Valerna’s feet seemed to move in sync with the barge underneath her feet, rising and falling with the roll of the Dupandover under her feet. Her stomach, on the other hand, seemed to be rolling at a completely different tempo, nausea rising and falling in its own current of power, bile threatening to rise and fall with it. But it didn’t rise. No, not for Valerna. She was an old hack at sea travel, and she had to confess it was her preferred method, even if she was seasick for the first few days on any given voyage. It was better than the alternative… her inner thighs might develop blisters. Blisters. She almost shivered at the thought. Valerna was a firm believer in the power of ships and her own two feet, rather than the necessary evil that was riding horseback. A woman’s legs were meant for… more delicate things. This was only re-enforced by her time spent as a member of Whoid Stria’s foreign embassy, in the Dessert of Pewhoasil, where sailing, or indeed, poling a raft across a river, was seen as sacrilege. It was widely seen as taking advantage of Qhuryja, the goddess of water, although it seemed to Valerna that the woman should be happy to be getting so much attention.

The people in the Pewhoasil were understandably strict about defiling water, they did live in the middle of a barren desert after all, where water was scarce. However, it made being there as a foreign emissary no less annoying, as walking or riding was the only way to get from place to place. Valerna was under no illusions that she was a particularly good foreign emissary, but for the people of the Pewhoasil, that didn’t much matter, as anyone who lived outside the Pewhoasil had such a jarringly different worldview that anything they did that might be viewed as inappropriate could be ascribed to a difference in culture. That was good, because it meant that they didn’t realize how strange Valerna was, in so many different ways.

She was thinking about her time and Pewhoasil for a few reasons. For one thing, it was really her first time away from home, her first time growing into herself where she was in control of her influences. It was rather liberating, if she was being honest. She noted that this would be the same thing for Natalia, although Maxim had probably gotten his fill of growing into himself when he served in the guard of the Knyaz in Edral. For Valerna, it didn’t matter all that much, but Natty had some hard choices ahead of her, about who she wanted to be as a person. Valerna shrugged after a moment, these thoughts were too heavy for her. What was up with her mind today. Her eyes wandered over to where a butterfly valiantly fought it’s way into the wind, and she smiled walking towards it for a closer look, previous thoughts completely forgotten. She did love butterflies.

***

Patrick sat in front of a small mirror in one of the two only cabins on the small ferry that they were taking up the river. He was used to having more space, but he had been warned ahead of time that it would be a tight ride, so he wasn’t particularly angry. If he was being honest… he was tired. Tired, embarrassed, insecure, pitiful, etcetera. The list went on. He was such a fool. Such a fool. He had promised his father that he was going to take this voyage as a man, but within the first twelve hours, he was acting like a small child. A Duke, like his father, would’ve conducted himself with dignity, choosing to ignore the conflict in favor of political power. A nobleman, like he was supposed to be, would’ve taken any harsh words with a stiff, unflinching back, mind unbending in the face of angry words. A strong man, like Caj ‘MacDouglas’, would let his actions speak for themselves, and the whispers of witnesses for his thoughts. His pride would be so unyielding, so indestructible, that a small thing like words, or the loss of a duel would not wound him. Patrick ran a hand down his face, the one part of his body that was relatively unbruised, and let out a sigh.

“I… I can’t.” he whispered. “I’m weak, but I don’t want to be.”

Patrick thought for a long moment.

What would a strong man do? What would a powerful man do? A rich man?

A new voice seemed to whisper to his mind. To his surprise, it sounded like that of the errant knight who had so recently beat the living tar out of him.

What would a good man do?

Patrick’s world felt rocked by the question. A good man? Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Patrick wasn’t a strong man, and he couldn’t be, his body was too thin and wiry for that. He wasn’t a powerful man either, and he hadn’t the mental fortitude to become one. He supposed that he was a rich man, but none of that wealth was really his, nor would it ever be; it belonged to the family and the kingdom. But a good man? Well, he certainly wasn’t one at this juncture, but, unlike the previous options, this was something he felt like he might be able to do. How hard could it be, anyways?

So, he mused, what would a good man do?

Patrick stood abruptly, knocking over the small mirror that he had been studying his face in, and striding out of his cabin purposefully. He passed his manservant on his way out of the door, and stopped abruptly. A good man would know his servants names. He pointed his left index finger at the man who was probably five years his senior.

“You,” he said, sounding more aggressively imperial then he meant to, but not realizing it.

“Y-y-yes milord?” The balding man asked nervously, eyes fixed on the floor. Patrick frowned, angry.

“Look at me. You are a man, not a whipped dog.”

The man looked up for less than a second, meeting Patrick’s gaze, then looking away quickly. Patrick sighed. Was this imbecile really refusing to look at him right now? Less than a minute into his campaign to be a good man, and the world was already conspiring against him. He had half a mind to berate the man, but he restrained himself, taking a deep breath. A good man would exercise patience, and be kind, even to insolent servants. He forced his voice to be as gentle as he could manage.

“Look at me.” The man did. “What is your name.” The servant looked surprised for a moment, then spoke hesitantly.

“Uhh, my name is Henry, milord, Henry Baker.”

When Patrick raised his hand, Henry Baker closed his eyes and flinched, apparently expecting some sort of reprisal for answering Patrick’s query. Patrick graciously elected to ignore the implications of the man’s actions, and flipped him a silver noble instead.

“Well, Henry Baker,” He said in his approximation of a cheery tone, “Take the rest of the day off, I have no need of your services.”

With that, Patrick turned on his heel and marched towards the quarter deck, where Lady Natalia would no doubt be sitting. A good man would apologize for his slights, and it seemed that he had a good deal of that to be doing in the next thirty minutes.

***

“What would a good man do?” Caj murmured to himself, the words carrying with them a weight that he didn’t entirely understand.

He was leaning against the railing of the barge they were taking up the river, affectionately named The Persistent Gypsy by her captain, and thinking. He wore the brigandine made for him by Forgemaster Potiphar, along with the accompanying pauldrons and greaves. He wore them for much the same reason that he had worn his swords every day since he had gotten them six years before, when he was fifteen; so that they would become a part of him.

Caj had long since reached the point that he felt naked without at least one of his two blades on him at all times. It was now time to integrate this rather plain looking armor into the family of his every day gear. Currently, he was having mixed success. The armor was designed to limit mobility less than other armors, but it was still armor, and that came with some limitations in mobility. As it was, the was also getting used to walking with the dull plate-metal greaves given to him by Rashan also, it was a curious feeling to have the lower portions of his legs covered in metal. He’d get used to it though.

He pulled at the stiff leather collar of the brigandine uncomfortably, then leaned back against the railing once more, tapping the right breast of the armor, and producing a dull thud. Underneath that armor was a pocket, and in that pocket were two letters, one with the name ‘Imogen’ written in a beautiful hand, and another written in the same elegant writing style, that simply said ‘Brother’.

Caj was on his way to Goldstern, and he had some hard questions to ask himself. Would he reveal himself in order to deliver these letters? Should he? Would the recipients even want them? Would Narm want him to give them the letters? He felt the familiar pain of loss in his chest when he thought of Narm. He wished the old man was still here. Narm always knew what to say, what to do. Narm always was prepared, always ready. Caj… Caj wasn’t. Caj desperately wished that Narm was still here just so that he could have someone to talk to. Someone to cuff his ear and tell him to mind his manners again, like he had on that summer day 14 years ago, when Caj was just seven years old. Someone who would look him in the eye and tell him he was an absolute idiot, without an ounce of apology. Someone who could give him advice about what the hell to do about Rai and Emma, how to try and raise them when he was only a few years older himself. Someone to be his father, present and supporting at all times. Someone who hadn’t been murdered.

Caj realized that he was squeezing the railing of the barge so tightly that his hands were starting to cramp. He loosed his grasp and leaned backward, breathing deeply and calming himself. He was in too public of a place to lose his temper, and it would be wrong to loose his fury on any one of the people around him, who didn’t do anything to deserve it. Narm’s voice chimed in his mind, turning the slight ache in his chest into a stabbing pain.

You need to control that temper of yours Caj, you’re liable to hurt someone otherwise.

Caj’s fury abruptly deserted him, and he slumped back against the rail, muttering to himself.

“What would a good man do?”

It was a question that could only be asked if you were not entirely a good man yourself, the way Caj saw it. Of course, he was of the opinion that it was impossible for a person to be entirely good, as everyone made mistakes and had flaws. However, even with that logic, at this moment, it seemed to be a screaming accusation in his mind, like the bony finger of a banshee pointing right in his face. Nevertheless, he still asked: What would a good man do?

The query applied to more than just the delivery of the letters of course. Caj’s life was in something of a shambles at the moment, between his trying to effectively care for two teenagers, untangle his complicated relationship with Nat, control his anger towards Dean Rankin, and stop Maxim and Valerna from burning down the Persistent Gypsy. Additionally, he was apparently some sort of magical guardian now, according to Bietre. Damn the man for his lack of explanation.

Caj ran his hand down his face, running it along the brown-red stubble that ran along his cheeks, and the horseshoe mustache that was a new addition to his look. He was about seven years too young for it by the cultural standards of Whoid Stria, but the idea was that if he looked older than 21, no one would connect Caj MacDougal, son of an unimportant gravedigger, with Caj Donovan, son of a traitorous Duke. He reached his hand into the pouch at his side, and pulled out one of the few things Narm had left him that he had brought with him on this trip.

A cherrywood bowl emerged, followed closely by a long, curved stem, and Caj pulled out the pipe that Narm had smoked for as long as he could remember. He ran his fingers over the familiar pipe, touching a small dent in the wood that he recalled occurring when he had tried to steal it for a smoke when he was 12, and had dropped the damn thing. Narm had been very displeased with him on that occasion. Caj grinned at the memory, then grabbed some tobacco to tamp down.

Caj honestly had no idea what a good man would do, but right now, Caj MacDougal was going to have himself a damn pipe, and if anyone had an objection to that, they could take a piss off a tumbling belltower for all he cared.

“Ye know smoking ain’t good fer yer health, right Big-man?” Rai’s voice rang out from nearby. Caj let out a deep, exasperated sigh, ruining the smoke ring he was about to make.

“Go take a piss off a tumbling belltower.” He grumbled loudly, resulting in a few snorts from two of the ten crewmen nearby, and a snicker from Lewis MacDonlevy, who was lounging against the opposite railing, about fifteen feet away. Caj didn’t bother opening his eyes.

One of the problems with being on a Barge this size was that there was no damn space. The problem was exacerbated by the horses and luggage, the former of which were in a pen specially designed for the purpose of river transport, and the latter stored in the small hold below. As it was, most of the servants had taken up residence on the roof of the cabins, in the area that Rai was resting, in order to stay out of the way of the crew members who were poling them up the river. Caj took another puff on his pipe, feeling surprisingly content, considering his discomfort just a few moments before. Hopefully, this would last for a little while. Ignoring his problems wasn’t a solution for the long run, and it wasn’t what a good man would do. But right now, Caj MacDouglas was going to have a damn pipe, and pray for some peace and quiet, even if it wasn’t what a good man would do.

***

Gu Min watched as the barge laboriously made it’s way up the river, eyeing it carefully. At the moment, it looked exactly like the target they needed. A boat with some apparently minor nobles, judging by the current lack of fanfare, and their bodyguards. This group would likely have information useful to their search, but their absences would likely be relatively unnoticed at court. He tapped the three silver rings through his bottom lip, thoughtfully. The rings denoted his rank as Chief Officer of the 56th Fist, in the service of his imperial majesty Xiao Zhao, Blessed of the Heavens. The rings, in addition to his Jian were his most prized possessions.

Gu Min would have to ensure that this group made it through the time in the encampment, should he choose to take them in. He wasn’t too worried about his men: with some encouragement from himself and Sven Asplund, his second, they would behave themselves. The Brotherhood of Sinners though… He grimaced. Their Captain, the infamous Blood Crow, wasn’t exactly known for keeping his privateers in check, and they were called the “Brotherhood of Sinners” for a reason. In fact, he and Sven had elected to take their only current female prisoner with them on this mission to prevent exactly such abuses. He scratched his chin, then tugged at one of his rings before speaking.

“What do you think Sven?” he asked in the tongue distinct to the former conquerors of the northern reaches of the Vencheng empire. It was a curiously smooth language, filled with a weird substitution of constantans and syllables, but Gu Min was well practiced at it. His second grunted appreciatively before replying in the same tongue, his lack of an accent clearly marking him as a native speaker.

“You know what I am going to say, Jarl Gu. I don’t like bringing anyone back to Blood Crow, but especially not that many women. It will not end well.”

Gu Min sighed.

“There are less women on this ship than almost any other we have seen to this point.” He said reasonably, “Only four that our spotter saw.” Sven grunted.

“Four too many to take with us every time we go into the field. He may but look and listen now, but where a wolf’s ears are, his teeth are near.”

Gu Min almost laughed. He should’ve known. Sven had a damned proverb for everything. Gu Min knew this game though.

“Fight your foes in the field, don’t burn yourself in your own house.” Sven paused for a moment to look at him and smirk, pulling his braided grey-streaked blonde beard upwards slightly.

“Better to die with honor than live with shame, Jarl. You should listen when this old dog barks. I have seen much, and known much. Trust me, you don’t want to sell your personal integrity for the good of the empire.” There was a long moment of silence where neither man spoke, before Sven sighed. Gu Min knew that his second already knew what the protracted silence meant. The northman turned away. “Well then. I’ll go prepare the men, Jarl.”

Gu min stayed at his vantage point for a moment more, staring at the floating barge, filled with a deep sorrow. It might destroy him, but he had sworn his oath. He would break his soul into seven pieces and sell it to the Opposer himself, if it would further the purpose of the empire, or Xiao Zhao, Blessed of the Heavens.