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Dearest Readers, may your sunsets herald nights of peace and nurture hopes of the coming dawn.

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THE HIDDEN SWORD

Book One: From the Earth | Chapter 43: Dusk in the Vale

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Berdusk. Known in the Heartlands as the Jewel of the Vale, a shimmering sight for eyes sore and watery from river-run boredom.

As soon as they berthed at the Clearspring, their guest and his attendant immediately disembarked, accompanied by Kagain and the veteran Blackmauls. Moments after they left, the Captain hastily tossed last-minute instructions at the first mate before scrambling down the plank like a giddy goat let out of its pen.

Clicking her tongue, Irse wagged her head much longer than it took for the man to make himself scarce among the crowds at the docks. "Where's the Captain off to in such a hurry? I thought Kagain wanted everyone else to stay by the ship until they get back."

"To the nearest tavern I reckon," Old Salt muttered, lighting a pipe. "If not to go wenching, then maybe to go cheating another man out of his whole life's coin and his boat in cards."

Irse caught on and lowered her voice. "I take it that's how he became captain of this ship. What happened to the one before him?"

Old Salt let out a deep puff. "A sad tale, it is, of Svetan, the former master of the Minnow. More than a month ago, we docked at the Gate, passing time at the Mermaid, then this charming fellow, slick as an eel, latches on to him like they're the oldest of mates. Plied our captain with stories and drink while they played. Not long and he's too crocked from his ale, kept losing and losing, adding to the pile 'til out of coin. Then just as he empties his pockets, that foppish bastard slips in with that oily tongue of his – Friend, he says, how about you put your ship in the pot instead?"

Not hard to see where things ended up. Old Salt remembered calling him a fool for agreeing to such a wager, being told off, walking out to cool his head and returning to the boat to sleep off his drink. The following morning saw Svetan at the deck with their new Captain.

"Anyone can tell they roughed him up, even bled in some places. A scared husk of a man, telling us the Minnow's got a new skipper now, and just up and about walks down the plank and gone for good. Wonder what they did to the poor sod. Then nice o'l Captain here lets everyone go, except me. Said he needs at least one soul who knows this boat. I stayed because a coin's a coin, and perhaps, some part of me wanted to make sure this ship is treated right at least."

Old Salt tapped his pipe. "Bastard played him like a kid's fiddle, but something rubbed me odd that night."

Irse tilted her head towards the first mate who edged closer to whisper.

"Svetan's guzzled grog from his youth so much it's almost like water to him, only a dwarf can outlast the man. But a few sips of the ale the other gave him and he gets fuddled so fast, I thought he'd pass out under the table. Never seen it happen before, no wonder my guts were screaming something's not right, but what can I do about it now?"

Almost as if something strange might have been put in his ale, Irse pondered. After all, a tampered drink also once crossed her path, the outcome nearly unfortunate were it not for Okami's teachings about sighting the people and the world around her. Tempting it may be to call things out, still it wouldn't do to accuse the Captain of something she herself couldn't prove.

"So there's my warning to you. Always keep a thirty-foot oar between yourself and the Captain like you're doing now," the first mate grunted. "Hate to see you get into trouble with the likes of him."

"Kind of you, Old Salt."

"I tell you this because you seem a sharp good sort. Everyone in your troop couldn't be bothered to pitch in, but I saw you asking the crew if you might help with anything."

The elf chuckled dryly, eyes darting to the side. Offers made not exactly out of the goodness of the heart, but from the emptiness of the stomach.

"Sounds like you know your way around in a boat like this too."

Irse bobbed her head, beaming at the memory. "Years ago I crewed for one to gain passage to Iriaebor. But my Captain then, she was something else. She'd have sarded ours now with a rusted anchor sideways."

Surely there were more of what Shar-Teel might want to do to this man. Things with harpoons and blunt axes and peppers and sharks.

Old Salt mirrored her grin with his own. "Good times, eh?"

"Great times."

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First day, they waited restlessly, venturing only within yards from the ship to stretch their legs, sun themselves, or catch news from dockhands milling about, at least doing their best to abide by Kagain's orders to stay put.

So they could watch the vessel, make sure nobody sabotages the sails or let thieves steal their cargo or allow assassins to slip through and conceal themselves within, supposed her fellow mercenaries.

Irse rolled her eyes. More so because the old piece of coal won't be paying an inn to lodge them all.

Sundown, Daley showed up to check on everyone and relay instructions before leaving to return to his own assignment. The following day, Irse gleefully skipped down the plank, ignoring the envious mutterings from her fellows. Last night, Daley had assigned her to shopping duty for more provisions and supplies. Apparently among their current roster, Kagain deemed the elf the least likely to run off with the purchasing money. Well now, what greater honor could be earned from good o'l Clawfist?

And besides, why abscond with the old dwarf's coin at all? Judging from the weight of the purse, it seemed more likely she might even have to add her own money on top of it.

Irse took a moment to survey the docks. Nothing changed, still bustling yet remarkably orderly as she last saw the place. Among the warehouses and offices lining the pier, the Harbormaster's red brick building stood out, still pristine and dignified, still the same as memory saw it.

Now if the same memory serves, Amberside market lay close to the Vale Gate, north of the City. Their ship moored at the western side of the harbor, she could cross one of the two bridges spanning the Clearspring, and make a direct northwards route to Amberside.

Or… take a more roundabout yet familiar itinerary. "Steelsword Street it is, then," Irse exclaimed brightly and set off.

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Following the recollected path from the Harbormaster's Office through Steelsword Street took her through the same circuitous route eventually leading to Castle Hill and Amberside, pausing every once and a while, wondering if this one intersection or the next led to the starkly unassuming building where they were brought in before the Shieldmaster and the odd Harper wizard. Out of anticipation she glanced around, yet no loud and laughing half-elf minstrel, a bored young human mage, nor a silver-haired elf winked at her from among the flock of faces.

Shrugging, Irse continued her stroll until she got to the open market, now keyed up by the colorful throng of shoppers and stores. Out of curiosity, she sought a certain orange tent and its weird wares but saw none. What a shame. Perhaps, Cirio has collected more curious patrons elsewhere.

But now the stomach proved twice curious instead and once more she found herself at Blackpost's Bench. If that midday meal from years ago didn't satisfy her then, perhaps they pile on their servings now, enough to placate her famished plate.

A quick ask with the serving girl, mercifully no longer the half-orc lass who nearly crumpled a metal tray, and the elf was told they've ceased providing bottomless meals for three coppers per patron past midday. Not anymore. Now the price had gone back to two coppers per plate, regardless of hours.

Irse frowned, genuinely baffled. What in the realms could have made them abandon such an accommodating and generous manner of business?

Ah, well, might not be bad to try another place. With eager steps she made for The Flourished Flagon, reaching the familiar tavern in no time. Finding herself at the door, Irse crossed her arms as she considered.

Sure, the place forbade anything on two legs higher than a table, the elf remembered with a wince. But it has been many years since, who knows? Perhaps they've learned from Dotie's species-spanning declaration of true love, finding it in their pudgy little hearts to open their doors and, most importantly, their kitchen to all.

Well then, if they truly want none of her kind barging in, mingling with their folk, singing their bawdy songs, drinking their ale…

About to turn away, a whiff of something savory peeked through the cracks of the door and sailed straight to her nose.

… eating their roast pork, their broiled venison, their lamb stew…

Her hand inched closer to the door, but the new sign finally gave her pause. From where the tacked on drunkenly scrawled note barring humans and elves used to hang, the poster at the front this time covered near the entire board itself.

And We Mean It, Ye Lanky-Limbed Louts! – it shouted in red ink beneath the usual but now enlarged warning, circled twice, and underlined thrice for good measure.

Irse curled her fists, narrowed her eyes, and pushed at the oaken door.

Just as before, all cheer and talk died down as all eyes turned to the elf at the threshold. Steeling herself with a sharp breath, Irse swept a gaze across the room, a confident one, sure of what she sought for this time. Down the short flight of stone stairs and with self-assured steps, she made her way to a long table and pulled out a chair between a halfling and a gnome, both of whom edged away and clutched their tankards close to themselves. Seated after a bit of awkwardly adjusting her leg from the unfamiliar height of the stool, Irse knocked her knuckle on the table.

"I'd like something to eat, please," she called out over the growing murmurings around her.

Just as before, three dwarves approached, clad in leather and steel with axes at their belts, beards peeking beneath their helms. But not as before, Irse merely gave them a bored side-eye, no sign of diffidence for she was sure of her purpose. And this time she looked at them more closely. Yup, certainly Sirs, this beardly bunch.

"I don't wish for trouble, just a taste of whatever fare the Flagon is serving its patrons."

"Maybe we got the sign on the door 'cause your kind's leafy guts can't handle our fare, eh?"

"My guts can handle anything, even thorns," Irse replied, eyes narrowing in a challenge. "Try me."

One of them thrust his nose an inch from her cheek, bulging eyes searching her face, then straightened up to point at her. "I knows this one! I was here, years ago an' I tells ya it's her. The knife-ear who tussled with Balfara and her lassies."

He barked a gruff yet unkindly laugh. "Ye gots some goat balls on ye, elf, comin' back here by yerself."

"Goat balls?" Irse's eyes widened. "Say, I heard you folks, you or is it halflings - who make soup out of them. You serve those here? Can I have some? I promise not to gag."

The dwarves traded startled glances, one of them clearing his throat as if to shake himself out of his hesitance.

"Nae we du'n have 'em here, an' e'en if we do, yer not gettin' any."

"Oh, come now," she exclaimed, pounding a fist on the table, rising from her chair and glaring at the men who jerked back with readied hands on their weapons.

"You won't serve me simply because I'm not one of your people, huh?" Irse ranted, shaking an admonishing a finger at each nose present. "Why should one's heritage matter? Don't we all have mouths? And don't we do the same thing with it, which is-"

"Drinkin' ale!" some halfling shouted from the back.

"Smoochin' a lady and a prized turnip!" a gnomish voice piped up somewhere in the middle.

"Findin' out what hamster pee be tastin' like when I tried to swallow one for a lark!"

Everyone swiveled heads to search for the heckler. Irse grimaced.

"See here, the tip of one's ears nor the height of their knee shouldn't keep someone from enjoying anyone's cooking. You shouldn't think it impossible for an elven stomach to have a hankering for Smallfolk grub," she entreated, hands up in an imploring gesture.

"It's just like when, ah -," she continued, eyes averted as the mind scrambled for another example, smacking her palm at finding one. "- just like this woman I know, one of the Deepfolk, the stoniest and brawniest of them all, who found it in her coal-lump of a heart to stand before her own people and proudly declare her love for a human, not caring for what anyone else might say."

A lady dwarf hollered, "I remember them. The brave and strapping half-duergar girl and your very fine Ex-Son-in-Law! Did they ever get together?"

Eye twitching, Irse nodded ambiguously, more sideways than up-and-down, muttering her reply through gritted teeth.

"Sure, they did." Over her dead body.

Hushed gasps and murmurings rose from everyone present as Irse sat down, chin up and arms crossed. Hand on his heart, the first dwarf wagged his head.

"Well, knife-ear, ye spake from the bottom o' yer guts, loud an' true."

Irse grinned, diffident at the unexpected praise. After all, everyone always meant something else about her stomach when it speaks.

"An' her words got to our ears, pokin' through the wax nuggets in 'em, right, lads and lassies?" he hollered at the surrounding crowd, their ayes and tankards rising. "So I says, let's give this elfin eater her rightful due befittin' the bravest o' all bellies in the realms!"

As the crowd clapped and hooted and stomped their feet, the dwarves knelt beside the chair and grabbed its legs.

"Oh my goodness, you folks are strong," Irse yelped in nervous surprise, gripping the armrests as they hoisted the elf and her seat over their shoulders.

They then proceeded to parade around the common room as she were a newly feted dignitary upon a royal litter. Irse found herself relaxing and laughing, waving magnanimously at the cheering throng who whistled and raised their tankards in salute.

Not even elf queens must have it this good, she bubbled contentedly within herself.

Past the benches at the edge of the gathering they neared the stone steps to the entrance. Irse straightened in her seat. "Hey, are we continuing the march outside?"

They did not. They opened the door, heaved the chair, and flung her outside with all the pomp and ceremony of tossing dishwater in a back alley.

Irse launched in the air with a shriek like a startled goat. Still she managed to plant a foot instead of a face on the ground, the fruit of relentless training but more from repeated defeats and falling, though stumbling in the ungainly manner of a squawking hen, looking up in time to see the door slam shut behind her. Snarling, she charged at the door but halted right before an indignant fist could knock on wood. Not worth the trouble.

"Fine! I bet you serve pie with a side of beard hair anyways!" Irse yelled, cupping her mouth, then walking away while furiously patting at her sleeves.

Fortunately, a better reception and sure fare were had in another tankard house not far, decent bread and stew for a reasonable amount of coin. Filled and fueled, she went to the task and within a few hours managed to buy everything in the list which included extra bandages, flint, spare rope, pre-packed rations to replace the prior days' consumption and to add to their current stock – still not enough if anyone cared to ask.

Everything except the last several items. Irse rolled her eyes at the hastily scribbled specifications at the bottom: some fine wines – Daggerford Clarry would be most preferred, scented bath oils, satin sleeping robes, slippers soft and plush enough to shield the feet from the rough wood of the deck, exotic spices fit for a king's table, goose down pillows with silk covering and gold thread, and not a few more frivolities. Adjusting the filled packs on both shoulders, Irse readied herself to resume the trek through the rest of the market when she sensed the unmistakably familiar scent and cheery crackle of frying oil.

"A goldenstar, if you please," she called to a passing hawker.

"A copper for a piece, lass."

Still priced at a mere copper despite the passage of more than half a decade? Bless the Berduskans for not taking after the mercantile practices of Iriaebor.

"Three, then, good sir."

Irse whistled as she received the pastries, guided by the feet and memory to sit at the same fountain. Unwrapping, she paused, the hand clutching the first piece suddenly hesitant. All three of the goldenstars she now could have just for herself, yet somehow something felt missing, like a pasty with only half of its filling.

Still, she downed the two in a wink. About to tear open the last one, Irse looked up and froze.

There among the sea of people, a glimpse fleeting but enough to rouse to its surety. Unkempt raven hair, the stride memorized from years of walking by his side.

Had he not turned away so quickly she would've been sure of those eyes, to her so distinct from others not for their origins but for how they see, ever sharp yet temperate.

Irse rose to her feet, about to sprint after the vision but she stopped herself, left hand smacking and clasping at her right shoulder as it were a friend holding her back. Wait. Could it truly be him? Here? Impossible. He should still be in Dearg, safe and far from the troubles she was leaping into headfirst. Why in Toril would she be seeing him here and now?

"Oh no, I'm not falling for it this time," she cried, shaking a chiding finger. "I'm not about to follow you to that tallfolk-hating tavern again to go smacking angry dwarves with a fairy mop from the elf king's royal loo!"

Knuckles resting on her waist, Irse briefly considered. Although, a third time might be the charm.

Peculiar stares from passersby finally brought her back to the real and present. Chuckling and bowing awkwardly, Irse gathered her things and made to leave, pausing to squint at the street where she thought his apparition had gone into.

Only a dream. Irse craned her neck if she could see above everyone else and catch one more glimpse.

Or the cruel tricks of hunger pangs. Irse huffed and marched the other way.

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Fulfilling an itinerant nobleman's fantasy of a luxury trip took longer than anticipated. Oddly, the gold-threaded goose down silk pillows were the most difficult to find and haggle for, and most tempting to empty out and fill with rocks instead.

Not long and dusk fell too soon for her liking. Pleasant as it would have been to revisit the shops they once explored and the inn, The Sign of the Silver Sword where she sampled a rare taste of indulgence, now would be time to head back to the ship lest some ninnyhammer think it wise to claim the elf's dinner rations for themselves.

Disappointed, Irse made her way down the eastern shoreline of the Clearspring, treading south until she came upon one of the bridges crossing over to the western harbor. Midway through the pass, she stopped to catch sight of the Tor, the mind's eye seeing once more sitting up there a small riverboat crew, dappled as each of their quaint temperaments yet bonded in that one juncture in her life and time.

She lowered one of the packs to the ground and raised a hand, a finger tracing a path from the river to the sky before abruptly opening her palm in an imagined burst of fire and light. Smiling, Irse heaved the bag over her shoulder and crossed the bridge to their side of the docks.

The lone Blackmaul on watch duty opened one sleepy eye as the elf bounded up from the plank, his snoring already resumed before she even planted both feet on deck. First thing to do, get down to the cargo hold and store the newly purchased supplies, grab a pack of what pitifully constitutes as supper, then start her nightly rounds.

Something out of the ordinary caught her eye –the galley's entrance illuminated from within. Who could be up at this hour? More curiously since rations were stored in the hold, who could be up this hour scrounging around in the empty kitchen for nothing? Towards the open door she crept with her feet silent and hand on the sword hilt.

Left thumb flicking at the guard, Irse breathed in and stepped into the light.

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