Angayuk, Nukaq

By Marion Saunderson
Part 2

At their entry to their uncle's room, Master Makto was just wiping his hands on a rag. Guilio stood near, a bucket of filthy and bloody rags hanging from his hand.

"How is our Uncle?"

"Worse still, Lords. The elixir has not relieved his fever and now blood in his urine. The leg wound had begun to putrefy." Makto tossed the rag into the bucket and Guilio left the room.

Kahuane wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of rotting flesh, heavy in the air.

"Then he will die?" Donjet's voice was tense with emotion.

"We have excised what we could but... I fear so unless there is a miracle. As much as I am a believer, I am a practical man of medicine. Miracles are rare things."

Donjet cleared his throat. "How ... how long?"

"Difficult. A few days at most." There was sympathy behind the words. "Be assured that we have done what we could for the pain. There is no sign he suffers. Guilio will stay with him. If that is acceptable?"

"Yes, please. His care of Uncle has been most assiduous. Thank you." Donjet face was pale but composed. Kahuane felt his own legs wobble and he sat down on one of the storage chests. Impossible that the sturdy warrior he knew could die from a little cut. Impossible.

The Healer took his leave, promising to return that evening and extracting a promise from the boys that they would eat the mid-day meal now being served at the Inn.

Kahuane was the first to speak. "It can't be true. I don't believe it." When Donjet did not reply, "What are we going to do now?"

"Pray and wait for Father."

"But he won't be able to come ... to come before..." Kahuane waved his hand toward the bed.

"I know."

"It will take him over two weeks for someone to ride to Inukshuk and for Father to ride here."

"You forget, the messenger went by boat and Father can return that way. We rode in order to bring my squiring time horses here. Much faster by boat."

"Can't we just take Uncle home? After ..." He found he could not say the word.

"No, we are here to stay...for a while at least."

Kahuane's voice rose, all his fears and distress evident. "Not in that Abbey!! I can't!!!"

Kendi moaned, head turning back and forth and then he stilled again.

"Be quiet!" And to a tap at the door, "Come in." Kahuane was glaring at him but Donjet pretended not to see.

Guilio's head appeared around the part-opened door. "Beg pardon, Lords. Master said to remind you about the meal. I will be here to provide any service the Lord your uncle needs." At a gesture from Donjet, he came in. "There is a small dining room just along the hallway, for special guests. A servant there will get food."

"Thank you. Come on, Kahuane." Though he did not feel like eating, Donjet accepted the wisdom of the Healer's advice.

The dining room had three tables, each with two chairs. One table farthest from the door was already occupied by a white-haired man dressed in a richly luminescent black tunic or robe, the style not one the boys had seen, even here in Fiorenza. The man glanced at them and nodded but much to Donjet's relief, he did not speak to them. The young man was not in the mood for polite conversation with strangers.

The servant brought them a light meal as requested, soup and bread and a bit of fruit along with a jug of cider. Here, away from the oppressive atmosphere of the sick room, young appetites took over and they finished all that was put before them. Kahuane was ready to ask for more but Donjet insisted they leave the table. Kahuane followed him sullenly.

A quick look in at Kendi and assurance from Guilio that their uncle was resting quietly. Donjet turned toward their own room. In the hallway, Kahuane started again. "I won't go, you know. Not to the Abbey."

"Be quiet, do you want people to hear you?" Donjet opened the door to their room and gestured in. When Kahuane did not move, he grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him toward the room.

"Let go!" Kahuane resisted.

"No. Go in!"

Kahuane wrenched his arm free of Donjet's grasp and eluded his brother's attempt to grab him again by slamming one big hand into Donjet's chest. Donjet staggered backwards through the open door way and crashed into the end of the bed. A grunt of pain and he leapt forward into the hall, thumping into the chest of a tall man.

The white-haired man from the dining room steadied him. "Easy, lad. Some problem?"

Winded by the collision, Donjet could only shake his head.

"Ah, I thought I heard an altercation. I must have been mistaken. I understand there is a very ill man in the room at the end of the hall."

Both boys blushed and Donjet managed, "A bit of...only...we are his nephews."

"Ah. Is this your room? Shall we go in and talk in some comfort?" A strongly defined hand gestured and they all three entered the room. They gave him the only chair. Donjet sat on the bed and Kahuane in the window embrasure.

The man listened politely at Donjet's efforts to explain their fight, beginning with the journey to Fiorenza and their uncle's illness. Why he did so Donjet was never able to say for certain. Perhaps it was the pale blue eyes that seem to understand everything the moment it was spoken. When Donjet's voice fell away to nothing, the man murmured, "It is a difficult thing starting a new life far from home."

Kahuane, who had been silent until now, burst out, "Not that! I do not want to be a monk! A knight... I want to be a knight. I can use a sword and I ride well. But Father he sent me here to be a monk. I WONT!"

Donjet's efforts to quiet his brother failed and only turned the outburst his way. "You...you want to be a monk. Why don't you go to the Abbey and let me be the squire. Tell me you don't hate the idea of being a warrior instead of entering the Abbey. Tell me to my face!" Kahuane had stalked to the bed and was roaring right into his brother's face.

Donjet sighed. "I will not lie, Kahu. If the choice were mine, I would go to the Abbey and beg entry. But Father has chosen."

"But he is not here, is he?" A light in Kahuane's eyes and an eagerness in his voice. "And poor Uncle Kendi is not going to present us to the Baron and the Abbot." He grabbed Donjet by the shoulders, " We have Father's letters. Let us simply exchange service. I to the Keep and you to the Abbey." Donjet's face was doubting. Kahuane smiled. "Who will know?"

"Father."

"Father will not be here until the end of the squireship. That is four years. You will be well settled in your Abbey, probably already a monk and I, I will be ready for knighthood. What can he do then? Nothing!"

Donjet shook his head but it held no conviction.

"No one will know."

A cough from the white-haired man. They had forgotten his presence. Kahuane pulled at Donjet's shoulder. "He doesn't count. He's a stranger...just a ...who are you anyway?"

The man rose and bowed slightly. "A traveller. Johanus Smythe of Gallifrey."

"Never heard of it," Kahuane snapped. "See, no one."

"Shut up, Kahu. You are being rude. Forgive him, sir. He seems to have left all his manners at home. I am Donjet Tatti Arivat, first son of the Margrave of Inukshuk. He is my younger brother, Kahuane. The ill man is our uncle, Lord Kendi Arivat." Donjet rose and bowed to Smythe.

A return bow. "You are right in a certain respect, Lord Kahuane. I have no standing in the Baron's court or in the Abbey. And I do understand the call to a life for which you have the skills and the desire and the frustration when that life is denied you. But did I not overhear this morning that you sent a message to your father? Will he not be coming?"

Kahuane swore and kicked at the small table next to the chair Smythe sat in, sending it skittering into the wall. Donjet sighed. "Yes, we had forgotten in this... mad idea. Thank you, Master Smythe, for bringing some sense to us." His eyes raked Kahuane as he spoke.

"As I said, I do understand. One request. Not Master...never that. How about Doctor Smythe." At Donjet's nod, "Now, I should leave you alone. Perhaps we could dine together this evening. I have many stories from my travels that might distract you."

"Yes, that would be most kind."

"Good. If I can be of any other service, please..." They bowed to each other and Smythe left them.

Kahuane grumbled and left the rooms, going down into the stables to check their horses. Knowing how much Kahuane loved horses and that they would soothe his brother's irritation, Donjet made no objection. When Kahuane returned an hour later, he was contrite and even apologized to Doctor Smythe at supper.

The next afternoon, as the brothers were preparing to go for a walk, the Innkeeper sent up a message that Prior Trebentus would be coming to see them...or rather to see their uncle. Though Kahuane was inclined to leave, Donjet insisted they stay in recognition for the Prior's position as well as in civilised courtesy.

Within the hour, there was a knock on their door. An acolyte announce the Prior was just ascending. Donjet moved to the hallway where he greeted the Prior with a bow of his head. The Prior smiled with a touch of melancholy.

"My dear young Lords, what a difficult business. I bring with me the concerns of the Abbot, indeed of all the inmates of the Abbey, humble and high. May I see your Uncle?"

"Yes Lord Prior." Donjet led the way to his uncle's room, confident that Guilio, alerted earlier to the visit, would have all as presentable as possible. The Prior's assistants followed behind Kahuane.

Guilio did not disappoint. He stood by an immaculately ordered bed in a room tidy and aired by an open window. Luckily the day was fair.

Trebentus approached the bed and stared down into the fevered face. There was a fine twitch of his aristocratic nose at the aroma of diseased flesh. "What illness?"

"An infection of the blood from a wound." Guilio murmured and backing away, slipped out of the door.

"Ah." One fine boned, pale hand appeared from Trebentus' wide sleeves and touched Kendi's forehead briefly. Both hands now rose above the bed. "Blessing upon our brother Kendi Arivat," turning slightly toward the boys, "and upon his family in this difficult hour."

Donjet closed his eyes and bowed his head in receiving the blessing. Kahuane bowed his head but kept one eye upon the Prior as he and his two attendants murmured unintelligibly far longer than the young Arivat had patience for. The young man moved from foot to foot, chafing for it to end. Donjet, he noticed, was piously murmuring some words of his own.

At last it was over. Trebentus nodded to the bed. "Has he been speaking?"

"No Lord Prior, not since he collapsed in the street almost three days ago. Other than a few ramblings in his fever."

"Ah, ah. I had hoped to have some conversation with him. Well, if the Gods direct, he will recover."

Donjet stiffened. "We have ... we have been told it is not ... he will not ..."

A soft sigh, "We shall pray most intensely," and then, in a very casual tone, "Did your uncle mention anything about a book he was bringing to me?"

"No, Lord Prior."

The Prior's eyes flicked around the room before alighting on Donjet again. "If you come across anything, send a message. Brother Clinguot here is available to return at any time you require him. You will have all our prayers, naturally."

"Thank you, Lord Prior."

A nod and a pat on Donjet's arm. "I take my leave. Be of quiet heart, my young Lords. The Gods have their ways." At those words the Prior left just as Johanus Smythe was about to enter. Smythe gave way with a bow. Donjet followed the Prior out, to accompany him as far as the front door of the Inn as custom decreed.

Smythe glanced after them and murmured low to Kahuane, "Who was that? The tall fellow in the cowled robe? Important?"

Kahuane grimaced and led Smythe into the boys' room. "The Prior of Searching Heart Abbey. Nosy old ..." he stopped himself.

"Nosy?"

"Oh yes. Coming here when no one sent for him. Asking what Uncle's illness was. Asking if Uncle could talk."

"That's not so nosy, is it? Sort of his job."

"Well, he wanted some book Uncle had for him...or so he said. We didn't know what he was going on about. And they want me to join that bunch of fussy old..."

"Kahuane! Have you no manners at all?" Donjet had come back.

"I am entitled to my opinion."

"No you are not. Younger brothers do what they are told!"

Kahuane's jaw dropped in shock before he glared at his brother. "You at least will be out and about in the world while I am locked up in that tomb!"

Smythe spoke before the matter disintegrated into another argument. "Lords, I have come to ask whether you will be going on your walk as planned. You do recall the Baron's Keep will be open to visitors this afternoon. Petition Day. Give you a chance to see some of the Keep, hmmm?"

Both boys were immediately intrigued but Donjet frowned. "No. Not this afternoon. Uncle Kendi needs us. Guilio must go back to his Master's for additional preparations."

"But my dear young Lord, I can stay with your Uncle while Guilio is gone."

"A kind offer but we could not ask you to forgo..."

Kahuane sighed. "Oh Donjet."

"Hush. We can not take advantage."

"Not taking advantage at all. I was only going to sit and read this afternoon. I can do that as well at your Uncle's bedside." He smiled softly. "I feel badly for your Uncle's illness. Let me do this one little thing."

A nudge from Kahuane and an exchange of looks between the brothers. Donjet relented. "We will not be very long."

"Take your time. I am sure Guilio will not be long absent."

Kahuane grinned broadly and after a bow to Smythe, ran to get his over-tunic with a cry of "Hurry Donjet."

"I must tell Guilio." Donjet was torn between his duty to his uncle and the desire to see where he would be serving. It was causing him some discomfort.

"I know it is hard, all this. But you must have some air, Lord. I am sure the Healer would have so advised. And some exercise for your health's sake. You did not go out this morning, did you?"

Donjet agreed and looked thankfully at the tall man. Smythe accompanied him into his Uncle's room and stood by while the young man advised the medical assistant of the change in plans. Then at his brother's renewed urging, Donjet hurried to follow him down the stairs.

"A fine pair of lads, are they not, Guilio? Any father would be proud of them."

"Indeed, sir."

Smythe pulled out a leather-bound book from a capacious pocket and settled himself next to the bed. "I have a good long story here. Do not rush yourself. I am sure you need some fresh air, too."

"Thank you sir but I will be as quick as I can," and Guilio left.

Smythe counted to fifty and then, laying his book on the edge of the bed, peered into the hallway. No one about. Shutting the door firmly, he stood for a moment staring down at the fever-wracked Kendi Arivat. "What, my Lord, did you bring along that the Prior is so eager to obtain? I wish you could say. Well, forgive me but I'll just look about myself."

He began in the first chest. Two packs containing only clothes and a fine pair of court boots. In the second trunk, another pack with some letters addressed to the Baron and the Abbot, sealed with the Margrave's crest. A couple of books produced in the Abbey's scriptorium, one of prayers and the other a treatise on the heavens. Some additional bits and pieces of no interest, and at the bottom, a locked box. This was it, if anything was.

He set the box on the first trunk and after a moment's study, he pressed the lock inward while he tapped the lid on the left corner. A sprong and the lid lifted easily, revealing a leather journal and underneath, a dozen or more small cloth bags, each tabled clearly as to contents and location of collection. After reading the labels, "Oh, Moons of Peladon, he didn't. No wonder." He opened the journal and read a bit. "Kratz, he did."

Smythe slid the journal back in the box and strode to the door. A careful peek out and then he hurried to his own room. A few seconds to tuck the box under his pillow and back to Kendi's room.

The ailing knight had started to mumble in his fever. Smythe took a cloth from the small table and dipping it in the bowl of water, washed the hot face. A sigh, like relief. "The least I can do for you, my unfortunate fellow. I wish I was permitted to do more."

The lips in that face were cracked and dry. Soaking the cloth again, Smythe squeezed it slowly so that drops of water ran into that mouth and onto those lips. A sort of sucking as the body acted automatically to take the water though conscious thought was not there. Smythe repeated the process a dozen times until the sucking stopped and the man in the bed seemed to drift into sleep.

Smythe picked up his book again and sat down. Not five minutes later, Guilio tapped on the door and entered. "You were not gone long."

"I hurried, sir."

"Well, now you are all winded. Here, sit down. Lord Kendi has been quiet for the most part and I think he sleeps now."

Guilio noticed the dampened cloth and picked it up. "Sir, you..."

"Oh I just washed his face a bit. Now, I must be off, if you need me no longer."

"Thank you, sir," and Guilio bowed to him.

Smythe returned quickly to his own room. A click of the door lock and he retrieved the box and settled himself on his bed. Opened the box and took out the journal. Dug into a deep inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a short metal tube. A twist and a turn and the tube began to beep alarmingly when he waved it over box's contents. "Oh my, yes. 750. A wonder the poor man has lasted this long." A snap of the box's lid and he set it aside to read the journal. It was written in Dene Standard, a script taught to scholars at the Abbey.

'A record of the journey through the Grey Place. Written by Kendi Arivat of the Sanililaaq, son of Nanilhok of blessed memory. This record is made in the interests of understanding the world and its history. I intend to spend several days in the western edge of the Grey Place, exploring and recording my observations in this journal. I will also gather samples for further study. Such an enterprise intrigues me and I thank the Gods for the opportunity.'

"Oh Kendi Arivat, not a thing to thank anyone for." At a speed that would have startled any resident of Fiorenza, including the learned members of the Abbey, Smythe read the entire journal. As he closed it, there was an expression of sadness on his face. "My friend, you are a fine observer. A scientist noting all but not prepared to leap to conclusions. You will be a loss to your people." He snapped the journal shut. " Kratz, I wish I could help you." A deep breath and he rose and replacing the journal in the box, hid all under his bed. Grabbing his cloak he headed out into the city.

Shadows were deepening in the narrow lanes among the market stalls and many a passer-by hurried to make their final purchases before the merchants closed their shops and stalls. Smythe found a comfortable spot to sit full in the sun, a low stone block part of the foundation of an old building on the east side of the market. He shared his perch with another. Apart from an initial nod, they did not look at each other but watched what was going on around them.

A low voiced, "You had reason to be concerned."

"Ah, yes?"

"Lord Kendi had been to the wastelands. Wrote a report, gathered samples. Was apparently going to deliver it all to the Prior."

A soft hiss of concern. "Was?"

"All is safe in my quarters. But the Prior is asking. I need to put them back."

"No!"

"Calmly, my friend. If there is no journal, Trebentus will arrange for someone else to go there. Be at ease, I will put back a false journal, false samples. But I need your help. I will write a new journal and obtain a new box for the samples...that one is too contaminated to leave. Can you gather samples....gravel, sand, bits of rock, dried plants, nothing too healthy or useful, evidence of a dry, barren place, hmm? Each sample in a small cloth bag?"

"Of course. When?"

"I must get them back in Kendi's pack by tomorrow noon. For the young nephews to find."

"What if they look before tonight or in the morning and find nothing?"

"Plan B."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I will think of something else if needs be. Can you do this?"

"To be sure. We shall meet?"

"Is there any reason for you to come to the Inn early tomorrow, say not much past sunrise?"

"Well, I suppose I could help the stable man fix that trough that has been leaking."

"I will pass through the courtyard at that time. Coming back from early service at the Abbey seems the right timing." A soft grunt of agreement from his companion and Smythe rose. "Good day to you, Master Todo."

"And to you, Doctor Smythe."

Smythe's purchases did not take long. Paper, inks and quills were available, though not inexpensively, from Master Gallianus' shop, right on the north edge of the market square. The merchant had a leather cover somewhat similar to that Kendi had used, though plainer. The tin box took a bit more looking but he found one that was close enough in the dusty back corner of the tin smith's stall. Its price was reasonable, Master Craktus happy to sell what had sat unwanted for many months. All stored in the roughweave satchel he bought from the laughing young woman caring for the weaver's stall, he returned to the Inn.

Supper was just ready and he could not resist the fragrant stew and fresh bread though he had a long night's work ahead of him. Donjet and Kahuane were there already in the small dining room and waved him over to sit with them. The servant quickly pulled two tables together to make room and served up the stew and bread. Throughout the meal, that lasted into a second bowl of stew and a generous portion of the steamed fruit pudding that enticed them all, the boys regaled him with tales of their visit to the Keep. When he rose to go, they thanked him for freeing them to make the visit and promised any service they could deliver in recompense. He smiled at them and took his leave.

When he reached his room, his body was slowing and wanted to take him to sleep but he opened the window wide, removed his velvet jacket and loosened the neck of his shirt. A deep breath and sitting well away from the hearth fire, he reviewed Kendi's handwriting and style of expression in the real journal. It took five hours, some of it spent mixing more ink or sharpening the quill but he finished at last as the moon began to set behind the stables. Another half-hour to block the sheets in the hard leather cover and the false journal was done.

Since dawn was not far off, he did not allow himself the luxury of even a few moments stretched out on the bed. Washing his face, he redressed and headed out in the darkness of pre-dawn. The sleepy lad by the Inn door gave him a torch to light his way to the Abbey.

The walk was quiet, the click of his boots echoing on the walls of the buildings. Only a few other pious souls were abroad, headed like him to the dawn service. In the Abbey, he stayed in the back corner were he could see but not be seen, the hood of his cloak over his hair. While everyone before him was murmuring prayers along with the monks, Smythe studied the Prior who sat straight in front of him, in a carved seat just beyond the rood screen.

A face carved from the line of a noble family and from the pride of position; not particularly intelligent but definitely clever. There were other clever faces among the monks and with the persistence of long-standing institutions, they would continue to seek out and study what they should not, generation to generation. An unending challenge for the Custodians.

The service ended and he moved out into the square before the Abbey with the city folk. For a moment he paused, letting his eyes wander over the three great towers that made up the Abbey complex. The Abbey existed in any public sense only on the bottom level of the central tower but he knew the Abbot and his monks had entered other levels, both up and down, exploring the remnants of the old culture of Aganfi. He shuddered to think what they might find.

A sigh and he set off for the Silver Heart Inn. At the market square he encountered the first of the farmers bringing produce and animals to sell. Within two hours this place would be filled with noise and people, the commerce of the city-state of Fiorenza contained within the square's perimeter.

As he came near the Inn, he thought he saw a movement at the archway leading to the courtyard. Yes, there in the shadows a familiar figure. He slowed as he passed under the archway and grasped the satchel held out. In and up to his room. Everything he wanted in a dozen small bags containing samples appropriate to the fictional journey. He made a dozen small labels describing in creative detail the content of each bag and the sample's provenance. When he had it all assembled in the new box, journal topmost, he smiled, satisfied and slipped the box into the satchel. Now he had only to await an opportunity to secrete the box into Kendi Arivat's pack.

The opportunity came sooner than he thought, in two stages. Just after the mid-day meal, as he was returning to his room, Makto the Healer rushed by him and into Kendi's room. The door was left ajar in Makto's haste and the voice of the inhabitants clearly audible in the hallway. Smythe eavesdropped shamelessly.

"Master, I believe he is gone."

A pause, during which one of Kendi's nephews moaned 'no, no, no."

Finally Makto's calm tone, "Please accept my condolences, sirs. Your uncle has died." A stifled cry then Makto's voice again. "I regret we were unable to do more."

Young Donjet, barely controlling his emotions, "We know that you did, you and Guilio. Thank you from the House of Arivat."

"Shall I send to the Abbey for you?"

"Yes, yes please. We will...oh, my Father comes. He will...how can I tell him? His only brother. Oh."

"I am sure the Abbot will help there. If you will step out to your room, Guilio will tidy things here."

"What, oh, yes. We ...come Kahuane."

Smythe darted to the stairwell and re-entered the hall as the young Arivat Lords and the Healer left Kendi's room. He schooled his features so that they did not show he knew of Kendi's death. "Lords, ah, Master Makto. How fare's your uncle?"

Donjet's face was pale and set. "Doctor Smythe...he...has died." It was clearly difficult for him to say the words. His brother was equally pale, stunned and silent.

"My condolences. Is there any service I may offer?" A responding shake of Donjet's head. "Please if there is, simply ask."

Another nod and the young men entered their quarters. Smythe went to his own room but an hour later heard voices in the hall. A quick peep out and he saw the Prior and his two aides arrive and enter Kendi's room with his nephews. Smythe slipped out and listened at the doorway first to prayers and then the Prior's smooth tones.

"Be not concerned, young Lords. We shall undertake all the arrangements for the funeral. I believe that cremation is the custom of your people."

"Yes, but my Father...the Margrave, he is coming but it will be some days before he is here. We can not...he must say farewell...he would not want...he must be here for the funeral."

Makto who was there when the Prior arrived, murmured," Lords, the body will not...the infection will destroy..."

A catch of distressed words, "I did not...oh Gods!"

The Prior soothed, "Fear not, there is a deep level in the Abbey, most cold. If we place him there, it will forestall...it will preserve him for your honourable father's arrival."

"Oh, can you? Will you?"

"Of course. All that the Abbey can do it will do. Brother Clinguot, send to the Abbey that we will come with the Lord Arivat to our catacombs. Have all the necessaries brought here."

Clinguot murmured, "As you order, Lord Prior. Lords." And he glided out.

Luckily, Smythe had hidden himself in the open doorway of the young Arivats' room and was not seen. The conversation in Kendi's room continued.

"Young Lords, I wondered, the packet for the Abbey, did you...?"

"We have not looked. We could look now."

"Oh, no urgency, when you have an idle moment. Let us sit quietly and pray in silence while we wait."

Two hours later, the boys left the room following an enclosed coffin and softly chanting monks down the stairs and out of the Inn. The door lock proved no barrier to Smythe and in two minutes he had left the falsified journal and box of samples.

He did not see the young Arivat boys return to their room, nor did he see them at supper. They hose to eat in their room. He did encounter them late the next afternoon after returning from a stroll through the city.

"How are you, my Lords? When does the Margrave your father arrive?"

"If the sailing on the Sargasso Sea has been good, tomorrow evening at the earliest."

"Ah. Then the services for your Uncle the day after."

"I suppose so. Sir, we...there has been a message from the Baron deZors." Donjet stopped and glanced at his brother who urged him to continue. "We would...could you sit with us for a moment?"

"Yes, of course."

When they were seated and the door closed, "He offers us accommodation in the Keep."

"But..." Smythe had heard the but in Donjet's voice.

"But we can't go." At the rising of Smythe's eyebrows, "Father had alerted us to the..there are reasons of diplomacy ... the Abbot would feel..."

"Of course, most understandable. To accept this most kind invitation might create an awkwardness of improper behaviour... in the face of your grieving, especially before the funeral when you should be...in seclusion? Not partaking of the comforts...the very fine comforts of the Baron's Keep."

A relieved exhalation from Donjet and a grin from Kahuane. "You put that so well, Doctor Smythe."

A deferential wave of his hand. "Tush, just long experience on many worlds." At the boys' puzzled stare, "The worlds of nobles and religious institutions in many cities, you understand. I have travelled much."

Donjet nodded. "Yes. May I use your words? I am sure I could not express the matter any more tactfully."

"Of course, if you wish." He ended up dictating the reply to the Baron's letter.

After the Baron's messenger had been called from where he waited in the courtyard and sent off with the reply, Donjet sighed. "Thank you, sir."

He smiled at them both, "A small service. Now, I am famished. Let us have some supper. I am led to believe from those delicious smells coming up the stairs that the cook has outdone herself again. Roast pennefowl, if I am not mistaken and baked orangesquash pie."

Over the meal, he allowed himself to be questioned about his many travels. It took some careful editing to provide an entertaining yet not too revealing narrative. Happily, Smythe was skilled at such obfuscations