B.T.V. -- Session 09 Epilogue: A Coach Finds a New Home

My Dearest Airith



I am recovering from the rigors of battle as I take quill to paper to write to you, but let me assure that that while the fighting becoming tolerable warm, I have done you no shame in deed, though I must confess to a brief nervousness since this time I had taken arms up against Draegerans. When the battle was joined, though I was too busy trying to evade the flying arrows and sharp swords of the enemy. I was wounded more than once, but recovery quickly thanks to curatives provided to me by a generous compatriot.

The affair started with Finndo, who I have spoken of in my last letter, talking to me in my room. But while I say talking, really he took the form of an instructor questioning a student about his intentions, then gently pointing out the flaws that might be involved in these plans. I believe the unease I was feeling colored my reaction to his teachings, in that, as I was uncertain as to how I might perform in the face of an enemy that had surrounded the Coal Fires and Red Hot Pokers, I found his manor somewhat irritating. However, he gave me good advice, which despite my pride I was forced to acknowledge.

He suggested that I use my Emitter to engage the enemies perched on nearby rooftops, then turn my attention to a larger assemblage of archers on the Heights above the Inn, who after the action began sent barrage after barrage of arrows slamming into the hostelry’s rooftop, as well as the occasional welcoming shot in my direction.

You might recall I am keener of sight and hearing than most humans, though not extraordinarily so, my modesty forces me to admit, but I was fortunate enough despite the time being that of True Dark to spot the occasional silhouette on the buildings nearest the Inn.

Turning down the lanterns in the rooms I fired from, so that I would not be in turn a silhouette for them, I smashed out two or three small panes of heavily leaded glass, took aim and discharged the Emitter.

Having taken a moment to aim, I strike one rooftop opponent and, with the aid of the Ghostlight from my weapon’s charge, fired again, sending him sliding down the roof and over the edge, to thud to the ground below.

A compatriot of the poor fellow, who I had briefly glimpsed, laughed, drawing my attention back to him as he clambered back onto the roof on my side. I aim and fire, getting a penetrating hit on his left arm and, as his muscles spasmed in response, he dropped his bow, and attempted to fling himself over the peak of the roof to safety beyond my sight. However, having had occasion to shoot waterfowl for my meals on the road, I was able to “take him on the wing,” so to speak, though in this case I in fact struck home somewhere on his legs, and I heard him tumble down the roof and fall to the ground with a disturbing squelching noise on landing.

Having exhausted the readily available targets, short of opening the window and allowing my head to protrude, which I considered a careless tactic, I moved down the hall to a corner room, where the windows fronted onto more buildings. I extinguished the lanterns in the room, and knelt beside a window by the bed, again smashing glass to allow my Emitter chamber a clear shot at the villains.



Meanwhile, downstairs, Selador had taken some time to rearrange the tables and chairs on the three levels of the Inn’s tap room, so as to protect him from being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Finndo, who had moved downstairs to provide advice to Selador, suggested that the Lord of Law watch the back door into the “Windows” area of the tap room.

“It is an afterthought, and it is often left open,” he predicted.

The attackers were men of the city, Finndo related, and so would likely know the back door of such businesses were often left unguarded and even unlocked.

He also warned of the coming barrage from the archers outside, saying “Lesser men would be panicked” by the noise of arrows striking home.

Selador, meanwhile, takes a few plates and smashes them on the stairs from one level to another in the tap room, and in front of both the main entrance and rear door of the Inn, presumably to trip up or at least warn him of attackers coming in.

As he takes up position on the mid or bar level, Finndo has taken the opportunity to break his fast for the first time in three days, chewing on a raw steak. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he observes.

Then he inquires as to what Selador is doing, who answers, “One is in preparation for the coming battle. One is in symmetry with the Blade.” (As I’ve mentioned before, these fellows seem capable of imparting such import to common words as to make it clear they should be capitalized.

Finndo suggests they each “keep score” in the coming fray, or at least to learn lessons from it.

Selador, as he will, replied, “One is reflective on one’s deeds.”

Then he adds, “One is curious to your own preparation.”

Finndo states, “I am accorded some superiority in Defensive situations” which I expect is a gross understatement.

That was why in such an encounter he gave off such an air of confidence, he confided.

Selador, in turn, shares that the Lords of Law have “very few records” about Finndo, who allows, “They assumed I was dead, or so the King put about.”

That was why his whereabouts, and those of his brother Osric, were kept hidden, he continues. “But Osric was Osric and Finndo was Finndo.”

Finally, their conversation ends as a spearman first gently pushes open the rear door and advances cautiously into the room. Finndo retreated to the cellar, in case intruders came up from there. I am somewhat surprised by the tactics of our enemies, for more spearmen would follow, but the tap room was of a goodly size, and perhaps they were not foolish. In time, it became apparent the villains who entered were not Jhereg assassins as I had expected, but trained warriors belonging to a military unit, since their equipment seemed matching.

Rather than trying to overwhelm him in numbers, they advanced in ones and then twos, probing at his defences. But unlike Finndo, Selador, while cunning, was no passive opponent. He took the fight to the enemy again, somehow bypassing the spear points and closing with the enemies.



Upstairs, I see two more opponents on roof tops, and after careful aiming, release a charge and strike one in his torso somewhere. I can see it’s a killing blow, yet somehow the archer is still alive, and more, returned fire, shattering the glass above me. I snap back a charge, and he slumps to the rooftop, either dead or decided he no longer wishes to contest the matter. The other snipes at me, but shots are difficult, since the glass and the leading surrounding the small panes act as a shield of sorts. I fire back, but the wound is light and brings with it no deterrence to his goal of ending my night early.

The arrows from the archers on the Heights begin plunging into the exterior of the tavern, with small implosion noise accompanying the strikes. I cannot place what it meant be meant to achieve, except perhaps to cause undue alarm. I choose to carry on, but am immediately struck in my right shoulder, the arrowhead piercing me and leaving the business end protruding from the back of my shoulder, and the shaft and feathers from the front, making movement awkward and, after a moment, I realize, is extremely painful.

Fortunately, I can use the window leading to steady my Emitter in place of my right hand and arm, and I shoot back, striking the archer but not decisively so. Then his arrow hits the window, which should have been in my favour, except that the latch was somehow undone, and the pane started to swing outward, exposing me. I, rather ungracefully, scooted down to the next window, made another porthole and prepared to open fire again.



Selador is engaging the first spearman downstairs and attempts to lure his opponent into a rough corral of overturned tables and piled benches. The villain thrusts, but Selador, strangely rigid in his manners and outlook, danced gracefully about, avoiding the strike. Over time I realized that, in facts, his turns are carefully choreographed parabolas and other geometric curving forms. The spearman, a cool character, advanced to the entrance to Selador’s improvised bastion, and Selador, unnaturally swift, moves to his opponent first on his opponent’s leading hand on the spear, causing considerable damage and a Draegeran oath from the opponent, who thoughtfully provides the translation, “Vermin!”

Selador replied to this rudeness with a swing of his Great Blade Massartu, but his heel encounters a piece of broken crockery, sending him sliding momentarily toward the enemy. He recovers almost immediately, but the spearman is swinging the shaft of his spear about, aiming to befuddle Selador with a solid hit to the back of his head. It is a very thick head, I think, and Selador is not discomfited by this blunt blow.

The spearman runs his unwounded hand up the spear shaft, taking a grip neat the pointed end and stabbing at Selador, missing by the narrowest of margins after he nimbly sidesteps. Meanwhile, reinforcements for the spearman are easing in the back door and advancing carefully. The first spearman now slices at his opponent, but again Selador evades the blow, then Massartu bites into the bicep of the enemy’s other arm. This opponent drops his spear and retires from the engagement by the simple expedient of first falling to his knees and, moments later, slumping over.

One of his compatriots near the rear door, disgruntled by this development, forgets the military maxim that spears are for thrusting and javelins are for throwing, and tosses his weapon at Selador, but instead sticks, quivering, in an interior wall. During this time, I might mention, another opponent has patiently begun dismantling the window near the regular table that Selador graces to share with me, but his efforts would take some time. 



I find another rooftop target and hit with an aimed shot, accomplishing nothing more than a flesh wound but again illuminating the target, which I think is an accomplishment given my wound. He looses an arrow in my direction but misses, and I snap a charge at him, but distracted, my shots have lost some of their effectiveness, though you will find I recover somewhat later in this missive.

I’m not sure if I was distracted by pain or by the possibility of never seeing you again, my sweet, but knowing you have no love for self-pity, I keep you in my mind, not as a lament, but as a reason to stay alive.

Two archers now loose at me, their arrows ruining the window but causing me no particular discomfort. I hit the new bowman once, then again, and he slides down, roof tiles breaking. He makes a grab for the gutter, but his grasp falls short of his need, and he, too, plummets to the street.

I return my fire to the first bowman, and while he survives, he too decided to forego any further contests.

And then dual swords slide across the stiffened collar I affect, and I realize that I am beset from behind. Despite my keen hearing, I failed to hear the door to the room open, understandable given the other noise of the conflict. I swing around and drop my backside onto the floor, bringing the Emitter to bear as I do on a surprised-looking enemy. His startlement is short-lived as, in a desperate move, I fire a spray of the last five shots into him, three finding homes in his neck. His blades drop, his hands go to his neck in a futile gesture and his mouth opens, perhaps to scream but he's unable to do so. Instead, the ghostlight from my charges shone briefly from between his lips, and then he fell dead to the floor.




In the taproom, Selador is approached by the most recent two spearmen to arrive. One makes a gesture as if to throw but his comrade, learning a lesson from his own failed attempt, gestured with his sword to stay the toss. They instead try to circle around him, but Selador’s speed and skill makes that futile. The spearman moved to a column, while the now-swordsman, in a fit of pique, kicked a half-full mug toward Selador, whose focus is too intense for such a minor distraction.

The spearman, in his turn, has leaped up onto a table and, reaching around the column, finds a lamp that he tosses in Selador’s direction, again to no affect. The spearman leaps off the table as the swordsman moves, and they end up together somehow without colliding. Selador, with the small advantage of a sidelong opening, thrusts with such strength he seems to be ready to impale both in one gesture. However, his thrust goes high, and into the neck of the swordsman, who clutches at the wound with his free hand.

Now Selador kicks at the swordsman, sending both his opponents tumbling onto the floor, and with another mighty thrust, he finishes the spearman by opening his abdomen and its contents to the air. Blood gushes from the spearman’s mouth, but Selador is already turning to watch two more spearmen entering by the back door, and he shifts to the entrance to his bastion to await them. Meanwhile, outside, the patient enemy continues to whittle at the door, to the accompanying song of a Draegeran voice decanting.




On the second story, I’ve moved out of the chamber and hearing a noise from the far end of the building, move carefully down a hall and then round a corner, approaching the entrance door to an interior room I know is not used for accommodations, but little beyond that. As I near, a woman emerges from within, garbed with a warrior’s costume that left her upper chest exposed and, seeing the lack of armour, I lodge a charge there, not far from her heart, and she falls back into the chamber, calling for assistance.

I can detect that between six and nine of the enemy are within, and know that, despite my Emitter, I had no hope of keeping that many from swarming over me. So, regretfully, I took out my one occupied Pentaglobe and, flicking open a facet, I rolled it into the room, toward the vague figures of a woman in red and a man in blue, or was it the other way around? I saw no other way to save my life and, determined to keep my heart beating with my love for you, I pulled shut the door and struck it with the butt of my weapon, bending the latch so it cannot be opened from within, and almost immediately I hear the sounds of distress that usually accompany an encounter between someone who isn’t a Drifter and a spectre.

I move further along the corridor and around a corner, so I can cover the only other exit from the room with my Emitter. But then I hear the door to the private rooms, on the oppose wall and behind me, begin to open, and I swing around, just barely missing a Stig, who in replies draws two swords from their sheaths.

Now, at this point I had no idea if he was friend or enemy, and so I politely asked who might have sent him.

“The Dragon!” he snarled in return.

Because of the arrow in my shoulder, I knew I couldn’t use the Emitter’s axe end to effectively fight this, so I disengaged and moved away so I could spin my weapon around.




The decanter outside the windows of the taproom was speaking in a clearly irritated voice, though whether frustrated by our continued resistance or by the slow work his lackey making at the window I do not know. One spearman tilts his head slightly, then when he turns back to Selador smiles in impending triumph, too soon as it turns out. What turns out to have been chanting from outside ends, while at the same time Selador, from the corner of his eye, sees a table appear to move on its own, and knows an invisible opponent is maneuvering around the room. He must be a Jhereg assassin, Selador determines. Using hearing even keener than mine, he makes a prediction and moves toward where he feels the assassin should be, but the unseen killer is one step ahead. Selador senses that the assassin is no longer in the room and believes he will soon return in an effort to get to the Law of Lord from behind.

The two remaining spearmen have determined they are better to act as pikemen again and set their weapons as if the receive a charge, trying to pen Selador within the corral. He advances to the attack, while both the spear-pikemen thrust toward him. They shout “Shezai!” and their call empowers at least one of them to score a telling hit, stabbing into Selador. Selador, unhappy with this intrusion, takes a mighty swing and connects with the one spearman.

Both the warriors, he notes, are quite brawny, perhaps lending credence to them being soldiers of some sort, either dedicated to Calcitrant or, as likely, mercenaries.

A scream erupts from behind Selador, cut short by gurgling, and he glances back to see Finndo, who has used his main gauche to skewer the invisible assassin, now visible, in the neck, and holds him there like a prize trout. That being the fish, of course, and not the eponymous God.

A spearman swears, his exact oaths unrecorded, and charges toward Selador or Finndo, as the latter lingers in the moment of his catch. The spearman opts to swing at Selador, who rather than enduring this outrage swings and takes his opponent in his hip with a deep slice. The spearman is still standing, but is much distracted, and his return thrust goes far wide of Selador. He, however, has unwisely chosen to test his Blade on an immobile bench, and must wrest it free before, with a strong and determined hit puts the spearman down.

Another spearman attempts to break the Law Lord, but instead is broken, falling to the floor with but a single strike as Selador seems to find his true rhythm again, after the unfortunate mistake with the bench.

Before a second attacking spearman can elude Selador, he almost instantly connects with this newcomer, who is still alive but wisely falls to the floor, indicating his lack of desire to continue. The assassin, the blade withdrawn from his throat, finally finds an abode on the wooden flooring of the tap room, as a cool Finndo observes, “I do believe he would have struck at me.” Selador then takes a crossbow bolt in his upper chest, created a wound that I would have found difficult to survive, let alone continue the fight, but Selador is made of sterner stuff and he virtually teleported across the room, so fast was his movement, to confront a new opponent coming in through a finally-open window.

But just before that, Finndo, again, notes, “I do believe there’s a sorcerer in that direction,” then abruptly shouts, “Duck!”

Selador has no need to be instructed thus twice, and he drops as Finndo sends his main gauche spinning by, connecting with the intruder at the window, and while it pierces the enemy’s chest, he seems nonchalant.

The new intruder climbs in atop a table, and Finndo, his rapier flashing in the ghostlight and torchlight of the tap room, is beside him in a moment, even as Selador sets foot upon chair to vault up and join his cousin.




As I disengage from the Stig, he swings in my direction, but I seem to have good fortune this night, because he misses me and instead smashes his left forearm into the frame of the door he has just emerged from. He has another sword at his disposal though, and he manages to scratch me.

I determine to have done with this fellow, and fire a spray at close range, sending charges stitching across his abdomen. Then, with a final single charge I dispatch him, piercing his heart and his lifeless body falls to the floor.

I check the rooms beyond the door the Stig arrived through, then return to the corridor, where I move to the second door to the inner room. I hear a quiet conversation—unexpected given the release of a ghost within only a few minutes earlier. The pain in my right shoulder reminds me I’m in not real condition to take on any more opponents, so I make my way down to the taproom to rejoin Finndo and Selador.



Selador, who had been leaping from the floor to a chair and then onto a table, slid along the last and collided with the newcomer who had entered through the window. Selador quickly recovers and hews his new enemy deep into the torso, which should have been enough to kill any man.

But instead of collapsing, a demonic howl issues from the opponent, who seems possessed. The demon-ridden fellow, using his fingers like claws, swiped across Selador’s torso, cause some minor scratches with supernatural power.

Selador, who has just concern about the outcome of the match, swings again, plunging his sword through the enemy, who seems to then totter on the edge of death. Finndo, a smirk on his face, pulls on the brim of his wide hat and, obligingly, Selador steps back to allow his cousin the finishing blow, through the enemy’s eye. The possessed man writhes as the demon leaves his body, then collapses, finally succumbing to the inevitable.

Outside, through the open window, Finndo spots a horseless carriage belonging to Calcitrant.

Selador, despite himself being on the very edge of falling to his wounds, leaps through the window and bravely, and rather stupidly, calls out, “Dragonlord! I challenge you to fair combat in front of your hirelings and servants.”

The coach door swings open, and the driver, a burly Tsalmoth, gestures for Selador to get inside. Selador startled me by doing so, despite the inevitability of this being a trap. “Intelligence and law don’t necessarily go together,” Finndo observes dryly, and I nod in agreement.

After the Law Lord enters the coach and the door closes, the Tsalmoth snaps his whip to get under way. Recovering from my stupefaction at Selador’s boldness, I snap a charge off at the driver, striking him near his heart and off the coach. Finndo sprints after the coach and climbs onto it at the back, presumably to rescue his cousin from his predicament.



Left behind, with the Inn still surrounded, I walk down to the mid-level of the taproom and go behind the bar to help myself to a fortifying glass of oushka. A pretty Teckla maiden emerges from the kitchen, asking after my health. I had not realized any innocents were left in the tavern. I had left my Emitter atop the bar as I conversed briefly with her. As I turned around to take my drink, I saw a Jhereg on the other side, and we both grabbed for my weapon.

“You’re fast for a guy with an arrow in his shoulder,” the Jhereg says as I level the Emitter at him.

I pour oushka for myself, and for the Jhereg, who seems pleased by the gesture.




“I’m not sure how to operate this thing,” Finndo confesses after finally climbing over the coach to the driver’s seat. Selador is surprised to hear his cousin’s voice. They head straight for the base of the Heights, and a calamity appears assured, but at the last moment Finndo persuades the controls to turn the coach sharply to the right, and they begin to head toward the Night Market, intent on finding Calcitrant. Arrows rain down from the Heights, though.

“I’m afraid there’s more where that came from,” Finndo accurately predicted, in that he was turned into a veritable pincushion. Selador looks inside for something liquid to quench his thirst and, after finding a bottle, also located a document pouch, which he purloins.

“Cousin, there is drink within, if you care to join me,” he called out to Finndo, who wisely demurs, given someone needed to be driving the contraption. That comes as a surprise, Selador seemingly still thinking the Tsalmoth was in his seat.

“Well, that changes things,” the Law Lord observes. “The duel is off, I suppose.”

Finndo acknowledges that, issues a challenge, the Dragonlord must respond.

(I of course will have to have a chat with the cousins to disabuse them of this notion.)

“We must find this Calcitrant,” the prince of Amber states. “We’ll return his carriage. Wait. Asher’s at the tavern. We should go back” (I am pleased they remember me.)




In the meantime, the Jhereg and I exchange some amusing banter.

“Look, buddy, I just serve the drinks here,” I utter in a deadpan tone, and the Jhereg tells two of his compatriots at the front door, “Hey, this guy is alright.”

I briefly hear a mechanical noise from the kitchen, where the Teckla girl has returned, but given that the Jheregs are here to slaughter me, an investigation must wait. The amiable Jhereg doesn’t know what a Drifter or Ghostwalker is, but one of his friends at the door does. He always describes me as a “dispatcher,” which I believe is someone who uses a gun of some kind. The friendly one tells me he has come to Adhrilanka for the promise of 200 Imperials for the demise of the two cousins of Amber. He helps himself to the cashbox below the bar, opening it with ease despite a lock. “Orbs and Imperials,” he notes. “I am in Adhrilanka.”

We then proceed to a nearby table, as my new friend, whose name I have yet to discover, offers to deal with the arrow in my shoulder. Abandoned by my comrades, I agree to this. He causes some tearing as he cuts off the arrowhead and then pushes the shaft through my shoulder, but I endure.

Then, a new voice comes to our ears.

“You’ll keep that Emitter on the table, pointing at your friend,” an unknown male in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Teckla is my prisoner, as are both of you.”

My Jhereg acquaintance replied, “We need to talk this through.”

“I work for Calcitrant,” the voice answers with disdain, accusing the Jhereg of giving aid and comfort to an enemy by treating me. When I ask as to the fate of the Teckla maiden, he answers “She is downstairs with us.”

I turn slowly, and first see a crossbow aimed at me, and then realize it’s held by Saterone ville’Paque.

“Why is a drifter involved in all this?” he demands. I explain I had met a fellow Easterner named Simon on the road outside the city who had asked me to take his place as a local guide to the Amber cousins. He tells me I almost fooled him, and for some demented reason seems to think Simon and I are the same person. Assuming he had a fatal wish for Simon, I bring the Emitter whirling around.




Approaching the inn, Finndo, exposed, continues to be peppered by arrows, and admits he is “badly hurt.” He then crashes the carriage through the front door of the inn, seemingly to escape the missiles.

Saterone just has time to utter, “Selador of Law. How good of you to join us.”

Realizing he was distracted, he fired the cross at me, but the bolt went wide. I sprayed five charges at him, two striking his in the torso, and then a single shot taking him in the back, but I haven’t brought him down and he disappears into the kitchen. I stalk after him and Selador is close behind me. As I advance into the room, not seeing him, Selador spots a rising grate that clicks into place in the floor, and steps onto it. It seems to be a dumbwaiter to get food down to the cellar, and Selador, without a word, turns a red handle to begin a steady downward progress. Not feeling up to jumping down the shaft after him, I make my way back into the taproom and around to the stairs to the cellar.




Selador arrives in the sporadically-lit cellar, a vast open space dotted with support columns, huge carpets, tables, chairs and a lengthy bar. Listening, he hears the grinding noise of a culvert opening or closes, then beings to advance through the room, rolling between tables, wary of the crossbow in Saterone’s hands. He hears another copying his movements, thinking it to be his quarry. Then he hears a metallic noise from the far corner of the room, and sees Saterone inside, pointing the crossbow at him.

I enter from the stairs, crossing a large carpet and then searching the room with my eyes. Something whistles by my ear, and I return fire in the opposing direction, albeit aiming high, for the ceiling. I discover an enemy far closer to me than I had expected, but near enough the ghostlight cast by the ceiling charge to silhouette him. I fire a spray and mow him down.

Selador rolls right to avoid Saterone’s aim, but the errant Stig captain still hits, putting Selador near succumbing to his wounds. Selador somehow transports himself instantaneously, and not by teleport that I can tell but perhaps using one of his portals, to the far side of the tub, where Saterone is presenting his back to him.

Saterone offers, “It’s not too late to come to an arrangement,” but Selador will have none of it, putting his blade to his enemy’s neck and demanding his surrender.

“Ville-Paque, you are a prisoner. Do you accept?”

“You are a wretch, but I accept,” Saterone answers insolently. He drops the crossbow clanging to the bottom of the metallic tub.

Near me, a grate of a culvert opens and a head emerges, and I take steady aim at it. As Selador escorts his prisoner from the cellar, the head slowly turns and, spotting my Emitter, promptly and wisely drops back down.



Reunited with Finndo in the taproom, Finndo, commenting on the documents pouch from Calcitrant’s carriage, says, “I will need time to digest the contents.”

Saterone gives a dire warning, that the papers within relate to the e’Kieron family as a whole, and some members might be irritated should Finndo peruse them. Tired of his musings, I administer a buttstroke to the back of his head to aid him in his sleep. Certainly he must be tired after his exertions.

Selador suggests delivering the documents to another Dragon, such as our new acquaintance Mythic.

Finndo, meanwhile, sets a small fire in the carriage to conceal the loss of the pouch, then tosses me a saddlebag he says has curatives inside. He says he will inquire after the owner of the inn, to make amends for the considerable damage.

I recall the friendly Jhereg, and I find him in the uppermost “Windows” section of the taproom, relieving the fallen spearmen of the burden of their valuables. He tosses me a pouch as a gift, which I accept graciously.

“You’ve been a pretty good sport about me trying to kill you,” he observes cooly. He then opens his cape to show another bit of salvage, a long and narrow black case he’s taken from Calcitrant’s carriage.

With no other option as to how to keep ville-Paque out of the hands of Calcitrant, Selador creates a portal, summoning the Stig Lyra. Initially startled, she recovers swiftly.

“Ah, Selador, it is a pleasure to meet with you.” Then she takes in the shattered carriage and disheveled tavern, and frowns ever so slightly.

Selador says of Saterone, “He has given me his word he will not try to escape.”

Lyra responds that she knows of only one other Stig she can trust absolutely, a Hawk. “Would she be suitable?”

Selador left the decision to Lyra’s wisdom and discretion. She offers to fetch this Itarari, and leaves Saterone with us for now.

“I hope you do not let him get away,” she admonishes as she departs.


In my absence, Finndo confides to Selador that the saddlebag in my possession also holds five Splinters he collected while in Calcitrant’s prison, and that he believes three are related to Amber. And for now, Dearest Airith, I must end my narrative. I will write again at the earliest opportunity and wait, as always, with bated breath for your replies.


With all my affection, Asher

Asher's words recorded by R. Perry