Excuses, excuses, bla bla bla. To be honest, I'm thinking about abandoning this fic. I've already put one of my long-term projects on probably-gonna-be-permanent hiatus so that I'll have more time to do important things. Now, I'm thinking that I might need to do the same with this fic as well. Sorry about that.
Thanks to Raiseth (on SV) and Volossya (on AO3) for beta-reading this chapter for me. I really do appreciate it.
A Wandering Minstrel
In the three years since they had started working for the Claes family, the former bandits had settled into their new roles and grown somewhat complacent, to the extent that they'd almost forgotten what it was like to be a group of wandering vagabonds. Certainly, they were better-fed, better-dressed, and better-shaven than they had ever been before they had stumbled into working for the Duke. In particular, Lem Lemoncoat's namesake coat had been thoroughly washed and much-mended; Jack-Be-Lucky had replaced his battered pot helmet with a lightweight forage cap, which he was encouraged to wear at all times, even indoors and in the presence of ladies, on the understanding that he used it to cover up the horrific dents in his skull; and Pello had dyed his hair and beard fully green, in the Tyroshi style, making it look as if a pair of shrubs were sprouting out of his head, which was widely considered to be a great improvement over his previous mossy-looking appearance.
Nevertheless, despite these developments, several visitors to the Claes manor had gazed at the former bandits with open-mouthed astonishment, wondering what reason the Duke had to employ guardsmen who were so grizzled, slovenly, and ill-disciplined. If they had voiced these concerns out loud – and had the Duke been inclined to explain himself to them – he would have told them that, despite their unprepossessing appearance, those guardsmen had done him a great service, for which they deserved to be rewarded, no matter that they were an untidy and mismatched bunch.
When Tom of Sevenstreams returned from his travels, his old comrades saw that he had acquired a new woodharp, which they eagerly encouraged him to play for them. It would be just like old times, they said.
"There's an inn near here. A respectable place, much better than the winesinks we used to frequent," said Notch. "Good beer, good food, and… well, even the whores are rather fancy."
"Expensive, though," said the stocky, balding man whom Tom knew only as 'the Mad Huntsman'. Despite the fact that he'd known him for years and fought alongside him on multiple occasions, he still didn't know the man's real name. It was embarrassing.
While his old colleagues continued to discuss the relative merits and drawbacks of the local tavern – apparently, as well as beer and fearsomely alcoholic cider, it sold meat pies filled with genuine beef, as well as gravy that wasn't just sludgy brown muck, and bread that contained hardly any sawdust at all – Tom idly wondered what he could do to find out the Mad Huntsman's real name. It occurred to him that Duke Claes must know it, or at least have been given a name to call him by, or else he wouldn't have agreed to hire him. He would have written it down somewhere and relayed it to other members of his household staff who'd need to interact with the new employees on a regular basis. With a little effort, it shouldn't be too difficult to find out what it was. Of course, it might not be his real name, but it was better than nothing.
"Not many whores around here. And they don't do it full-time," said Lem, speaking as if he were an authority on the subject. "They tend to have other jobs – serving girl, weaver, or milkmaid, maybe – and just want some extra money."
"They're nice. Not at all like the sour-faced slatterns I knew back in King's Landing," Jack-Be-Lucky agreed.
"They don't wear such skimpy clothes, though," said Lem. Almost immediately, he reconsidered: "Actually, maybe that's a good thing. I enjoy it when they leave something to the imagination. When they've got their assets on full display – when they get their dugs out at the first possible opportunity – oftentimes, it's not arousing, it's just embarrassing."
"What a fascinating insight into your private lives!" cried Tom, with a snort of laughter.
"Yeah, well, it's not like you keep it private either," Jack-Be-Lucky reminded him. "We've all heard you singing 'Let Me Drink Your Beauty' to the women you want to take to bed."
"Never mind that now," said Mudge, forestalling the argument that otherwise might have ensued. "Will you come with us? It'll be fun!"
Tom knew that he was supposed to report to the Duke at the earliest possible juncture, but he hadn't been able to arrange a meeting with him until the following day; in the meantime, a night of fun and relaxation at the local tavern seemed like an attractive proposition. He allowed himself to be persuaded.
Over several centuries, the inn had accumulated many names. Long ago, it had been called 'The Two Crowns' in honour of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne Targaryen; according to legend, they had stayed the night in one of the rooms upstairs. At some indeterminate time in the distant past, it had been called 'the River Inn', back when it had been so close to the river Trident that it was rumoured to be possible to catch fish by dangling a line out of one of the back windows. However, in the hundreds of years since then, the river had changed course several times and was now miles away. In the intervening time, the inn had been renamed 'The Old Inn' because of its advanced age, 'The Bellringer Inn' after a bell tower was built over the nearby stables, and 'The Clanking Dragon' because of the metal sign one of its former owners had forged out of wrought iron. That was before the Blackfyre Rebellion, when the emblem of the black dragon had become associated with the rebel Daemon Blackfyre, after which the sign had been torn down and never replaced. Since then, an entire village had grown up around 'The Inn at the Crossroads', which was sometimes called 'The Gone Dragon' or 'The Draggone' by locals who thought they were being extraordinarily witty.
Tom was told all of this by the friendly innkeeper woman, who seemed to think that the lengthy history of her establishment would make a suitable topic for a ballad or an epic poem; she kept dropping hints that he should be the one to write it. Not that she was willing to pay him to do so; unfortunately, despite his best efforts, he was unable to wheedle any money out of her. She agreed to let him sing for his supper and a few drinks that night, but she was motivated by good business sense rather than generosity: she'd seen his companions, recognised them from when they'd frequented her tavern before, and knew they were hungry, thirsty, lusty men. She knew that by agreeing to let him sing for them, providing entertainment for them, she'd make her money back several times over.
And so, he settled down with his harp and began to play. He began with a few old favourites: 'A Cask of Ale', 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair', 'Seven Swords for Seven Sons', 'Bessa the Barmaid', and the 'Dornishman's Wife', but not 'The King Without Courage' or 'The Name Day Boy' because he had a good reason to detest those songs and refused to play them unless he had no other choice.
"Play 'When Willum's Wife Was Wet'!" cried Merrit o' Moontown, grinning cheekily.
"Bugger that," said Lem, baring yellowed teeth. "We should have a song about the Rat Cook."
"Not while people are eating," Tom replied, playing the opening chords of the next song: 'Lord Harte Rode Out on a Rainy Day'. When that was finished, he decided to oblige Merrit's request. 'When Willum's Wife Was Wet' was a traditional bawdy song that… well, it was about rain, ostensibly.
It seemed to be well-received by almost everyone in the audience, even if Lem was scowling for most of it. There were a few more requests after that: one of the locals asked for 'The Maiden of the Tree'; someone else wanted 'Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass'; and one of the other guards from the Claes manor, but not one of the former bandits, requested 'The Day They Hanged Black Robin'.
Tom tried not to react, at least not visibly, but he wondered if there was a hidden meaning behind that last request. 'The Day They Hanged Black Robin' was about the capture and execution of an infamous outlaw and his entire gang. The young man who requested it came from a well-bred, respectable family who had served the House of Claes for generations; did he resent the former bandits who had only recently been hired by current Duke Claes? Was he implying that they should suffer a similar fate to that of the unfortunate Black Robin? Or did he just like the song? It was well-known and fairly popular, after all. Maybe there was no need to read any deeper into it than that.
He continued to play. While he did so, he wondered what the Claes family's other guards and servants thought about the former bandits who were now living amongst them, had been given similar jobs to them, and expected to be treated the same as any of them. How did they feel about that? He had seen that they weren't very friendly with his old comrades; they seemed to keep them at arm's length and to ignore them as much as possible. Were they just wary of them because of their violent criminal pasts? Or did they actively hate and despise them? What could he do about that, if anything? Should he mention it to Duke Claes when he got the chance to speak to him? He didn't know the answers to any of those questions; his head started to ache when he thought too hard and for too long about them.
It was getting late. He was getting tired and hungry. He sang and played one last song:
"Girolamo was a charmer.
'Gainst him women had no armour.
Dressed in paisley silk pyjamas,
He wrote 'My Life and Other Dramas'."
"There ain't half been some clever bastards –
Lucky bleeders, lucky bleeders –
There ain't half been some clever bas-tards!"
There was a chorus of raucous laughter from the audience, which by this time consisted of some local villagers, a few passing travellers, and several guards and servants from the Claes household who were enjoying an evening off, all of whom were enjoying the sprightly tune and the nonsense lyrics. Encouraged, Tom continued with the next verse:
"Vinzand did some eyeball pleasers.
He must have been a pencil squeezer.
He didn't paint 'The Lady Lysa'.
That was some Tyroshi geezer."
"There ain't half been some clever bastards –
Lucky bleeders, lucky bleeders –
There ain't half been some clever bas-tards!"
Around the tavern, there were few scattered conversations going on: people speaking in low voices to their drinking companions, far enough away from where Tom was performing that they could hear each other and not disturb anyone who was trying to listen to the music. Even if he couldn't hear them, he still wondered what they were talking about, especially when he saw some of them glance furtively at him and at the other former bandits. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but he couldn't help worrying about what they were saying – and what they were plotting to do later on.
Nevertheless, he continued:
"Democritus wasn't witless.
He claimed atoms were the littlest.
What he asked the gods to witness…
Frightened everybody shitless."
"There ain't half been some clever bastards.
Probably got help from their mum, who had help from her mum.
There ain't half been some clever bastards.
Now that we've had some, let's hope that there's lots more to come.
There ain't half been some clever bastards –
Lucky bleeders, lucky bleeders –
There ain't half been some clever bas-tards."
"Da-laa la-laa da-daa da-lee.
De dump di dump de dump-dump-diddle li-lee."
"There ain't half been some clever bastards –
Lucky bleeders, lucky bleeders –
There ain't half been some clever… bastards."
After he played the last few jaunty notes, Tom accepted a smattering of cheers and applause from his audience, as well as a plateful of food and a mug of ale from one of the serving maids, and then went to sit with his old comrades. They were in full flow, discussing recent events at the Claes manor and not being as discreet as they probably should be. Mercifully, they had the sense to keep it fairly quiet, so it wouldn't be easy for anyone to listen in without being noticed.
"–keeps finding excuses to visit his wife-to-be as often as possible. Every other month, or sooner if he can manage it," said Mudge.
"I think it's sweet," said Likely Luke. "They're good kids."
"Who's that?" asked Tom, in between mouthfuls of pie and gravy.
"Prince Jeord. He's Lady Katarina's betrothed," Mudge explained.
"Lord Keith doesn't seem to like him very much, though," said Lem with a vicious grin. "What a shame. If glares and harsh words were daggers, they'd both have bled to death by now."
"I've never seen it get that far," said Notch, looking thoughtful. "For sure, they don't like each other, but they've learned to conceal it, for Lady Katarina's sake."
"And why is that?" asked Tom.
"She hates to see them bickering, so they don't do it where she can see them. Keith loves his new sister too much to want to make her unhappy," said Mudge. "And Prince Jeord is desperate to get into her good books, so he's trying not to do anything that'd make him look bad in front of her."
"They're devoted to her. Just like that clumsy friend of hers," said the Mad Huntsman.
"She's not clumsy – or maybe she is, but it's because she's been cursed by a witch!" green-bearded Pello insisted.
"I'm not sure I believe that," said the Mad Huntsman. "It's been three years. If it was really true that she'd been cursed, wouldn't she be dead by now? She's had some bad luck, but she's always survived and taken no real harm from it."
"Two silly girls messing about with things they didn't understand," said Lem Lemoncoat, moodily, sprawling in his chair. He reached for his mug of ale and took a long draught from it. "No wonder they got it wrong."
"Remember when you hired those Qartheen warlocks?" asked Jack-Be-Lucky, referring to the last time Tom had returned to the Claes manor, which had been more than a year ago, when he'd made a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to lift the curses that afflicted Lady Katarina, Anne Shelley, and Sienna Nelson. "Remember what happened then?"
"Yes." Tom sighed. "We all know what happened. You don't need to go on about it."
Jack-Be-Lucky put on a malicious smirk. "Poor Anne Shelley, stripped naked in a tub full of lambs' blood – or was it pigs' blood?"
"Innocent blood, whatever else it was," said Likely Luke. "That was the point, I think."
"She volunteered," Tom said stiffly.
"Yes, she did," Jack-Be-Lucky agreed. "And if the Duke hadn't stopped them, her two young charges would've been next."
"I'm well aware of that," said Tom. "You didn't need to remind me."
He winced as he recalled that day: Katarina and Sienna had been desperate enough to try almost anything to be rid of the curses hanging over them, or so they'd said. However, when he'd told them that he'd found a solution, they had been horrified and dismayed when they found out what it would involve. And so, Katarina's maidservant, Anne Shelley, had volunteered to go first. If the procedure was a success, she'd said, the two girls could decide for themselves whether or not they wanted to go through with it.
However, midway through the procedure, after the Qartheen warlocks had cast their spells on a naked Anne who was shivering in a bathtub filled with foul-smelling and fast-congealing blood, Duke Claes had interrupted and demanded to know what was going on. Yes, he had originally given permission for the Qartheen warlocks to carry out a magic ritual to save his daughter and her friends, but that was because he had been distracted and hadn't really understood what they were going to do. When Tom tried to explain, the Duke was not impressed. He pointed out that, even after the ritual was complete, there would be no way to know if it had been successful until several years later. Miss Shelley had already gone through a traumatic and humiliating experience, probably for no good reason; he refused to let the same thing happen to his daughter and Miss Nelson. Besides, he didn't trust the so-called 'warlocks' or believe that they were anything more than charlatans; he wanted them gone from his lands as quickly as possible.
Tom had paid the warlocks a small sum of money in advance, but they demanded more. Duke Claes threatened to have them scourged. After that, they left in a hurry and Tom never saw them again.
"What were you thinking?" asked Jack-Be-Lucky, who refused to stop picking at a scab even after he'd been warned that he was making a bloody mess of it: so it was with this topic of conversation. "You must have known it was a stupid idea."
"It was. I made a mistake," said Tom.
Jack gave him a grudging nod. "Well, at least you admit it."
After that, the conversation took a different turn: Merrit o' Moontown started talking about how, in recent months, the feud between the Duke and Duchess Claes had got even worse than before. "I don't understand it," he said. "I've seen the way they stare at each other when they think no one else is looking at them: like a pair of lovebirds, utterly besotted with each other. Sometimes they're like embarrassing newlyweds – you know the sort – all sloppy kisses and slices of wedding cake. But then they fight each other like snarling alley cats, hissing and spitting and squabbling, claws out and no holds barred. Can't they see that they've got something special: a love worthy of a ballad?"
"I'll be the judge of that," said Tom, in a humorous tone.
"Sometimes, love isn't enough," said Lem Lemoncoat.
"Maybe we shouldn't be talking about this," said Likely Luke, glancing nervously around. "Wouldn't want to get in any trouble, right?"
"I wouldn't mind hearing more," said Tom. "I feel like it's something that'd be useful for me to know. But maybe this isn't the best place for it."
"Why would it be 'useful' for you to know?" Merrit o' Moontown challenged him. "What are you planning?"
"You know what he's like." Jack-Be-Lucky snorted. "No doubt he wants to offer the Duchess a sympathetic ear, sing 'Let Me Pour My Love Into You', and then get into her bed with her."
"Ugh. We don't need a repeat of that ghastly business with Lady Smallwood," said Pello.
"Is it wrong for me to be curious about how my employers are getting on?" asked Tom, feeling like he needed to defend himself. "What happens to them will probably affect me, sooner or later, so why shouldn't I want to know about it?"
He was dismayed: at one point, he had been the leader of their little group – or at least they had trusted him to speak on their behalf – but now it seemed like they hardly respected him at all. Why was that? What had changed?
"It's because we know you," said Jack-Be-Lucky. "We know what you're like: always thinking with your cock."
There was a general whoop of scornful laughter from the other former bandits.
"Well… why are you so interested in my love life, anyway?" Tom shot back, indignantly. "Is it because you can't get any? Are the whores around here too expensive for you? Are you having to make do with Dame Palm and her five spindly daughters?"
"I can get a woman anytime I want to," said Jack. "I've got enough money."
"Well, is it just that they don't fancy you?" Tom continued. "I mean, we've all heard that old bit of doggerel: 'Jack-Be-Lucky, Jack be quick, but Jill prefers the candlestick.'"
Again, most of his old comrades reacted with amusement; it didn't matter to them who triumphed in this confrontation, but they were eager spectators nonetheless.
"Rhymes, is it?" Jack sneered. "I've got one for you: 'We like to drink with Tommy, 'cos Tommy is a cunt. And when we drink with Tommy, he spills it down his front.'" He picked up his mug of ale, took a last sip, and threw the rest of it – nearly half a pint – at Tom of Sevenstreams, sloshing it all over him.
Tom felt cool liquid seeping through the layers of clothing he wore: through his doublet, through his shirt, and drip-drip-dripping down his trousers. Wherever it touched his skin, it felt unpleasantly clammy. He stood up.
Some of his old comrades stood up as well, expecting to have to restrain him; they were waiting for him to throw the first punch. Jack-Be-Lucky wasn't smirking now. Instead, he looked confused, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done.
Taking a deep breath, Tom decided not to start a fight. If he managed to strike a solid blow against Jack-Be-Lucky – which was by no means certain, since Lem Lemoncoat and the Mad Huntsman were ready to block him – it would give him a moment's satisfaction, but it would cause too many problems, especially if it caused a fight to break out. For one thing, if the other former bandits were banned from their favourite tavern because of something he'd done, they'd never forgive him for it. And if Duke Claes found out, he would demand an explanation, which… no. All things considered, he'd rather not. It wasn't worth it.
Instead, he plastered a fake smile over his face and made a show of brushing himself down. Even if he was sopping wet and dripping beer on the floor, he could at least pretend to be carefree and magnanimous. He was a performer, after all.
"I think that's quite enough fun for one evening," he said, taking a bow. "Goodnight, all of you. I'm sure I'll see you in the morning."
Then, still dripping, he turned and walked away, through the front door and out into the night.
The next day, after going to bed much earlier than he'd planned to, Tom was finally able to meet with Duke Claes. As he was welcomed into his employer's office, he noticed how haggard and weary he looked. Was that because of his recent bickering with his wife? Or were there other reasons? Was he weighed down by the demands of his position, or worried about the curse that still clung to his daughter like thick, slimy mud, as if she were slowly sinking into a quagmire; or perhaps his current appearance was as a result of having been strained in so many different ways?
"Report," said the Duke, without preamble. "What do you have to tell me?"
"Good morning to you too, your grace," said Tom. "Since we last spoke, I have traveled the length and breadth of Sorcier, searching for anyone who could tell me about how your daughter and her…" He hesitated for a moment, not sure how to describe Miss Shelley's and Miss Nelson's relationship with the young Lady Claes. 'Friends' seemed too intimate, especially since they were both lower rank than she was and one of them was her maidservant, but all of the other words he could think of seemed inaccurate or inadequate somehow. He eventually settled on 'companions'. "That is to say, I was trying to find out exactly how they had been cursed – and how to remove it. However, although I have met dozens of so-called soothsayers, mystics, and woods witches, the majority of them were fraudsters who would have swindled me out of my last copper penny if I hadn't been alert to their tricks. They were quick to promise long life and happiness for Lady Katarina – as well as a successful marriage, robust health, the adoration of everyone around her – and anything else they thought that I wanted to hear. Hardly any of them had any useful information for me."
"If they weren't genuine, I'm not interested in hearing what they had to say," said the Duke, rubbing his eyes. "Please, get to the point."
"One of them, a tiny old woman known as 'the Ghost of High Heart', was renowned for her prophetic dreams. When I asked her about Lady Katarina, she mentioned Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. She seemed to think that there was a connection."
"I suppose it's possible. The Prince of Dragonflies was Duncan Targaryen, heir to the throne and firstborn son of King Aegon the Unlikely. He was betrothed to… er, Lyonel Stuart's daughter. Just like Prince Jeord is betrothed to my Katarina. But then he fell in love with a lowborn girl, Jenny of Oldstones, and got married to her instead." A thoughtful frown creased the Duke's face. "Maggy the Frog's prophecy states that Jeord will fall in love with a girl who is 'pure and sweet and beautiful as a flower in springtime'. I suppose she could be lowborn, just like Jenny of Oldstones was. And then Jeord will be disinherited, just like the Prince of Dragonflies was." He took a few deep breaths, as if trying to steady himself. "If he murders Katarina like the prophecy says he will, he'll have a simple choice: the Wall or the block. But even if he manages to restrain himself, even if his sweetheart turns out to be a noblewoman of appropriate rank, his parents won't easily forgive him for tearing apart their web of marriage alliances. They'll choose one of his brothers to be the next king, not him."
"Very plausible, your grace," Tom congratulated him. He refrained from mentioning that the Ghost of High Heart had seemed obsessed with the tale of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies, had demanded that he pay for her prophetic words by playing a love song dedicated to them, and had tearfully reminisced about them as if they were old friends of hers. If he provided an alternative explanation for why she had started talking about them when he'd asked about Lady Katarina, it would only confuse the matter, he thought.
"Did she have anything else to say?"
"Not really, my lord. When I asked for more information, she… uh, she spoke of a great war that will tear the world apart. The armies of light and fire will battle against those of darkness and cold. Everything that exists was born from their conflict – from dust and spiralling chaos, she said – and unto dust it will return. I couldn't really make sense of it, to be honest. Especially when she started talking about 'The Dismantler of Destinies'. It sounded grand and stirring, like it should be the subject of an epic poem, but I don't really know what she was getting at."
The Duke sighed. "What does any of that have to do with my daughter?" he asked.
"Well… she seemed to think that the world is going to end soon. Isn't that everyone's problem, including your daughter's?"
"For thousands of years, people have predicted that the world is going to end soon. It hasn't happened yet."
"It's bound to happen eventually," said Tom.
"Until it does, it's not worth worrying about," said the Duke. "What else do you have to tell me?"
"I sailed to the Isle of Faces, hoping to speak with some of the Green Men, but found only an impenetrable forest of gnarled weirwood trees carved with humanlike faces. I felt a terrible sense of foreboding, as if I was being watched the whole time."
"What else?"
"In Oldtown, I met Archmaester Marwyn, sometimes called 'Marwyn the Mage', who expressed interest in examining Lady Katarina and her companions. He seemed eager to find out more about the curses they are afflicted with."
"Does he know of a way to help them?" asked the Duke, looking suspicious.
"He admitted that he doesn't. But he said that he might be able to find out, if he was given permission to examine them," said Tom. "Magic is a speciality of his, but he's also a renowned healer with several silver links in his maester's chain."
"I suppose it might be worth a try. I'll send a letter to the Citadel, inviting him to come here. I'd like to meet him for myself before deciding whether or not to give him permission to 'examine' my daughter."
"Probably a good idea, your grace."
"Was there anything else?"
"Hmm. Archmaester Marwyn had some interesting things to say about dragonseeds."
"Is it at all relevant to my daughter's situation?" asked the Duke.
"Maybe. He said that until the tragedy at Summerhall, when most of the Targaryens were killed, magic seemed to be dying out in Sorcier. Only a few of the highest noble families, those most closely linked to the Targaryens by blood, had any sons or daughters who were born with powerful elemental magic, and fewer and fewer of them with each passing generation. But then, a few years after Summerhall, it seemed like almost every noble family had a magically powerful child or two. Whereas before it had been on the verge of extinction, suddenly it was cropping up everywhere."
"I've heard the theories. All of the scholarly works I've ever read seem to agree that it was just a coincidence. These things often skip a generation or two, so they say."
"Archmaester Marwyn has a different theory. He believes that the tragedy at Summerhall was a large-scale blood magic ritual – at least, that was the effect it had, even if no one planned it that way. The reason why so many mages were born after that was because their powers were fueled by the horrible deaths of almost all of the royal family."
The Duke inclined his head slightly. "I see. And then, many years later, when Rhaegar Darkflame burned down the Red Keep…"
"It's as if he was deliberately trying to replicate the tragedy at Summerhall," said Tom. "Who knows? Maybe he was. I've heard that he was keen to make himself more magically powerful. Maybe he decided that the lives of his wife and children were a price he didn't mind paying."
"Despicable. But what's your point?"
"Since then, even more children have been born with powerful magic, often in places you wouldn't expect. Maybe their great-great-grandparent was the bastard son or daughter of a nobleman, but since then their family has been living among the smallfolk, common as muck, until suddenly they discover that they've got extraordinary magic powers, just like the Targaryens. On the isle of Dragonstone, where there are plenty of them, they're called 'dragonseeds' or 'dragon-blooded'. Because their magic is proof that they must be descended from the royal family, somehow."
"Yes, I know what dragonseeds are," said the Duke, somewhat testily. "What does any of this have to do with my daughter?"
"I don't understand how Maggy the Frog was able to afflict Lady Katarina and her companions with such powerful curses. Or maybe she didn't curse them: maybe she gazed into the future and saw the destinies that were already laid out for them. And then she faked her own death – or maybe she was a ghost who'd come back from the dead to warn your daughter about what was going to happen? I don't know. I've never heard of a soothsayer or woods witch being able to do any of those things before; even if they have some genuine prophetic abilities and they're not just con artists, they tend to speak in garbled nonsense riddles that only make sense when it's already too late," said Tom, holding up a hand to forestall his employer's objections. "But Maggy the Frog didn't. She was unnecessarily cruel about it, but she spoke carefully, telling your daughter precisely what she needed to know. It's possible that there was some trickery involved; even so, it seems to me that she must've been an incredibly powerful witch. How did she gain so much power? Was it through blood sacrifice, like in Archmaester Marwyn's theories of what happened at Summerhall – and so on?" He sighed and shook his head. "There's a lot that I don't know. But it seems to me that before we have a chance of being able to save your daughter, we need to find out exactly what Maggy the Frog did to her. And her companions as well."
"I'm sure Archmaester Marwyn will help us with that, as much as he can, when he arrives," said the Duke.
There was a long pause. Tom shifted uncomfortably, aware that he had not been given permission to leave – or to sit down. It appeared that the Duke was lost in thought.
"You have some interesting theories," he said, at last. "But do you have any way to prove that they have a basis in reality?"
"I… I don't know," said Tom, after another awkward silence. "I've told you everything I've been able to find out so far, more or less."
The Duke nodded, as if this was as he had expected. "So, it's all just speculation and conjecture." He sighed heavily. "I suppose you have to justify spending so much of my money somehow."
"I've done my best," said Tom, feeling that he had to defend himself.
"No doubt."
"Really, I have!"
"I'm not disputing that, even if I doubt that there will ever be a way to confirm some of your wilder theories," said the Duke. "In fact, you've given me an idea. Instead of carrying on with what you've been doing, I want you to find dragonseeds for me. Magically powerful dragonseeds. Make a list of them, wherever you find them."
"All right. It shouldn't be too difficult, but it might take a while," Tom warned him. "Especially since it seems like more of them are being born all the time."
"In particular, if you find any of them with light magic powers, I want to know immediately. Moreover, I want you to persuade them to travel to Claes manor and join my employ. Offer them whatever they want: gold, land, education for their children, safety and security for their families, and so on. Anything within reason."
"Light magic is… for healing, right?" asked Tom, remembering the old songs and stories he knew about Aemon the Dragonknight and some of the other light mages of the distant past.
"Among other things. Don't you think my daughter and her 'companions' will have a much better chance of survival if they have a new playmate – or perhaps a teacher, a bodyguard, or another servant, I suppose – with the power to heal them of even the most grievous injuries?"
"It can't hurt," said Tom, with heavy irony. "I'll get on with that right away, shall I?"
The Duke nodded. "Yes, you may go."
Tom didn't need to be told twice. He left with almost unseemly haste.
Author's Notes:
In George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire (ASoIaF), Tom of Sevenstreams, Lem Lemoncloak (who I've called 'Lemoncoat' in this fic), Notch, Pello, Merrit o' Moontown, Mudge, Likely Luke, and the Mad Huntsman are all members of the Brotherhood Without Banners. I had fun thinking through the possible implications of the fact that the Mad Huntsman doesn't seem to have any other name.
The reason why Tom of Sevenstreams doesn't like to sing 'The King Without Courage' or 'The Name Day Boy' unless he has no other choice is because in ASoIaF it was revealed he was forced to sing those songs while he was naked, in order to get passage through the Bloody Gate, after all of his possessions except his harp were stolen by mountain clansmen. Presumably, a similar incident must have happened in the backstory of this fic.
I discovered while I was writing this chapter that The Alkahest; or, The House of Claës is a novel by Honoré de Balzac (1799–1850). I wonder if that's where the creators of HameFura got the name 'Claes' from?
In this chapter, I've included a version of the song 'There Ain't Half Been Some Clever Bastards' (1978) by Ian Dury and the Blockheads, with some of the lyrics changed to fit the setting. I'm not sure if it fits in with the other songs mentioned in this chapter, all of which were taken from ASoIaF, but it amused me enough that I decided to include it anyway.
In the alternate universe setting of this fic, 'Marwyn the Mage' is an ironic nickname: he is Sorcier's preeminent expert on magic, but he doesn't have any magical powers of his own, unlike many of his noble-born colleagues.