Pertuli.

I rummaged in the castaway clothes, belts and walking sticks piled around my bust of old Nistiniff. It was my second time around the room—the third through this heap in particular—and the Elder's marble eyes watched me with the same cold disapproval they had on the first two goes. His critical nature was comforting; familiar, like a close relative. My hand wormed through layers of cast-offs until grasping fingers encountered familiar, well-worn suede.

"A-ha! Ack!" I exclaimed, as I jerked upright and bumped the pedestal. I caught Nistiniff as he flung himself from his pedestal, which rotated slowly before crashing to the floor.

I winced. Nistiniff didn't. The scowl was his only game. Apparently being the Elder of archery and pointed words gave one a certain amount of gravitas. I wondered, not for the first time, how such a glower might help arrows fly true, and supposed it must be the eyebrows. Perhaps it alleviated eye strain. I resolved to query Sir Yadinal on the subject, shrugged, and left Nistiniff cozied in an empty helm nearby. It was capital armor, after all, and on the ground he would not be doing any further cliff diving.

Returning my attention to the unearthed pouch, I fumbled within and found a platinum wrist chain. It was meant as a gift for Cafilenniel—a thought which cut like icy barbs of regret—but Ivy might enjoy it. A little dainty, true, but valuable, and that alone might recommend it to her.

Since our odd encounter at Taren Tower, Miss Tyne's foul temper continued all last week while she and Riposte ran about like furious ants working on their perplexing collaboration. On the surface, they claimed to be preparing an expedition west. This was patently insane, of course, so I was forced to deduce that some nefarious ritual had been performed to mystically transpose their respective dispositions.

Where Riposte had been sullen and morose after the nonsensical rumor of Tyella's demise, he was now dancing on air with news that she lived. I had almost forgotten he could be so focused, and after his long somnambulance, this energy and industry took some getting used to. When he wasn't playing caravan master, he was flying about the Hall like a bedeviled bat, packing, cleaning, and otherwise being a pest. Ivy, on the other hand, who had been positively frisky after surviving the so-called "Plague of Reptiles," had taken to stalking about like a queen of cats spurned by her tom.

I wasn't worried. My friendship with Riposte predated even Ivy's vendetta by fifty years. I had to give the girl credit. Rewriting a note penned by the Elder of Knowledge had been a bold stroke, but one countered easily by obtaining the original.

I produced the missive in question—purloined from Ivy's room with Saliiah's help—from a vest pocket and tucked it into the pouch aside the bracelet. Bribery and blackmail, honey and venom. A veritable suede-wrapped parable, I thought. We shall see what flies can be caught.

I popped the pouch into the side pocket of my rucksack, and stood with a groan. After five centuries, even a Tilwen's back begins to stiffen, and ransacking my room had taken a good amount of energy.

I studied my findings. Animated rope; Torches; Snacks; Bribes; Gifts; Blackmail. I packed letters for contacts in various western towns, and collected lists of rare ingredients and souvenirs requested by local friends. I had my silver armor for protection–newly repaired and carefully oiled to prevent tarnish—and various weapons that might come in handy for frightening away unfriendly wildlife.

With more time I could have stowed more belongings, but I nodded in satisfaction. With a small-ish chest of spare clothing to top it off, the pile was complete.

Just one more thing to do.

I took another note from my vest and went to the door. I whistled sharply to summon a messenger.

"Hiya Sir Pertuli, is this the note?" she asked in a woosh, before even skidding to a stop.

"Yes Mileya, would you put this in the outgoing box?"

"Of course!" she said, her eyes going wide when she saw the name on the envelope. "The Baroness? Wow! Hey, aren't you going to live with her?"

"That was her plan," I smiled, narrowly avoiding the question.

"You're NOT going to live with her?" if anything, Mileya's eyes got even wider. Never underestimate an imp. "But there are a bunch of soldiers downstairs, waiting to take you to Paeton Barony! Should I tell them you aren't going? But you're all packed, aren't you —?"

"I never said I was not going," I interrupted quickly before her suppositions got out of hand, catching the back of her tunic before she could run off. "And you certainly need not tell soldiers of any kind about my activities, regardless."

"Oooh, double negative," she winked exaggeratedly. "Got it." I groaned inwardly. This news was going spread through the Hall in moments unless I headed it off immediately. The grist of the imps' rumor mill was like syrup on breakfast cakes. They never got enough and it stuck to everything.

"Listen, do you think you could keep this to yourself for a bell at least?" I begged. Pitiably.

"Maaaaybe," she said slowly, "but you'll owe me a story. One of the silly 'Baron Let-her-Rip' ones!"

"Of course." I sighed in relief. Mileya was going to plot very precise, very incriminating revenge once she learned how long she would be waiting for that story, but at least it would give me time enough to elude my escort. "Whichever story you choose."

"A new one!" she called over her shoulder as she bolted away.

I smiled, remembering my own younger years fondly. Like all imps, I had been a terror with boundless energy and creativity. I was, frankly, surprised High Lady Glandessa wanted me back.

I shouldered my pack, slung various implements of destruction and sundry outdoorsy luxuries over my arms, gave a little hop to settle everything, then picked up my clothes chest with another undignified groan. Ugh. It was going to be a long walk to the stables without porters.

Somehow I transversed the corridor and descended the rear stairwell unseen. It was early enough most tilwen would be in bed after a night of carousing, but I thanked the Elders for my good fortune. As I approached the main gallery, I began to suspect it was too good. I still had not seen a living spirit. Moments later, I saw exactly why. A large crowd of my kinsfolk had gathered in the entry to see me safely away. Or, a suspicious person might suppose, to see the Baroness' will done.

I narrowly avoided cursing. The rear door is closer to the stables, I remembered.

I turned and pushed my way through doors too narrow for a tilwenor carrying most of his worldly belongings. Why do chests get heavier the longer you carry them? Why, I further wondered, am I carrying one out the back door toward certain danger and deprivation, when a contingent of soldiers, porters and heralds are waiting to escort me in honor toward a life of luxury and high office?

Work. I suspected the answer had to do with work. Could it really be so bad?

Riposte's adventure was doomed to failure anyway. They would return after a year or two of pointlessly braving dragons, griffons, and other life-threatening wilderness nonsense. Ivy would suffer caravan-looting withdrawal; Riposte would yearn for a steady supply of drink and civilized swordplay, and inevitably the pair would be drawn back to Dollif.

As I made my way through the kitchens, even my great agility could not prevent calamity. A cascade of pans rained down on me when my bow staff caught on a handle jutting into space that should have been empty. I teetered to the side, rolled my ankle on a stray turnip, and went down in an avalanche of silver, cloth, and worked leather.

"Ow," I opined as the dust settled. Before I could begin a strategic withdrawal from the entanglement, I found myself face-to-face with a grinning Fylliftim, another imp.

"Oh. Hello," I offered.

"Toldja," Mileya's voice sounded, from somewhere behind Fylliftim's head.

"Mileya?" I asked dumbly.

"Yep," she said, pushing in next to Fylliftim. "You didn't expect me to wait years for you to get back from your adventure with Baron Riposte, did you? How dim do you think I am??"

"You knew?" I asked, my eyes plainly expressing my deep sense of betrayal. "You said you would give me a bell's head start!"

"I never said I would not tell," she grinned, mimicking my words earlier with unfortunate accuracy. "Besides, this way I get my own story out of it... okay, Fylli, go!"

Fylliftim grinned and took off like a hopper with a starving wemic on its tail.

"No, wait!" I called, but it was no use. The hand I raised to grab him stopped short, wound in a fish net and the strap of a shoulder bag.

"I'd say you've got about half a drip," she said, standing up straight and crossing her arms. She was going to stand there and watch my unfortunate escape attempt—and probably take credit for thwarting it if I got caught.

That little ..... Imp!

"Oh... ho ho," I seethed, shaking my head ruefully as I tried and failed to jump to my feet. I had to admit, she got me good. Almost four centuries her senior. I pitied whoever was in charge of her work schedule. "You are such a terror."

She beamed at the unintended compliment.

The following moments were an excruciating exercise in priority management. The rucksack is a dealbreaker; it holds the good bits. I cannot get by without clothes, and armor is necessary for bits vulnerable to swords and teeth. I suppose I could lose the ten-foot pole, and Rip will have hired a wagonload of food, so snacks are likely redundant. Likewise the cooking supplies. A lantern is a needless luxury. Mostly. And I could always borrow some blankets and such...

In the end, the sound of boots and chain mail in the hallway sharpened my perspective. I grabbed my rucksack, bow staff, rope, sword, and ran.

"What about all this stuff, flower-boy?" Mileya called after me.

"Help yourself!" I called back. Flower-boy? Had Ivy been talking to the imps, now? I shuddered as I ran, imagining the nonsense with which she may have filled their heads.

"Sir Pertuli—stop!" a guardsman called, just as I ducked out the back door. "Please, sir, by the High Lady's orders, you've got to come with us!"

Mileya's delighted giggles followed me out.

An extended chase ensued, through the bowels of the Ill'Enniniess Hall, its grounds and stables, and the greater part of Old Scaly. I was forced to use the animated rope to entangle the lead pursuers during a particularly close hair-pin turn. I was sure I would regret the loss at some point on my adventures. On the Dragotton Road my horse was able to really open up, and the soldiers, on foot, finally conceded to my determination in flouting the High Lady's command. I hoped she would take it well. There was a chance, if Mileya actually delivered my note...

I, in turn, was forced to admit that that was exactly what I was doing. My mood remained somewhat dark until I recognized the long lost Clasicant pennant flying over a small cluster of wagons on the road ahead.

"Hey captain," Ivy quipped as I rode up alongside my friends, "look who decided to drag his carcass out of bed and see us off properly."

"Well, well," Rip said, without looking my way. "Aren't you supposed to be on your way to High Paeton?"

"And leave you two to your own devices?" I scoffed. "You'd likely be dueling a dwarf by sundown, getting cut off at the knees while arguing about forms and graces."

"Ha!" he harrumphed eloquently. "As if I would face a dwarf without two fingers of hardened steel between us... and Ivy?" He leaned over in the saddle to lob a suspicious smile her way. His unaffected smirk made me think he knew something I didn't. Which gave me a start. If it wasn't swords, wands or catapults, he never knew something I didn't.

She only glared back. A warning if I ever saw one. Interesting...

"Well, young Miss Tyne never received a proper Tilwenic education," I offered, still glancing between the two. I knew I had left them alone in one another's company for too long. They had already started thinking independently! "She simply must not see the world without a proper tutor in the finer things. I might make a lady of her yet."

At that, both my friends broke into disparaging laughter, and I played along with good humor. "It could happen," I winked.

"Tulip," Ivy chuckled, wiping a tear from one eye. "I've seen more of this world's underbelly than you've seen picking lint from yer navel for hundreds of years. Living off the land, hiding, and on the run is rough going. I've camped with barmy cutters, desperate refugees, and put foot to earth in more than a dozen countries in just the last couple decades. I s'pect we both have a few things to show the other."

Her predatory leer gave me the slightest pause before I remembered this was, at least, better than actual work. Additionally, now that she was away from the city her mood seemed to have elevated considerably.

"So long as we rescue Tyella," Rip interjected into the awkward silence, "you two can have all the pissing contests you like." In a bold, theatrical voice he quoted, " 'Fear not, Clasicant, for thy love has need of thee, beyond the Westerlands!' "

I rolled my eyes (a bad habit, I know), gave Ivy a grin (sure she would never suspect why) and checked the rucksack pocket where my honey and venom lay in wait. Let her think I was as amused as she at his boisterousness.

Thus we rode into the next chapter of our lives like characters from a ballad, accompanied by the percussive sound of clopping hooves and the alto whine of cart wheels. I hummed an old tune I hadn't thought of in many years—one Tyella sang when she performed from time to time. I wondered briefly if she still did. Rip recognized it immediately and smiled to himself, completely oblivious that the humorous song involved jilted lovers and treacherous companions.

Honey and venom, my friends. What adventures await we three Silver Blades, assorted baggage, train, and chattel!

Fin.