= (CRP) A Changing of the Guard

Destini looked on the familiar bird with a smile of relief. She'd grown quite fond of Allan's annoying pigeon -- she seemed to recall him introducing her to Peck using those exact words -- and was glad to see the bird was alive.

The color drained from Allan's face and Destini's smile vanished with it. He did not open the letter he'd said was for her. She wondered how he knew it was addressed to her. With a worried glance at Allan, she took the piece of parchment. Pagan's familiar handwriting became evident as she anxiously unrolled the paper.



No.

Destini gasped after reading only the first line. Her knees felt weak. She pushed past Allan through the market crowd to a quiet alley. Once out of the crowds, she could breathe again. She re-read the first sentence of the letter. It hadn't changed. Despite how much she wish she'd misread, the first sentence hadn't changed. Destini's knees could no longer hold her. She dropped her weight onto a crate of goods stocked outside a baker's shop.

No, Jah, no.

Why was Zan dead? Why? How? She read on.



Anger burned within her like the awakened coals from a fire long lost. She had seen her friend beaten from duels. But this. This was different. For this Destini's Irish anger would not be stilled. Who had harmed her best friend? Pagan was Destini's clan-kin. Who would pay for the blood that was spilled?



Destini did remember the old joint. She remembered it well. It was abandoned. Occationally a person or two would be there out of simple curiosity, but mostly, it was cobwebs and dust. Barely worth the coin to pay the taxes for the land it sat on. She continued reading.



She re-read the letter, pausing over the important lines again and again. Viscomte d'Argent. Cardinal Faheud had mentioned that name at the briefing in Hastings before she'd left. It had been difficult to put an emotion to the name at that time. It hadn't meant anything to her then. The name was a part of her mission to Eire, nothing more. Now, however, it did mean something. Anger coursed through her Irish veins. Eventually, she couldn't hold it in any longer. She stood and found she could see the sea from this marketplace alley. She looked to the northwest, to Ireland, to her homeland. And this time, she did not turn that direction out of nostalgia or worry. No.

Now, she turned to Ireland out of anger.

"Ye were WARNED!" she cried to the just visible ocean. Allan had come to Eire to warn her kin of the danger to her king, her kin, to Zanditin. Now he was dead. Pagan had been poisoned and tortured. And they had been warned! Anger to D'Argent turned to anger for her kin. Her voice which had started low turned quickly to shouts. "Ye were HANDED the path to SALVATION! An' Ye. Did. NOTHIN'! NOTHIN'!!!"

She fell to her knees with the letter in her hand. "Ye didnae save him!" Her anger was quieting now to despair. "I didnae save him." She had left Eire in an effort to save her kin.

She had failed.
_________________

Destini looked up at Allan. His face was a reminder of all they had been through together. All she'd been through for the sake of her beloved kin. Still, for Allan, she would continue, would try to persevere. "High King Zanditin." she managed through tears that had not yet fallen. "My king ... my kin ... is dead."

As much as she wished that was all the letter had said, she continued. "My best friend, my kin, Pagan has been tortured by this Viscomte de Argent ... or one of his agents ... I amnae certain which." She handed Allan the letter so he could read for himself.

"I've failed, Allan," she said. Her gaze drifted out to the early afternoon light on the sea. "We've failed." Despair clouded her vocal tone. "King Viceroy o' England is dead. King Zanditin o' Eire is dead. What have we left to fight fer?"
_________________

She relished Allan's arms about her, needed him to hold her always. Unlike when news of Alberic had reached them the night before, this time, the tears didn't fall. Zan's passing was too much of a shock. She couldn't believe he was actually gone. Pagan's letter said it unequivocally. Her king, her kin, her friend... Zan was gone. She simply couldn't fathom a world without him.

No more than she could fathom a world without Allan. She held him close to her, needing his strength. Her anger boiled beneath the pain and she longed to see Pagan again, to ensure she was alright. Even so, what use would they be in Eire? Even if they found a ship to Eire, even if they found this Viscomte d'Argent, what good could they do against such reckless hate?

"We could be walkin' into a maelstrom." she said to her partner. Allan was her partner in the Cardinal's line of work, in friendship, and in ... more. She pulled away enough to look into his eyes without sacrificing her arms around him or his around her. "E'en with Peck bringin' us the missive, this message has undoubtedly taken some time to find us. We donae e'en know if their attack was successful. Viscomte d'Argent could be dead." She hesitated a moment before adding, "Pagan could be dead." It was time to consider the worst could, indeed, happen. Destini tried to prepare herself for it.

A thought occurred to her. Allan had blanched before handing her the letter. Why? "How did ye know this letter would be bad news? Ye hadnae e'en opened it when ye handed it to me."
_________________

The broken pistol-crossbow had been a fine piece of work. It had clearly been well-cared for up to the end. Whoever had lost it would likely want to replace it as soon as possible. If Brightpoint was headed to the market, perhaps that was why. There was one craftsman in town who specialized in ranged weapons. His bows were utilitarian works of art, the best Wainwright had ever seen. If the broken crossbow's former owner wanted to replace it, that was where he'd go.

Wainwright was almost dismayed he did not see Brightpoint checking out the merchandise when he arrived. Still, there was some information to be gathered here. "Master Bowyer, a word if you please."

The craftsman came out from behind his counter where he had been working at his string jig. "What can I do for you, my Lord?"

Wainwright scanned the small shop and noticed one or two items were missing. The craftsman turned a fine profit from his work. He turned his direct gaze on the craftsman. "I am searching for a man who may have bought a hand-crossbow sometime this morning. Tell me, do you craft such an item?"

"Why, yes indeed, my Lord. Though most prefer my hunting bows. Not much use for hand-crossbows unless there's a war going on. Plus, they don't shoot as far as the full sized crossbows. Not enough leverage, you see."

"Nevertheless," said Wainwright dismissively. "Did you sell such an item this morning?"

The master bowyer nodded. "Indeed I did, my Lord. The customer didn't even bother haggling for it. I made my wages on that one, I did indeed." he grinned.

Wainwright described Brightpoint. "Was that the man who bought the crossbow?"

Again, the craftsman nodded. "Why, yes, indeed, my Lord. That'd be him."

Wainwright thanked the master bowyer and left. His eyes scanned the marketplace. Now, he really had some questions that needed answers. Where would they have gone next? The woman with Brightpoint had said they were headed for Ireland. A ship, then. Sooner or later, they would end up by the docks. He would catch Brightpoint there. His steady gait headed for the docks.

Grimthorn sighed. "Would you be patient!" he said to Corwynn in an exasperated tone. "I thought patience was one of those virtues you men of Jah harped so much upon!" Still, he was done with his haggling. The greedy merchant had been charging far too much for the boots he'd bought. With a bit of persuasion (strangely enough not the usual deadly persuasion he was accustomed to using) Grimthorn had been able to haggle the merchant down to a reasonable price. These things took time. He paid the merchant, unlaced his old boots, and put on his new boots. Yes, these would do very well indeed. However, the old boots were still in good enough shape to be worn again. Waste not. Grimthorn shoved the boots in his pack. If the over-careful brother wanted him to get rid of them later, so be it. If not, that was fine too. He emerged from the merchant's stall and met Corwynn outside. "Fine. Let's go."

Bunkies? Ireland? Oh, no. Five or more days on the Irish Channel with that annoying prat as a bunk-mate was more than he could take. Grimthorn thought he was going to hurl. And he wasn't even on a boat yet. "Ireland? I don't want to go to Ireland." Grimthorn complained. He increased his pace to catch up to Corwynn. "I can just as easily assist you in thwarting the Red Duke without going to Ireland. Fist and fire-fights are best left to those well-trained. I've learned as I had to. I'm not bad in a fight, no, but still. I'd rather hand you the not inconsiderable information I have on my former co-workers somewhere I won't have to worry about getting killed! I do not want to go to Ireland." said Grimthorn emphatically.

"And I certainly don't want to bunk with you."

Grimthorn almost decked Corwynn right there. Almost. He held his fist back in favor of emphatically disagreeing with Corwynn's final statement. "I do not insist upon sharing a cabin with you!" Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. The constable was coming toward the docks. "However," said Grimthorn a little less annoyed now that he realized his demise was inbound on the docks unless they got out of there. "I do insist we board the ship immediately. We can work out the matter of the cabins once aboard." He turned to Brightpoint. "Unless you'd like to spend some quality time with the inbound constable.... Because I certainly don't" He inclined his head subtly behind him in the direction of the constable.

Constable Wainwright spied Brightpoint and the woman boarding a ship with two others behind them. By Jah, he hadn't been fast enough!

"Brightpoint!" he shouted through the dockside crowds to the gangplank. "Brightpoint! I swear you'd better come back here now or you'll face the hangman's noose the next time you set foot in Holywell!"

The ship's gangplank retracted and the anchors were raised. The ship began to row out of port. "Brightpoint!" cried Wainwright in anger at being thwarted. He stood at the edge of the pier as the ship pulled away.