Saturday 6 March 2010

Cymru - Chapter 37

MADOG

"So," Madog said with weary levity as he slid onto the bar stool by Awen. "How's your day been, darling?"

"Dreadful," she said. Her voice was muffled, a by-product of having her head resting on the bar top between her arms. "How was yours, honey?"

"Better, but not by much," Madog smiled, signalling the barman. "Although my life is quieter with Dylan gone."

"I can insult you if you like," Awen offered. "It'll be like he never left."

"That's very kind of you," Madog said thoughtfully. "But no thanks. More importantly; what have you decided on to settle the oncoming pain?"

"Peach brandy," Awen smiled, sitting up. Or raising herself to her elbows, at least. She was already stiffening, he could tell. "I have no clue where they've imported it from, but it's bloody strong. I have high hopes for blissful oblivion."

"Really? Something you don't know?" He laughed at the look she gave him, shaking his head. "Oh, come on. You know the import percentages of Cities that aren't yours. You've clearly memorised the addresses of all public figures in Casnewydd. You even speak Saxon. And you don't know the origin of this fine peach brandy?"

"Well," Awen shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "Phoenicia somewhere, obviously, it's just a large range. And shut up."

"What she's having, thanks," Madog told the barman, a broad, middle-aged fellow with a kind face. The man gave a smile that showed he'd clearly been expecting the order and bustled off. "Do you speak any others?"

"My Cymric's pretty good," Awen grinned, and then winced. "Sorry. I've been talking to politicians too much. I've started dodging perfectly normal questions. Yes, a few."

"Which?" Madog asked, fascinated. He accepted his drink from the barman as Awen pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking.

"Germanian," she said. "Gaulish. Erinnish. Pictish. Phoenician, both Punic and Nubian. Um... Greek, obviously. Norse."

She trailed off, staring into the brandy. Madog stared at her.

"How - ?" he began.

"Bits of Egyptian and Latin," Awen said. "Oh, Celtiberian. And I can say "Welcome to Cymru" in Sanskrit. That's about it."

Madog paused to make sure. She seemed to be finished.

"Right," he said. "So that's... eleven you're fluent in? And three you can pass the time of day in."

"Oh, I can't pass the time of day in Sanskrit," Awen grinned. "Seriously. Just 'Welcome to Cymru'. If they just need welcoming, bring them to me. If they want the time, give them a clock."

"But," Madog said, vaguely astonished. "How? Genuinely, how have you learned this many?"

"I'm a bard," Awen smiled, playing with one set of beads. "Languages are part of the training. And I found them sort of addictive once I'd started, but... well. When I was growing up I was quite... focused on training to be a Rider. I imagine you were the same."

"Yes," Madog admitted. It wasn't a confession. Alpha Wingleaders didn't get their station by luck. Awen nodded.

"I wanted to learn everything," she said reminiscently. "Everything I could, anything that could make me more useful. My tutors got worried about me because I used to spend my spare time practising instead of having fun by painting Owain's clothes like everyone else. So when I decided to give music a go they all but chained me to a harp. And I wasn't going to stick with it, until I realised there was a whole extra skill set I could get from bardic training that I could use. Not that I admitted it," she added with a grin. "I let them think it was just artistic and intellectual interest. I mean, I don't think they'd have stopped me, but..."

"You didn't want to worry them," Madog nodded. "I understand."

"Thought you might," she grinned, sipping the brandy. "Anyway. The thing about bards, aside from the music, is what they're actually singing. It's history. It's this great big manual of how to do things and what works, just there and waiting for you to learn it. Someone else has already made the mistakes, now the lessons are there for the taking. I was Leader in our Wing from the start to the end of our Trials, so it was extremely useful from a military standpoint."

"Really?" Madog asked, raising his eyebrows. "From start to finish, just you?"

"I'm not sure why," Awen mused, puzzled. "But yes. Almost everyone else got to try being Deputy, but it was only me... Anyway. I realised fairly quickly that learning all this history was offering me another potentially invaluable weapon, which was cultural understanding. If you know how people think, you know how to handle them. So I asked for bardic tutors from other countries as well as here, and learned the languages."

She shrugged stiffly, swirling the brandy with one hand.

"It's easy after a while," she said dismissively. "You get the hang of it, I think. I also learned to lip-read."

"Lip-read?"

"It's what deaf people do," Awen nodded. "You learn the positions of people's mouths when they speak, so if you're across the room from them but can see their face you know what they're saying."

"Good gods, that's clever," Madog marvelled. "Damn! I should have trained as a bard. I went for medic on the grounds that I thought it would be the most useful. And then specialised in animal medicine so I could help with the livestock around Wrecsam. I think yours was the better choice."

"The grass is always greener," Awen laughed. "No. You're old for a border Wingleader, Madog, and you still have ten in your Wing. Whatever choices you've made... clearly, they were right."

"I don't know," Madog said quietly. He thought of Dylan, and his secret-Rider-caste theory, and Awen's incredible breadth of knowledge. "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it?" She looked up at him, giving him her full attention, and Madog went for broke.

"Is there," he asked carefully, "some sort of extra role, very political, that some Riders have but is kept secret from the rest?"

She blinked.

"If it's secret," she began blankly, and Madog overrode her.

"I think you're one of them," he said firmly, watching her.

"Oh," she grinned, looking back down at her brandy. "Yeah, totally. It's a Southlander thing, we do things differently."

Madog stared at her for a moment, letting the pause stretch out until she looked back up, surprise entering her eyes.

"What, you're serious?" she asked. "I'm -"

"Fascinating," Madog interrupted, shaking his head. "This is exactly how Dylan reacted. Exactly the same order: blankly dodge the question first, jokingly admit to it second, and then earnestly deny it. All that's changed is the dialogue."

"Wait, what?" Awen said, astonished. "You think Dylan is doing some kind of politics that you don't know about?"

"I almost know he is," Madog shrugged. Awen stared at him, incredulous.

"This isn't because of Owain, is it?" she asked at last, hesitantly. "You're not just-?"

"Fantastic," Madog smiled wryly. "Well done. That's the same way he ended the conversation, too."

Awen sighed and turned away, running her hands through her hair.

"Madog," she said wearily. "I have no clue at all what you're talking about. Can we go back to the first question? What is it exactly you think this... 'extra political role' entails?"

"No," Madog smiled. "Because I've seen you in action when you need to lie, remember? You're phenomenal at it. And you're denying it, so clearly you'll just give me an incredibly convincing performance about how I'm wrong."

"Oh," Awen said, giving him an odd look. "You've already decided, then. In that case, why on earth did you bother asking me?"

"I wanted to see your reaction," Madog said thoughtfully. "And it was identical to Dylan's. I think I'll ask Aerona next."

"Aerona?" Awen repeated, eyebrow raised. "I thought you said political? She's a Tutor."

"Who's crossed the country several times in the past few days involving herself in things that really aren't teaching children how to not eat belladonna," Madog nodded, and decided to use Hannibal's tactic as Awen opened her mouth. "No, it's okay. I'll stop talking about it. Clearly you aren't allowed to admit to it."

"Fine," Awen said slowly. "But you suspecting Dylan concerns me, Madog."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," he said, catching and holding her gaze. "Really. I don't think he's a traitor of some kind. Nor you, nor Aerona, nor anyone else involved; far from it. It's Union sanctioned, I think. In which case it's incredibly important. I've not mentioned it to anyone else for that reason. But."

He shook his head, watching her intently.

"If I'm right," he said quietly, "then I'm worried about him. About you, all of you. There must be an astonishing amount of extra stress involved, and he can't tell me about it. That's a difficult thing to take as a Wingleader."

She regarded him steadily, her eyes full of empathy, and then looked back down at her drink, twitching it in her fingers.

"Do you think there's one in every Wing?" she asked, haunted. "Do you think I've got one? That I haven't - gods."

Madog sighed. It was genuinely believeable, especially given how broken Awen was at the moment; but she was that good. He knew she was.

"Either that's a deeply unfair guilt-trip to shut me up," he said, "or you can stop blaming yourself right now. Because if there is one in every Wing, clearly they've been taught by the Union how to hide it and cover their tracks. But, I think it's a guilt-trip."

He laid his hand on the bar top beside hers, palm up. Awen regarded it for a moment and then took it, her fingers clinging tightly.

"There's something you've not considered," she said quietly. "And you quite possibly need to."

"Which is?" he asked gently. Awen glanced up at him, eyes serious.

"If you're right about this," she said, her gaze unwavering, "and the Union has been keeping it secret from us... then there's a reason. And if we aren't supposed to know, and they don't want us to know, it might be a good idea not to let on that we know."

Madog held her gaze for a second, and nodded.

"Good advice," he said neutrally, and raised his glass. "How strong is this, did you say?"

"I believe I classified it as 'bloody strong'," Awen said, smiling. "Try it and see. Just sip it at first, though. It's very sweet."

"Will this melt my eyebrows?" Madog asked suspiciously, sniffing it. The dichotomous scents of ripe fruit and raw-smelling alcohol met him. Awen snorted.

"If you hold it near your face for too long," she grinned. "Try it, or I shall start hammering the bar top and chanting, and then the entire room will want you to drink."

"Alright," Madog said, rolling his eyes, and he swallowed a mouthful.

Well, she'd been right. Sweet and strong were the overwhelming descriptors as Madog's tongue and throat were set on fire, the liquid scorching a path down to his stomach, the aftertaste of exotically unfamiliar fruit dancing in his nose. He grinned as he set the glass back on the bar top.

"Well," he said happily, trying not to let his voice sound too strained. "There's an experience. Tomorrow promises to be a happier time."

"Doesn't it?" Awen agreed. "I'm strongly considering slipping an extra condition into the Casnewydd import plans to include this. You should ask your Phoenician to sell it here."

"Hannibal?" Madog laughed. "We're already asking him to be a witness. And anyway, we have to stop calling him my Phoenician. Particularly now he's here."

"A man with a Rider fetish in the Union," Awen mused, and laughed. "Paradise, I should think. Even so, though? You've no plans to find him, start Round Two?"

"No," Madog smiled. "I mean, if it happens I'll be thrilled, seriously, but he has the chance to meet so many more Riders here. I don't want to get in the way of his exciting journey of notching his bedpost so many times it falls off."

"'More knots, and he's honoured'," Awen said, more or less to herself. "That's what Dylan said. What did that mean?"

"Ah," Madog said, and Awen laughed at his expression. "Yes. He had... a way with a rope. He called it... something beginning with 's', I think. Adapted from a far eastern practice of tying prisoners for torture."

"Was it... shibari, by any chance?" Awen asked, looking at the ceiling. Madog laughed and clapped.

"Very good!" he said, taking another mouthful of the brandy. "And I'd dearly love to hear the song you learned that in. Yes, it was. And the prospect of more knots is... daunting."

"And wildly appealing," Awen said, eyebrow raised. "Don't lie. You're practically salivating, man."

"I am," Madog chuckled. "Yeah. Like I say, I'd be thrilled."

"And he'd be honoured," Awen murmured, throwing him a sly glance. "That's quite the impression you left."

"Oh, he wouldn't," Madog said, squeezing her hand. "He just thinks he would be."

"I think he'll find you, you know," Awen said thoughtfully. "Do you know what he wants the Audience for?"

"No," Madog said, finishing the brandy and signalling for another. "I asked, but he said it was trading things and I wouldn't care. It's not slaves, though. He doesn't approve."

"Excellent!" Awen nodded decisively. "Well, he sounds brilliant. Oh, hey, on the subject of slaves and sex: Flyn asked me if he could see Alis earlier."

"You're joking?" Madog looked at Awen incredulously. Her expression had darkened, her eyes in the artificial light iron-grey. "And you didn't remove an eye?"

"I'm a good girl," Awen said, her smile humourless. "No. I told him since she was his assassin he didn't get to step within a mile of her. He tried to argue the point."

"Seriously?" Madog nearly choked on his refill. "And you still didn't take an eye?"

"I know," Awen agreed. "My willpower astonishes even me. I was debating manufacturing some situation in which I got to touch him and therefore accidentally kill him, but fortunately enough Lord Gwilym was there."

"Very fortunate," Madog said, with deliberate care. There was a pause, and then Awen turned and threw him a look.

"Because he pulled the conversation away," she told him reproachfully. "Don't start, you're not Adara."

"You called him 'Gwilym' in Casnewydd," Madog told her neutrally. "In front of Flyn, just before you found Alis. So he didn't notice, but... you know. Watch that."

Awen swore under her breath, rubbing her eyes with her free hand.

"It's been a great week," she said wearily. "It really has. I was considering jumping off a runway tomorrow, but then I remembered I won't be able to move and no one is likely to throw me off even if I ask nicely. Oh, and I told Adara I'd be here when she got back."

Madog sighed, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.

"You can't have given up," he said, almost pleadingly. "Surely the druids are working on some way to - ?"

"It's never happened before," Awen shrugged tonelessly. "This is my endgame, I think. I imagined it would be more dramatic, really, but I suppose it'll hurt less this way."

"Not if you jump off a runway," Madog said sternly, and Awen grinned.

"No," she said. "Perhaps not. Although - hmm."

She turned, glancing at the door behind them, a mischievous smile lingering over her lips.

"Your Phoenician," she said, carefully unlocking their fingers and withdrawing her hand. "Incredibly tall Nubian? Long hair? Delighted smile on seeing you?"

Madog turned, and sure enough there was Hannibal crossing the tavern towards them, tailed by two more Nubians, a man and a woman. It seemed they'd pulled out all of the stops to dress for the occasion; their robes were dazzlingly bright against their black skin, and a slim gold chain linked from their right earlobes to their right nostrils, elegant and exotic. And Awen hadn't lied. Hannibal's face had lit up as he made a beeline for Madog, moving gracefully through the throng.

"Your outside chance paid off, then?" Madog grinned as they reached them, and Hannibal's deep laugh underpinned the general background chatter.

"Thanks to you, I am thinking," he said, spreading his arms wide; and he bowed before Madog could stop him. Awen actually recoiled, partially standing up from the tall stool. "You do not know what this means to us, my friend! We thank you."

"It was actually Dylan's idea," Madog said, waving a hand at Awen to sit her back down again. "Which makes it his second good idea ever. He's on a roll. Oh, this is -"

"Alpha Wingleader Awen Masarnen, if I'm not mistaken," Hannibal smiled, his black eyes sweeping over Awen's uniform. "It is a great honour, my friend. I would bow again, but you have just produced the strongest reaction I have ever seen to my doing so."

"Sorry," Awen said, mildly. "No one's ever done that to me before. I'm going to assume you're Madog's Phoenician, then?"

"What did I just say?" Madog asked wearily as Hannibal laughed again, the sound rich and deep. "I'm sorry. I think Awen has been consorting with Dylan too much and has learned the art of trying to ruin my life at every turn."

"I don't believe he minds overmuch," the woman said behind Hannibal. She smiled at Madog wryly. "He will be flattered to think of himself as yours."

"My trading partner Ezana," Hannibal said, gesturing to the third Nubian. "And my trading partner and sister, Amanitore."

"Hannibal and Amanitore?" Awen asked interestedly. "Were your parents historians?"

"They were," Amanitore said. Her voice was husky, and gentle. "Our father is a griot. A... bard, you would say."

"Did you study under a griot?" Madog asked Awen, who flashed him an amused look.

"Of course," she said. "They have some superb instruments."

Hannibal cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at Awen.

"Kitka gelgelosuannon Iisusi manyan trika?" he asked, both Ezana and Amanitore turning to look. Awen snorted.

"Dolle polgara pessna papo iskoelimme ikka," she returned, her tone dry, and Hannibal's laugh was of slightly disbelieving delight.

"How very unusual," he murmured, moving to the bar on Madog's other side. Madog could feel his fingers stroking his bare arm. "I have never met a Rider with knowledge of Nubian language and history before."

"I'm a bard," Awen shrugged absently, her eyes on the door again. "Sorry, I see one of my Riders. I'll be back in a second."

Llio was moving across the room to them, threading neatly between drunken patrons. Awen slipped off her stool, her movements to Madog's trained eyes hindered by the gathering stiffness he could feel mirrored in his own body, and went to meet her. Madog recognised the body language. It was the 'We're worried about you, Leader' stance. He sighed, and turned back to Hannibal.

"She's exactly your type, actually," he told him, finishing the peach brandy and signalling for another. "Incredible Rider - really incredible, too - but horrendously damaged. You'd think you'd died and gone to the afterlife of your choice if it were possible for you to touch her."

"Yes," Hannibal said quietly, his black-and-gold eyes somber as he looked back at Awen. "We were warned to stay clear of her when we arrived. Perhaps you see her more clearly than I, but... I would not have known. She seems calm enough. Content."

"Well, she doesn't want to upset anyone," Madog shrugged. "And her acting is breath-takingly good. But she's twitchy. Any sudden movements, any physical contact she's not prepared for, she flinches."

He glanced back in time to see his point proven. Llio made an expansive gesture with one hand and a ripple ran through Awen's back, her hands raising slightly, her weight shifting forward, and then she moved back again, Llio's expression of previously-hidden worry leaping into full view. Awen reached out and squeezed Llio's wrist, and Madog winced. The desperate desire of both parties to be able to embrace each other fully was, to him, written in letters ten feet tall over their heads. He looked back, and started on his new brandy.

"I see," Hannibal said sorrowfully. "Even her own Riders. Why is this?"

"We have a Purification Ritual," Madog said gloomily. "It's used on Riders to... clean your mind, I suppose. But Awen's mind has closed down, they say. It's not working on her."

"Riders," Hannibal sighed quietly, and turned back to the barman. "Mead, please, my friend. Could this happen to you?"

"I have no idea," Madog said, continuing on his happy path to peach brandy oblivion. "Theoretically, I suppose. Ezana and Amanitore have gone to sit down."

"I'm happy here," Hannibal smiled slyly. "Since coming here, my friend, I am hearing a story about you."

"Really," Madog said evenly, shifting on the stool. He was going to have to pick up the drinking pace; the fully-body ache was starting to intensify. "Anything to do with a Saxon raid, perchance? Or has Dylan just been making stuff up again?"

"Ha! Not that I am aware of," Hannibal said, amused. "No. It was indeed of your heroics in the face of a full - ah. My apologies. I have chosen the wrong word, and made you choke."

"That," Madog managed, his eyes watering as the brandy set his lungs on fire, "was unfair."

"Perhaps," Hannibal grinned as he accepted the mead from the barman, passing across a Phoenician coin. "I see things differently, we have discussed this before. But - truly a full raid? Just you both?"

"No," Madog said awkwardly. "We just held them off, that was all. They were only defeated once the Wings turned up."

"Indeed?" Hannibal said, reaching out and gently tucking a braid behind Madog's ear. "And how long did you hold off these three hundred Saxons?"

"Oh, I don't know," Madog muttered, waving a hand. "Five minutes? Maybe more? Not long. Stop making it sound - "

"Would you care to know how many other individuals the world contains who could hold three hundred warriors at bay for even a minute?" Hannibal asked, one eyebrow raised. Madog snorted.

"Plenty," he said. "Welcome to Cymru. And anyway, I wasn't alone. Awen was there. And did most of the work."

"I did not!" Awen said fervently to his left, reclaiming her stool. "You did far more than I did. Which part of you is hurting most, by the way? It's my back."

"Ribs," he said mournfully. "It's just starting to get painful to sit, I'm having to force myself not to slouch."

"You are both in pain?" Hannibal asked, looking mildly horrified. "Why is this? I thought you had both received medical help?"

"That's the problem," Madog said, pulling a face. "If a druid does muscular healing you stiffen up like a bitch after a day or two."

"Which is why we're frantically drinking this incredibly strong and exotic tasting liquor in a desperate attempt to forego our nerve endings," Awen nodded sagaciously, downing the remains of hers and signalling the barman. "We reckon if we drink enough we don't need to wake up until about mid-afternoon tomorrow, by which time we ought to just about be mobile."

"That's the plan," Madog grinned. "We're Wingleaders, you know. It's our job to produce such exemplary tactical thinking."

"It's masterful," Hannibal said merrily. "But I feel compelled to highlight its flaws. Correct me, of course, if I am mistaken my friends, but in spite of your legendary healing abilities, you can still feel the after-effects of drink, can you not?"

"Dammit!" Madog said theatrically, sitting up. Awen twitched, her expression staying resolutely cheerful. "He's right. Quick, Awen, let's brainstorm."

"Okay," she said determinedly. "How about, the barman gives us a full bottle each and we don't stop drinking long enough to sober up until tomorrow evening at the earliest?"

"Wow, that's good," Madog muttered, impressed. "Yeah, let's do that."

"At which point, of course, you will feel it all the more," Hannibal murmured.

"He's right," Awen said gloomily, and then threw them a sly look. "For me, at any rate. Tell me, Hannibal; if you can do shibari you must be able to do Greek massage?"

"Exemplary thinking indeed," Hannibal laughed. "I can, of course."

"There you are, then," Awen said triumphantly, drinking about half of her glass in one go. "You're sorted, Madog. You only need to drink enough for tonight. I'll take your bottle."

"What's a Greek massage when it's at home?" Madog asked blankly. Hannibal smiled.

"A medical technique," he explained. "It is Graeco-Egyptian, to be precise. Their doctors made great studies of musculature several centuries ago. It is a fairly firm massage, the aim being to stimulate the muscles rather than the skin. Very effective."

"I'm going to recommend it to the Union," Awen said, her fingers brushing over her left shoulder - which, Madog recalled, had been stiff in Aberystwyth. Presumably she'd found someone there who could do this rather incredible sounding massage. "Every Wing should know how to do it. It needs to be on the syllabus from birth."

"Surely that'll take a while, though?" Madog said doubtfully. "To do someone's entire body? You don't want to -"

"I very much want to," Hannibal corrected him, giving him one of his slightly sad smiles. "It will be my pleasure. And, in honesty, yours."

"It really will be," Awen murmured. Madog gave her a narrow look.

"Right," he said. "And how do you know about this, Leader, hmm? I want details."

"Lord Gwilym," she grinned, very deliberately avoiding his eye. Her voice was perfectly casual. "I move and I shake."

"A celebrity lifestyle indeed," Hannibal chuckled. "Might I ask what was wrong?"

"Oh, my shoulder picked a fight with a stone floor," Awen said dismissively, and Madog tried not to wince. That would have been one of Owain's injuries, then. "Astonishingly enough, it lost. But I'd just saved Lord Gwilym's life, as it happened, and he felt appropriately grateful."

"I imagine he did," Hannibal said, but whatever else he'd been about to say next was lost as the door to the tavern slammed back, admitting Lady Erys and Lord Gwilym, towed by Lady Marged, in turn led by Councillor Gwenllian. Awen sprang off the stool, her eyes alert and posture tense, and Madog just had time to bark a quick, quiet 'Stand down, Rider' to freeze her in place before Gwenllian's eyes swept the room and saw them, her smile widening. She started pushing blithely through the people.

Awen exhaled slowly and climbed back onto the stool, wincing slightly.

"Thanks," she said quietly. Madog nodded and put his hand back on the bar top beside her, and Awen took it instantly, her grip tight.

"You're welcome," he said neutrally. Beside him Hannibal watched sorrowfully, and Madog reflected that it was possibly some kind of torture for him. He remembered their first meeting in the tavern in Tregwylan, the shy smile, the admittance that he liked 'helping Riders'. Awen needed help. Hannibal couldn't give it to her.

"Leaders!" Gwenllian said joyfully, reaching them both and dropping a hand onto their shoulders each. Madog could feel the tremor through Awen's hand. They all pretended not to notice. "Medicating, are we? Good on you. What have you found?"

"Peach brandy," Awen said, her voice professionally smooth as she raised her glass, swirling the clear liquid. "And I feel quite light-headed. I think it's starting to work."

"Really?" Madog said, disappointed. "It hasn't for me yet, why - ?"

"You started after me," Awen grinned. "Catch up."

"Yes, do," Gwenllian said, turning to the Sovereigns behind her. "That's an order. Marged? Do you have the cards?"

"Ooh, yes, dear," Lady Marged's jolly voice trilled happily. "Somewhere, anyway; you know pockets, always extra things in them... Erys dear, could you hold that for a moment?"

Madog grinned up at Hannibal as the muttered sounds of three Sovereigns being laden with wool began, undercut with Gwenllian calling for the barman.

"Sorry," he said. "It looks like were about to be forced into a drinking game. I'll understand if you don't want to stick around for this bit."

"Of course I do," Hannibal said, his eyes alight. He leaned down, tipping Madog's chin up with two fingers and kissing his forehead tenderly. "I have a limited time with you, my friend. And someone will need to carry you back."

"Ooh, he'll have a good night, too!" Marged said happily. "You see, Gwilym? You should have encouraged Ienifer and Ieuan. You'd have had a smashing time."

"Yes, when they started throwing things at each other," Lord Gwilym said sardonically, pushing his way to the bar beside Awen -

- who froze. Madog could feel it through her hand, a sudden stilling of her entire body that Gwenllian must have felt through her shoulder, judging by the way her head whipped around from the card-hunting Sovereigns to Awen. Madog blinked. From his angle he couldn't quite tell, but he wasn't sure that Lord Gwilym was even touching her. And instead of jumping, instead of her body arming up... it had simply gone still.

Gwenllian's expression flashed calculating for a second, and then she hid it with her carefree smile.

"Cards!" she said merrily, taking them from Marged and dropping them onto the bar top. "Excellent! Get Madog caught up, Gwilym, I'll get the drinks; barman seems to be hiding from me, can't think why..."

"I'm starting to wish I hadn't taught her this game," Lord Gwilym said reflectively. "I think she's a bit too keen. Sorry, I need to reach around you."

"Go ahead," Awen said easily, swaying backwards out of the way. "Madog, I really think you should get a bottle and run."

"And abandon you?" he grinned. "Anyway, I was just given an order. I can't."

"Oh, yeah." Awen shook her head as Hannibal chuckled. "Oh; Hannibal, this is Lord Gwilym of Aberystwyth; Sovereign, this is Madog's Phoenician, whose name is Hannibal because his parents were historians."

"Gods damn it, Awen," Madog muttered, dropping his head into one hand. He'd have smacked her if it wouldn't have caused her to freak out and slaughter them all. Hannibal's rich laugh reverberated through the bar top.

"It's a pleasure," Lord Gwilym said, his tone jolly as he shuffled the cards. "Oh, don't bow, it makes me feel like a heel."

"Oh, that won't work," Madog said, looking up. "He even bows to Riders. I think he just likes being at a right angle."

"I merely find it a privilege to be among you, my friend," Hannibal said, amused. He leaned his tall frame against the bar, drink in one hand, the other dropping to and resting on Madog's thigh. "And now. You have an order you must comply with! And I am fascinated by what this game shall be."

"It's been oversold to you, then," Lord Gwilym declared. "Which is rare for a Phoenician, I suspect. Anyway; red or black, Madog?"

"What?"

"Choose!" Gwilym grinned. He was holding the cards in one hand still in their pack, the top card held ready between thumb and forefinger. "What do you reckon this card will be? Red or black?"

"Black," Madog said warily. The card was laid triumphantly on the bar top, clearly red. "Oh. Do I drink?"

"You do!" Gwilym said happily. "Next; which suit?"

"Circles?"

"Swords! Drink!"

"This is already a game I will have to ban Caradog from learning," Awen observed. Hannibal nodded gravely.

"Many of my sailors as well," he agreed.

"What's this card?" Gwilym asked, holding one up. "Say the eight of circles."

"The eight of circles?" Madog repeated, bewildered. Gwilym placed the card. It was indeed the eight of circles.

"Correct!" Lord Gwilym said. "Pick someone to drink."

"Now that," Madog grinned, "is more like it. Get to it, Awen."

"I'm not even under orders," she grumbled half-heartedly, drinking. Lord Gwilym held up another card.

"Higher or lower than an eight?" he asked. "Ace is always high."

"Higher," Madog said. "Awen," he added as the ace dropped onto the pack.

"Ace is lower for this round," Gwilym declared. "Higher or lower than an ace?"

"Higher," Madog said, and Gwilym shook his head with mock-regret as he dropped a six onto the bar.

"Ace is always high," he said solemnly, as Awen burst out laughing. "Drink. What's this card? Say the three of cups."

"The three of cups," Madog repeated, hastily swallowing down the brandy. "And I want to thump you."

"Correct!" Gwilym said. "About the three of cups. But that was an inverted round, so you have to drink anyway. What's this?"

He picked up the next card and flashed it towards Madog for a second before holding it hidden again, expectant. Madog blinked.

"The druid of leaves," he said, and watched in vague disbelief as Lord Gwilym deliberately put the card to the bottom of the pack and pulled out another random one.

"No," he said cheerfully. Both Awen and Hannibal were laughing by now. "It's the three of leaves, I'm afraid. What about this one?"

He flashed the next card as Madog drank.

"The ten of circles," Madog said. He was starting to grin uncontrollably. "Although I suspect it won't be."

"It's not," Lord Gwilym said happily, pulling the first card back from the bottom of the pack and placing it. "It was the druid of leaves, you should have stood firm. Higher or lower?"

"Lower?"

"Correct!" Gwilym said grandly. "Choose someone to drink!"

"Awen-"

"Incorrect, I'm afraid," Gwilym said. "It was Hannibal. Now you all drink."

"Dylan is absolutely never allowed to learn or play this," Madog said flatly. "In case he ever asks any of you. Be aware."

"A clue for the next one!" Gwilym said. "Think of Awen."

"The bard of swords," Awen said levelly, watching her drink, and was proved right as Gwilym dropped the bard of swords onto the bar top.

"Correct!" he said, and Madog laughed at her wry look. "Drink, Madog. Higher or lower?"

"Lower," Madog said, amused, and then everything got a bit hazy after that.

3 comments:

Blossom said...

Gwilym and Awen, yay! She went still! That's so progress! I really think some proper love-making could sort her out enough that she could be purified. Really made me tingle, that bit. Hope I didn't misunderstand it...

Cool chapter, glad Hannibal's back! :-)

Steffan said...

37:

Madog confronting Awen is brilliant. Things get a bit muddled in the middle, with Awen lying, Madog second- and third-guessing, which means it feels just a little bit too much like a puzzle, so some of the emotion gets lost. But that's a tiny thing, easily fixed - it's a great scene, and it's exciting that Awen knows Madog's on to the Intelligencers now.

I like that druidic healing makes you stiff. That's a lovely touch that makes it more believable, to me.

Utterly loved the card game. Brilliant beyond measure. Perfectly written, really funny and lovely.

(And yes, Blossom, that IS so progress.)

Quoth the Raven said...

It's your bloody game, you narcissist. Gwilym has never been you more than in this scene, I feel.

That middle bit I did find a tad tricky to write, as I recall, just because what's going on in Madog's head is tenacious curiosity whereas what's going on in Awen's head is full-blown horror and panic that she'd never show under any circumstances. I'm not too surprised to learn that it could have done with a bit of an edit, therefore...