To Emmon Filgers the discussion concerning his next residence sounded like
the rise and fall of bees buzzing, and the strongest impression he had was
of fish. The smell assaulted his nostrils. The aroma permeated his clouded
thoughts. And left him dreaming his body had been dumped in the canal, and
was being nibbled at by a horde of honey bees.

And by the time it was decided to move him to Brion Hillrover's farm the
wounded private investigator had sunk back into a deep sleep. Soillier,
the Seulla Muintirr healer, had agreed that his patient would rest more
comfortable in a real bed, and was reassured that Morrighu knew well how
to care for the injured.

_____________

Brion Hillrover, now Bailiff for Montfort's newly re-established court,
knocked on Perrin Mayce's door.  No mention had been made of the private
investigator's survival, since there had been considerable doubt he would
survive the night. But now Soillier had pronounced him past immediate
danger, and that there was a chance the young half-elf might waken and
speak.

[Perrin]

Perrin sat perched on the edge of his bed, staring at the full bottle of
wine that was likewise perched... perched on the corner of the desk, as
well as on the fringes of his own mind.  Perrin wasn't a drinking man.
He had no particular like nor dislike for alcohol in itself, but he
absolutely despised the dulling of the faculties that it brought.

But it did have its uses.  To Perrin, the drink was more a medicine than
an entertainment.  A medicine that had certain indications... certain
doses administered for certain effects.  And it was always for OTHERS...
to loosen the lips of a stubborn witness, for example.... never for
himself.

Not until now.

William's death had left him with a sickness that desperately needed
treatment.  It was the sickness of sorrow... guilt... self-abasement. It
was a foul corruption that had turned his greatest asset... his own
mind...  against him.  His thoughts, once lofty and great... were now all
bloody. William's blood.  On HIS hands.  It was HE that had killed the
boy.  No, his hands had not wielded the knife, but the knife was only an
illusion.  His own inattentiveness was the real weapon.  He'd let William
run around a dangerous city unsupervised.  And now the boy was dead.

Perrin's mind... his principals, his morals....  would not let him forget
it.

Ever.

And so, if he were to ever have a moment's peace, he must take up the
medicine and DROWN that damnable conscience into submission.

But he wouldn't do it.

He thought about it.   He wished, no, YEARNED for it...

But he would not drink.

Yes, there was work to be done... yes, there was a murder to solve and an
innocent man to set free, but THOSE were not the reasons.  He would
abstain from peace; he would continue to suffer his own accusations for
the simple reason that he deserved them.  This was not something that was
thrust upon him undeservedly, he DID murder the boy.  He DID.  He WAS
guilty.

And so he sat, staring at the bottle... his eyes running along the line of
peaceful liquid forming a ring around the top.  Maybe one day he would
have enough.  Maybe one day his will would snap and he would drink himself
to the foul, ignoble death he deserved.  Until then, he would simply sit
before the bottle... and suffer.

The knock had come a second time, and then a third before he even
realized that someone was at the door.

"Just a moment,"  Perrin said in a voice that screamed .

He took a deep breath... a breath that was agonizingly empty of both food
and licqour... and stood.

He walked over to the door and opened it.  He did so without fury or
reservation... and without asking who it was that had knocked.

"Hillrover,"  he said when he recognized the man standing in the hallway.
His voice was tinted with disappointment.  Part of him... somewhere deep
down... wished that the unwanted visitor was some Montfort thug who'd come
to slay him in his room.  Unfortunately, Hillrover was... probably... not
that man.

[Brion Hillrover]

Brion had wondered as he had climbed the stairs to the rooms what he might
find when he sought out the lawyer. None really knew Perrin Mayce, and so
none knew what lay beneath the mask of the skilfull courtroom orator.

The man before him looked sober, but with the expression of a man who
regretted that fact.

Nor could the bailiff claim he bore worthwhile news.

"I came to tell ye," he said, "That another employee of yer's has
wakened."


[Perrin]

It took several attempts before Perrin's mind could dig itself
far enough out of its hole to even consider Hillrover's words.

"Employee?"   he said tentatively.  "You mean... who DO you
mean?"

[Brion Hillrover]

Brion had seen his share of grief, and he recognized the signs of a mind
numbed by the brutality of the fates. He pitched his voice low. Patient
but not slow, and said, "Word's come that yeung Filgers may make it. He
has a head wound, so its hard to say what he might remember, but with
there being a chance I knew ye'd want to talk to him."

~Might help some,~ the mountain clansman thought to himself, ~Just to talk
to someone who saw the boy in the last hours.....to know someone fought
beside him.~ There could be no doubt that Emmon Filgers had fought - he
had nearly given up his own life.

He caught the soft scent of perfume on a cold draft, and knew that the
ghostly waitress of the Dragon's Inn, Fawn, was near and making sure the
conversation was safe from any prying ears. He held out an old tunic and
floppy hat to Perrin, and said, "The lad's out my way and it'll be safer
if ye travel in with my supply wagon."

Not the best way Brion knew to dodge some of the more determined
cutthroats in Montfort, particularly if they were eyeing Mayce, but better
than some methods on such short notice. And while normally he might gain a
help from Yals or the other spirits they were too involved with
safeguarding Councilman Paevel's poor sister, Kisa and her friend,
Niathina, from the Cult of Pain.

[Perrin]

"Yes..."

Perrin said the words even though he really had no idea of to what
he was agreeing.     All he knew was that there was an odd silence...
and that 'yes' seemed the correct word to fill that silence.

Then his mind wrenched itself from his guilt long enough to digest
what was being discussed.

Filgers.   The detective...

...the man that had NOT died that night when William had
been slaughtered...

Then it all came flooding back.     Not the thoughts or the memories,
they had ALWAYS been there... tormenting him...  but it was
a flood of focus and intensity... of duty.     There were things still
to be done.   Things that HE had been tasked with doing.

The suffering would wait.    Now it was time for work.

"Right,"  Perrin answered.   He nodded forcefully and abandoned
his visitor in the doorway.      Perrin was already half-dressed.   It
took him no time at all to pull on the remainder of his clothes and
gather his tools:   notes, writing utensils, a few law books and a
rapier.    He strapped the last to his waist with the resoluteness of a
man preparing for a duel to the death.

"I'm ready,"  said Perrin.   "Lead the way."

[Brion]

Brion nodded and led the way down the back way, through the kitchens, and
out into the stableyard. ~Shame,~ he thought glancing towards the shadowy
entrance to the alley, ~Another yard more and they'd been within the Inn's
wardings........~ He didn't voice his thoughts. They would only add more
torment to his companion.

And anyway, didn't all life hinge on that hair's breadth of choice and
chance? With the worst threat being the "what ifs?" - those two words
could drown a man or woman in deathly despair.

In the stableyard waited a small wagon and a pair of matching bay draft
horses.

"Mistress Judy wanted to know if we could bring in the goats' milk on
Sunday," young Ebert said. The boy, a local farmboy of barely seventeen
years, waited by the wagon; he was a stocky youngster with sun-paled brown
hair, and one whose family had lived in the tent city. His father had
participated in Brion's tent city militia, who had been the only guard for
the refugees at the time.

"I don't see why not," Brion said, gesturing for the boy to take the
driver's seat.

To Perrin the Bailiff said, "Ye can stow yer gear in the back, and ride up
front if ye wish.....three men rode in this day and three can ride out."

Not that the other hand, Ruddy, had minded staying in town. Brion
suspected he'd have to be collected from Wild Nelly's later.


[Perrin]

Perrin glanced at the rear of the wagon, and decided he'd better
keep his belongings in sight.     It wasn't that he didn't trust
the Hillrover fellow...

...well, he didn't KNOW the Hillrover fellow, so how could he
trust him?    Such unearned trust was probably a contributing
factor in William's death-

Perrin mentally slapped himself before the thought was
finished.   How DARE he try to blame William's death on
anything other than the true cause:   Perrin Mayce.

Perrin's shoulders drooped for a moment, and his expression
went through several contortions of guilt and sorrow before
settling back into his stony, determined glare.   He sat
down in the wagon, adjusted his sword,  and held his belongings
in his lap.

"Whenever you're ready,"  he said with a nod.

[To be continued.]