The Good Counsel
of Alban
The Fastness of Alban
Low grey clouds obscured the sky when he arrived at the Keep. The Reever was not in residence right now. They would convey him to his quarters, the face on the vufoen told him, the only face he saw, and they had sent down a cannion. The cage door had locked behind him, his luggage in an outside pannier. The cannion had entered the Keep, speeding along dingy passageways. He had expected a warm and comfortable chamber, but that was not to be. Instead the way had led deep into the Keep until the light had disappeared altogether. The cannion had stopped abruptly, lowering itself on the end of its cable. And he was swinging above some unfathomable space.
“I come here, into the wilds to try and help them, and get mishandled by a bunch of miscreants. There will be repercussions over this.”
He spoke loudly, not in the Ambassadorial manner, that way of leaving every word neutral and yet loaded, but in the Common Speech. It was the only way he knew to ease the unaccustomed build up of anger within him. The words echoed lightly before being blanketed by the damp air. Somewhere below him something splashed on the surface of the water. Momentarily he stopped breathing trying with all his senses to pick out the nuances and tones of the sound.
Trying to remain impassive he thought back over what had brought him to the Fastness of Alban.