L.E.Y. 3252

Riposte.

I gasped awake with the disturbing sense that time had passed and smelling like the dregs from a barrel of ancient Connorton Stout. I lay on something rigid—a table, perhaps.

"Water," I croaked.

My eyelids scratched painfully as I blinked the shadowed geometry of eight cornered, vaulted arches into focus. The ceiling was close—too low for a cathedral, but clearly Dinian in style. I had been taken somewhere for healing.

Healing. The day's events returned in a rush, and I bolted upright, wincing at tenderness in my chest.

"Easy, Clasicant," said a coarsely accented female voice. She was dark of hair and eye, her exposed skin dark for a tilwen and marred by many cruel scars, though none was large or recent enough to render her unhandsome. Her frame was as lacking in feminine softness as the rugged leathers she wore.

I frowned, trying to place her, but the memory was stubbornly submerged like bones in a bog; drowned in the alcoholic haze I'd used to waylay the last fifty years.

A heavy, smiling monk in black wool pushed a mug of small beer into my hands, and I drank. Slowly at first, but then greedily. I was ravenous and horribly thirsty.

"Your recovery was a miracle, but you must rest," the monk said. "The waters of Maxevino and divine intervention helped your wound... but my order is not known for its healing prowess."

Ah Maxevinians, I thought. That explains the smell.

"Ella?" I asked, prodding my thoughts into some semblance of order. Seeing only blank looks, I concluded, "There was no tilwenna of noble hair and eye where you found me, was there?"

"Just us commoners," the girl smirked.

"Course not," I grimaced. "Must have been dreaming."

I swung my legs down, and took inventory. I was in shirt sleeves. My coat was on another table nearby, and both garments were torn and stained heavily with blood. That will make an unfortunate impression on the baronet, I mused, already regretting the horror with which I would be received.

Only pink, dry skin showed where the smallsword had entered my chest. I could still feel the phantom pain where cold steel sliced through flesh, piercing organs...

"I gather, then, that I am in your debt, miss..."

"Ivy," she said simply. An uncommonly short name for a Tilwen, but it could have been an informal moniker, like Riposte. "And aye, 'twas me what saved yer hide in that scrape. Six-to-one odds... you know how to pick 'em."

"So I am told," I grimaced. "Often. Not to worry—I pay my debts." Healing came with steep 'suggested donations' at most temples, and I didn't want to give the impression it would take me a while to pay her back. Especially since it was true.

"You can thank Brother Tully here for that," she said, an ironic smirk flashing across her hard face, but gone again in an instant. "When I dragged yer carcass to the first door I found, he was beside himself. Yer reputation preceded you."

"The Church of Maxevino is quite indebted to the great Riposte Clasicant," the monk agreed. "His patronage has funded our presence in the Cathedral Ward, and his legendary exploits have induced many converts to enter our sanctuary in search of enlightenment."

She arched a dubious eyebrow at me.

"Yes, well, I do know which end of a sword to hold."

"Your humility does you credit, Rip," Tully chuckled. "But you know I do not speak of your deeds as a swordsman—it is your extreme piety we Maxevinians honor!"

"First time I've been accused of that particular attribute," I smirked, finishing off the beer. Tully refilled the cup immediately.

"You have donated vast sums to our order," Tully pointed out. "Is that not the charity of a pious man?"

"I don't like to live under an obligation," I dissembled. At least I hadn't, before going so deeply into debt it couldn't be helped. "And I've had more than my share of sacramental wine; it was only fair..." And more than my share of healing, in the days before the Church started offering its priests as mediators for duels.

I had saved the building when the Order verged on bankruptcy after the Drago War, but my reasons for not risking its demolition were my own.

I saw Tyella, on a table not far away, face and torso bathed in blood. The priests working over her, clearly out of their depths. I saw her blood, spilling over my hands as I prayed to any gods who would listen. I saw myself, professing my love to her for the first time, the musty smell of papery ale all around us, as she recovered. I heard her tell me I was a romantic fool; deluding myself.

"But were you not the man," Tully argued, heedless of my inner turmoil, "who drank the casks dry during the D'Chalz wedding, a summer ago?"

"What?" I asked, my mind racing to catch up. "They may have run out of faewine as I recall, but I don't—"

"And you were the tilwennor who surprised everyone in Teren Ward by besting three dwarves in a contest of ale-for-ale at the Day's Aldun pub not three months past."

"Now listen," I said, shifting in my seat, "those fellows were three sheets to the wind when I arrived." That I was a heavy drinker was certainly no secret, but with addiction worries so fresh in my mind, my low points were hardly something I wished to dwell on. "All I did was toast their health as they fell over!"

"It is said," he continued, overriding my objections, as if recounting the miracles of a saint. "That recently you drank strong spirits for two days straight and were still able to perform feats of strength and agility to widespread public approval. Why, it's the talk of the town!"

"That 'public performance' was a private duel that went horribly wrong," I said, trying not to lose my temper. "My opponent was exposed as a lycanthrope, and killed two good men that day."

"Whatever part you had in the matter," the monk chortled, "The point is that you were collected and alert, while battling the evils of the vine with greater success than almost any man alive! Why, if you had died that day, you may well have been declared a saint!" An unsettling light seemed to dance in the monk's eyes.

Ivy, by this time, was snickering with barely contained mirth.

"I am not a member of your order!" I said, exasperated. "I've told you that!"

"We Maxevinians are not so numerous that we can pick and choose our saints," Tully winked, filling my mug again. "Anyone willing to battle the evils of the grape are welcome recruits to our cause."

"And those of the hops or wheat as well, I suppose," I noted.

"Of course! Fermentation of the spirit begins with the fermentation of drink, an evil so widespread in Dragoskala our work may never be done. Only the blessed fortification of physical tolerance can stave off an evil so varied in form and mighty in the power of its temptation. When one cannot become drunk, the vile influence of the vine is rendered powerless to corrupt the children of One—"

"Don't mean ta be rude Brother," Ivy interrupted with a smirk. "Wouldja mind letting Clasicant and I catch up for a while?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, of course," Tully nodded emphatically. "Lord Clasicant is no doubt wracked with hunger after his ordeal. Permit me to find out what the kitchener has prepared for the faithful today."

At the mention of food, my stomach growled loudly, and I nodded.

He shuffled off, presumably in the direction of the kitchen, and I watched him go, taking in the dim, quiet room. Sporadic lantern light illuminated the brick archways forming the intricate matrix of vaulted domes overhead, casting deep shadows around the underground chamber. It was a familiar setting, though I didn't remember many visits. Pertuli wasn't partial to Maxevinian ale, and when I came alone I usually woke in my bed with foggy memories of the preceding hours.

Three monks moved about, administering drafts, tankards and pitchers to small groups of the faithful. The church's 'true believers' made a half-hearted show of reverence, but in a church known for serving free devotional spirits, the small room was quite full.

Drinking hymns filled the air, as did gentle guidance from priests ushering the inebriated to planks where they could reflect on their vices or to the stairs leading to privies outside. They would be allowed to partake of the 'strengthening spirits' again once they had conquered the influence of the grape.

The Waters of Maxevino, as these spirits were sometimes called, was a triple-distilled draught of nearly pure alcohol. Less influence by the evil grape, they claimed, and more use for building tolerance. Those who grew sick or died on the stuff were declaimed as corrupted by evil and excommunicated post-mortem. It was a strange church.

"Best drinking house in the Temple Ward." I mused aloud. When I found my mug empty, Ivy offered me wine from a chilled bottle nearby. It was passable.

"There aren't any others," Ivy agreed, "unless ya count the Condol goat-boys. Now there are some lads who know how to show a lady a good time."

I wasn't sure, but I thought she might be serious. Most women found the satyr rites offensive, and the comment was a little unnerving.

I found myself appraising the young tilwenna again. There was no doubt she was a fearsome warrior; she had dispatched my assassins as easy as a headsman. But there was something more, something familiar, about her.

Her long brown hair hung in a senseless tangle of wild, unbrushed strands and thin, anxious braids. It wasn't a style I could place by experience, so I chalked it up to carelessness or foreign origins. Her kit was in good repair; leather leggings and a Dollifite jack that showed the wear of continuous use, like a campaigner, but with none of the regimental habits. Calloused fingers easily came to rest on the worn pommels of her sword, dagger and knives while she talked in a way that seemed habitual, not threatening. A mercenary of some sort, unless I missed my mark. She had seen a lot of action but wore no vestiges of military service—no medals or emblems of rank, house or service. A loner then. A sell-sword, perhaps, or caravan guard.

My eye was drawn to her weapon. Although I could recognize the mannerisms of a soldier anywhere, sum up an opponent's physical capabilities at a glance, and even recall a fencing master by the fighting style of the student, I had a hard time placing faces and names. Particularly if some time had passed. But I never forgot a well-made blade.

"Your sword—it is the same curved blade of folded steel I pulled off a crime lord many, many years ago." I remarked.

"Yes," she said, fondling the hilt. "It belonged to the boss what taught me steel."

"Ivy The Untamed!" I snapped my fingers as the memory finally bubbled to the surface. "I saw you fight in a cage match, once!"

"Wondering how long it'd take," she smirked. "Though I never thought to be called that again. Now it's just Ivy, or Ivy Tyne if you must."

"I am doubly in your debt, then," I said, leaning forward to offer my hand. She took it after a moment of indecision, and I pressed her hand warmly. "The whole kingdom is. Your famous escape and the freeing of your fellows inspired vast changes in public opinion—surely groundwork for the recent emancipation."

"Ha!" she laughed; a dry sardonic bark. "That was famous for about a drip, before Roggarth's expansion wars. Me and my cage-mates snuck off to the north for a bit, working the roads 'til everything settled."

I stifled the urge to ask if 'working the roads' referred to legal employment.

"But I never did repay you for that night at the cage," she said, her humor fading. "Looks like fortune has given me a chance to even the score." She watched me carefully from under stray bangs and dark eyelashes.

"Very well," I said, happily raising my mug of wine. "Cross bulanna ielsi'vel, nin mar goss'fae ielni' Y oniff nufemiss kensorii kiff."

"I don't speak tilwenic," she said, casting her eyes down. "I never learned it."

"Really?" I asked, intrigued. "It's a second language for me too. It takes a long time to pick up, and there are still nuances I don't understand."

She smiled, warming a bit. "So what does it mean?"

" 'After all this time, it is good to meet as old friends.' " I translated. Then, to avoid sounding pedantic, added, "that or it's a comment on earwax, but I hope it's the former."

Ivy grinned, her eyes brightening in the barest hint at the person behind her armor. I smiled, wishing I had time to draw her out of her shell.

"I'm glad we could meet as old earwax, too," she snickered, and lifted her wine glass to toast the sentiment.