Table of Contents

 

1) Bad Luck

2) Worst Luck

3) No Luck at All

4) The Ludicrous Gallows Thief

5) On the Run Again

6) A Major Decision

7) The Evil That Men Do 

8) Identical Problems

9) Flight to Freedom

10) Sybal

11) Do unto Others

12) Sybal’s Quandary

13) Teaching the Teachers a Lesson

14) Faerie Folk

15) Takes Two to Tangle

16) Animal Magnetism

17) Courting Disaster

18) North Hill

19) Emotional Entanglements

20) Between a Rock and a Deep Place

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Bad Luck

 

Do I have spirit? Yeah, I have spirit. You have to have that and spunk if you are going to survive in the streets of Haven’s Rest. Money and fast feet tend to increase ones chances, but since I have neither, I have to survive by using my wits. My name is Hezekiah, but I do not answer to it, and neither do I go by Plowsman, which was my surname until I found out it was not rightfully mine at all. To simplify matters, just call me Zeke, because that is what they’ve called me since the day I was born.

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Haven’s Rest is not very bad, unless you are fortunate enough to live in the Inner City. That’s the wealthy side. A side where self-important society nobles strut around like stuffed peacocks, and look down their noses at people like me. Most folks do not agree with my opinion of Haven’s Rest, but of course, they have grown up in this city, and they have become almost oblivious to what I find most intriguing. I am just a simple farm boy from a simple family, and if it did not affect the farm or our bellies, then it was not important. That simple way of life tends to make those who live it, fall out of touch with the world in general.

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Imagine the moment I first saw this city in the distance. I was in awe and completely dumbstruck. I must have gaped at the massive city walls and towers for nearly an hour before finding the courage to enter the city gates. Now put yourself in my boots when I enter the city. Things I have never seen before in my whole lifetime assail me. Everything that these city folks are just taking for granted, stops me dead in my tracks. I am lucky to have survived walking down the street.

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Ignorance is not bliss, though before coming to Haven’s Rest, I would have assumed we were at least keeping up with the times. Apparently, I was very wrong. Laughter would have erupted from my belly had anyone tried to describe to me any one of a number of things that is available in this city. My father had tried to, but since he is a minstrel, I had laughed at his stories, and regarded them as fanciful tales. Respect for him kept me from calling him an outright liar, but still, I wonder now what he must have thought of my mirth, and of my stupidity. I may have been born within this kingdom, but Haven’s Rest makes me feel like a foreigner visiting a new land.

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There has not been time to do much sightseeing, but I have seen many things one does not see on the farm. Just last week for instance, during the Festival of the Trees parade, I was able to see the king ride his magnificent steed through the city streets. It was glorious. Imagine my reaction when I saw an elephant, a camel, or a Halfling for the first time. It was quite different from the vexed anguish I felt upon seeing shackled lines of weary slaves heading for the auction blocks.

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I have also come to accept magic, and accept people who have a mixture of blood from creatures I have never seen before. It grieves me to know my father had been sincere when he told me his stories held truth, but simple minds are hard to convince. However, one cannot deny what I have seen with my own two eyes, nor will I ever doubt my father’s words again. If I could only recall a small portion of what he had tried to tell me, I probably would not have been as dazed and ill prepared when I first arrived here in the city.

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Daily life in the city streets, markets, and shops can be very alluring, and because of this, I have spent too much of my precious money sampling an unending variety of food and spirits. I cannot help it, for every time I turn a corner, there is something new to discover. For instance, if I want to know what the future has in store for me, I can visit an exotic woman oracle over on Ash Street, and if I am feeling ill, the surgeon on Yew Street can bleed my sickness away with his leeches. The squeamish usually go visit the monks, or an apothecary to cure their maladies, and some still seek out the druids in the ancient oak grove at Thunor. To me, life in the city is like a year round festival. On any given day in the streets, one is likely to encounter jugglers, glassblowers, artisans, illuminators, tumblers, flame blowers or men walking around on tall wooden poles.

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Sometimes they block off the streets for events like foot races, cockfights, parades, and contests. At one such contest, I won two coppers for eating more fava beans than the rest of the participants. Though I truly appreciated the money, I was just happy to get the free meal and have my belly full for a change. I am beginning to believe that if you cannot find it here in Haven’s Rest, then you are not looking hard enough, unless you are trying to find work, and that can be difficult for a boy who has as many problems as I do.

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Today I wandered the streets trying to find a job, and several times, I had to hide from some thugs who are trying to find me. I am soaked to the skin, dogged tired and I only have three coppers to show for my efforts. This morning, I helped to unload a wagon load of heavy crates for one of the coppers, and around noon, I was able to retrieve two coppers from the mud after a gang of boys plucked an unfortunate woman’s purse from her hand.

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I had seen the coins fly out of the purse, and had waited patiently until the gang and the woman were long gone. Then, I casually retrieved them when nobody was looking. I feel a little bad about doing this, but the survival instinct becomes strong when you are in my situation. Crime does pay it seems, and though I have not fully stooped to this means of survival, this option is not altogether out of the question.

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Miserably, I slink down Holly Street in the pouring rain, and the vendors all look at me expectantly. Some try shouting in an attempt to draw me in, but the more experienced merchants do not even bother. The zealous ones just want to make one last sale before giving up for the day, but my indifference lets them know that their sales pitch is in vain.

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The Banished Bard’s soggy banner comes into view, but I do not go straight away towards it. The colorful banner depicts a Bard, cringing at the feet of a finger-pointing king who appears to be extremely wroth at the man. There are letters that state the taverns name as well, and I am thankful that I have been taught to read and write. The knowledge comes in handy here in the city, for I have also been able to make a few coppers as a scribe. I stop beneath the blacksmiths overhang, and take a few moments to study the street. I have had one close encounter today, and I am not about to walk into a trap.

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Thomas stops to wipe the sweat off his brow, and he gives me a friendly wave. Thomas is a runt of a man, very bald, and extremely thin. You’d outright laugh at him if he told you he was a smithy, but if you’re in need of a good door hinge or a cheap cook pot, Thomas is your man. I wave back, but a flash of lightening that strikes too close for comfort drowns out my greeting. The following rumble of thunder rolls off into the distance as my eyes rove the street.

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There does not seem to be anyone lingering about the Bard, so with a farewell wave to Thomas, I slowly cut across the street and try not to splatter mud all over my trousers. Caution, another survival instinct, causes me to pause at the front window to look over the crowd, and only when I am satisfied that it is safe to go in, do I head for the door.

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The swinging doors swish wildly back and forth when I step inside. This is where I call home. Well, at least until tomorrow. The typical evening crowd packs the place, and the stench of unwashed bodies is overpowering. Being new to life in the big city, I have learned to watch my step, and keep my mouth shut. It only takes one misunderstood comment, look, or misstep to entice someone into jumping on you.

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The Bard has a rambunctious crowd this time of day, and stabbings happen to more people by accident, than they do on purpose. Unlike the Inner City, the waterfront is a place where the uncivilized converge. Sailors, puttocks, dockworkers, cutthroats, vagabonds, swindlers, gamblers, and people like me, all tend to congregate in the slums. Most of the people who dwell here are just one shanghai away from becoming a slave, or one-step ahead of becoming a beggar in the streets.

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Water pools on the planked floor as I let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. The sanded floor is beyond absorbing any more mud, blood, and vomit, but it is not the owners fault. The endless rain has prevented the sand boys from delivering. When my eyes adjust, I barely get out of the way of a staggering drunk giant who looks very green about the gills. I clutch my purse as he goes by, and then ask myself why. A hustler would really have to be desperate to try to lift my pitiful pouch. Its hell being broke. I am not completely broke, but I am broke enough to have to make a choice. Do I pay for tomorrow’s room, or do I get something to eat and plow the froth off a couple ales tonight? My belly growls and I suddenly acquire a powerful thirst. Guess I will be visiting old man Gabriel down by the docks tomorrow night.

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An empty table catches my eye. It is by an open window in the front corner of the room, and since I like to keep my back to the wall, I head that way. This is usually a good idea since the thugs trying to find me, would like nothing more than to catch me napping. I am also sure that the villagers who chased me halfway across the kingdom might decide to look for me here in Haven’s Rest, so it is a good idea for me to keep my guard up. It is really all my fault though, because if I could have controlled my temper, I would not be in this mess in the first place. It is very disheartening, but that is what you get when you accidentally kill your stepfather, and then let a Duke, who just happens to dislike my real father, dupe you.

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I make my way to the table by sidestepping those who stumble into my path, and before the next player lets one fly, I dash past the dagger board. Drunken laughter erupts as I pass by a crowded table of weathered mercenaries.

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“Will ya looky there, thought one had to have his pubes to be in here? Hey boy, I think your mammy’s callin’,” one heckles.

I ignore the insulting remark, and hurry past the table. Sabrina spots me and I nod. She gives me a wink as I pull out a chair in the corner and sit down. It is hard not to stare at her as she hustles to the counter to get me a tankard of ale, so I shift my attention to my coin pouch. I begin to frown after I untie it from my belt, because it is in the same condition as my clothing, well worn and wet.

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Sabrina sashays back across the room towards me, and dodges a pair of groping hands. Stopping a moment, she lifts the back of her dress up, and lets the man get a glimpse of what he missed getting his hands on. Misfortune is a curse that plagues me, for from where I’m sitting, I don’t get to see a thing. Her bravado causes a deafening mixture of hoots, whistles, and crude comments, and I can feel my ears turning crimson. I am not sure why I find her so fascinating, or why I get tongue tied when she fastens those pretty green eyes on me. She is just very easy to look at, and since I am starting to go through those changes a young man goes through when he sees an attractive woman, it is a good thing I am sitting down.

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A ferret-faced minstrel begins to hammer on a poorly tuned dowcemere. I guess the ditty is supposed to be “Roll Around in the Hay”, a lively ale drinking melody, but the way this wretch is playing, it sounds more like a funeral march. It is damnable. I do not think the crowd even cares, but since my greatest ambition is to be a minstrel one day like my father, the cad’s ruination of the song causes my frown to deepen.

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Sabrina arrives, and leans across the whole breadth of the table before setting the frothy tankard of ale down in front of me. The top of her dress yawns open alarmingly, and I get a good look at her bosom. Not trusting my ability to speak, I give her a shy smile, and try not to stare at them while I am dumping out the last of my coppers from the pouch. I press a couple into the palm of her hand, and she teases me by taking her time straightening up. I can feel the heat in my face when she turns away with that crooked little smile that says she knows I was looking. Being that I am very impressionable and susceptible to her charms, my desire for her is escalating into a crushing and loving affection. It is nearly as hard to hide these feelings, as it has been to hide from my enemies here within the city.

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Unwittingly, I have made a powerful enemy here in the city, but the start of my difficulties occurred long before laying eyes on Haven’s Rest. My troubles began when I killed my drunken stepfather a few months back. I did not mean to kill him, it just happened. To make matters worse, nobody knew that he was not my real father, and he did not know it either. He‘d been tricked into marrying my mother.

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The deception was a necessity, because being lowborn did not excuse the social disgrace an entire family would suffer if anyone had known her situation. Since she had not yet begun to show, my mother’s parents thought it was best that my stepfather remain in the dark about her situation. Therefore, she was quickly married off to him after my real father got the wanderlust fever, and disappeared.

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I killed my stepfather because he got drunk and began beating on me for no reason at all. My best friend Turncoat tried to defend me, but my stepfather struck him down savagely with his cudgel. Turncoat was my dog; a very faithful companion, though his name would imply otherwise. As you can imagine, I got very angry. Blind with rage, I began beating my stepfather with my fists. I honestly cannot remember how long I continued to hit him after he fell upon the ground, but when I finally stopped, he was definitely dead, and the bloody cudgel had somehow found its way into my hands. Turncoat was in a very bad way, and though I did not want to leave his side, my mother talked some sense into me. My brother had run to the village to summon help when it all started, and my mother was smart enough to know what would happen when that help arrived. Entreaty your fathers help, she had pleaded, so I listened to her advice, and fled.

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Within days of my fifteenth birthday, I was on the run, and trying to make my way to a city that was halfway across the kingdom. The journey had been long, cold and arduous, and it had taken several months for me to get here. Those who pursued me had not given up easily. They had come close to capturing me several times along the way, but I am sure either I threw them off my trail, or they had simply given up the chase because it was nearly time for the spring planting. Traveling across the land had not been as fun as I had imagined it would be, and much of the journey had been extremely dangerous. People are not very friendly to folks traveling the roads these days, and at some places, I did not get a chance to speak before they decided to keep me moving along.

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A fight breaks out, but Dirk is quick to break it up. Dirk’s a huge breed bouncer who has more scars than teeth, and being that he’s part hill giant, ogre, dwarf and who all knows what else, he’s a brutishly ugly creature. I am willing to bet his family tree has more branches than the Camel River, and that his family gatherings are one nightmarish affair. Despite his unpleasant appearance, Dirk’s one you would want watching your back if all hell broke out, and with this in mind, I have made every possible effort to keep on his good side. When they refuse to break it up, and judging by the way Dirk cracks their heads together, I am willing to bet they suffer a very bad hangover come morn.

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The onlookers return to their merriment, and Dirk drags both men to the door. Without much effort, he tosses them into the street, wipes his hands off on his apron, and strides back to the bar. Returning to my reflections and having yet to touch my ale, I recall my first few days in the city. When I arrived, I had looked like something the cat had drug in, and though I tried to clean up a bit, I still resembled a back hills dirt farmer. My down-to-earth garb and congenial good manners got me arrested by the gate guards when I tried to enter the Inner City to find my father. All right, I admit I did get a little ugly when they would not give me the time of day, or even look at the documents I was carrying. When I got angry, their attitudes changed drastically and I got plenty of attention. Unfortunately, it was mostly bad.

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My luck was still heading south, though I thought for a moment it was improving, because the Captain of the guard actually took the time to look at the documents my father had given me. The documents were supposed to help me make a smooth transition from farm boy to respected nobility, but that did not happen. Instead, I spent several days in jail. Lord Byre, who coincidentally is the Duke and overlord of the area I am from, was the man who secured my release.

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The Duke was friendly enough, and at the time, I had actually wondered why folks hated him so much. Granted, most folks think of him as an overzealous young aristocrat, who would probably ascend to the throne by way of deception, but I failed to see how his ambitions would affect me personally, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. His attitude towards me changed dramatically as soon as we were in private, and at that point, everything went awry. Just when things could not have gotten any worse, my luck really flew the coop.

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The Duke did not take me to my father. Instead, one of his knights took the liberty to hit me over the head. When I awoke, I was bound to a horse that was heading away from the city, and six knights were my escort. My father had never told me that the Duke hated his guts, so my stupidity had afforded the Duke an opportunity to get back at my father. To make a long story short, I escaped, and I have been dodging the Duke’s hirelings ever since. Unfortunately, I was not able to escape with my important papers, and without those papers, I have no way to prove who I am until my father returns.

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Foam tickles my nose when I get the courage to take a swig of the obnoxious brew this establishment offers as ale. I do not particularly like their brew, but it is better than drinking the water. Somebody walks past the window, attracting my attention. Lightening lights up the rain drenched street, and I get a good look at the man. Its Wiggot the Sorcerer trying to get back to his shop before it becomes completely dark. Nobody wants to be in the streets past sunset, unless they want to find themselves shackled to a rowing oar, or tossed in an alley with their throat slit. I use the wet sleeve of my tunic to wipe the foam from my mouth and hide my vexation as the bitter brew burns holes in my belly.

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I have been hiding in the docks district now for a few weeks. I must admit that it has been a learning experience. People in the city do not treat strangers much differently than the people I encountered along the journey here, and sometimes they treat you worse. Other than just trying to survive, I have been trying to learn of my father’s whereabouts so I can send him a message. I have had very little success up until a few days ago, and that is when being in the right place at the right time paid off.

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Staying longer than usual in the main room of the Bard, I happened to overhear a man mention my father’s name during a political conversation he was having with another man. As soon as the conversation ended, I was quick to make his acquaintance. I spent all my coins to buy him a few drinks to loosen his tongue. My ignorance regarding city politics did not last long, and I knew more than I ever wanted to know before he left. Nevertheless, during the time we talked, I had asked subtle questions regarding Seth, which is my real father’s name, and I was able to learn a few things about my father that I had not known at all. The man had asserted that my father was a tad bit more than a lowly court minstrel. In fact, he admitted that my father was one of the king’s most trusted advisors, and an important foreign relations diplomat. Once I knew this, it was easy to learn that my father was not even in the city, and that it would be a long time before he would return to Haven’s Rest. As fate would have it, he was in the north negotiating peace with the elves of Wynelvenest.

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CHAPTER 2

Worst Luck

 

Now that I have to wait for my father to return, I have decided to press my rotten luck by staying here in the city. Work is hard to come by, and anything that pays well is tough to find when your work history is as short as mine is. There is not any need for plowboys here in the city. I order another tankard so I can get one more peek at Sabrina’s bosom, and while I wait for her to get it, I glance out the window...

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