Greenwater

By GJ Kelly

Yarmian Eventyde finds himself in Coldharbor, where he assumes the identity of Eyan Ventine, an agent for a west coast businessman. It's a role that permits him to wander freely around the surprisingly 'civilised' east coast city, asking questions, sniffing for Lessers, and continuing to do the right thing.

There's a girl in Coldharbor, a beautiful, talented, artistic young woman, and to his own great shock, Yarmian finds himself falling head over heels with this stunning Coldharbor artisan.

But there's trouble in paradise for the young Wizzen; a gangster's son has taken a shine to the young woman too, and after dealing with that very real threat to his lady-love's welfare, Yarmian discovers an ancient, strange and really rather worrying superstition woven into the fabric of Coldharbor life.

Torn between love and duty, Yarmian finds himself travelling deep into Coldharbor's interior, seeking for the source of the material at the heart of Coldharbor's baffling, and maybe even sinister, superstition.

It's a journey that takes him to Greenwater Lake... a place where, it is said, those who dare to go, never return...

Book 9 in the series Yarmian Eventyde.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Kelly
• Release date: Jun 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215727164

GJ Kelly

GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

Book preview

Prologue

Marragus sighed, and stared at me with those icy cold green eyes of his. He looked even older than before…

!! I think I can see where this is going…

"There are none so righteous as the converted, and your ancient namesake had been converted to the cause of Sinnock’s new Wizzenry in the earliest days of the Isle…

"Albionus named you Yarmian for a reason. Do you understand now, the nature of all your training? Do you see at last what it was Albionus hoped for you to do? Do you not see now the right thing he hoped you would do in his stead? Hmm?"

oOo

1. Coldharbor

The first available ship leaving Muthia, after I’d made my brief and very final visit to Jacob Kibber, was a small two-masted trader on a regular contracted run to Coldharbor and back. I’d taken my tax-collecting friend Malkar’s advice, and was aboard her when she sailed, and that’d been back in the middle of July. What should’ve been a straightforward voyage of some two hundred miles turned out to be a rather tedious one; the ennui and cramped crew’s quarters was endured rather than enjoyed thanks entirely to the extremely light winds mariners expected at that time of year.

Still, I’d eventually (and gratefully) stepped down the gangplank and set foot on the wharf at Coldharbor’s port, and made my way through the usual dockside bustle and into the town. I hadn’t really known quite what to expect of this city; my stepfather Albionus had never really spoken much about the place. However, long conversations with idle and restless sailors aboard the Lucy-Anne, during hot July days when we’d been almost becalmed, had somewhat prepared me in advance of my arrival. I even knew the names of some rispeckable gaffs in town at which to rent a room.

Thus have I been ensconced at The Blind Peddler these past few weeks, and the place is indeed a respectable inn just off a busy main street not far from the city centre. I took a quiet room at the back, overlooking an equally quiet courtyard and its stables, and here I’ve remained undisturbed since my arrival. New place, new name, and this one was dreamed up aboard the Lucy-Anne two days out from port: Eyan Ventine.

Eyan of course sounds exactly the same as the rather more common ‘Ian’ or ‘Iyan’ found over on the west coast, but I felt I should spell it in a somewhat more sophisticated manner as befits a fellow of my education and status. No pretending to be a Temparus journeyman here, oh no. Here in Coldharbor I was Eyan Ventine, employed as a travelling agent of a free market trader interested in expanding his network of business partners. It gave me a good excuse to wander about the city, mooching around shops and businesses, and asking all kinds of questions of the regulars at the Peddler.

No-one batted an eyelid at this fiction, arriving dressed as I had been in the rather smart garb I’d purchased near the docks back in Muthia and changed into before disembarking here in Coldharbor. Had I notified Ranquin Dutt of my arrival and new name? Of course; his affiliated messenger’s office was barely half a mile from the inn. Was I going about performing my habitual sniffing for Lessers? Yes. I’d fallen quickly into the habit, and had soon discovered to my surprise that there were two other Wizzens in the city who’d chosen to remain in spite of the purge still underway around Carpidia.

I even knew their names: Master Durbin, who appeared to be the older of the two and who lived in a neat little house on the city’s southern outskirts, and Master Ermack, who’d taken up residence in the northern quarter. Both of these were Permanentus masters, and local gossips had informed me that they’d been a fixture in Coldharbor for donkey’s years. Given the longevity all Wizzens enjoyed (when they weren’t being murdered by Retributioners sent out by the combatants fighting over the Philostrate’s seat up there on the Isle of Sinnock), it wasn’t surprising that both Permies had probably outlived several generations of Gorms here in the city.

I had detected their scents in the Izen in numerous spots in town, and it was by following such scents that I’d discovered their dwellings and, after idly chatting with neighbouring shopkeepers, their identities. I’d seen both of them, and even witnessed Durbin wielding a cracked lintel above a butcher’s doorway a week ago. But I hadn’t introduced myself, and as yet, I had no intention of so doing. That both Wizzens had likely survived questioning by Inky the Inquisitor some time ago, and were thus deemed harmless to the aspirations of the three Masters o’ the Robe still vying for power up there on the Isle, was all I needed to know. That, and the fact that both were a lot younger than had been my old landlord back in Muthia, the doddering Master Gimbrère.

That the two resident Wizzens were both still making a reasonable living wielding the Izen here in Coldharbor also told a tale; it’d be a brave witch or sorcerer who tried to rise up and take power in this city. Was I therefore wasting my time, prowling about the place surreptitiously sniffing at the Izen and looking for signs of a Lesser’s presence and influence?

Yes, probably. Well, more than likely. All right, so it was a form of prevarication, and I knew it, just as I knew from the book I still possessed, Carpidia, The Purge Years Post Morkel, that it was the west coast of the Carpidian Sea which generally suffered the most from Lesser mystics during a purge, and not this eastern one.

This so-called ‘rough east coast’ usually fared a lot better, and this apparently curious disparity was believed to be because the ‘rough’ populace here in the east were no strangers to violence, and were therefore far less likely to tolerate some mystic upstart threatening the status quo than were the gentler and more civilised folk over in the west. Whether that was true or not in these modern times remained to be seen.

In truth, I was simply biding my time, practicing and honing my Izen-sniff, before I’d eventually have to succumb to the inevitable and book passage on a ship back across the sea to some western port, there to do battle with Lessers again. It was just that… well… frankly I was in no hurry. For why? For because coming face to horrible face with an ancient sea-goddess, whose siren-song had almost penetrated my astonishingly powerful Izengate-powered Dome of Bombast, had left me a tad shaken.

The Tripitane, Kallamallakaya, was not supposed to exist at all, never mind her having survived countless centuries in a rocky cove by preying on unfortunate ships and their crews, lured to within the range of her astounding powers. The sight and the smell of the charnel pit into which had been casually flung the remains of her ‘harvesting’ of human organs, also for countless centuries, would never leave me.

A sea-witch like Kallamallakaya was supposed to be a myth, a fabletale, and had been certified as such by the Beldane Council on the Isle. Indeed, poor old Gimbrère had evicted me from my lodgings in his house for even suggesting that the Tripitane and Arenayis were real creatures, and also that they’d been dwelling some thirty miles or so from his own front door.

Kallamallakaya, whose jealous guardianship of a natural harbour in ancient times had seen the sea-witch elevated to the status of ‘goddess’ by simpletons dwelling nearby, had fixed me with her antique shark-like eyes and done her ancient best to destroy me. Lucky for me (sorry, Albionus), she was many centuries out of practice when it came to a straight-up Izenfight.

I’d prevailed, thanks entirely to my dabbling with the third book, the Theoratus, and thus the opening of the Izengate within me. All that remained of the sea-witch now was the myth, and the name of the city-state which had sprung up around that natural harbour of hers: Kallasta.

Yes, I had been shaken by the confrontation. Coming face to face with a mythological sea-goddess, however old and withered she might’ve been, is bound to leave a mark. It’d left its mark on me, fer sure as dear old Brendin might’ve said, not least because it had been a terrifying experience, but also because I’d learned that opening my Izengate had reinforced my Dome of Bombast to the point of it being able to keep out the mystical song o’ the sea-witch. And how I’d been able to whirl around, gather the energies of that Dome, and unleash them all at once to incinerate the filthy creature… well that had been a bit of a shock for me as well as for Kallamallakaya, I can tell you.

Necessity is the mother of invention, as dear old Albionus was wont to say, usually whenever I’d asked him how he’d got out of some scrape or other in the past. Well, now I understood what he’d meant. On more than one occasion now, I’d been able to do things, unplanned, unrehearsed, unimagined, and certainly unconsciously; the very Dome itself had been formed instinctively back in the caves at Gurnansvale, to protect myself and Arric of Turretmor from falling stalactites. Yes, I’d practiced it often enough since then for it to be almost as second-nature as the ordinary Shield of Bombast (which had been my very first wielding, at the age of four). But still… smoking that sea-witch beesh in Kibber’s Peak had been, in retrospect, something of a surprise; or at least the manner in which I’d achieved that desired end had been surprising.

So then, here I was, going through the motions in Coldharbor, using the excuse that I was readying myself for a journey back into the thick of things over on the west coast, when in reality I knew I was actually trying to come to terms with recent events and my part in them. Yes, Jacob Kibber had had it coming, and no, I don’t have to play by Gorms’ Rules; even deputy-minister Malkar had known that. But a great deal had happened in and around Muthia, and I’m still a young man, and well, I need a bit of time to get used to new realities. There was another bloody good reason for my remaining in this city, more of which later…

So, Coldharbor, a respectable inn, mooching around sniffing the Izen, and trying to make sense of the world around me and my part in all those recent events. It’s actually not a bad place at all, is Coldharbor. It surprisingly puts me in mind of civilised little seaports over in the west, like Dorcane, and maybe Garroon before that business with Meleghanna.

I learned, while stuck aboard the drifting Lucy-Anne, that Coldharbor’s principle claim to fame was a peculiar kind of hardwood, whose grain is highly-figured and brought out by skilled craftsmen with the judicious use of flames. This ‘flamewood’ is then carved and sculpted by skilled artisans, and is one of the main exports to wider Carpidia; the wood is apparently unique to the fertile eastern region watered by a long and broad river, the River Cold, which of course gives its name to the capital city and the nation-state as a whole.

I’ve seen many examples of the woodcarver’s art on my wanderings about the city centre, and I admit to no small amount of admiration both for the skill of the artisans, and the beauty of the wood itself, which takes a high gloss polish that further brings out the flame-enhanced figures of its grain. I seem to recall seeing some examples of Coldharbor art in Ranquin Dutt’s villa in Farakand, and believe me, that extremely wealthy business mogul wouldn’t have any old tat about the place.

Today, however, was August 15th, a Sunday, and after a long and very satisfying hot bath and a light lunch, I bade a cheery farewell to mine host, an efficient and business-like landlord named Orbury, and took myself out into the street in search of a cool breeze.

August was hot. Bloody hot, day and night, and though the winds and breezes had picked up since July’s ending, there was a green and pleasant little park in the east of the city where cooling zephyrs could be found, in the shade of trees atop a small copse on a small rise overlooking a large pond.

It was there, in that shade, where the young missy Dayna Reyalis might be found most summer afternoons (she’d said), working at her speciality: carving and whittling tiny figurines and animals from Coldharbor’s unique flamewood.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I only stride manfully through the eastern quarter of the city to that airy little park simply to sit beside and chat up the lovely diminutive-but-perfectly-proportioned auburn-haired doe-eyed full-lipped vivacious young woman in her short summer dress of sunshine yellow, which she wears nipped at her slender waist with a black leather belt. Well, you’re wrong! I’d sit and chat her up even if her belt was white.

And whyever not? I’ve noticed in my travels that many young men seem intimidated by beautiful young women, and tend only to admire them from afar. Me? Well, did not my stepfather drum into me, day after day for fifteen years (or was it sixteen?) that confidence is key? He certainly did, which was why I’d confidently approached Dayna, introduced myself, asked if I might sit and admire her work, and she’d smiled up at me with one gold-flecked brown eye closed against the glare of bright sunshine streaming through the treetops, and invited me so to do.

She’d even offered to carve a design into the head of my half-staff to make it easier to grip, but I’d gently declined; the stick is a tool, not a decoration, and having successfully employed it for the sinking of ships and the incineration of an ancient mythological sea-goddess, I was loath to have it modified in any way. I had no idea if carving the stick would have some deleterious effect on the tuning of the tool or not, and wasn’t prepared to take the risk.

That first meeting, with its several hours of delightfully normal conversation while I watched her delicate little fingers at work transmuting a misshapen offcut of flamewood into a swan not much bigger than my thumb, set the groundwork for the others which followed. I was of course tempted to spend every afternoon beneath a shady tree on that little knoll in the company of this skilled and beautiful young artist. But I didn’t want to appear too eager, and besides, I’d given her my fake identity and she expected me to have to work for a living, just as she herself did.

As well as being the daughter of skilled woodcarving parents, she was also an employee of theirs too; her mother and father ran a small family workshop built onto their house, not too far from the park, and while they produced much larger items for sale and export, Dayna used their offcuts to produce the finely detailed little figurines and animals which delighted adults and children alike, her labours adding to the family’s coffers. Coldharbor was of course filled with such artisans as Dayna and her family, and so they weren’t particularly noted or remarkable, but they were fairly comfortably off and enjoyed a good standard of living.

I was expected to be ‘of a certain standard’ too, which was why I was glad I’d dressed in respectable garb before arriving in the port city, and why I’d maintained appearances and had discarded my old Muthian clothing several weeks ago. Clothes maketh the man, and all that. I was also glad that I’d taken a room in a respectable inn which apparently had a reputation for quality food and a clientele of a certain class. Dayna herself hadn’t seemed in the slightest embarrassed when I’d snuck her in the back way last Saturday evening… and later escorted her home, almost to her family’s front door, before the other guests were up and about on Sunday morning… And I’d done so this weekend, too. Happy me.

And that’s why I was now striding manfully through Coldharbor’s streets, heading for the park and another afternoon meeting with the lovely young Dayna, who’s as sporty as she is beautiful, and why I was smiling now at the thought of seeing her again even after last night’s fun… Boys will be boys, after all, and girls will be girls… and you’re only young once.

oOo

2. Maroons

Hullo you! I smiled, and sat down beside her, admiring the way that shards of sunshine lancing through the canopy overhead seemed to make blonde streaks in her long auburn hair.

Why, good afternoon to you too, master Ventine. I trust you are well?

Giggle.

Actually, you sporty little minx, I’m still aching in muscles I didn’t know I had, though a hot bath after breakfast when I returned to the inn has eased my back a little. What’s that you’re making? A pendant?

Actually, I’ve just finished it. Here. It’s for you. And she proudly presented me with a wondrous flamewood pendant, well-polished and figured; a stylised fish-hook, on a leather thong.

It’s wonderful! I enthused, and well, yes, actually it was, and would doubtless have cost a pretty penny if purchased from a shop.

I remember you telling me when we first met, that the one you’re wearing was to catch good luck?

Yes. Given to me by a girl who dumped me shortly afterwards. Are you trying to tell me something, Dayna?

She chuckled… and oh what a lovely, throaty sound!

No, silly. It’s just… well, here in Coldharbor, we don’t wear green jewellery of any kind. It’s considered bad luck. I know it sounds foolish, but it’s an old custom. You might have had some funny looks around town, and not known why? It’s your wearing that green jade pendant. Bad luck.

Well… I took off the stone pendant and slipped it into my shirt pocket, and leaned forward to allow Dayna to put the small and exquisite flamewood replacement over my head. I can’t say I noticed any funny looks, but I’m bound to receive some admiring ones now.

I tried to kiss her, but she drew back rather quickly, and smiled rather coyly. I suppose public displays of affection here in a busy little park on a Sunday afternoon were a little too much to expect; any number of family friends or relatives might be wandering about and well... Dayna wanted to keep me something of a secret for now. Suits me.

I wonder why green jewellery is supposed to be bad luck? I mused aloud, easing her sudden discomfort.

She shrugged. "Just always has been. Green flamewood, especially. See, the pendant is dark wood with an almost golden sheen in the swirling grain? And if you move it a little, the golden sheen turns silvery? There’s some flamewood, though I’ve never seen any myself, which has a greenish hue to the grain, and that’s considered very bad luck. You won’t find a single woodcarver anywhere in Coldharbor who’d touch the stuff, even though it’s supposedly rare."

But green clothing and hats and such are fine?

Oh yes. And don’t think I didn’t notice you giving that girl in the green dress the eye just now.

I wasn’t giving her the eye! I lied, I was just noticing that a green dress isn’t bad luck but green adornments are!

"Well that green dress was almost jolly bad luck for you, mister Ventine."

"Don’t pout, you’re not a trout. It’s what they used to say back home."

On the west coast?

Yes.

Dayna took a small lump of wood from her shoulder-bag, and a very sharp little knife, and began working while she spoke:

When will you go back? she asked softly, as if fearing the answer.

Home? Probably never. West, well… that’s a different kettle of fish. I can’t stay in Coldharbor forever. The boss expects me to return eventually, and with news of new contacts and such. But not any time soon, anyway.

She brightened up a little at that.

My mother has been asking me questions.

What about?

You. She must’ve noticed something different about me lately, and put two and two together.

Oh dear…

What did you tell her?

She shrugged. Not much. Just that you were nice. And respectable. A girl has to have some secrets, you know.

Yes, my lovely missy, I know all about secrets…

Do I have to worry about your father coming after me with a bloody great carving knife?

Actually, she smiled, studying the piece of wood before making a notch in it, It’d more likely be my mum coming after you. My dad is very single-minded, one thing at a time, and mostly his mind is on the business. There’s a lot of competition.

Yes, I can imagine. Is that why you’re working on a Sunday afternoon instead of giving all your attention to the astonishingly handsome, intelligent, successful and manly young man sitting beside you?

Where?

!!

Here, you wretch!

She chuckled again. And yes, I know, sometimes us young people can be decidedly cringe-inducing when we’re trying to appear innocent after a night of exhausting mutual exploration.

They’ll expect me to bring you home to meet them, Eyan. Sooner or later. It’s… it’s why I wouldn’t let you kiss me just now. People would see, word would get back, and they’d insist on meeting you.

Would that be so bad? Actually yes, I suppose it would; meeting the parents strikes fear into the heart of every young man, hinting as it does at a rather more permanent relationship than at least one of the parties is quite ready for.

Which was why I earned a sideways glance from the lovely young woman sat beside me.

Blink. What? What’ve I done now?

"You know what, Eyan Ventine. You’ll leave. It’s in the nature of your job. Besides, I’m far too young to think about getting married, in spite of what my parents might hope. I’m not a silly young girl with a head filled with silly young girl notions, and you’re not a Portlord’s Princeling come to sweep me off my feet."

You make me sound a bit like some kind of philanderer.

A what?

Philanderer. A rakish fellow who wanders about the place taking advantage of lovely young women and then running off.

Actually no, I don’t think you’re one of them. I think you’re a lonely and nice young man in a strange city with a difficult job which’ll take you off to another strange city, sooner or later.

!!

Careful, Yarmian, she thinks you’re a trader’s travelling agent, remember?

Well, I conceded, When did you become so astute?

Astute?

Able to accurately assess people or situations. Perspicacious, sagacious, shrewd, sharply observant.

She sighed. You’ve taught me so many new words since we met!

Amongst other things.

Don’t be naughty. You were quite naughty enough last night.

You know, I’m surprised no-one in your house was up when I walked you home this morning, and last Sunday morning too. Don’t they notice you sneaking out?

"My brother and sister probably do, but since we all know secrets about each other they’re not likely to say anything and neither am I. And well, Sunday is always a lazy day. My parents always sleep in late on a Sunday. Are you really worried about my dad chasing after you with a skew chisel?"

Yes. Whatever one of those is, it sounds nasty.

Ooh there’s that lovely little chuckle again!

She tossed her thick auburn hair over her shoulder, affording me a glimpse of her soft white throat before she bent her head back to her work.

D’you have to work on a Sunday, Dayna?

Yes, if I’m to stay grounded and keep my mind and my hands off of you. It’s not often that eligible men approach me out of the blue and charm themselves so swiftly into my affections. I need to keep you at arms length. Except on a Saturday night.

Then the young men of Coldharbor must be idiots. Or blind.

I think mostly it’s because they know I carry some very sharp chisels and gouges in my bag. My sister actually stabbed a man once when he accosted her in an alley one evening. Word gets ‘round.

!!

Was she hurt?

No, just a bit shaken.

And the bloke?

Not really. She stuck him in the thigh with a vee-gouge. Made it easy for the townguards to find him. The magistrates sentenced him to a year on a river-barge.

!

You, uhm… you’ve got one of those vee-gouge thingies in your bag?

Several. Different sizes, for different-sized legs. Why?

No reason, just wondered.

She beamed happily, and winked at me before turning her attention back to her work.

So, I ventured, The magistrates here in Coldharbor can sentence miscreants to work on a barge? That’s odd. I knew some bargemen back in Muthia. Nice blokes, in the main.

The Portlord here owns the forests inland where the flamewood comes from, and the barges which bring the logs downriver from the logging mill. It’s hard and heavy work, and the barges go back and forth along the river almost without stopping, except to load and unload of course. In the old days, not many people volunteered to man the barges, so the Portlord decided to make it a punishment for criminals.

I’ve seen sailing barges, and even took a trip on one once, from Muthia to Kallasta and back. Most of the heavy work was done on the docks though, not by the bargees.

The riverside wharves where the logs are loaded and unloaded are dangerous places. There’s lots of accidents. That man who attacked my sister got squashed when a stack of logs broke free.

!!

Squashed dead?

Um-hmm. And after only three months on the barge.

Well, at the risk of sounding callous or something, it sounds like he had it coming.

No argument about that in our house, Eyan. You haven’t met my sister yet, and you won’t if I’ve got anything to do with it.

!!

Why not?

She’s a year older than me, and a lot prettier.

Oh.

Oh?

"Well, leaving aside the fact that I don’t believe any girl could be prettier than you, for a moment there I thought you might be worried that she’d stick a vee-gouge into me or something. What is a vee-gouge, anyway?"

Dayna produced a small and wicked-looking tool, whose razor-sharp end was shaped in the form of a V, obviously for cutting v-shaped gouges in wood. Given that her work was very fine and detailed, and the finished pieces tiny, the tool was quite short and appropriately thin. It’d make a very painful two-inch deep wound in a fellow’s thigh though, or any other part of him come to that…

Nasty, eh? Dayna smiled, rather too innocently. Just remember I have this and others in my bag the next time that girl in the green dress happens to wander by.

Jealous, eh?

Very. Oh no…

What?

It’s Berren and his three maroons, and they’re headed this way.

I glanced up, and saw four youths trudging around that large pond towards us.

Maroons?

"He calls his little gang of three his dragoons. Everyone else calls them maroons. You know, morons? They’re all idiots. Berren is a dullard and he’s been chasing after me for ages. They’re the reason I carry larger tools in my bag than ever I’d need for my work."

Hmm. Don’t much like the sound of that. And I didn’t.

Don’t get involved, Eyan. Berren’s father is something of a goon-leader down at the docks. It’s why Berren thinks he can throw his weight around.

A gangster? In Coldharbor.

Not like in Kallasta, no. Just a leader of a bunch of goons. Let me do the talking, I can handle Berren.

Fair do, I lied, shifting my grip on my trusty stick.

"Well well, if it ain’t me lovely little Dayna, sittin’ pretty with a lah-di-dah posh-boy. Nice little necklace, posh-boy! Bet the other posh-boys take a right fancy to it."

Yeah! one of the maroons, a skinny one at that, sneered. Posh-boy!

Go away, Berren, Dayna sighed. You and your maroons are sucking the sun out of Sunday.

"Your ma know about this posh-boy then, eh? Ain’t seen ‘im around this part o’ town afore."

That’s because you’re usually too busy lifting heavy things down at the docks. How else would you be able to earn enough pennies to bribe your three maroons to hang around with you?

!! Nadir and zenith this girl’s no shrinking violet!

One day, missy, you’ll go too far, and then me and the dragoons’ll teach you some bleedin’ manners, one after the other!

"Like that idiot tried with my sister? There’s enough chisels in my bag to chip off those useless little splinters from all four of you, one after the other."

Big brave little girl ain’t ye, missy. What, you think the posh-boy there and that little tool in yer ‘and can stop the four of us draggin’ you into the trees for an education?

My little tool’s bigger and sharper than yours, Berren, Dayna sighed again. Now bugger off, there’s a good little boy.

"Whatchew lookin’ at, posh-boy? You wanna be brave too, eh?"

I smiled. At last, an invitation to join in with this conversation.

I stood up, and suddenly the four maroons looked a little concerned. I’d doubtless seemed small while sat next to the diminutive girl, but now they could see the full extent of my six feet one inches of heroic and steadfast manliness, they weren’t so sure of themselves or their bully-boy leader.

Lady asked you nicely to bugger off, I smiled again. I’m asking nicely too.

G’won, Berren! Do the faggin’ crip-on-a-stick! urged Skinny.

Berren, however, cast a quick glance around. Families picnicking in the shade of the trees, kids playing nearby, couples strolling around the pond… it was Sunday, and the park was busy.

"Yer lucky it’s a public place, posh-boy, else cripple on a stick or not, we’d teach the both of ye some manners! We know where you live, and he jabbed a finger down at Dayna. And we know what you look like, posh-boy!"

Oh I’m staying at The Blind Peddler inn. Just so you know.

Keep yer eyes peeled then, crippy posh-boy. Keep yer eyes peeled fer the Berren dragoons!

And with that, the four sneering idiots did their best to appear threatening, and wandered off in search of something or someone else to annoy.

I sat down again, to the accompaniment of a huff of annoyance from my lovely companion.

What? I asked, a little surprised.

"Men! I asked you to stay out of it! But no-o-oh, you have to poke your nose in and get all… all…mannish! I told you I could deal with Berren on my own!"

So you did. But you’re not the boss of me, Dayna, and the chief maroon invited me into the conversation. It would’ve been impolite of me not to have accepted that invitation.

"Then you’d better hope they weren’t serious. Telling them where you were staying! What were you thinking? I told you his father is the leader of a pack of dockside goons!"

Girls! Coof! I dunno. Always trying to wrap their men in lambs’ wool and keep ‘em out of harm’s way. I can take care of myself, y’know. Stop worrying. And stop pouting again, it’s not your finest look.

Alas, she was packing her work and tools back into her shoulder-bag, so I stood up again.

"Bloody Berren… bloody men! I’m going home. You can be all mannish on yer own."

Yes I can, but I shan’t. I’m walking you home, right up to your front door. And I don’t care if it does mean meeting your parents.

I don’t need an escort.

Yes, you do. There’s four of ‘em, Dayna. You might get to stick one with a vee-gouge, and the skinny one with the spots might run off at the first sight of violence, but the other two said nothing, which means they’re stupid enough to be dangerous.

I caught the word men muttered under her breath as she stood up, ignoring my outstretched hand, and also my subsequent offer of an arm.

So, I smiled down at her while we set off around the edge of the pond. Where does this Berren and his goon-lord father live then?

oOo

3. The Hopeless Folly of Youth

The Reyalis home was built onto the side of a large shed, or it might’ve been the other way around. In any event, there was a sweet smell of sawdust and wood shavings emanating from the place, which was set in a shallow arcing crescent of similar homes, none of which had big sheds attached. Trees lined the street, and the road had been fully cobbled at one time, though the cobbles were well-worn after years of wear and tear.

The house was all of varnished wood, though the door was gaily painted yellow, albeit not quite as dazzling a yellow as Dayna’s delightfully short summer dress. The door opened just before we arrived, and just before the young woman had a chance to tell me to bugger off back to the inn for the umpteenth time. It was almost as though she didn’t want me to meet her parents.

Dayna! You’re back early… I caught a glimpse of your dress while I was cleaning the windows. And you have a friend with you!

Yes, mother. This is mister Eyan Ventine. He walked me home from the park.

How do you do, I smiled at the older woman, and knew immediately from whom Dayna Reyalis had inherited her beauty, though not her diminutive stature; her mother was quite tall. Spot of bother with a bunch of oicks in the park. I thought it wisest to escort the young lady home.

It was just Berren and his maroons again, Dayna sighed, looking suddenly miserable.

Oh! Well, it’s nice to meet you at last, mister Ventine. I’m Dayna’s mother, obviously. Ellane.

Eyan. Pleased to meet you, Ellane.

You’ll come inside and stay for dinner? Dayna’s told us nothing at all about you, and we’re dying to know.

"Alas. I’ve only recently had a very large breakfast and lunch, and I really should get back to the inn. I have a weekly report to my employer to finish writing up and there’s