24

Valerian's experience of Milardin was quite different from Gildyr's. Not much better in the end, though. Filimar had pooled his manna with that of his set (Kellen, Sandor and Arien). Used their massed power to open a gateway to the harbor city's grand shrine. Being a popular, well-traveled destination, the spot made an excellent anchoring point for a gate. Val memorized its particulars at once, just in case.

Having ridden through the glimmering portal… and with Burrough now hidden safely, behind them… Valerian found himself on the broad marble ramp of a glorious temple.

Very high in the freshly-washed sky it towered, still spotted and streaked with rain. Lacy and open, the building featured not one stone altar, but many; all but the highest in use by those who cared to engage in a bit of worship. There were long strings of crystalline wind-bells at the temple's corners. These sounded their notes at each gusting breeze, filling the wide, terraced city with music.

There were colorful flowers in rioting, joyous profusion. Only the city jail and its chopping block were not laden with twining ivy and blossoms, it seemed. The flowers' heady aroma mingled with that of the nearby sea and strong spices to announce: Milardin. He wouldn't ever forget it.

Val soothed the restive grey mare that he'd borrowed from Sandor. Typically, the beasts despised gate-travel, and were uncomfortable standing on smooth, slanted stone. He waited until Filimar clucked to his own mount and started down-ramp, before moving away from the busy shrine complex. Did his best not to crowd or jostle those afoot, though the others were far less cautious; riding straight through the crowd like… well, like heedless elvish nobility.

They left the horses at a high-end local stable, then proceeded to the waterfront, intending to out-spend, out-drink and out-gamble each other. Filimar would have included "out-whore", but Valerian declined, thinking of his lady, Alfea, of Cinda and (oddly enough) even small Rainey, to whom he'd halfway promised himself. There was plenty to do, even so.

The waterfront district was a charming collection of ramshackle taverns, religious missions and pay-as-you-go hostels. There were rows of tall, narrow buildings with faded, once colorful paint and slate roofs. Neighborhoods were transected by open canals which ended at bustling docks. Further on, flowers, luck sigils, and the much-rubbed statues of various gods surrounded Milardin's famous water stairs.

Built for the passage of ocean giants, that porphyry stairway was too large for comfortable use. Like Starloft and… and… something else he'd seen once, it had a smaller, elven-sized ramp chiseled into its sides.

One end of the staircase plunged into the harbor and far out of sight underwater. The other end climbed in a spiraling swirl through that lovely city, then vanished up into the sky. According to Filimar, it was considered an amusing prank to get a friend unconscious, sloppy drunk and then leave him up there, as high on the stairway as the snickering, tipsy conspirators could wobble. Find his own way down or fall, was the joke. Get it?

Val resolved to remain halfway sober and (someday) to see for himself where those magical stairs fetched up. Here and now, he went drinking with those seemingly bottomless fish: Filimar, Sandor, Kellen and Arien.

They started their tour of Milardin's worst dives at the Rusty Nail and finished up in the Sailor's Spew. On the way, he won and lost money, fought three ridiculous duels and made a few key discoveries. One, that his sword had begun to change; was much less a toy now, than an ornate, flashing stinger. The rest became obvious later.

They quaffed deleterious moisture at every stop, in quantities that would have poisoned or drowned anyone else but an elf-lord or troll. Val particularly liked the Devonian brandy.

At one point… at a table in the infamous Broken Teeth… the lot of them were approached by a mortal paladin. Good-looking, tall fellow with brown hair and dark eyes, wearing Oberyn's gold sunburst insignia. Bowing, the mortal said (through the crowd noise and thumping-loud music),

"My lords, the Constellate's tithe-day is nigh. As warriors of light, perhaps you would wish to donate, in support of the local mission?"

He seemed a likable young man, with something familiar about him that Valerian was too brandy-addled to place. Reached for some coin and started to rise, but Filimar waved him back with a scornful laugh.

"I'll donate... by tossing my purse in the air, Paladin. Whatever Lord Oberyn wants, he can pull out, himself, and keep," sneered the drunk Arvendahl.

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The paladin looked crestfallen, but maintained a smile. There was not much else he could do, as a mortal dealing with elves in Milardin.

"Yes, My Lord," he replied, raising his voice as though they wouldn't be able to distinguish it over everything else.

Digging Val in the ribs with a sharp elbow, Filimar made a great show of drawing forth a fine leather coin purse. Then, with a flourish, the young Arvendahl confidently lofted it into the air over their table, intoning,

"Lord Oberyn, your humble servant offers whatever you care to remove from his coin supply, personally."

Expected to see the purse fall back down to the wooden table with a heavy, ringing thunk, both proclaiming his wealth and his wit. Only, that wasn't what happened. Instead of falling, the purse rose higher, revolving slowly as its thongs untied themselves, waving like seaweed. Then ten… ten… bright gold pieces came dancing free. These did a bit of jugglery in the air over the gaping faces of the paladin and all four Arvendahls. Then the coins broke into twin cascades, ending up five on the mortal's left shoulder, five on his right.

Filimar's look of surprise quickly turned to suspicion. There was manna in use, but it wasn't divine. The mortal hadn't done it. He wasn't capable, probably, and had vows against wealth, in any case. That left…

The raven-haired elf rounded on his companions.

"Right. Which of you future carrion has dared make a fool of me?!" he demanded, surging out of his seat, hand at his sword hilt. "Face me, Trickster, or stand branded a coward!" Only, it wasn't Arien, Sandor or Kellen who'd pulled the sly prank. It was Val, who now stood and bowed to his red-faced friend.

"My doing, Filno… for Lord Oberyn, who liketh not to be mocked. I am no coward, and I will gladly repay you in coin or provide satisfaction with swordplay, if that is your preference."

It was certainly Nightshade's. The sword's hilt warmed and shifted in his grip as it altered again. Very much no longer the shining toy of a feckless, layabout dandy.

"Have at you, then, Tarandahl," snapped Filimar, drawing his own blade. "Ten coins you've abstracted, ten cuts I'll deliver. An Arvendahl to the fray!"

The tavern's other patrons leapt to get out of the combatant's way. Heavy wood tables and benches, flagons and platters were cleared at the innkeeper's gesture.

"Survivor pays all damages!" she shouted aloud. "If y'r both kilt, the house claims half o' y'r mage pockets!"

Someone touched Valerian's shoulder. He pivoted, seeing the mortal, who looked as concerned as did Filimar's friends.

"Milord," he said, "I was the one you were trying to help, and I am the one who should pay, but… failing that… I would offer my service as your second."

Useful, in the event he was wounded, or others leapt into the fight.

"Thank you," replied the young elf-lord. "I accept your offer… erm…?"

"Villem, Milord. At the Constellate, known as Brother Arnulf."

"Well met, Villem. I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, second heir to Ilirian."

It came to Val, standing lightly in the cleared circle, surrounded by shouting, betting onlookers, backed by the paladin, that he liked dueling. Was quite good at it. Better by far than the drunk, angry Filimar (whom his friends were trying to soothe... and who Valerian had no wish to harm or further embarrass). Tough situation.

Well… sometimes a bit of foolishness went a long way in calming wrath. Looking solemn, Val seized his own fight-plaited gold hair. Handed the free end to the startled mortal, saying,

"If you will, Sword of Oberyn, hold fast, and keep it stretched forth."

The puzzled mortal did so, as Valerian half-turned, moving far enough off to stretch out the shining gold braid.

"Very well, Filno," said Val. "I am ready now for my haircut. Ten slashes, if you please, the fallen length to be laid upon Oberyn's altar."

Filimar stared at him for a moment, hot with strong drink and hurt pride. It was a way out, though, and they were close friends, so… Laughing, Filimar strode forward and delivered ten showy sword cuts, counting each one aloud. Left Valerian's formerly waist-length hair at his shoulders (a sign of oath or mourning among high-elves). The patrons counted along, as their drinks refilled with each slashing cut.

Not one golden hair struck the ground; each one burning away in midair, the motes of brightness flying up and away to the watching god. Thus, Filimar got his ten cuts without bloodshed, while Valerian made a greater donation than Filno's.

They embraced again, afterward, closer than ever in heart. The paladin made a fortune in tithe money, and the Broken Teeth tavern was blessed with ever-full barrels and bottles for seven times seven whole years.

Turned out, Val's hair was wavy when shortened, and he did know that paladin, who was the self-same mortal that Aunt Meliara had run off with. Small world, and Valerian promised to visit the Constellate outpost in lower Milardin, to see her.

"Mellie knew something important was going to happen here, today," explained Villem. "She's an oracle, but sometimes her visions are more feeling than picture." Cocking his head to one side, smiling a little, the mortal added, "That was well done, Milord. You have Oberyn's favor… and I can see the resemblance between you and Mellie."

Then,

"Valno, you infamous thief!" shouted Filimar, already impatient to leave. "Come away from that meddlesome priest, before he extracts further tithe!"

"Or what little hair I retain," laughed the shorn elf, passing a hand over his strangely lightened head. "Hopefully, my wife will not take the change ill." Then, to Villem, "I am summoned and must depart, good Paladin. But I shall come as quickly as possible to visit your outpost and Aunt Meliara."

They clasped hands on the promise before going their separate ways. It was later, in the Sailor's Spew, that absolute nightmare descended and everything fell apart.