Chapter LCVII: Stories

"I do not like the look of this souffle," the chef complained, fretting over the half-risen lump. "Perhaps there is too much gravity in the oven?"

Ayn looked across the mess hall irritably. As busy as Norg was in these troubled times, only he and a single Galka were seated in the dining area. Yet even with two people to feed, the woman behind the counter was still having a great deal of trouble getting their food out to them.

"I didn't order a souffle," the Galka said, tapping his fingers against the counter. Ayn had opted for a private table, hoping to avoid conversation. As the sturdy-looking man turned towards him, he felt that hope crumbling to dust. "You didn't order a souffle, did you?"

With a sigh, he sank back into the wooden chair where he sat. "No," he replied.

Staring flatly at the chef, the Galka turned back to her. "So neither of us ordered a souffle."

She looked at him blankly. "But souffles are delicious."

Rubbing a hand down his face, he clenched it into a fist as it sank to the counter. "Look, woman, I'm a Bard. I need to take good care of my voice, and part of that is a proper diet. Now all I'm after is some chamomille tea and a salad."

The chef wiped her hands on the white apron she was wearing, looking again at the crumbled mass inside the oven. "Souffles are made from eggs, you know. They're very healthy."

"I ordered my tea half an hour ago!" She seemed unfazed by his shouting. Eyes pleading, he turned to Ayn. The Thief was contemplating an escape from the room, but he was hungry. "Can you talk some sense into her, friend?"

"People keep using that word around me," he muttered. He was hungry, he decided, and he wanted no part of the sad-looking confection the auburn-haired woman was baing. "Miss, I wanted the red curry? How far along is it?"

"Oh that, you don't want that," she shook her head. "Give me a few minutes, I'll make you some fish."

He wondered inwardly how many generations it had been since her relatives married outside the family. "I know what I want or I wouldn't have ordered it. Now kindly do your job and make me some red curry."

"But the flavor is just all wrong," she complained, looking genuinely upset. "The ingredients don't combine dynamically. There's no harmony to it."

"I'll tell you what is and isn't harmony," the Bard rose from his stool, pushing down on the counter. "Now make me my tea!"

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. "Fine, fine, gravity looks to be holding down my souffle anyway." Peering again into the oven, she reluctantly began dousing the flames. "You know, space is full of gravity."

"For Altana's sake Quanteria, just boil some water for me and I'll put the tea in myself." Turning to Ayn, the Galka shoved a thumb in the chef's direction, shaking his head. "Can you believe this woman? It's like this in here every day."

Ayn displayed exactly how much he cared on his face, but to his dismay the Galka stood up and walked over to his table, pulling up an uninvited chair. "Don't - " he started to say, but it was too late.

"I'm Gaard," he introduced himself, "traveler extraordinaire, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Looking back at Quanteria, humming away as she threw things haphazardly in a bowl behind the counter, Ayn's hunger began to seem less important.

"Look," he told the Galka, "I'm very hungry and this conversation has a good chance of being very boring. I'd rather avoid it if I could."

To his surprise, Gaard erupted in a deep belly laugh, slapping the table in amusement. The utensils upon is shook and clattered, nearly falling to the floor. "I'm a Bard, pirate, it's my job to be entertaining. And I'm very good at my job."

"I'm not a pirate," Ayn rebuked indignantly.

"Oh?" Gaard raised an eyebrow as Quanteria walked to the table, setting down a pewter platter with a steaming cup atop it. "Aren't you Ayn, the Pirate President's son?" He smirked, taking a sip, but then sputtering and spitting out the dark liquid. "Quanteria!" He fumed at the woman as she walked away. "This is chai!"

"Chai is better for your auras than tea." She called back.

Gaard's face sank into his hands. "Of all the places I could have been stuck, it had to be here."

"The Boss isn't my father," Ayn told him darkly. "He just knows good talent when he sees it. How do you know me?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, to which Gaard smiled again, blowing on his unwanted beverage.

"I collect stories, like most Bards, and this place is always talking about you." He looked down at his cup, flicking his eyes briefly back up towards Ayn before taking a sip. "They say you're about to undertake a secret mission for the President."

"Ha," Ayn scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Hardly. More like running an errand for him." He folded his arms, tilting his head back. As with most things in Norg, the mess hall was inside a cave, with wooden planks laid down to simulate an actual floor and walls. The ceiling was left bare, however, and a craggy gray surface stared back at him. "So, you're a Bard." He gave up, realizing the hefty Galka wasn't going anywhere. "Seen anything interesting?"

"Anything interesting?" Gaard exclaimed. "I've walked through the libraries of Adoulin. I've seen the totem pole dances of Ulbuku. I sang at the princess's naming-day ceremony for the royal family in Olzhirya. Even tried to get up to Rahzowa, once, but my ship was attacked by Gigases from the shore. I drifted at sea for weeks after that, eventually finding myself rescued by an Imperial ship in Arrapago. From there I - "

"You could've just said no." Ayn stabbed his fork into the table, the shaft springing back and forth with the impact. "Where is that curry?" He demanded.

Gaard was laughing again. "I see you're not an easy man to please." He sipped at his chai, sighing as he peered into the cup. "Why such a chip on your shoulder, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I do," he replied as Quanteria came by again, setting down a steaming hot bowl of distinctly yellow curry in front of him. Ayn's knife was half-drawn before he told himself it wouldn't be worth it, and sighed as he plucked his fork free from the table. The Hume woman hummed to herself, oblivious, as she walked back into the kitchen.

Sighing, Gaard leaned back in his chair. He placed his near-empty cup back on the tray, giving Ayn a contemplative stare. "As usual, the source of the story is the hardest person to get information from. This is why so many Bard's tales are full of things so hard to believe. We try to talk to the people actually involved, but they're always so damned unapproachable that we end up hearing everything second or thirdhand, and the story gets a little more exaggerated every time."

"Sounds like a hard life." Ayn had to begrudgingly admit that the curry wasn't at all bad, even if it was not what he ordered. Hunger was definitely the best sauce, he decided.

"Ha, you see there? I can now record your sardonic wit into any songs or stories about your exploits. That aspect of your personality might have been lost to history otherwise."

"You know," he replied in a bemused voice, "I am really amazed at how this place finds a new way to make me hate it every day I'm here." Pushing aside his dish to let it cool a bit, he placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. "I don't want to talk to you, or anybody in this stupid place. I want to do whatever it is my Boss needs me for and get back to living my own life. If you want to make me happy, go spread a song around Norg called "Don't Bother Ayn," I'd be an instant fan."

Once again surprising him, he found Gaard now staring at him intently. "Would that make you happy, Ayn? If everybody left you alone?"

"Oh for the love of - " he was just about to finish his sentence when the double doors to the mess hall swung open, and a noisy procession followed.

"Buona sera!" A ringing voice announced. With a flourish, a dashing figure in brilliantly shining armor burst into the room. It was Celtico, one of the crewmen of President's Charybdis. He stood stock still , one arm extended in the air, the other planted on his hip. Unmoving, he stared at the ceiling, until a burst of smoke billowed from behind him with a loud "poof," and in the next moment four more figures had appeared, stretching their arms out dramatically.

"Ta-da!" They all cried at once.

Ayn pushed his face into his palm. "Just what I needed," he moaned.

Argentina's personal retainers approached the counter separating the dining portion of the room from the kitchen. Celtico was in the lead, striding confidently forward in his heavy armor, meticulously styled silver hair cascading down his Elvaan ears. The two other Elvaan, Illidan and Aramyl, followed close behind him. Aramyl had been in Norg for as long as Ayn could remember, serving under Gilgamesh before being transferred to President's operation. He wore thick, black armor not unlike Zealot's, and carried two axes on either side of his waist. His hair was graying, and his face starting to show his age, but he still wore a wide smile. Illidan, by contrast, was younger by a good ten years, his hair still jet black. Most of his armament was a seemingly random assortment of armor with stiff plates covering his shoulders and joints, with a long great katana as his weapon of choice.

Behind the three Elvaan were Kyraska and Tigs. The former was a Hume with black hair, wearing the signature tabard and hat practitioners of the school of Red Mages gravitated towards. Greyheart's own garb was similar, but Kyraska's included a skirt instead of breeches, and was far more form-fitting. Tigs, on the other hand, was a Mithra in very conservative blue robes, leaving much of her figure to the imagination. As close as Ayn could discern, all five of them originated from the same place, and their native tongue was a language highly dissimilar from his own. Fortunately, they knew a few words here and there, so communication was not impossible.

"Quanteria, signora," Celtico spread his hands out on the counter. "Your cooking, signora, such a thing of beauty, stupendo!" The Elvaan brought the tips of his fingers together and kissed them to emphasize his point. "Your pescatora, I have never tasted its like on this side of the ocean. And your meatballs!"

"Deliziso!" Illidan exclaimed, and the others nodded in agreement.

"You're all so kind," she smiled at the pirates. "What can I get for you today?"

"Meatballs!"

"Fettuccine!"

"Pasta!"

"Slow down, slow down," the auburn-haired woman began writing down their orders, stopping only to argue with them about their choices.

Gaard was watching the group with some speculation as Ayn regretted ordering the curry. It was far too spicy for him to wolf down and leave while the Galka was distracted. Sighing, he ate a bit more, half-watching the antics of the foreigners as Quanteria tried to make their menu for them.

"That must be an interesting story." The Bard tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about that lot?"

"They're loud and they eat a lot," Ayn blew on a forkful of his own meal before chewing on it. "What do you care, anyway?"

"Being a Bard is competitive work, Ayn. You always have to be on the lookout for the next subject of a song or tale, or there won't be any demand for your work."

Something about that actually piqued his interest. "I would've thought people only cared about hearing things they're familiar with. The classics."

Gaard shrugged, spreading his hands. "Sure, sure, there's a lot of that, but mostly from the older crowd. The young ones, they want to hear about the latest exploits of the great adventurers and linkshells. They want something to aspire to, the way I see it." With a satisfied sip, he finished off the last of his chai, setting the cup down as he leaned forward. "Have you never heard adventure beckon, Ayn? Is there no greater calling you want to follow?"

Ayn bit down on his dish, tearing it from the fork while keeping his eyes on Gaard. He chewed slowly, dark eyes directing an unsettling gaze the Bard's way, before he swallowed and took a moment to wipe his mouth with a napkin. Pushing his chair back, he stood, looking down his nose at the Galka.

"We're done here. Goodbye, Bard."

Gaard sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his head. "Remember, Ayn, we all leave a story behind." Ayn rose slowly, acutely aware of the piercing eyes upon him. "Will yours be worth telling?"

Ayn said nothing, leaving behind the half-finished dish. He had lost his appetite.


"Stupid Bard," he muttered to himself as he wandered the caverns of Norg. The last thing he wanted was people telling stories about him. All he wanted was to be left alone and answerable to nobody but himself. His entire life, it seemed, one person or another was pulling his strings, and just before this demon business got started he had finally started to make his own way in the world. Now he was right back in it, working for other people. Be it his father, his first mentor, or even President, everybody was concerned only with how Ayn could benefit them.

Well no more, he promised himself. He would do the last job President gave him and then catch the first ship headed east. That would take him away from all the grand manipulators trying to use him as well as the idiots he had to deal with along the way.

As if summoned by the thought, Ayn rounded a corner only to nearly collide with Greyheart Hiralda. The Red Mage stopped just short of the Thief, who almost stumbled forward in halting himself. "Ah, Master Ayn," the Elvaan bowed deeply. "So sorry I didn't see you there. Ah, tell me," he glanced about furtively. "Has Miss Kyraska ventured this way? She's a Red Mage you see, from a distant land, and I thought perhaps a . . . cultural exchange would be beneficial."

"Where's Tikinas?" He ignored the gray-haired Elvaan's idiocy. "For that matter, why are you out of your cell?"

Greyheart gave a soft smile. "Yes, that. It seems after ascertaining the stability of the fire crystal, Sir Klistel and Madam Tomiko returned here and were received by Gilgamesh. After hearing the whole story about our encounter with the Duke, it was decided that your . . . fears, shall we say, about us were finally put to rest. We are now allowed to roam Norg freely."

"How great for you." Ayn said flatly. Wonderful, he thought to himself. The crazy dragon lady and her hippy friend were here now, too. "Have you seen Tikinas or not?"

The Elvaan shrugged. "Can she be seen if she doesn't wish to be?" He paused thoughtfully, staring into the distance for a moment. "Though now that I consider the matter, while I was following Miss Pinkfae I heard her - " he stopped, looking at Ayn, and then nonchalantly hooked his thumbs in his belt. "That is to say, our Paladin companion spends much time with Lady Tikinas. Find one and you may find the other - and Miss Pinkfae was on her way to see President."

"Ugh." Ayn's head drooped back, and he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. He drew a frustrated hand down the length of his face.

"Is everything alright?" Greyheart sounded concerned. "Do you need to talk about anything, Ayn?"

"Altana, no," he said emphatically. "Why do people want to talk to me today? Just . . . go make yourself useful somewhere. Get out of my sight."

"Suit yourself," the Red Mage shrugged, "but do be aware that the offer stands, if you ever do - "

"I won't." Ayn brushed past him. He could feel the Elvaan's eyes on him as he walked away, but ignored it. He had nothing to say. Hopefully he'd be able to find Pinkfae easily and avoid talking to President.

Being located within a seaside cave as it was, Norg was a fairly small town. Busy at is was now with pirates, thieves, and spies moving back and forth constantly to try and prepare for war, the central section had become noisy and crowded. For almost two straight weeks it seemed, the harbor was always full with ships moving in or out. Some were carrying refugees brought in from Mindartia or Quon. Others brought in weapons of war, ready to be distributed - for a price, naturally. Occasionally a ship flying a foreign flag would lay anchor, allies from afar called in by Gilgamesh or President. Familiar faces waved at Ayn or shouted greetings as he brushed past the bustle of activity.

Eventually he managed to break through without anyone else trying to stop and talk to him. He thanked Altana for small blessings as he stood before the heavy doors leading to President's office. With a sigh which made his shoulders slump, he rapped on the door, awaiting a response.

It opened a crack at first, and then swung open wide. The stocky, black-coated figure of President stood in the doorway, smiling broadly. "Ayn! Come on in, son, come in." He gestured for him to follow, even as he walked back inside. "Wasn't expectin' ye. Getcha a cup of tea? Brandy?"

"No, thanks," he looked around the room carefully. Besides some basic furniture and a sea chart tacked to the wall, it was practically bare. The only ostentation was an intricately crafted statue resting on the pirate's desk. A black dragon perhaps two feet across was mounted on a wooden stand, gleaming under the torchlight. From the look of it, the scales were actual onyx, and the spikes on its tail fashioned from real ivory. It took him only a moment to realize that two small emeralds made up the eyes, and the teeth were all carefully cut diamonds. The tiny thing probably would have been worth a fortune simply for the level of detail. With all the precious stones involved, Ayn imagined he could buy the port of Mhaura and still have change left over.

He then took a look at President himself as he sat down behind the thick oak desk. With his tattered hat and plain, nondescript clothes, the only thing that stood out about him was his coat. The black-and-gold garment was a masterpiece, probably a greater symbol of authority than any crown or scepter. That was President's way, it seemed. With his room and himself, he picked one thing to stand out, but in a way which left no doubt as to his position.

"I can't stay," he said quickly, "I was just coming to see if Tiki was here. It looks like she isn't so . . . "

"Sit, sit," President gestured towards a chair in front of him. He lit a match, igniting a pipe pressed to his lips and puffing at it slowly. "We've got things to discuss."

"No, I'm really just looking for Tikinas - "

"Ayn." His voice was hard. "Take a seat."

He stood where he was, returning President's flinty gaze. "Look," he began, "I've already agreed to go run your errands for you. There's nothing else to talk about. I only came back to Norg because I had to - as soon as this is done, I'm taking a ship east and forgetting all this ever happened. So I don't have to - "

The knife lodged itself in the wall beside Ayn's ear with a solid thunk, and then a slight ringing sound as the metal vibrated in the wood. He had not even seen the old man move. Even now, he sat at his desk, still calmly puffing his pipe.

"When ye can catch that knife, yer ready t' be calling yer own shots. Until then," he indicated the chair again with the stem of his pipe. "And bring my knife back to me, will ye?"

Ayn felt his face turning red. He had to keep his body from shaking as he reached up, tearing the small blade free. Splinters of the wall came out with it, and with an angered toss Ayn sent it arching through the air, landing point-down in President's desk. The dagger was not nearly as sharp as Ayn's gaze as he sat down.

President shook his head, thin rings of smoke puffing out from his pipe. "Yer so angry at th' world lately," he criticized. "Ain't ye happy to be so useful?"

"Useful," Ayn repeated darkly. "It still means being used."

Tossing back his head, President let out a sigh which sounded more like a growl. His boots stamped on the ground as he leaned forward quickly, taking the pipe from his mouth and tapping ash out into a tray on his desk. "Ye never got over bein' so suspicious of th' whole damn world. I know ye didn't get that from yer father, which means that first master o' yers musta drilled it into yer thick head."

"Let's not bring him up." His tone bordered on acidic. "What do you want to talk to me about?"

President stared hard at him, eyebrows knitting together as his teeth ground down the stem of his pipe. "Fine, son," he finally shook his head, putting another match up to the mouth. "Fine." The old man took a moment to enjoy another long puff, and then his visage drew into the look he always wore when talking business. Ayn had seen it more than enough to recognize the shark-like gleam in his eye.

"Th' first thing I oughtta do is ask ye why we had three people who saved th' whole damn island locked up." He bit into the stem of his pipe again. "But I know ye'll just say somthin' flippant an' brush it off, so, we'll move on." Ayn was a little wounded by that. He had thought of a great flippant response and now it was going to waste. "So let's get down t' th' heart a th' matter. Yer going t' th' Temple a Uggaleppih. Yer takin' th' others with ye, too, because we both know it'll be too dangerous for just you 'n Tiki."

"It's the Temple of Uggalepih, even the monsters in there usually stay clear of people. Don't you need people here? With so many out to sea the security here looks like a skeleton crew."

President shook his head. "We'll be fine. I don't think Norg's gonna fall under attack. But with th' demons stirrin' things up, th' Tonberries are like t' be restless. Take yer friends."

"They're not - ugh, fine." He tapped the arm of his chair impatiently. "Why am I going there in the first place? What in that stupid temple could be so important, anyway?"

"Not what," President corrected, "who."

"Who?" Ayn raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "Only Tonberries live in the Temple."

"Almost true." President took another puff from his pipe before again tapping out the ash. He laid it aside, folding his fingers together as he spoke. "There's one fella in th' deepest, darkest part, an' that sure enough is who yer after."

"You're kidding me."

"Not at all, Ayn. I'm sendin' ye in t' go meet th' South Wind, an' Altana willin', bring him back with ye, too."