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From: Guido Roessling <[e-mail]>
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: STORY:  Qelrik part 82
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Date: 20 Aug 1995 12:58:36 -0400
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***
Take a look at the QELRIK WWW Page at
http://www.pu.informatik.th-darmstadt.de/dida/qelrik.html
***

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=================================================================
Getting Acquainted
=================================================================

"It just needs a few stitches," Fox said through gritted teeth.  "Unless
you're a real healer, don't bother with magic.  It doesn't work on me."

"Who needs to resort to magic?" Percy asked rhetorically. "There's a
wealth of help in nature without having to go all hocus-pocus." Percy went
to a large bag near his own bedroll. For several minutes, he sorted
through the bag, taking out and replacing odd objects, some measuring
devices Fox recognized only from her own master's desk, many things she
simply did not recognize at all. The bag itself must be magical, she
thought, because there was simply no way all that gear could fit in so
small a package. At last, he drew out a small jar, a roll of what
looked like black silk thread and a needle.

Fox tightened her jaw and sat, closing her pale eyes.  Her head still
ached furiously, and now she was going to have to deal with stitches.

"I hate needles," she said passionately, as Percy sat next to her, tipping
her jaw to get the best light. "I hate them, I hate them, I hate them."

Percy looked intently at his work as he threaded the needle and tied a
knot.  "Oh, you don't have to tell me about that, old thing!  I'd have to
get a damn sight squiffy m'self before I'd let anyone come at me with
one!" He picked up the jar, loosening the broad cork and dipping his
finger in a sharp-smelling green paste. He smeared the length of the cut
with the strange substance.

"Won't have to worry about this bite then, will you, my girl?  Numbs it up
good and proper, at least, so I'm told."

With a frown, Fox stripped off her right glove. She touched the wound
experimentally, and was surprised to feel nothing.  It was almost as if
she was touching someone else's skin. She visibly relaxed as Sir Percy
threaded his needle with the black silk and set to work sewing up her
face.

"You know," Percy said easily, "the Antilean physicians always advocated a
simple back-and-forth stitch, but in my experience, you just can't beat a
good cross-stitch, what what?  Keeps the wound from easily opening up
again while it heals, don't y'know."

"Snell o' dat taste is awhul," Fox said through clenched teeth,
suppressing her gag reflex.

"Oh, isn't it just!" Sir Percy said cheerfully as he continued his work.
"Still and all, you'll find this newt paste and thread a real wonder!"

"Newts?" Fox said with disgust.

"Oh, yes indeed!  Why I used an extract from Triturus Odiferous to make
the paste.  Numbs the nerves and clots the wound.  And the thread comes
from our little friend Triturus Vulgaris.  The thread will dissolve in a
couple of days, and in less than a week I promise you there'll be no trace
of a wound on that lovely countenance."

"Newts." Fox echoed, this time with a tone of disbelief.

"I've been penning a little monograph on the subject," Sir Percy continued
as he worked carefully. "'Newts: What They're Good For' I call it.
Straight to the point, none of that academia fiddle-faddle, I say. Let
them know what they're getting right up front! I've catalogued over two
hundred species, you know. Of course, as you know, some have helpful
healing properties.  Others can kill you just by spitting on you.  But,
did you know some of them make good eating?  I make a newt jerky to die
for!  Some of the big docile ones make effective draft excluders and
waterproof mortar.  You can skin a few of the big ones to make armour
(mind you, the pong is unbearable). The innards of others can be distilled
into a simply scrummy liqueur.  And a few make a passable sausage. There's
even one or two induce some sort of --"

"You sent a lot o' tine on the sudjett," Fox muttered, somewhat
exasperated.  "Are 'e done yet?"

"Almost, my dear, almost.  Well, it passes the time, I daresay, what?
Beats going into the family business?"

"What dusiness?" Fox asked, eager to discuss anything not newt-related.

"Oh, taking care of things, this and that.  Grandad was given the clock a
few years ago when he began to confuse himself with bits of furniture.
Poor old gent is really getting on, and when I last saw him, he thought he
was the scullery keeping-table.  Dad was sent to Coventry for spending
rather a lot of time in the company of, well, not very good company, let's
say, what?  Uncle runs things now, though he's been rather keen to find me
and turn the firm over to me.  Can't say I'm hot on the idea of being
found just yet, though.  Too much to do, what what?  No time for newts if
I have to go back.  It'll just be signing scrolls, presiding over the
courts, attending this ball or that party, negotiating treaties.
Mind-numbingly dull stuff, what?"

"Not really," Fox said thickly. Her duties as a squire had sometimes
required such administrative tasks, which she found she rather enjoyed.
She had a knack for administration, she had discovered, and particularly
liked presiding over quarterly tribute courts. Moonfang, her master's
keep, was an Imperial tribute house. Her squire-brothers Dies and Luther
had found it dull, but she had not. "Still don't unnerstand what you're
talgging adout."

"Well," Sir Percy paused and blushed, "I'm sort of the heir to the Duchy
of Tania," he whispered.  "Keep it dark, eh?"

Sir Percy made a final knot in the thread and trimmed the end.  "There!"
he said triumphantly.  "All tickety-boo!"

Fox worked her jaw cautiously and touched the sewn jaw. "You have a neat
hand," she said. It was strange to talk with so much numb skin. She eyed
Percy critically, narrowing her almond-shaped eyes. "What about your duty
to your duchy? Does duty mean nothing you?"

Unexpectedly, Percy smiled. "Ah, I'd expect such a grand question from the
squire of the Heir of the Tamorin Empire."

"But I could have stolen these," Fox ventured, a hidden challenge in her
voice.

"Oh, with a build like yours -- and such a magnificent one, I daresay -- I
don't think there's much chance in that. Take some special tailoring to
make those duds to fit so well, what? Although, speaking of duty, you're a
bit far afield and in some rather non-Tamorin company yourself."

"You still haven't answered the question," Fox observed.

"Ah, well, duty is as duty does, isn't it?  I know they'll catch up with
me sooner or later.  No Duke of Tania has taken the seat before the age of
forty, and I certainly don't intend to be the first, I daresay.  I'm sure
I'll get the stick and have to do some horrible impot or other when they
finally get me.  After all, I can't be responsible for the deficiencies of
my elders, what?"

"How did you know I was from Tamorin?" Fox said, as she replaced her right
glove.

"The wonders of heraldry, my dear! The crest on your glove tells the tale.
Black double-eagle -- my, I do like those Eastern eagles, what? All those
fussy little feathers -- and the mark of the first son. And a white belt,
sign of a squire of the East." He gathered up his silk, needle and jar
with a swift motion and began move away. "Observation and deduction! The
golden keys of scientific query!"

"Scientific query," Fox muttered under her breath, as she picked up a
nearby bowl. She could hear Dahlarin and Gernodt arguing softly about
something, but she didn't pay it any attention. Lifting the lid again, she
stirred the thick . . . whatever it was.  It smelled good.

She spooned up the food and filled her bowl, settling down to eat. Just as
she swallowed her first mouthful, she suddenly had a thought rush across
her brain. Her pale green eyes widened, and she looked up at Percy.

"This . . ." she pointed at the bowl with her spoon, "doesn't have any
Newts in it, does it?"

"But how does it taste?" Percy said, clearly enjoying her discomfiture.

Fox rolled her tongue around in her mouth, as if deciding.  "I've had
worse," she said cautiously.

"Wounded!" Percy exclaimed, clutching at his heart. "That is my own
sainted Nannie's recipe! And I'll have you know, my dear, that there is
little found in the bounty of Nature more nutritious than your very own
Triturus Orientalis, found only in the caves of the desert isles in the
East -- your own Tamorin being among them!" He winked broadly at her. "But
rest that pretty head of yours, my girl. The only meat there is venison.
Now do you find it more to your liking?"

Fox shrugged noncomittally, but she did take another mouthful.  Before she
swallowed, she said, "I doubt the Prince of the Dark Sidhe would like a
plateful of fried Triwhatever Orientalis put in front of him at the
Midwinter Feast," she observed.

"Hmm," Sir Percy mused, "The Prince of the Dark Sidhe. The old boy always
struck me as a bit of a whinger, meaning no offence.  Seemed to have
learnt his fencing from one of those chaps afraid to give a princely
student a right good whacking when needs must."

Unexpectedly, Fox laughed aloud. It was not necessarily a pleasant sound.
"His son gets 'a right good whacking' every now and again, particularly if
we're paired for sparring that day." She smiled broadly. "His name is
Dies. That's 'dee-ES', not 'dyes'. He's fussy about that, you know. He's
my squire-brother; we're both Selmarak's squires." She shook her head, and
ate another spoonful of stew. "In the seven names of the God, he fights
with a _rapier_."

Fox shut her mouth abruptly, looking decidedly uncomfortable for a
fleeting second before suppressing it, gazing indifferently at her stew.
She cursed herself; she had grown so comfortable chatting with Percy, she
had fancied herself back in Moonfang, swapping stories in the tavern.
There she was herself, an entirely known quality. Only one major god
worshipped in the Eastern Empire had seven names. An unforgiveable slip.

She did not notice the sudden, sharp glance Percy gave her from the corner
of his eyes, but to her immense relief he did not pursue it. She
desperately hoped he was not as familiar with Eastern religion as he
seemed to be with Eastern rulers.

"'It's not what you've got but where you stick it', as Dad used to say,"
Percy said cheerfully, " but then that's why the family got rid of him,
because he couldn't keep his hands on his own equipment, as it were."

"My curse," Fox murmured, almost to herself as she ate another mouthful
of stew. "Why do I always seem to run around with people who quote
sayings by their relatives?"













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