Enough Rope, Chapter 6

Fleta crumbled to the table, propped up on her forearms. Even Bertram forgot Marina’s cryptic message in a moment of confusion, with his brows crashing together.

“The king demands—” Bertram sputtered. “That sword was hard won in the Proving. No one has the right to the prize but the winner!”

“Forget the law of the prize!” Fleta snarled. “The sword is Alexei. He’s a person, and I have sworn to never hand him over!”

“Ssshhh,” Zefen hissed, looking over his shoulder. “We don’t have much time. Winner’s right or not, the High Skald is taking counsel right now about how to approach Fleta.”

“Okay,” Bertram said. He took a deep breath and spoke in a hushed voice. “Options. We could simply explain it to High Skald Gleidner and invoke the winner’s right and your oath.”

“You and I both know that the skalds of Riddleberg and Seagate interpret Valcot neutrality as following the king,” Zefen replied. “I imagine an escort to Seagate to ‘work things out’ with the king will be the least of his requests if not outright possession of the sword until the dispute is settled.”

“He has no right to it,” Fleta said.

“Funny thing about rights,” Zefen replied. “They are always interpreted by the folks in power.”

“Focus,” Bertram said. “Another option: we could comply with whatever demand the king makes while we come up with a plan to counter the worst eventualities?”

“Like let him steal the sword and then plan to take it back?” Fleta crossed her arms and stared daggers at Bertram. “Why not just take off now and save ourselves the trouble.”

“Wisely spoken,” Zefen nodded. “You need to leave, right now, before High Skald Gleidner summons you and issues the king’s demands. If you decline, that will create a large political incident between Riddleberg and Seagate on one side and Lyntre on the other. Lyntre does not need another quarrel at the moment.”

Bertram narrowed his eyes at Zefen. “‘Counselor, who asked for your counsel?’” Bertram quoted the third act of a play about a duplicitous temple steward maneuvering the disciples to their ruin. “What prize are you seeking by helping us?”

Zefen was silent and stone-faced for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping to the barest hint of a whisper. “You were right about the Luthfen not being cursed. We were hunted by sorcerers, and much of what was Luthfen is now hiding. I have no gift of luck but insight into what people need. I can see that we have a much-needed ally in Fleta, and I can see that she needs to leave now.”

“What?” Bertram spluttered.

Fleta’s thoughts were still racing through the implications of Zefen’s words, even as the newly revealed Luthfen disciple stood and tugged at Bertram’s arm and Fleta’s hand. “Now!” he whispered. “I would have spoken to Fleta earlier, but…” He shot a glance at Bertram. “He was a very attentive host. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you alone.”

Bertram and Fleta allowed themselves to be pulled from the table and through the maze of pillars in the dining hall. Zefen jumped into the middle of a confusing story about a donkey running amok in the Mett temple at Seagate that sounded like an overworked build-up to a punchline. He never got to the punch line because Fleta turned on him the instant they left the dining hall for an empty hallway.

“How can I believe any of this?” Fleta asked. “No one but Daralis knew that I was coming, and I’ve been here less than a day. Even if the king suddenly decided he wanted my sword, there’s no way to get a messenger pigeon from Seagate and send one back in that time.”

“You’re right to be skeptical,” Zefen said. “But nevertheless, a messenger pigeon was released while you spoke to the doorman.” Fleta remembered the loud flapping of wings she had thought was the rush of a surprised bird. She swore. Daralis would have spotted it as a messenger pigeon immediately. “It might not have traveled all the way to Seagate. And the king may not be the source of the message. But there are faster ways of communication than messenger pigeons or Thorgarick speedsters.”

“Sorcery?” Fleta asked.

“Likely. But it’s not the only way,” Zefen again pulled them down the hall toward a stairwell, and the two younger disciples acquiesced.

“The five-mile signal whistles,” Bertram said. “If you could afford the manpower of 50 or 60 men, you could relay a short message 50 times in an hour or two.”

“Ha!” Zefen said. “Too many people to keep a secret. We don’t have time, but there are other-worldly means. We don’t have time to get into it all right now; let’s get you out the door before we start a temple feud.” As they jogged down the stairs towards the bottom level of Riddleberg, they heard muffled shouts echoing from the top of the stairwell. Any doubts Fleta had about the veracity of Zefen’s words disappeared like shadows before a torch.

As they sneaked towards the entrance hall, Zefen motioned for them to stop and peeked around the corner.

“The doorman already has a guard with him,” the portly Mett imposter whispered. “New plan; we cross to an empty receiving room on my mark.” He closed his eyes as if listening to something only he could hear and quietly jogged across the carpeted intersection. Bertram and Fleta followed. While they slipped across, a voice echoed through the end of a speaking horn embedded by the door, distracting both guard and doorman.

Zefen ushered them into a small waiting room with cushioned chairs, an empty fireplace, and a draft coming from a shuttered window.

“You’re a slight thing,” Zefen said, examining the window. “Do you think you could fit through the window if we let you down with a rope? Where could we get a rope?”

“I could without my pack,” Fleta replied. “But I guess that’s still in my room anyway. Could you… take care of that, Bertram?”

“Yes, of course… but wait,” Bertram said. “Are you sure we want to commit to this? It’s not going to create quite the same reaction as refusing our High Skald to his face, but you will still be on the run.”

“What other choice do I have?” Fleta asked.

“Hand over the falchion. I know you made an oath, and it’s a unique sword, but I have to ask: is it worth it?”

“Is he worth it,” Fleta said. “You don’t get it, Alexei’s still in there. Maybe someday I’ll figure out how to get him back, but I doubt the king would even consider it.”

“Is he still in there, though?”

“Yes!” Fleta said. “He still talks to me! Alexei, is Bertram being an ass?”

The sword hung silently in his scabbard.

“Are you hearing him?” Bertram asked after a moment.  “Right now, I mean?”

“No… yes… being quiet is his version of yes.”

“Convenient,” Bertram could not contain his sarcasm.

“Sorry, I’m flustered. I just forgot I needed to ask a yes or no question. Alexei, are you a mindless sword?”

The falchion buzzed, and Bertram’s jaws dropped.

“He buzzes no in answer to questions or warnings, or too often just randomly. And he corrects my form when I swing him.”

“I thought—I knew it still transformed as a blade, but I thought that was you giving commands or something. I apologize. How long has it—he—been doing this?”

“The whole time,” Fleta replied.

“You never tell it in your stories,” Bertram muttered.

“I kinda gloss over some of the details,” Fleta said. “It’s a little hard to share about a friend that saved your life and then turned into a sword to save it again.”

“And it’s a good secret to be kept,” Zefen interrupted. “Could we finish this by pigeon? If you don’t find a way down, eventually, the Valcot swornmen are going to find you here.”

“I don’t need a rope.” Fleta pulled a chair over to the window and turned to Bertram one last time. She opened her mouth a few seconds before the words tumbled out. “Bertram, you should come with me.”

“I can hardly fit through the window.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Fleta said. “Follow me. We’ll meet up and go to Marina together.”

Bertram’s face fell. “Go to her. I would only slow you down.”

“Look, if the doorman is aiding sorcerers or aiding the king against me, and secret agents of Luthfen are hiding here, Riddleberg is not a safe, neutral place. You have friends in Lyntre. Meet me there.”

“I…” Bertram had no clever words to disguise his fears. “I’m not made for adventures like you are.”

“You are a Paragon-graced genius who helped take down a monster as tall as the Jungle trees. Marina needs you.” More quietly, she added. “I need you.”

“I’m glad we met, even if the circumstances were… suboptimal. I’m glad we defeated that monster. But I…” Bertram looked away. “I’m not sure how to fight this one. I will help however I can. From here. For now.”

Fleta turned away, unable to suppress a frown or the bitterness in her voice. “Well, whenever you remember who came swinging through the air to catch me when I had given everything to fight the tarasque, come find me. I always make sure that makes it into stories.” Fleta turned the star on the new belt around her ribs and coiled the belt around her thigh. She climbed up to the window sill. As she crouched, she spoke over her shoulder. “I’d like to believe you haven’t changed.”

With that, she pulled her tunic wings from her waist belt and pushed off from the window sill.  The tunic, wind-proofed with reinforced seams, stretched like sails at her sides. Fleta sped north over harvested, skeletal orchards, unable to look back at the small room with its secret Luthfen and neutral Valcot.