was fired this morning, after I said out loud there ought to be a tree where he's building his new tower. Mayor heard me, and...” She shivered. “I never been so scared before in my life. Never been so scared I couldn't lob some sauce, anyway; with him screamin' at me, I honestly didn't dare open my mouth. Couldn't get away from there quick enough, either.”

            Seil nodded grimly. “I saw what happened,” he said. “I know you saw me watching...I couldn't hear what went on, but I saw As-Asur—” With a visible effort, he ground the name out between teeth clenched so tight he looked like he had lockjaw. “Mayor Asurnam stand up. I could tell he was angry, and I could see the anger was directed at you.” Eyes blazing gold, he clenched his fist, crushing the cup into a metal ball. “I had thought myself clever in choosing one of his towers as my vantage point; but at that point I regretted it. All danger aside, at that moment I wanted nothing more than to throw my quest to the winds and get my hands around his wretched neck.”

            “Don't like the old goat?” Corta chuckled nervously, eying the remains of the cup. “Must'a met him before, then.”

            Seil did not laugh. “Putting it mildly. I—” He stopped, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. In a minute, he opened his eyes again. They were once again a clear, grassy green. “I apologize. I did not intend to lose my temper.”

            Corta grunted. “My fault. Don't know if there's a man, woman or kid in the city who doesn't hate the jerk—who ain't one of his butt-kissers, anyway.” She sang softly. “You can see it how he moves, In the mornin' or at noon: Some randy feller went to bed with a baboon.”

            Seil's eyebrows shot up. “What, pray tell, was that?”

            Corta laughed. “One of the most popular songs with the day-laborers, talkin' 'bout the mayor's illustrious ancestry.”

            “I...see.”

            “Heh. Did that shock you?” She grinned slyly. “There's worse ones; but none worse about the mayor. Day-laborers tend to be a rough lot.”

            “I was more startled that you knew the song.” Seil answered her smile. He peered at her face carefully, then laughed. “Though I shouldn't be, considering Tarwing's sentiments.”

            Corta blinked. “Tarwing?”

            “I realized the resemblance only this moment.” He shook his head. “The clothing is different enough between the two of you to hide it at first. Yes, Tarwing; a young midshipman on the Cloud Raptor. I came most of the way on her.”

            Corta's mouth sagged. “The Cloud Raptor? That means...Bruan! You met Bruan!”

            Seil laughed. “Good heavens, was that his given name? No wonder he changed it.”

            Corta felt dazed. “So—the Cloud Raptor brought you? But why...”

            “Oh, not all the way into the city.” Seil waved a hand. “Geoffrey Vortanmoore met us in his private sloop and brought me in himself. Captain Rensdale seemed to be planning a raiding run. He didn't wish to draw too close to the city too soon.”

            Corta chuckled bemusedly. “Heard that the Raptor was hittin' the ships bringin' in supplies for the latest tower.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Still, I guess...I never really thought about you meetin' my brother. How—how'd you get on?”

            Seil smiled, gazing into the distance. “Quite well, really. He's a fine young man; very interested in tales and epics.”

            “That's Bruan, all right. He ran away from Urbania because he knew they'd never let him pursue poetry here.” She leaned back, careful to avoid overbalancing and falling off the backless bench. “He sends me some of his poems at times; he's gettin' pretty good.”

            “He is good. Tarwing's songs, poems and stories are quite popular in the outside world.” Seil shifted slightly, trying to keep his cape out of the basin. “Between the royalties for his work and his salary on the ship, he's comfortably well-off; though you'd never guess it to meet him.”

            “I had been wonderin' how he managed to afford the money he likes to send,” Corta mused. “Not to mention the presents.” She touched the corset. “This could not have been cheap.”

            “It probably wasn't.” Seil glanced at the leather garment, smiling a little. “It's quite well-made.”

            Fidelius leaned forward, opening his wings just a little bit and fixing his bright eyes on the tall man. Seil looked at him and smiled. “Ah; you have a guard.”

            Corta blushed. “Sorry about that; Tim wasn't real thrilled about this, and...”

            Seil shook his head, leaning back. “No, I approve. Not all men are gentlemen, and I applaud your guardian's foresight. Indeed, I wish more of the fathers here shared it.” He grimaced. “Geoffrey warned me that, because of my position in my own city, many of his neighbors would be thrusting their daughters at me. Not for marriage, oh no...simply in hopes that my 'strong genes' would be transferred to their bloodlines.” He snorted in disgust. “As if I would ever take a maiden before the vows!”

            Corta grimaced in disgust. “Probably worse'n that in the lower levels. If a woman wants to raise her kids and stay home, she has to sign a petition to let her get married, and His Nibs' cronies have to approve it. It's such a hassle, not many people do it. But there's always kids bein' born anyway.” She chewed her lip, then decided not to speak of the way most people in the factory and middle-class levels went about the business of reproduction. If anything in the world showed this city needs change, that does. She absently drummed her fingers against the stone bench. Wonder how my staff could go about makin' that change.

            Seil shook his head, not noticing her pause. “There is no way this city will last much longer, unless that is dealt with. Without solid families, society collapses.”

            “We have some families.” Corta snorted. “Irony is, they're mostly in the slums. Lots of folk down there just ignore his Nibs and get married anyway. Try to stay together and raise their kids right.” She paused. “That's where my parents came from.”

            Seil leaned forward. “Tell me about your family.”

            She hesitated, looking back at him. Talking about her family was something she just didn't do. You didn't tell people when you'd risen from the slums. But the grave warmth in Seil's eyes spoke to her heart, and the words leaped out before she thought about it.

            “They were married, at least; my parents. Mom stayed home for the kids; she wanted as many of us as possible. Dad worked two jobs so she could. That's illegal, but no one knew about it 'cept us. He was a day-laborer, like me; but when the day was over, he'd help Tim. They were good friends. My earliest memory is sittin' on a bucket, watchin' Dad and Tim discuss some design. Dad wasn't inventive, not like Tim, but he was clever. He could see in a design if somethin' would work or not. So whenever an invention or a repair worked better'n the buyer hoped, and they paid him better for it, he gave Dad part of the profits.” She paused. “Mom was...not real great with names, and thought more about how they sounded than what they meant. But she loved me and Bruan. She kept the house clean as possible, and taught us how to read, write...even how to figure. She loved Dad, too.” Corta stopped talking and looked down.

            “Go on,” said Seil gently, after a moment.

            Corta took a deep breath. “Thing is, though...day-laborer's jobs aren't always safe. When I was five, they were buildin' a new wing on one of the smeltin' factories, and one of the blokes controllin' the big haulin' automatons was either drunk or fell asleep. The thing took out a huge swath of scaffolding. My dad...” She closed her eyes. “Dad broke his neck,” she whispered. Fidelius nestled close to her, and she rested her hand on his back.

            Seil gazed at her, pain mirrored in his own eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

            Corta took a deep breath, blinking away the tears. “Thanks. After Dad died, Tim sort of took over. He never married Mom—or touched her either, far as I know—but he stepped in to take care of us. He earned a lot from his inventions, and started savin' up to buy the house we live in now. A little after I turned seven, Mom got sick. There are no medicines available in the slums. They don't care if the poor people die.” She looked away. “I wasn't even eight years old. Bruan was just ten. And we were orphaned. If it hadn't been for Tim, we'd have probably died ourselves...or ended up in the baby-houses.”

            “Baby-houses?” Seil frowned, as if not quite sure he wanted to learn what these were.

            Corta grimaced. “Yeah. They're, um...” She gestured vaguely. “It's where lots of folk like to go to get their kids. The men pay for a night with some fertile girl, and sometimes women come to pay for a man they won't have to live with...” Her voice trailed off and she looked down, acutely aware of Seil's expression of horror. “It...they're not great places.”

            “It...doesn't sound like it.” Seil shuddered. “I thank the Triune you and your brother had the chance to escape such a fate.”

            “Yeah. I'm grateful, too.” Corta shivered and rubbed her arms. “Anyway...Tim managed to get enough money to afford the house up here in the middle-class. He took us with him. Bruan ran away from Urbania when he turned fifteen; he wanted to pursue his poetry, and he'd never be allowed to here. I didn't have the guts to run; took a job as a day laborer instead.” She shrugged. “Now I don't know exactly what I'll do. Probably sign on as Tim's personal delivery girl or apprentice.” She looked up at Seil. “Your turn. What's your family like?”

            Seil looked down. “I...lost most of my family some time back,” he said quietly. “We are similar, you and I; both orphaned younger than we wished. I was not much older than you are now when my mother was killed.” He closed his eyes, remembered pain shadowing his face. “My father and my older brother did not survive her long. Mother was their world; when she died, they could not bear to stay in this one. I...might have followed them...only Mother told me not to grieve too much for her before she died.”

            “Wow.” Corta looked down. “Man...sounds like you had it rougher than I did.”

            “In many ways, I suppose I did.” Seil smiled wanly. “Though I certainly was not dependent on a guardian's kindness to save me from a...well, a brothel. Still, what happened afterward...was not pleasant.” He crossed his arms and looked away.

            Conversation closed. Yes. I can take a hint. Corta cast about for a different subject. Not about Bruan; don't want to remind him too much about his brother. Certainly not the mayor...maybe I could ask about what it was like on the airship? Or—hah! Got it! “What was that you said a little earlier, about a quest?”

            Seil chuckled, blushing a little. “Ah—I knew you'd ask about that. Well, Corta, you must swear not to tell me I'm an idiot for this, because I can assure you Geoffrey has already assured me I am, numerous times.”

            Corta shrugged. “Don't make any difference to me—unless it's something really stupid.”

            “It probably depends on what you consider stupid.” Seil leaned back, crossing his legs and placing his hands on his knee. “Very well, then. Just under a week ago, I sensed...a flaring of power here in the city, as if something long dormant had suddenly awakened. I suspected it was an item I had myself left here, a long time ago. The item is not evil, far from it...but in unskilled hands could prove exceedingly dangerous. I quickly contacted Sir Geoffrey, as the Vortanmoores have been friends and allies of my family for many years, and asked him to accommodate me. I also asked him to keep my business secret, as I have no desire for Asurnam to learn what I am about.” He paused. “Geoffrey told me that I would likely have some time to search unobtrusively, as Targos was completely involved in overseeing his grandest tower yet. I had already learned that the Cloud Raptor had a reputation for attacking the mayor's supply ships, and asked Captain Rensdale if he would slow the construction of the tower as long as possible. He agreed.”

            Corta's mouth fell open, and she began to laugh. “So you're the real reason none o' the supplies have been makin' it? Oh, that is just rich!”

            Seil chuckled, looking pleased. “Anything that holds Asurnam's attention and keeps it away from me is a good thing in my view.”

            “No arguments here.” Corta shook her head. “So, are you looking for this thing?”

            Seil inclined his head, frowning thoughtfully. “Not for it so much as for the one who holds it. He...or more likely she...will probably not guess what it is she has. Without training, she may cause more problems than she solves.”

            Corta frowned, suspicion growing in her mind. Just under a week ago; a flaring as if something 'dormant'—that means asleep, right?—suddenly woke up; ain't evil but is really powerful... She swallowed. Wonder if what he's looking for is a staff?

            Seil looked off into the distance, his green eyes taking on a misty light. He seemed to be completely unaware of Corta, wrestling with her thoughts not four feet away.

            You don't know you can trust him. And what if he wants to take it away from you?

            She snorted quietly. Oh, for pete's sake, we already went over this! He didn't have any ulterior motives when he helped me out of that ditch, I doubt he has any now. And he said he didn't want to take it away.

            But you don't need training! You've pretty well figured it out!

            Corta rolled her eyes. Oh, yeah right. Usin' it one time don't make me an expert, and as much power's in that thing, it's more'n likely I could do somethin' really awful without meanin' to. I'll tell him.

            She bit her lip, playing with the end of her braid. “Um, Seil?”

            He came out of his reverie and focused on her. “Yes?”

            “Ah...this thing you're lookin' for... would it, by any chance, be a—”

            A terrified scream cut her off.