"And where, may I ask, would it be now?" said the commander.

  "Dunno. It disappeared," Selvi said, honestly if not accurately. "I'd say it's probably with Rosina, wherever she is now." Raising her eyes upward, Selvi gave a short salute. "Well may it serve her."

  "Yes..." The mustachioed man didn't seem too pleased by that, but his feelings weren't her concern. After a few more minutes, Selvi was able to excuse herself and get away from the crumbly old chapterhouse, once and for all.

  The Knight-Commander watched the insolent mongrel leave, as honor dictated he should allow. Reduced to a single chapterhouse, populated by a single complement of knights, the Order of the Rose had little besides its honor left intact. The Atamans had seen to that, mocking the old notions of chivalry even as they allowed the last of the knights the humiliation of existing.

  What they needed, he knew, was a symbol, some piece of the old monarchy to be held and seen, to serve as a rallying point for the Baragocci people. A weapon like the Starsinger, forged for the kings of old and recognized in legend and song, could win them back their city.

  Honor dictated he allow the half-orc safe passage out the front gates. Expedience dictated that she be followed.

  Uncle's pencil scribbled a few more notes in the bizarre shorthand he'd developed to baffle more seasoned gamers than his niece and her friends. "Okay, Cynthia," he said. "Whatcha got for us?"

  The buck-toothed grin that answered him was not the least bit reassuring. "Lots of stuff!" the freckle-face declared. "But first, a song!"

  This elicited a general groan from everyone but Tim, who didn't know enough to be concerned. Enthusiastic though Cynthia was, they didn't make buckets large enough to let her carry a tune properly. It wasn't that she couldn't sing, so much as she didn't care about hitting all the right notes, and her repertoire of rockabilly and country-western hits turned into an auditory assault in nothing flat. Technically this did not reflect on her princess's own abilities, especially not since Cynthia had put every available skill point into her musical performance, but the girl insisted on singing whenever appropriate in the game, and often when it wasn't.

  Flora's green-painted chess pawn was moved to a new spot on the city map, where "college of bards" was marked in dry-erase ink. "You arrive exactly on time for your audition," said Uncle. "The doorman greets you and ushers you into an audience hall, where four judges await. Two are young and two are old, but they all have the hair and features of a native Baragocci. They're obviously uncertain what to make of this young woman from an unknown province who's now before them. Definitely a neutral audience," he added.

  "I'm gonna wow 'em," Cynthia declared confidently. She rolled her goldenrod d20, but burst into song before it stopped tumbling.

  Flora took a deep breath, willing herself calm like the oak tree. Nestled under the fold of her collar, Mr. Chitters squeaked softly in her ear. With her lute in hand, she approached the stage.

  She didn't know the wood used to make the floor, but it echoed lightly under her heels. High above, waves of heat poured off the lights, bathing the stage in a bright circle beyond which she could hardly see. The four judges sat at the boundary between light and dark, their faces almost visible if she squinted hard enough. Beyond them, a vague number of human-shaped shadows moved in their seats.

  Well, this was it. The big audition. Flora lifted her lute, her arms calm and flowing as a leaf on the wind. Strumming lightly, she began her song.

  There was a maiden, fair as any lady in all the whole known world,

  Tricky and smart and skilled in the art of getting all that she want.

  A prince she would wed, and so to her head all the fame and glory went,

  On her nuptial eve, a gram she deceived, with a worthless copper cent.

  O! Rosalind fair! Are you aware of what you in fact did?

  Old gram was a witch, intending to teach you the error of your wit.

  At the wedding feast, even the least of the common folk did come,

  Along with the folk, the old witch did walk, to do the lady harm.

  In front of them all the fair maid did fall to the wicked woman's curse,

  And away they flew so that none truly knew the fate to befall her soon.

  O! Rosalind fair! Will anyone dare to come to your aid now?

  The witch has you caught where others have fought and lost their very souls.

  The greenwood is vast, in the middle it has the witch's very lair.

  A garden so fine that none may decline to stay a while there.

  Old gram would collect with greatest respect the flowers of the world.

  One bloom did she need, the maid ne'er to be freed from the consequence of her words.

  O! Rosalind true! Who ever knew a simple trick turned so ill

  A rose was your name and so you became the centerpiece 'gainst her will.

  Foul magics were wrought as the old gram sought to make the maid her own,

  Flesh into wood, flowering womanhood, until the spell was done,

  The maid could not cry, for sap filled her eys, and now her heart's a knot,

  Her mind did flee, till none could see aught but a rose bush in her spot.

  O! Rosalind true! What could you do against the witch's curse?

  Now remain in place, until someone will face the old gram at her worst.

  Her prince did come, and loud was the rumble of the army he led.

  To the forest they coursed, seeking out the source of the evil befalling the land

  The witch he did kill, and blood did he spill, in that secret forest grove.

  But the blood was his own, for his bride had now grown into full bloom therein.

  O! Rosalind lost! Your prince you did host within your gentle arms.

  But thorns from them grew, to pierce him straight through and cause him mortal harm.

  For centuries then, in that magical glen, the princess of roses dwelt.

  Timeless and free, yet a prisoner still she, of her neverending thirst.

  Poor innocents came, and she without shame, hosted them well and then,

  When their trust she had won, no more to be done; to water her roots, they bled.

  O! Rosalind lost! There's no one to trust; not even your poor dear self.

  Your hunger and thirst, so strongly they burst from your control even now.

  Young maidens arrived, their senses deprived of all direction sense.

  In her grove they trod, a way out they sought, and their hostess fair they bid.

  But treacherous rose, she never chose any way but blood and death.

  With pleasurable song, she did them wrong, and to their doom she led.

  O! Rosalind red! What is in your head? To attack without any heed?

  These maidens are young, but in song they are sung for more than one brave deed.

  The maidens were armed, and so none could harm them through their strong defense.

  Yet Rosalind tried, and in the end fried by a magician's spell intense.

  Her roses were cut, her song it was brought to a deep and bitter end.

  Her body they burned, to the earth it returned, for to her next life be sent.

  O! Rosalind dead! Let it ne'er be said that your beauty ever did fade.

  A rose was your name, of them the most famous bloom that ever lived.

  The song ended, the sound of the lute fading into the velvety darkness. Flora waited expectantly for the verdict.

  "Bravo," said Uncle. He gave her his politest golf-clap. "Unfortunately, the college has decided to reject your application."

  "What!" Doggy-eared hair bristled with indignation. "But... but..." The girl's finger stabbed at the d20. "I rolled a 16! And Flora's got, like, plus-two on charisma, and a big skill bonus, and..."

  "And none of that changes the fact that you took a well-known figure out of local history, from a royal family that's still idolized by the nationalists and romantics, and apparently turned her into a bloodthirsty monster, which at the end of the song gets killed by an unnamed group of young ladies. The judges all admit that Flora performed beautifully, but they still found the lyrics to be offensive, if not bordering on cultural treason. In any other city, you'd be in for sure. Here?" Uncle shrugged. "You're lucky they let you leave. Bards can be a testy and rowdy bunch."

  "Aw, man..."

  Great puffs of pepperoni-scented air blew in from the kitchens, which set Uncle's stomach to gurgling -- and he wasn't alone in that. "Before we break for dinner," he said, "what's Gwen up to?"

  "Nothing." His niece's frown had not inclined in the slightest towards turning upside down. If anything, it was set even more firmly in place, and her uncle suspected that if he picked her up and flipped her over, that grimace would rotate to keep on frowning no matter what.

  "Aw, c'mon!" cried Shelby. "I mean, sure, it's been a quiet day for adventure so far, but we're working the story here! Even Tim's getting into the swing of it. Right, Tim?" she asked with an arm wrapped around his shoulder.

  Helen stood up suddenly. "I don't really feel like it," she declared, then went to refill her drink.

  "O-kay then..." The two of them were going to need to talk, Uncle knew. His niece's attitude was spilling over into the game, and that was never a good thing.

  From her vantage point of the cafe, Marcellia noted the barbarian and the musical fruit-seller as they'd left. More notes had gone into her memory book, to be stored until recall was necessary. Her quarry had yet to appear, which annoyed her in as much as she let the emotion affect her. Reports were conflicting, and she would rather not rush in without knowing exactly what she would be meeting.

  On the table, the bowl of strawberries remained uneaten, though she had much savored the aroma they exuded. Would that she could do more, but she didn't need stomach trouble at this juncture. Life's little indulgences could wait.

  Pizza Time!

  The blue-checked table on the other side of the restaurant had seen better weeks. Someone had let their kids go to town with the crayons, and the poor tablecloth would need a few good washes before it was presentable again. Not that this was any of his concern; he only came here to talk business discretely.

  Across from him sat his niece, fidgetty and frowny. She'd let her blonde hair out of its usual knot, and now it hung down in front where her fingers could mess with it.

  "So... care to tell me what's up?"

  Only silence answered.

  "Please don't make me guess. I'm awful at that sort of thing."

  His niece still refused to speak, but her body shifted just a tad, and her eyes, when they bounced up from the tabletop graffiti, weren't pointed at him. Following her line of sight, Uncle turned and witnessed a far happier scene at their regular table. Everyone was scarfing down pizza and laughing at some bizarre joke of Claire's. As he watched, Shelby gave her boyfriend a friendly noogie and a big hug before passing around the plate of fudge.

  Helen was about ready to sink through the blue-checked tablecloth.

  Why couldn't it ever be a simple problem? Uncle wondered to himself. He got up, moved around to the other side of the table, and gave his niece a hug. "She's still your friend, yanno," he said.

  "Doesn't matter," she replied. "He's here, so it's all about him." She huffed and shrank a little in his arms. "She doesn't even ask what's wrong."

  "Maybe she's giving you some space, not trying to pry?" Uncle ventured. His niece wasn't buying it. "Look, if it's that big a problem, we can disinvite him after today. That's if he even wants to keep playing with the group."

  Helen was quiet for a few beats. "...no. I don't wanna do that to Shelby. I just... just..."

  "Want it to be you and your friends, without any interlopers pushing their way in?"

  "Yeah."

  Uncle stroked her head. "Look," he said finally. "It's not my place to tell you how to live, cuz Lord knows I've made mistakes in the past, but as far as I know not one word has passed between you and Tim that wasn't a part of the game today. Before we do anything drastic, talk to him, and to Shelby too. See if your circle of friends has a space that's Tim-shaped. If it doesn't work, then it doesn't work, and we'll let him go."

  "Don't wanna talk to him just yet," she muttered.

  "Fair enough, but how 'bout with Shelby?" he asked. "Yanno what? Go over there and tell him, Claire, and Katelyn that their characters are splitting up after the library visit, and that he needs to come talk with me about the next bit. That should take ten minutes, during which you can have the pizza and Shelby to yourself. Sound good?"

  She didn't really answer, only grunting as she got to her feet and stomped over to the gaming table. A moment later, Tim was sitting across from him, stomach full of pizza and face full of questions.

  "Um, what's up?" the boy asked.

  "Clearing the air a bit," Uncle said. Behind Tim, he could see the girls chatting with Helen. "Also stirring up trouble for the game. Got your dice? Good. So, here's how it goes..."

  The Roadie sometimes known as Priscilla felt a headache coming on as they left the library. She wasn't about to admit it, but that thriceling lady's phantom library had her rattled. That was mind-magic, and powerful stuff at that. There were few Roadies who worked that sorta racket, most preferring to go with traditional (or easily faked) tricks like spirit-calling. That mind stuff... She shivered. It was dangerous, letting someone into your noggin like that.

  They'd gotten results, which made the experience a little more palatable, though it left her uneasy, knowing what it was she'd nicked. Cockatrice gizzard stones? A body would have to be crazy just to try gathering one, because odds were way too good that she'd be a dead body soon after. Three such stones, like she now had in her pockets... whew... that was a massive chunk of gold, right there. Small wonder that someone wanted it.

  Investigation was in order. She knew what the goods were, and her little hired witch had pulled some alchemical formulae which might tell what the stones were needed for. Such information was valuable, both as a bargaining chip and as a signpost to figuring out who wanted them the most.

  She'd sent Bianca, or perhaps rather allowed the little witch, to go around the streets where the alchemists plied their trade and locate someone willing to decipher the arcane scribbles copied from the library of memories. Cassie was still walking alongside her, hopping and bouncing through the crowds.

  Was the leggy twiceling any good in a fight? Darned if she knew, but somehow the Roadie doubted it. After the long-but-not-long stay in the confines of the memory library, Priscilla was feeling antsy, and the other girl stood out too much for comfort.

  "Go on ahead, will ya?" she said finally. "Got some stuff to check on, and you'd be more in the way."

  Cassie drooped, in this full-body way that left her sagging from ears to toes, but perked up when Priscilla offered to buy a fruit basket from a nearby staff to take back to the inn. The blonde oddball was skipping and dancing all the way home after that.

  A deep breath to calm her nerves, and then Priscilla faded into the background. It was a little trick she knew, a way of using posture and body language to become so unremarkable that most would never realize she was there. In a crowd like the market plaza, one could simply vanish.

  Her fingers itched and twitched, ready to relieve some stress by relieving others of goods. With a studied level of carefully crafted nobodiness, she slipped around, between, and occasionally under the gathered twicelings, picking up coins and trinkets along the way.

  And then a flash of gold caught her eye. A brooch, bracelet, or fob, she couldn't say, but it glittered in the hands of a tall woman in grey who was just now leaving the cafe at one end of the plaza. Priscilla slipped up behind her, noting the religious cut of the outfit and wondering. Who wore such things these days? How'd they end up with something so shiny? Why...

  Questions bubbled up, only to pop before her brain could form them fully. Her vision focused entirely on the shiny bauble, and she willingly followed it around a corner and down a short alley without a thought. She could almost reach it... almost touch it...

  And then it winked out of existence, snuffed like a candle flame at dawn's light. The fingers which had held it formed intricate patterns which should have required more knuckles and joints than were to be had. The image of those elegant, well-manicured digits leapt into her brain and dug in hard, freezing her in place.

  The grey-clad woman bent down to face her, and eyes like darkened amethysts glittered dangerously. The hands moved again, making the furtive signs of thieving shorthand, as elegant as a swallow's dance. A demand for information.

  Priscilla found her voice, which until now had apparently been hiding behind the dangly bit in the back of her throat. "Sorry. Ain't tellin'."

  The hands informed her that yes, she would.

  "Ain't in the snitchin' business."

  With one short gesture, it was stated that the thief had little choice in the matter. Two more contortions of the hand indicated the how and the why. A sweeping motion of the arm drew an item from the woman's pocket -- or rather the idea of an item, for the hand was empty. In the way those fingers handled it, Priscilla could almost see the image of a key between them, could practically feel its metal tip kiss the skin of her forehead.

  She talked about a lot of things after all. Once that realization had settled in, the thief focused on quantity over quality, spewing forth a verbal diarrhea of every random observation she'd had in the last three weeks. There was no way that most of it could be even tangential to the woman's interests.

  But the grey interrogator nodded avidly as her pen scribbled down every detail in an old leather notebook, never once stopping to supply it with ink. When the thief had run out of things to say, the notebook snapped shut, and those damned fingers wiggled around some more. This time, the conceptual key touched Priscilla's lips, and the woman grinned as she brought up her other pointer finger as if to say "Shh..."

 

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