Willingham Amateur Theatre, centre-stage.

"'Tis a tragedy to be sure," Westcott boomed. "Why, just last week, we Norwoodians wallowed in ignorant bliss, having no Sarkian inhabitants whatsoever."

Saidah watched. And waited, as the wordsmith paused for effect.

"Now, it seems, we have lost one of these stalwarts of society, mayhap six more, and are down to our last precious one!" He waved, with a flourish at Saidah sat on a crate in the far corner of the warehouse.

Snickers came from several of the crowd - emboldened the storekeeper continued.

"Egad, they're a dying breed!" He exclaimed. "Now, I miss those swarthy buggers as much as the next man! But..." He winked conspiratorially. "But that's far from the worst of it."

The snickers spread in anticipation of a punch line to come. Saidah squirmed for the same reason, earning a splinter in his behind, but it was the storekeeper proving to be the real pain in his arse.

"Worst of all, notorious Jak Foster is at large! Well, as large as a wee twelve year-old can be!"

The audience exploded. Jeers aimed at Saidah and cheers and chuckles everywhere else.

"Now, now Westcott," said Mayor Maggard, entering stage left, his sweaty hands held up for order. "This gentleman has discovered his dear friend murdered and another six of his associates are missing presumed murdered too."

"And," he added, confidence and volume rising. "Master Saidah has clearly identified Jak Foster as the culprit."

A mix of incredulous and surprised murmurs rose from the floor. Music to Saidah’s ears.

"Yes, Master Saidah of Sarkia, claims..." replied Westcott. "Claims young Jak, the snot-nosed lad I sold sweets to earlier in the week, is a dual-sword wielding maniac!"

"Our budding assassin, it seems, has slain one swordsman and driven Master Saidah off to boot."

More murmurs rumbled. Saidah's name was being bandied about too liberally for his liking.

"In his peculiar account of events, he also claims our preteen terror assaulted him with the head of a third associate.” Westcott shook his own head, as if to show how hard they were to remove.

"Alas, for reasons known only to himself, Master Saidah didn't retrieve either his friend's body or said head, so it's, somewhat conveniently, at large too! Perhaps they're in it together? Two heads are better than one are they not? But let's not get a-head of ourselves...”

A couple of chuckles, but mostly groans. And one scowl, coming from the corner.

"He also suspects this child has killed his five other associates," Westcott continued. "Slaughtered seven armed men... Ex-soldiers by the look of them. Yet, only one body part has purportedly been found... Then promptly lost again!"

"What business are he and his so-called associates in anyway?" he asked the room.

"Traders? I think not - forsooth they've brung a cartload of pine to a forestry town!"

Murmurs grew into mumbles. In the dunces corner, Saidah's shoulders slumped.

"You!" Westcott glared at Maggard. "You are taking the word of a foreigner over one of our own. Ludicrous charges against a child you haven't even questioned!"

The mumbles became grumbles. Maggard's face flushed red, but he stepped forward.

"If you've finished --" he began. But Westcott was not one to be upstaged.

"Just one final question. - how many?"

"How many what?" Maggard replied warily.

"How many senarii did the Sarkian pay you?"

Confusion reigned with several of the crowd booing or hooting with others hushing them in turn.

"Nothing..." Maggard managed, stepping back into the shadows. "...Much. Merely a small contribution to my re-election campaign, a smidgeon really… Plus a few coins to hire a team of hounds..."

The booing grew louder and many men wheeled about and left, Westcott included.

Saidah sighed but simply sat on his crate and waited. There were too many people speaking Perugian too fast for him to keep up. Plus, he'd paid the piggy little man plenty for what he wanted. Anyways as the Perugian idiom said: 'fine words butter no parsnips'. Gold and silver, however, spoke every language known to man.

Sure enough, his confidence in human weakness was well-placed. Eventually, the pernicious banker had glad-handed enough wastrels, that they had a posse.

Vindicated, Saidah slept easily that night but rose too early as it turned out.

They were supposed to set off first thing in the morning, but it was closer to third thing in the mid-morning by the time the last of the motley crew were scraped off various tavern floors.

"Pay peanuts; get monkeys," Mayor Maggard had lamented.

He'd know, Saidah thought sulkily of his long-gone gold. I crossed his palm with plenty of coin. Most of it must have slipped straight into his gaudy pockets. Saidah spent the bulk of his waiting minutes, weighing-up whether the pudgy mayor looked more like a peacock or a piglet. Peacock today, he decided. Prancing about in his spanking new hunting attire that Saidah was pretty sure his purse had paid for.

It made sense to start the search at the Swamp Bridge, so Saidah was a fairly surprised when that's what they actually did. He was not surprised that it all went downhill from there. The bank manager had paid-off eleven ruffians with Saidah completing a baker's dozen of dubious citizens. For form’s sake, the mayor decreed they needed at least a shred of evidence, before he could upgrade his unruly mob into a lynch mob. Hence the search party started looking for signs of Saidah's missing compatriots using hounds.

The dog species was not familiar to Saidah, nor likely any Sarkian. They were certainly not the effete lapdogs Sarkian noble women favoured nor the sleek afghan's the Emperor bred. This lot were squat, solid and scarred all over with boxy-jaws built for locking-on.

The hired hound-team were led by a man named Ronk. The old adage "you don’t get a dog and bark yourself" came to mind. They also say people resemble their pets and Ronk was no exception. Short, stocky, stupid and brutishly ugly, he barely had his four underlings under control. Saidah figured the five of them had drawn straws to select a leader and Ronk had lucked-in. Having fingers like enough helped. Maybe they'd held a vote, he mused, and botched it. Sometimes everyone's second choice wins.

In his infinite wisdom, Ronk reckoned "all Sarkians smelt alike" so gave the dogs Saidah's scent, struggling to hold his hounds in check. Saidah was unimpressed with this theory. And even less impressed with the idea in practice. Because the moment Ronk released the baying hounds they bailed him up the nearest beech. The only impressive thing at all was how fast a desert lad had climbed his first tree. It took him a lot longer to come down though, dishing out death stares as he did.

"Well," Ronk concluded to his four hounds. "That didn't work."

Ronk only spoke directly to his dogs. A crying shame Saidah thought, since he was clearly a master of understatement. Ronk's sparkling wit and conversational skills would be sorely missed on this sortie to be sure.

---------------------

Jak was immune to his gran’s wards, but sure didn’t feel like it today. Every step closer to Grey Grove he took, the deeper his dread became. It was the finality of facing Gran’s body he feared - a horrific reality he wasn’t ready to accept.

His grieving brain had been arguing a range of unlikely scenarios where she was still alive. It was all only a nightmare… She'd healed herself with magic… The elves had acted against their selfish nature and saved her… Anything but the worst which had already happened. Looking up Jak found he’d arrived. His hand gripped the doorknob tightly, but he just couldn’t turn it.

He clung like lichen to the fact he'd almost avenged her murder and flung the door wide. And saw nothing. Well, not nothing, more like everything. Everything was there, except his gran and the two soldiers. Everything was actually in order. The furniture was righted, the floor spotless. All the odds and ends were each in their place, as if by magic.

His heart leapt. Jak charged through the house, heart thudding, hope burning bright again, yet he dared not utter her name. His frantic search came to a shuddering stop at the backdoor. Outside in the grotto there was a new grave mound, already grown over with grass somehow. His hopes fell a final time. Not dashed, just deflated. Instinctively, he knew it was his gran interred here - in her favourite spot surrounded by her blooming flowerbeds.

The fact she wasn’t lying on the floor and that someone had honoured her appropriately softened the blow... Or deflected it... It lessened the hurt somehow. Jak owed someone an honour debt. He inspected the headstone for a clue as to whom.

At the top, in large letters was inscribed: "Imelda Morgana Sylvari" followed by “Loving mother of Aroha Eowyn Sylvari and grandmother of Jak Bannor Foster".

For some reason, the tears streamed down after reading his own name and he could barely make out the dates:11th of May,1380 – 12th of November,1489. Wait, he sniffed, that can’t be correct. He counted to himself. Egad! Those dates would make her over a hundred. There was no way his sprightly gran was over sixty. She'd regularly beaten him in swordplay. Could it be true?

If so, he had severely underestimated the Fae Forest Witch.

Sure, he'd seen glimpses of her witchcraft growing up, but he'd accepted it as just another facet of Gran. He never thought anything of the odd spell or incantation, until he saw the raw power she'd unleashed two days ago. Hells, he even thought her wards were normal. To him, Gran was many things: herbalist, healer, teacher, confidante and, as the headstone said, a mother. Were all the town rumours true?

No, of course not. Anything coming out of Norwood had to be taken with a grain of salt, yet there seemed to be some basis to the stories. Perhaps the forest had lost a powerful force? A protector? What would become of it now?

For the time being, he set his uncertainty aside and resumed reading, scrutinising the runes underneath the Perugian. Thankfully they appeared to be goblin. Something, something, probably her name. Friend of the forest. Good, that was in goblin. Keeper of secrets, something, something, possibly saviour? Something. He gave up. Definitely goblin runes. Thank the gods not elves; he’d hate to owe owt to any elf. He leaned against the grassy mound and let the relief run over him.