| abstract
| - Zia sits on the bed, making steady headway on a bit of toast in her hand. Taran just answered the door. Head canted curiously to the side, Zia watches the doorway. Muri smiles brightly. "G'day, Messer Taran," she says. "Thought Ah'd come t'seen Missus Zia. See 'ow she's a'farin' t'day. Tis a good time or no?" She fingers the strap of her pack absently. Taran nods. "It is a fine time," he says lightly. "She was just about to eat, you are welcome to join the talk. We have an idea what may be causing this." Zia smiles at Muri, setting the toast down to wave. "Hello. No reason for it to be a bad time." Muri grins and steps inside, setting her pack by the door. "Dats good news, Messer," she says. "G'day, Missus. Some toast, hrmm? Tis good yer gettin' yer stomach back. So wot all ye been sayin'?" Taran laughs a bit. "Just chatting...you have not been coughing at all, have you?" Zia makes a face, glancing down at the toast and shaking her head. "Not really, no," she admits. "I'm under threat. We think it may have something to do with crop season." Muri shakes her head. "Nay, Messer," she says. "Ah haint come down wid de same cough as Missus, here. Tis late fer crops comin' in, haint it?" She looks thoughtful for a moment. "D'ye still 'ave dat rash on yer neck Missus?" "It's spread a bit," says Taran ruefully. "It wasn't when all this started," Zia says. "The farmers' children have been sick. And..." She holds up her hand, displaying the back of it to Muri, which is, yes, displaying the first signs of redness. "Aye, it's still there, too." Muri steps over to inspect Zia's hand. "Dis not takin' t'any o'de salves?" she asks, then glances at Taran and back to Zia. "Farms ye say? Crops...where were ye, Missus? Ye sayin' ye was wid yer neice, aye. Didja goed t'any farms afore dat?" "She said she could smell the fertilizer on the wind," says Taran quietly. "I think there may be something in it, affecting those who breathe the air." Zia nods. "My niece is in Marble Grove," she says. "In the middle of all this mess. There's been trouble with some of the crops this year... some of the farmers spread more fertilizer on their fields while I was there to make them grow." Muri pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear and shakes her head. "We got bad crops a'fore," she says. "Sometim' de soil needin' 'elps. Don' thin' Ah 'eard o'any soil menders dat would do such a thin' t'a body. Mus' be somefin' new, aye? Somethin' in de soil 'mendin'? Messer Sandrim say 'e gone t'de Wildlands fer soil 'mendin' stuffs. Ummm...Bis'n 'e say. Him feelin' okay?" Taran spreads his hands. "It may just be fertilizer from a particular source," he notes. "From here it is quite hard to track down a source." "Sandrim seems to be fine," Zia says. "I think... the consensus is that I'm not contagious." It's news she seems pleased about. "Aye, I'd say it must be new. The fertilizer seems about as likely a source as any at this point, though." Muri nods. "Tis true," she says. "If'n no one else gittin' sicks in de Refuge, den it haint our crops dats de problem." She looks to Taran. "Wot de ye 'ave in mind t'do, Messer? Ye thinkin' t'goed int' Fas'eld t'fin' de source?" Zia smiles a little. "He mentioned something to that effect," she says vaguely. "But I don't think there's a solid plan in mind yet. Do you have an idea?" Muri shakes her head. "Ah 'spects de bes' thin' t'do is goed up dere," she says. "Talk t'some farm folk, see where all dere gettin' dem soil mendin' from. Trouble is, if'n we haint got sick yet, if'n we goed dere, we might. Trouble too, if'n we find where it comin' from, we haint gonna knowd de cure fer it, aye?" Zia nods to that. "Aye. But maybe if we know where it comes from, it'll at least be a start?" She shrugs. "I'm no healer, but it sounds logical to me. Maybe we could at least see what's causing it." "Lahk as not, if'n ye were t'goed wid us, ye'd not git sick since ye alreadys sick," Muri replies. "Doh Ah'd druther ye got stronger afore we goed." She taps her chin thoughtfully. "How long ye git sick after ye smelled dat soil mender?" Zia frowns. "I first started coughing shortly after I left my sister's place, so... that'd make it a couple of days from the time I first smelled the fertilizer to the time I decided I probably had a cold?" Muri shakes her head. "Dats not a lot o'time t'track it down afore one o'us come down wid it," she says. "'ow long afore ye couldnae travel after ye started coughin'?" "A week," Zia muses. "Maybe a little more. But listen Muri, you don't want this. If it's in the air, is there something you can do that might make it less likely you catch it?" Taran reaches behind himself, takes his braid in his hand, and wraps it around his face, over his nose. "Masks." Muri nods. "A week plus a couple o'days," she says. "Dat might be long 'nuffs t'find de source den fin' wot all's causin' de trouble." She nods to Taran. "Ah 'spects de bes we c'n do is cover our faces wid cloths if'n de wind is up, brung our own food supplies so's we not drinkin' de water. Mayhaps we c'n keep it from gettin' to us too fasts. Ah 'members ye said ye knew de Kingdom 'ealer, aye, Messer? Mayhaps she'd knowd some ways to fidger out wot all's in de soil mender dats makin' folk sick." Zia nods, slowly. "All right. You'll be careful." A little reluctant, though she does grin at Taran. "You'll need a better one than that." Taran nods. "I have many clothes that can be turned into masks. A later of silk, in two layers of cotton...that should help if anything can." Muri nods. "Dat sound 'bout rights, Messer," she says. "'ow soons ye want t'goed?" She looks to Zia worriedly. "Ah hates t'leave ye lahks dis, Missus, but if'n we c'n find de bad soil mender den mayhaps we c'n find a cure fer wot ails ye." She glance at Taran. "Me 'orse 'n wagon's in White'aven. Ah c'n leaves wen yer able." Zia spreads her hands. "Somebody has to go. I can't, or I would. Just... don't get the bright idea to catch it so you can try something out on it, or anything like that." She shakes her head, and takes a bite of toast. Taran mms. "You will not give Sandrim....*relevant* trouble, will you?" he asks Zia. Muri skirts the bed and kneels next to a small wooden chest. "Now Ah wonders if'n deres such Ah should brung from dis 'ere," she murmurs as she opens it. She rustles around for a moment and produces a pair of gloves. "Dese might come in 'andy," she says, shutting the chest once more. Zia widens her eyes innocently at the bard. "Taran, I'm hurt. I never cause trouble." She grins, wickedly despite her less-than-up-to-par status. "I promise only to give him *irrelevant* trouble." She looks to Muri, and smirks. "I'd just about decided you'd forgotten you left it here, you know." Taran nods, grinning. "Good. I would not want either of you to be bored, I would just prefer your health not be the gamble." Muri nods. "Wahl dere weren't no place t'put it at Aeseryi's an' me 'ouse haint done," she says. "De wool dress tis a good idear t'ave, but awkward wid de armor." She sighs. "So's ye ready t'ead out den Messer?" Zia returns the grin. "Ai? You get to gamble yours but I don't get to play with mine?" She shakes her head. "It's a deal if you'll try your best not to catch it when you're in Fastheld, mm?" She nods to Muri. "Ai, I can't stand my armor..." "I've grown used to mine," notes Taran. "And of course I will take every precaution. I already have spent a few months abed this year, I do not wish to spend another." "No 'mounts o'armor gonna keep dis outta our lungs," Muri murmurs. "Where ye gots dem cloths ye was sayin'?" She looks over to Zia. "Ah haint sayin' Ah c'n keeps dis one safe, Missus, but Ah'll do me bes'." Zia smiles. "That's all I'm asking for," she says simply. Taran nods. "I do believe I will be shredding some of my old tunics for it. But it will do." Muri nods to Taran. "No better time den now," she says. "Should we stop at yer 'ouse den, Messer?" She picks up her pack. Taran smiles and gets to his feet. "Just what I was going to say to you," he says, and follows Muri out. Located north of the lake known as the Marble Basin, the township of Marble Grove has grown in the midst of the tall biinwood masts of the Blue Raven Forest that blanket the horizon of the east. Multistoried stone-and-thatch cottages encircle the town's central hub, cooled by the breezes that blow off the lake. Providence Road cuts through the middle of the township as it marches between the city of Freehaven far to the east, and the Imperial Isle and the township of Lightholder in the west. It is along this road that Marble Grove has prospered, acting as a rest-stop for merchants and travelers alike seeking shelter for the night before they continue their long trek east or west, depending on their destination. Now maintained by the Empire itself, officers of the Imperial Watch can often be found in-town, making use of the services while taking advantage of a change of scenery from the nearby Fort. Surrounded by a low palisade wall, gates at the east and western sides of the township mark access points back out onto the main road. To the south, along the northeastern coast of the Marble Basin, the township's Docks District can be found, permitting access to docked vessels and transportation out onto the waters themselves. The Roaring Hills Tavern is also located in the Docks District, along with the Auction House. It's a peculiar picture they paint, stepping through the city gates. A giant cloaked scarecrow of a man, clad in black armor but with a bright argentite staff, and a smaller woman as companion, both wearing cloth masks over the lower parts of their faces. "Something that can be breathed...one can only hope it's the fertilizer." Muri nods as she glances around the city. "Does ye wan' t'start aksin' de 'ealers 'round 'ere or mayhaps de sellers at de mercantile?" She wrinkles her nose as if trying to keep the mask on her face. "Ah jus' 'ope we're not mistook fer bandits wid dese thin's on." A chill, gentle breeze wafts through the streets of Marblehold this evening, made all the colder by the absence of the sun and the bone-white light of the solitary moon hovering in the sky. There's a few left out on the streets - keyword being 'few' - going about their business, chatting in low voices, and occasionally punctuating their words with a quiet cough. The smell of animal manure hints in the air, though it is fainter now than it doubtless was earlier in the year. Taran laughs quietly. "The easiest clue I am not a bandit is I am not beating anyone up or taking their money. I am armed and armored and quite a bit larger than they are. If I wanted to be a bandit I would already be about it. Perhaps you should ask the questions, and I will be your surly bodyguard." Muri looks up to Taran, her eyes crinkling indicating the smirk behind her mask. "If'n ye say 'Ah might be stupid but Ah c'n lift 'eavy thin's' Ah'll surely do somefin we both'll regrets," she says, eyes twinkling. She points to the mercantile. "Let's start dere, aye?" An A-frame structure built of gnarl pine logs and choketwister vines, this mercantile is one of the oldest in the realm of Fastheld - but the building itself has been replaced at least three times, after succumbing to rot, a raging forest fire, and a saltpit eruption (the last just six decades ago). The mercantile is known across the realm as the Fossil, but, locally, residents call it Resurrection. Taran laughs that quiet laugh. "I am a bodyguard, not a pack mule. I break heavy things in half so my little healer friend can go where she needs." Muri laughs and shakes her head. "Tis good t'ave fren's in high places," she notes dryly. Taran nods, settling his cloak so that his black armor is clearly visible, his bright staff held casually in one hand, in such a manner that suggests at any moment it might be employed. Muri moves forward and cranes her neck, looking around the apparently empty shop. "Alloo?" she calls. "Tis anyones 'ere?" At first, Muri's call goes unanswered, save perhaps by the oh-so-talkative *dust mites* that lurk behind goods on the shelves. Then, footsteps can be heard, and the thud of something being set down. Emerging like a bear from hibernation from behind tall shelves, a great, lumbering, beast of a man moves forward towards the two. "Ayuh?" he asks dimly, scratching at a wiry, hairy beard. "C'n Ah 'elp ye with somethin'?" His skin tone seems a bit on the pale side, but beyond that, he seems healthy himself. Taran looks at the man, then down at Muri, then back at the man, studying him intently. Muri steps forward and nods, cheeks lifting her mask high as she smiles. "G'eve, Messer," she says. "Ah'm lookin' fer some soil mender. Ah 'eard tell dat dere were some new stuffs made out dis away an' Ah was wonderin' if'n de tales o' it 'elpin' crops tis true?" She glances at Taran. "We're from down South aways, an' me...farm tis needin' some 'elps." The bearman's sizeable face splits into a smile, showing white teeth half-hidden in that mass of bushy beard. "Ah, ye're not the only ones come a-lookin' fer it. Ye name it, Ah sell it. Right bes' fert'lizer ye're gonna find 'round these parts. 'ow much ye needin'?" "Mistress is looking," says Taran, in a low and carefully enunciated tone that suggests attempting to hide an accent, "For the new stuff." He taps a spidery fingertip toward his mask. "That we can smell." Muri nods. "Ah'll take a bushell if'n ye gots it," she says. "Jus' t'tries, mind. If'n it work wid me soils, why Ah'll orders more." She takes out a pouch of coins, then sets a gloved hand on the dusty counter. "Th' new stuff, mm?" The man considers this for a moment, sniffing the air as if branding what kind it is. "Aye, Ah sells it." He looks at Muri for a long moment, and grins, as if he finds something amusing. Shaking his head, he waves a hand for them to follow. "A'rights. Jus' a sackful, then? Ah'll be off t' get it." With that, he lumbers off towards the back of the shop once more. Taran considers this. "You can smell what is different, about the new fertilizer?" Muri shrugs. "Seems 'e can," she says. "Ah wunner if'n 'e'd tell us wot was makin' it smells diff'rent." She wipes the counter a bit with her glove. "After 'e comes back, we'll need t'find de local 'ealers." The bearman returns a moment later, a sack of foul-smelling fertilizer clutched in his massive arms. It doesn't smell pleasant. At all. But it is quite recognizably the one that's scenting the air outside--only, about thirty times stronger. He nods absently to Taran. "Ayuh. Ye get t' th' point where ye c'n tell th' kind o' fert'lizer by th' smell, af'er long 'nough." Dropping the sack with a thud on the counter, he grins at Muri. "This th' right stuff, Missus?" Taran studies the trader carefully, then turns his attention to Muri. Muri blinks, her eyes watering from the pungent odor. "Seems so," she says. "Ah've got a wagon outside if'n Ah c'n troubles ye wid puttin' it in fer me. Extra coin fer ye, o'course. Dere's one ofver thin' Ah'm needin'. Ah 'eard tell dere's a 'ealer dis part dat might be in'erested in some herbs Ah trade. D'ye knowd where de 'ealers 'all might be?" She starts to count coins on the counter. "Ai, no, no." The trader shakes his head, grinning at Muri. "Ah wouldna think o' askin' ye t' pay me extra jus' fer 'elpin' ye out a little. Ah'd be glad t' do it fer a pretty missus like ye." The black eyes surreptitiously scan the little pile of coins accumulating on the counter before he gives an approving nod of the price and hefts the odorous sack into his arms once more. "Now, iff'n ye c'n show me th' way t' yer wagon, Ah'll just point out the healers on th' way." Taran leans on his staff, both hands on it, and waits for Muri's decision. Muri chuckles. "Yer more den kind, Messer," she says adding two more coins to the pile. "Jus' right outside." She moves toward the door and slips outside. Located north of the lake known as the Marble Basin, the township of Marble Grove has grown in the midst of the tall biinwood masts of the Blue Raven Forest that blanket the horizon of the east. Multistoried stone-and-thatch cottages encircle the town's central hub, cooled by the breezes that blow off the lake. Providence Road cuts through the middle of the township as it marches between the city of Freehaven far to the east, and the Imperial Isle and the township of Lightholder in the west. It is along this road that Marble Grove has prospered, acting as a rest-stop for merchants and travelers alike seeking shelter for the night before they continue their long trek east or west, depending on their destination. Now maintained by the Empire itself, officers of the Imperial Watch can often be found in-town, making use of the services while taking advantage of a change of scenery from the nearby Fort. Surrounded by a low palisade wall, gates at the east and western sides of the township mark access points back out onto the main road. To the south, along the northeastern coast of the Marble Basin, the township's Docks District can be found, permitting access to docked vessels and transportation out onto the waters themselves. The Roaring Hills Tavern is also located in the Docks District, along with the Auction House. The trader follows them, his lumbering gait making a steady thud... thud... on the ground as he tails along. His nose wrinkles slightly at the smell of the fertilizer just underneath it. Muri gestures to a horse and wagon nearby, then follows so she can tilt open the back gate. "Dere ye goes, Messer," she says. "Me thanks. Yer right kind." She glances around the square. "Seems empty t'nights," she says. "Not many folk a'walkin' out 'ere." Taran regards the sack, and the trader. "Does it make you cough, the fertilizer?" he asks. "When you are so close?" "This be a new load, jus' got in th' other day," the trader admits. "'s no' made me cough, no. I's been feelin' a bit off-cola fer a couple, but nae coughin'." He drops the fertilizer into the indicated wagon and straightens, hands going to the small of his back and a wince passing his hairy face as it pops. "Ye're right welcome, Missus. Now, th' healers be that-a-way." He points with his finger off to the south, in the direction of Marble Basin. "Ayuh, I s'pose it's a little quiet. Mos' folks's home wi' their younguns. The sickness be 'bouts, ye know." Muri turns toward the trader. "W'ere all it come from, dis soil mender, Messer?" she asks. "D'ye knowd wot make it differ'nt den de ofvers?" Taran nods. "Have you felt...off-color," and again that overcareful enunciation..."since this came in? Or earlier? My mistress is quite clever about such things." "So curious 'bout a bit o' fert'lizer!" The trader exclaims with a laugh. "Ayuh," he answers Taran. "Ah s'pose it would've been right 'round when this load came in that Ah firs' starts t' feel it. Th' fert'lizer straight from Freehaven--ayuh. Right good fert'lizer it is, now, too. Dunno what be so good 'bout it. Mayhaps it comes from well-fed 'orses." He grins. "An' fat cows." Muri nods. "Dats all good t'knowd, Messer," she says. "Now 'bouts dat 'ealer...w'ere ye thin' they'd be?" Taran nods agreement, and holds his peace. "That-a-ways," the trader says simply, pointing south, off towards Marble Basin. "Ah've not heard nothin' of herbs fer sale... but then, Ah be no healer, either. Mayhaps Ah've just not heard o' it. Nice folks, though. Light go with ye, Missus, Messer." Turning, the trader heads back into the Wildcat Mercantile. Muri nods and gives the man a wave. "Thankee!" she calls, then takes up the horses reins and turns toward the South. She waits until they are a fair distance from the shop before tilting her head toward Taran. "Well, dats a relief, den. Lookin' lahk dere's only one source o'de troubles. Ah don' knowd much fer 'ow t'figder out wot all tis in dis dust." She opens her gloved hand that had touched the counter. "But Ah'm 'opin de local healer knowd. Ye evah done such? Fidgered out wot goed int' a healin' rem'dy jus' by lookin' at it careful?" "There is a degree of alchemy required," Taran nods. "There are far better alchemists than I. I say we take this to the healer, and leave it for them to study, and the remedies that have worked on Zia. And we go to Freehaven." Muri nods. "Alchemy ye say?" she says. "Ah learn'd some in de Refuge, but nothin' from scratch lahk dis." She comes to the building the merchant had indicated. "Ah thin' dis is it." She steps inside. Taran moves to follow her, noting, "Perhaps masks have become commonplace." The inside of the building is musty and dimly lit. The walls are hung with lanterns, shining yellow light down on a floor bearing a couple small tables and a cot or two for those too injured or ill to leave the healer's sight. Both of those cots are full, though the patients appear to be sleeping. Shelves on the walls are lined with herbs and unidentified concoctions in little glass vials. The healer himself stands over one of the patients, his hand pressed to the young woman's forehead to check for a fever. A faint frown rests on his lips. Muri slips in and looks around. "G'eve," she says quietly. "Ah'm sorry t'disturb, but Ah'm lookin' fer de 'ealer 'ere." She steps aside to let Taran through the door. Taran occupies himself by going right to the rack of ingredients, looking them over. The healer looks up at the sound of Muri's voice, looking tired and worn. "That's me," he says in a clear, unaccented voice that suggests he's seen richer days. "Can I help you? Do you have another one ill? I'm afraid I'm terribly busy tonight..." Muri shakes her head. "No, act'ually," she says. "Ah'm 'opin' we c'n 'elps. Ah'm a 'ealer from de Refuge. M'name's Muri Woodhill. We gots a gal dats come down wid dis illness an' we're lookin' t'find a cure or treatment if'n we can. Comes on first as a cough, aye? Den a rash. Some med'cines 'elp, but nothin' takes it away, aye? Dat wot yer seein?" Taran sets about laying ingredients out on a counter, to be used, and then hunts down a quill, ink, and parchment. The healer blinks, watching Taran invade his medicine cabinets and half raising a finger, as if to protest. He stops, lowering it again, and just kind of gapes at the bard, as if he can't *quite* get his mind around the idea of anybody trying such a thing. Really ought to protest. Can't quite get his tongue to form the words. "Um," he says, decisively. Blinks. Then, finally, "Yes. That's it. What can you tell me about it?" "That you may possibly find the cause if you have the staff to spare to look over a sack of fertilizer," says Taran, writing with clean, bold strokes of the quill. "And these preparations seem to help - some come from the Royal Masterhealer herself. Keep the windows closed, meantime." Muri gingerly removes her dusty glove and sets it on a towel on a table. "We thin' it might be de soil mender dat come up from Free'older," she says. "Now we don' know fer sure, but dis dus' might tell us. Are ye knowin' alchemy much, Messer? Ah knowd some, but mayhaps if'n we c'n tell wot dis soil mender made from, den mayhaps we c'n knowd 'ow t'cure wot ails folks. If dere haint 'nuffs in dis 'ere dus' den we c'n take a bit from de sack outside." She nods to Taran. "'ims knowin' much too. Ye c'n trus' 'im." The healer nods, glancing over Taran's writing as that quill flies across the page before going to shut the windows. "You think it is airborne," he says, his speech picking up speed. "What has the Masterhealer had to say on it? And yes, I know some alchemy. I am a healer, I know some." Going to one of the shelves, he takes a couple of flat, glass plates and sets them on the table. "These preparations will help to treat the symptoms," says Taran, finishing his writing, and bringing the healer the sheets. "And yes, airborne, but not contagious. We've had a case at Crown's Refuge who was here, but no one has caught it from her. We discussed the cases she knew of, and the manure is the only common factor we've found. Even the man who sold that sack of it to us did not begin coughing until after he'd bought it." Muri nods and looks thoughtful. "On second," she says. "Ah'll goed get a bit o'dat mender now. C'n Ah borrows one o'dem dishes dere, Messer?" She reaches over and takes one up and heads outside. The healer nods absently to Muri. "Yes... yes, please do. That's what they're there for." He accepts the papers from Taran, scanning them quickly and frowning. "This will treat symptomatically," he states, more to himself than anything. "It has worked in some cases, but not in all, I'm afraid. What's given you the idea that the manure is the common factor? There is manure every year, all over the Kingdom." "This is different somehow," says Taran firmly. "This batch, from a specific source. The cases may be breaking out where it's being shipped and used. We will investigate further ourselves in any event, but in the interest of possibly saving lives, we ask that you look into this batch for signs of something which may cause an allergic reaction." Muri returns with the sample and sets it on the table. "Ah 'ad a thought out dere," she says, moving to the shelves and taking down a few vials. "Could be somefin' growin' *in* de soil mender, somfin' dat haint dere usual like." She drops a few liquids onto the sample. An acrid odor fills the room as soon as the liquid touches to the manure sample on the table... and slowly, it begins to change color. Well, some of it, anyway. White becomes visible on the surface of the sample, as of a faint fuzz of some kind. The healer blinks at it, watching the color change. "It hadn't even occurred to me to try that," he says slowly, and shakes his head. "If it is truly in the manure, it could be from anywhere. Any farmer uses fertilizer on their fields to strengthen the crop. Most fertilizer sales go kingdom-wide. And yet this is localized." He nods to Taran. "I will see what I can find out here. How much luck have you had with this treatment?" He indicates the papers in his hand. "The patient has responded quite well to it," says Taran. "Forcing her to eat has been harder, but has helped. We know this fertilizer came from Freehaven - that is where we will go next, and see if we can stop the spread at the source." Muri looks at the results of her test. "Ye might want t'try different combinations o'cures on samples," she says. "See if'n anythin' works t'stop it from spreadin'. Ah'll leave de bag fer ye whilst we go on t'Freehaven, aye? Send a message t'us dere if'n ye find anythin'." She looks to Taran. "D'ye want t'res' de night 'ere or press on, Messer?" "We move on, I think," says Taran. "If nothing else we can talk to the healers there as well." The healer nods, considering the sample. "If I feed that to a patient, it will kill them," he says. "But it is a start. Light go with you. I will see what I can find here." Muri nods, takes up her glove once more and heads out the door. "Thankee, Messer," she says to the healer. "Light keep ye all." Taran nods. "If you find anything, send word to Taran Songbird," he says, and heads for the door. "The couriers will know where to look." The healer blinks, double-taking a look at Taran before nodding. "Very well." Originally known as the city of Vozhdya (and Aegisview in 626 ATA after Markus Kahar's fall from grace), this former enclave of the Vozhd-Kahar is located in the southern reaches of the Market District. Now the township of Freehaven, it is situated in a prime trade location, as all trade between the Forest District and Trademeet passes through here. As a result, this township sees quite a bit of merchant traffic, and a good amount of other travelers as well due to it being no more than two carriage trips from about half of the rest of the Kingdom. It may come as no surprise, then, that Freehaven Square - the Merchant District of the town - is home to a good number of shops whose owners are hoping to cash in on the area's high traffic flow. Broad cobblestone avenues expand in all directions, leading to and past the various buildings and the services they provide. Fused into the ground in front of The Loom and Spindle is a large obsidian longsword known as Kahar's Fury. The west gate leads out to Freehaven Wharf and Providence Road beyond. Starkhorn Circle, the Temple District, resides in the north, while the Freelander District of Rabbit's Roost is to the south. To the east lies the Noble District, known as Goldweaver. Muri enters Freehaven, steps slow but determined. "We're makin' way, Messer Taran," she says with hope in her voice. "Jus' gotta find w'ere dat soil menders made." She stops and looks around. "D'ye see a lahkly shop t'try?" Taran nods. "We know it came from here. So...local farmers. I say...head to either a fertilizer dealer, or the healer's hall." Muri nods and heads toward the stables. "Mayhaps dese folks'll knowd where dere baggin' de soil mender," she says. "Seems dat somefin' got int' de stuffs, aye? Ne'er seen such lahk we saw wid does samples. Ah 'opes dat 'ealer's able t'find out more from dem samples. She reaches the stables and puts a hand to her masked face. "Alloo!" she calls. "Stable boy!" A stable boy appears after a moment to heed Muri's call, craning his neck around in search of a horse. "Ayep, Missus?" he greets her with an incline of his head. "C'n Ah help ye?" Taran holds his peace, letting Muri do what she will. Muri fishes a coin from her pouch. "Yer a fine youngin'," she says. "Dere's somefin' Ah'm lookin' fer. Deres' a special soil mender only made in dis 'ere parts. D'ye knowd who's a'baggin' it up, sellin' it 'round? Not de usual stuffs, but somefin' new dat does real good." The boy eyes the gleaming coin, and frowns. "Mah Da's a farmer, an' there be no new soil mender made 'round these parts," he says. "'e went an' bought 'is elsewhere, act'lly. Said th' prices here be too high. But Ah can show you the reg'lar stuff they bag 'round here?" Taran studies the boy. "Is there any that is so strong, it makes you cough to be near it, little one?" ...well, when you're that big, it's probably less offensive. Everyone's pretty little. Muri shakes her head, but gives the boy the coin anyway. "Aye, somefin' strong smellin' but different den usual," she says. "Tis stuffs dats sold t'ofver towns lahk Marblegrove, aye? Ye evah 'eard o'such?" The boy shakes his head, and accepts the coin. "Thankee, Missus. None made 'round these parts. These parts, 's just th' normal stuff. Mah Da foun' somethin' really good, though. Real strong smell. Mah sister's been a-coughin', but Ah've not caught it yet." He gives Taran a skeptical look, before pointing out, "I wouldn't be 'alf so li'l were ye 'alf so big!" Taran laughs; perhaps it's a smile, behind that mask. "That good stuff, that is what we are looking for. Where did it come from? Where did your father buy it from?" Muri nods. "Aye," she says excitedly. "Tis yer farm close? Ah'm a 'ealer, mayhaps Ah c'n 'elp yer sister some. Den we c'n talk t'yer Da 'bouts dat mender." "'e wouldn't tell me," the boy says slowly. "'e don' like t' talk 'bout it. But 'e went away fer a whole day t' get it. Aye, Ah c'n show ye our farm. Will ye really look 't mah sister? She don' look so good." Taran's eyes narrow. "He will tell me," he says calmly. "He will certainly tell me." Muri glances at Taran and raises a warning brow, then turns back to the stableboy. "We'll try t'elps, m'boy," she says gently. "Ah've got a few med'cines in me pack. Jus' show us de ways. Yer Da's not in trouble, mind, we jus' wants t'knowd more 'bout dis special new stuffs, aye?" The boy looks from Taran to Muri, and back to Taran. He shifts his weight to his other foot, still, hesitating. "He promise 'e's not in no trouble?" he presses. "Ah don' wan' t' get 'im in trouble." Taran shakes his head. "He will not be in trouble from the law," he says quietly. "But I have a few things to tell him...he will tell me where he got the fertilizer." Muri sighs and puts a gentle hand on Taran's arm. "We needs yer 'elp, m'boy," she says. "Tis sickness yer sisters got, we might could 'elp 'er, but we gots t'trus' each ofver, aye? So's we bofth git wot we need 'n soon." She looks up the lane. "Tis yer farm o'er dere?" The boy takes a breath, nods, and starts towards the indicated farm. "Aye... a'right. This-a-way. Foller me. Jus' don' hurt 'im none, a'right? Ye promise?" As he speaks, he crosses the street and starts off towards the east. Goldweaver Out in the eastern section of Freehaven, where the eastern Aegis' shadow often looms over the township, the area is less tightly packed, and the traffic less dense. Goldwater, the noble district of the township, does not receive the market traffic one finds in other parts of the town and those gathered here are those of the highest means, nobles holding luxurious homes. Broad white flagstone paves the streets through Goldweaver, broad, with well-tended gardens off to the sides. Buildings are raised on small hills all around, a protection against flooding from the canals, and richly appointed largely in white marble. A small park is set near the center of the district, an ivory shardwood tree growing in it and offering shade to those who rest under its branches. Dominating the district, up near the eastern wall, is Fort Wolfsbane. The old manor is almost a keep, built as it is out of gray brick with an old, crumbling wall around its perimeter. Nearby are the Imperial Downs, a popular place for jousting tournaments. The only path away is to the west, and Freehaven Square. Taran follows in silence, the bright argentite staff clicking against the cobbles. Entirely poker-faced. Muri follows, two steps to Taran's one, watchful and anxious. "Tis it far, m'boy?" she calls. "Ah 'ave some trees out 'ere m'self. Mayhaps we're neighborly." "Ai, no, not far 'tall," the boy says over his shoulder, ignoring Taran now, apparently confident in the assurance that Muri will protect him and his dad from the Big Mean Scarecrow. And, after a short trek down winding roads that degrade from cobbles to dirt just outside the perimeter of Freehaven, he stops before a farmstead. "'ere's th' place." Opening the door, he steps in and calls out, "Da! Sommon's 'ere t' look at Kaita!" Taran says nothing, but his grip on his staff shifts ever so slightly. It might be employed for less healthy pursuits than a walking aid, soon. Muri sets a hand on Taran's elbow and slows, hoping that he tarries also. "Messer," she says quietly, hopefully out of hearing range of the boy. "Haint no reason t'goed in a'fightin' aye? Caint git inf'rmation from someones dats skeered. Come 'longs, Ah knowd ye c'n be kind. Ah'm 'opin' ye c'n make some 'elpful med'cine from wot supplies Ah brung. Dere's a child 'n need 'ere." The boy vanishes inside, leaving the door slightly ajar in the trust that his visitors will follow. The sounds of voices can be heard from inside, first talking, then heatedly talking, then outright arguing, though the words can't be made out. Taran nods. "Muri...something is already very wrong," he says quietly. "In the event of trouble...be the healer." And with that he follows the boy inside. Muri purses her lips and follows Taran inside. "G'eve, Messer," she calls. "M'name's Muri Woodhill an' Ah'm a 'ealer. We're 'opin' t'elps wid yer young one an' mayhaps ye c'n 'elp us find out 'bout some soil mender." She scans the room anxiously. The room they enter is homely, lit by a multitude of lanterns and with a fire burning on the hearth. It is also meticulously neat, and there's something distant, even cold about it--a distinct lack of a woman's touch which makes an impression on most visitors. The boy and, presumably, his father stand before the door of what is probably a bedroom, arguing. "They may be able t' 'elp er, Da!" the boy is saying. The father is apparently refusing, steadfastly. He looks up as the two enter the room, though, flushing and nodding his head. "Ah... evenin'," he says, a bit uncomfortably. "Thankee fer comin' t' look at mah li'l girl. I don' know nothin' 'bout soil mender." Taran walks up to the father, just within personal space...just enough to loom a bit. "The fertilizer makes people sick," he says quietly. "Children are more badly affected. Your daughter is affected. Yet you do not want her treated, and you will not speak about the cause." He blinks, slowly. "I think I would like to hear why that might be." Muri sighs and steps forward. "Let me take a looks t'yer chile, Messer," she says. "She's coughin' aye? Tis 'er skin gotten rashy too?" She holds her pack before her. "Ah've got med'cines t'elps. We're lookin' fer de cure fer wot ails 'er...an' fer many more." She glances at Taran then to the farmer. "Deres a soil mender, a specials one, good fer grownin' but bad fer folk. Someone's been sellin' it in Marble Grove...tis makin' a lot o'folk sicks. Let us 'elps, aye?" "Mah daughta's sick," the farmer says flatly. "Yer 'elp is welcome. Ah'll let 'oever mus' see 'er, if it'll make 'er better." He has to crane his neck a bit to look up at Taran's face, but he does it anyway, trying to meet the bard squarely in the eyes. "What Ah *don't* like is strangers comin' inta mah house an' tellin' me Ah know somethin' 'bout tainted fert'lizer. Ah'm a farmer. Not a poisoner. Aye, Ah bought fert'lizer. What business o' yours is it?" He moves aside to allow Muri entrance, grudgingly, but allowing her to pass nonetheless. "I want only to know who you bought it from," says Taran quietly. "Where from. Your daughter is sick. A lot of people are sick. I want to stop it. That is my business with asking. Only that." Muri enter the bedroom and checks the girl quickly. She bustles about preparing medicine and then a small plate of food. "Dis lil one haint et awhile, aye?" she says worriedly. "Ye gots t'git 'er t'eats. She might not 'ave stomach fer it, but she gotta gits stronger t'fights dis." She brings a cup of medicine to the child. "'ere now, darlin'. Jus' drinks dis, alrights? Yer gonna be fine." She smoothes the child's damp hair. The farmer eyes Taran with narrow, beady little eyes, full with suspicion and scarce-concealed anger. "Ah bought it from folks sellin' fert'lizer. Not 'round here. Elsewhere. Away." He waves a hand vaguely in no direction in particular. "'twas cheaper there. So's Ah bought it. No matter where." The girl, Kaita, whimpers from the bed and makes a feeble attempt at pushing herself up. Her brother frowns, his young brow creasing with worry as he reaches out to hold her hand and with a sibling tenderness common only to those whose worry for the other extends deep. "Drink, Kaita," he murmurs to her. "Th' fine lady 'ere say 'twill make ye better." Taran watches the man very calmly. "If it did not matter, I would not leave my home, and my friends, and my lands, to come all the way down here to hunt you down and ask you about it. But I am sure you knew that. You know where I must go next. All I am asking is that you tell me. If, however, you wish me to *insist*..." Muri nods to the boy. "Yer a good bruther," she says to him. "Dere, see 'ow she's a takin' it well?" She holds the cup to the girl's mouth and tips it slowly so she can drink. "Ah knowd it tastes terrible, lil one, but twill help ye sleeps easy. Ah foun' some sweetjam in yer cupboards, hrm? Jus' have a little on dis piece or bread, aye? Show yer brufver 'ow brave ye be." Hearing the harsh words in the other room, Muri glances back worried. Those black eyes narrow even further, if that's at all possible. It doesn't seem like it should be. "Whatever this disease that be goin' 'round be, it ain't mah fault," the farmer insists. "An' ye've no need t' know whereas Ah bought mah fert'lizer." The boy smiles a little at Muri before refocusing his attention on his sister. With a bit of a nod in agreement to the sweetjam idea, she downs the medicine and makes a face that makes her brother's lips twitch in a bit of a smile. "Exactly half right," says Taran calmly. "It is not your fault your daughter is sick. But I do need to know where you bought your fertilizer from. Refuse again and I am afraid I must insist." "Now dere's a brave girl," Muri says brightly. "Does yer rash itch? Ah've got some salve fer dat too." She glances at the boy. "Ah growd up on a mill farm up North, ye knowd. 'ad a nice place wid chickens 'n ducks 'n a sorry ol' mule dat we'd 'itch t'our wagon t'takes flour t'de barges. Ye evah 'elps yer da wid totin' such fer de farm?" The briefest of glances flickers over Taran's staff, and the farmer raises his chin ever so slightly in defiance. "Try it," he dares. "'s a li'l bit sore," the girl concedes quietly. "We 'as cabbages out back, an' lettuces... pum'kins, too, but Da can't get 'em t' grow this year." Taran shrugs slightly, and with a curious air of unconcern, that bright staff goes from vertical to horizontal, held in both hands, and shoved hard against the man's chest. "People are dying," he says, in a calm tone that might almost have nothing to do with the actions of his hands. "People lie abed sick and weak. And you want to annoy me. You, good sir, are an idiot." Muri takes out a small jar of salve and starts applying it to the girl's arms. "Pu'kins ye say?" she replies. "Ah do love a good pu'kin pie dis time o'year." She looks to the boy again. "Ye evah goed wid yer da t'pick ups dat special soil mender we's aksin' 'bouts?" At the pitch of Taran's voice, Muri turns toward the mage. Seeing his movements, she reaches out and takes a gentle hold of the boy's hand. "Ye bes' stay wid me, young one." She swallows. "An' if'n ye knowd anythin' 'bouts dat stuffs yer Da bought, ye bes' tells me now." The farmer catches his breath sharply as that staff comes against his ribs, grunting at the sudden pressure of it and caught off-guard. With a growl of anger and pain, but no fear, he reaches out one hand and with a deft movement shuts the door between him and his two children. "This stays b'tween ye and I," he says. "Ye leave mah fam'ly out o' it, ye hear?" The words sound a little gaspy from the pressure on his ribcage. The boy casts an uneasy look towards the door when the door shuts, looking back to Muri with an innocent, searching look that seeks some kind of comfort. Guilt can be read in his eyes. "Ah don' know," he says, a note of pleading in his voice. "Please, Missus, don' let 'im 'urt mah Da. 'e di'n't do anythin' wrong..." Taran does not seem to object to the door closing - watching the father with the same sort of calm, ready attention one might give to a bear in the wild, before the fight is truly engaged. The staff withdraws, so that a spin of the bright metal might try to knock the father to the floor. "Your son would beg and plead for your life, no matter what you might have done," he says in that calm, detached tone. "I would have preferred to spare him the necessity." Muri draws the boy closer, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Ah don' rightly knowd all dats a'appenin' 'ere, m'boy, but tis serious 'ndeed." she replies. She looks to the little girl once more. "We don' wanna 'ave no more folk gittin' sick lahk yer sister 'ere ,an' we don' rightly knowd wot all is causin' it, 'ceptin' it got somefin' t'do wid dat special soil mender, see? So's dats why Ah's aksin' ye. Jus' wunderin' if'n ye travel'd wid yer da t'picks it up, mayhaps wot town ye seen on de way, such lahk." She glances at the closed door. "Me fren' won' 'urt yer da if'n yer da bein' 'elpful t'us. Mayhaps 'e knowd somefin' t'elps." The farmer yelps as the staff strikes him in the jaw. Though one arm is raised feebly in a half-hearted attempt to protect himself, it doesn't do much against that argentite, and he goes down. The hand is now raised protectively before his face. "Good Light, man, Ah've a fam'ly t' feed! Why do it even matter where Ah got th' fert'lizer?" The boy hears his father's yelp, and draws closer to Muri--complete stranger or not, she has somehow become stable and safe, one way or another. The girl whimpers once more on the bed, reaching for her brother. "No, Missus," the boy murmurs. "'e say 'e don' wan' anyone t' know where 'e goes. 'e say Ah need t' look af'er Kaita." Taran nods slightly at that, and brings the staff down...on the *left* upper arm. "I have already told you why it matters," he says in that calm, detached tone. "I want to find out where it's coming from. I want to know why it is making people sick. And I want to stop more people from becoming sick." Blue eyes stare down at the farmer with not a single spark of mercy. "That does not seem to matter to you. Your children fear for you, cry for you, and that does not seem to matter to you either. I will break a bone with my next strike if you are not inclined to speak. And I will keep breaking bones until you do. If I run out of bones, then I will tend to your injuries until they mend, and I will begin breaking bones all over again. I advise you not to continue testing my patience." Muri sighs and strokes the boy's hair absently. "An' ye keeps 'er good," she murmurs. "C'n ye tells me somefin? W'ere's yer Ma, chile? Wot 'appen'd dat dere's only de two o'ye an' her Da?" The farmer winces as the staff makes contact, biting down hard to suppress the cry that rises. "Shadow District," he mutters. "Ah got th' fert'lizer from th' Shadow District." "She died," the boy says quietly. "When th' Littleun was born." The capital letter in Littleun is clearly audible. Taran crouches down then, the staff ready in his hands to strike again...but this time he witholds the blow. "Tell me where, and from whom," he says quietly. "Where do I go, who do I speak to, to obtain it as you did." Muri continues to comfort the boy. "Ah'm sorry, m'boy," she says. "Yer Ma were a great wimmin fer givin' 'er all t'bring a birthin'. Ah'm sure ye miss 'er somefin terrible, aye? But she's watchin o'er ye, knowin' yer a good boy, a good brufver fer yer sister." "Go t' th' Fetters," the farmer mutters sullenly. "Find Septus Black. 'e'll tell ye whatever ye want, if'n the price be high enough, an' 'e'll sell fert'lizer an' all manner o' things fer cheap." "Aye," the boy agrees quietly. "Ah miss 'er. Da say she misses us, too." Taran nods. "Good," he says quietly, and gets to his feet. "Then I will hunt him down, and deal with him. I will leave your name out of it." He looks to the door, then takes quill, parchment and ink from his pack, and starts writing. "You are going to be a hero," he says. "Or at least a respected pillar of the community." Quick, practiced strokes - he's written it out several times by now. "These are medicines that can help your daughter be well. They can help treat the symptoms of everyone else who has fallen sick. I want you to be the one to take it to the healers, help the citizens of this city recover." Muri puts a gentle hand to the boy's cheek. "Yer gonna be jus' fine," she says, glancing at the sleeping girl. "Jus' fine. Ye keep feedin' 'er sweetjam 'n bread, aye? Ah needs t'goed now. Keep Light aye?" She stands and opens the door, looking first to farmer, then to Taran. "We've gott'n wot we needs. We bes' make 'aste fer de Fetters." She glances at the farmer. "Ye got good kids, Messer. Ah knowd ye was jus' tryin' t'make thin's right fer dem." She presses coins into his hand. "Keep Light." She glances at Taran again, shoulders her pack, and heads into the night. The farmer rises, one hand rising to rub at his bruised jaw, the other stretching out to tentatively accept the papers from Taran. He scans them superficially for a moment, before his jaw clenches, and he tucks them into his pocket. "Ah want ye out o' my house," he says flatly, taking Muri's coins and pocketing them also. "An' Ah don' want t' see ye in it again. Ever." Without another word, he turns for the bedroom. The boy rises to his feet as his father comes into view, rushing to him and wrapping arms tight about his waist. Some word of apology is muttered into the farmer's belt. The girl lets out a contented, relieved little sigh and sinks back onto the pillows. Taran doesn't move at once to go; instead, he crouches down near the boy. "I was not able to keep to my word," he says solemnly. "Three blows, if you wish, before I go. I will stay still." Muri half-turns toward the crouching Taran, watching with rapt curiosity. The boy stares intently into Taran's blue eyes for a long moment, and his father gives the bard a *killer* glare, but makes no move to interfere. At the end of that long stretch, the child buries his face in the protection of his father's stomach and mumbles, "Jus' leave. Please. Jus' let us be." One hand placed steadyingly on his son's back, the farmer guides him into the bedroom... and shuts the door behind him with the click of a latch. Taran sighs and gets to his feet. "Their mother must have been quite the woman," he decides, and follows Muri out.
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