Funeral of Ana

The first meeting of all of the PCs. It went straight to hell, as anyone could have predicted. This was also a major confluence of various sub-plots that folks had been working on privately.

What would I have liked to do better as a GM in this section? I don't know. Most of my attention was taken up by the constant complaints of Rosalind's second player, as the character dug herself deeper and deeper into a pit of bitterness and bad karma. I'd have liked to be able to avert that somehow, but everything I tried just made things worse. On another note, I'd have liked to make the dynamics of the Elders a little more clear from their actions, but even with the reduced cast I was playing, there are just so many of them. Got to thin the ranks a bit more, yep, yep.

Sascha: Sascha will be up early, waiting in front of Fiona's door.

GM: Fiona looks, unsurprisingly, like she's had a very rough night when she finally opens the door. She is dressed not in her colors but entirely in black, a severe dress with a high collar.

"Oh, Sascha," she says, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. "Have you been waiting there long?"

Sascha is dressed in a black suit, wearing a hat in the colour of darkened rust or dried blood, the appropriate colour for mourning where he comes from. The combination is a compromise between his cultural roots.

His voice sounds "Yes,.. I mean no,... forget it, it is not important. - Mother? I'm sorry for what I said yesterday, I didn't want to." He offers her his arm. "Let us go, yes?"

"Forget it," she says morosely. "I understand... I mean, you're right, aren't you? I haven't been much of a mother, and I'm even worse as a role-model. You should emulate someone like Bleys... he always seems to come out on top."

"I won't emulate anyone else, not even uncle Bleys, but I'll gladly be your son, if you allow me to be myself." Sascha gives her a kiss on the chin.

"Like I could stop you," she says with a trace of black humor.

"In fact I am sure you could, but I trust you that you would not." He winks at her unsmiling.

As they come close to the chapel, Sascha sighs as they presses through his teeth. "Brrr... I never felt comfortable in social gatherings where words are used to kill instead of swords. So if you think I am here to patronize you, believe me, it is just the opposite." He pats at her hand and links her arm closer while he fiddles out sunglasses out of his breast pocket.

The bells of every church in Amber ring the mourning hour. The sky is grey and cloud-covered. The sun rises weakly, little more than a generalized smear of light in the east. Eschewing the grand entry hall as too elaborate and open for the event, the family is set to gather in the old Chapel, a dingy, little used corner of the earliest section of the Castle.

Light seeps in furtively through the high narrow windows. It falls in misty bars across the pews, casting pools of pale light and gulfs of murky shadow. A few lanterns glow dimly on the altar, helping to define the far end of the room, but not adding much of warmth or comfort.

Florimel is there early. When the others arrive, she will already be standing at the front, looking at the altar and apparently lost in her own thoughts.

Trace: An average man of average height and appearance, with average brown hair, enters the chapel quite early. He glances to the side at Florimel, then around the small room. Satisfying himself no one else is yet present, he kneels in front of the altar, makes an odd gesture in the air with his hand, then bows his head silently for a few moments.

Rising Trace murmurs softly to Florimel, "If you mention that to anyone later, I will vehemently deny it."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Flora says grimly, fingering the black sling that supports her left arm. "I hear you've been getting yourself into yet more trouble."

"I don't belong here," Trace says quietly, tilting back his head and studying the ceiling. "The city does not dislike me, but the parents..." his lip quirks ever so slightly. "I fear the parents disapprove of our carefree relationship. It's resulting in a great deal of tension, and as the dashing paramour, it is as ever my duty to know when to fetch my pants and climb out the window, hmmm?"

He pauses for a moment, then suddenly lets loose a burst of laughter (no doubt at precisely the right moment to further outrage someone for his lack of respect!) , rubbing his eyes. "Oh, gods. What an absolutely ludicrous metaphor. My apologies, Aunt Flora."

He goes quiet, still not meeting her eyes, rubbing at his left arm. After a moment he repeats softly, "My apologies."

Rosalind: Rosalind enters the chapel dressed in a severe black pants suit of a modern style. Its vertical lines accentuate her body's nearly rail-thin slimness. She takes a seat at a pew in the back near the door.

"Don't worry about it," Flora says lightly. "I rather liked the metaphor, ludicrous as it is. After all, the question isn't really whether the parents hate you when they first meet you. It's where you end up in the long haul. If passion leads to commitment and caring it's easy to forgive youthful indiscretion."

"Ahh, but that would imply- at some unspecified time in the distant future- that I would be capable of discretion," Trace notes. "I fear your basic premise may be faulty."

Trace glances over at Flora at last, a smile threatening to tease over his lips. "If you liked the metaphor, you'll love today's paper. I recommend saving a copy for posterity."

Flora shakes her head. "I saw the paper, dear, and it's not worth saving. The Herald lambasted you soundly, but held back from actually saying anything memorably nasty, lest they offend any of their staunchest royalist readers."

"Not memorably nasty? I must speak to them later," he says in surprise.

"Clearly, they did not quote me correctly. I went to some effort to make it memorable."

The sound of voices in conversation is audible for a few moments before Martin and Llewella enter the room together.

"... make me look positively responsible and restrained," Martin is saying. "I shall have to remember to thank him."

The Crown Prince is gesturing with a large, floppy sheet of crinkly grey paper, tightly covered with print on both sides and prominently blazoned "Amber Gossip!" across the top.

"I think you'll get your chance," Llewella says with rueful humor. "Hello there Trace," she continues, "we were just talking about you."

Trace smiles. "So I had surmised. So were Aunt Florimel and I. I sense that perhaps it will not be the last tongues discussing my obviously misreported activities yesterday. Would you mind terribly if I saw the paper, Martin? I admit to a morbid curiousity on precisely what it is I apparently did."

"Oh certainly," Martin says. "I can give you the summary... they think you put on quite the show, and that you make the rest of us look stodgy and placid by comparison."

Trace reads the Gossip, and sees that in this paper at least, all of his best quotes were (as he no doubt intended) cut loose of their encumbering context and set like jewels into an article describing his misadventures in a tone of restrained but still apparent amusement and approbation.

Trace frowns as he reads, nodding at Martin. "Yes... yes, I see. Thank you. I will take measures to make sure it doesn't happen again, when the time is more appropriate."

While Trace reads, Flora inquires of Martin, "Now what is that little rag, anyway?"

"Oh, didn't they get as far uptown as trying to sell these to the castle staff? Apparently Amber has an independent newspaper... or two, if you count the Herald, which I personally don't. Thrillingly democratic, don't you think?"

Trace turns, reaching out to squeeze Llewella's hand tightly. "Good morning, mother," he says warmly. "Unless you'd care to consider disowning me? Granted, if you've been patient this long, surely you won't reconsider now... will you?" he says, peering closely at her face with apparent concern, then smiling again and lightly kissing her cheek.

"No Trace," Llewella says with calm dignity, "I have more trust in you than to believe such slanders. I know that you would never have acted so irresponsibly. Now who was it that went to such trouble to destroy your reputation? Did they use some sort of double?"

Trace blinks rapidly, and says in the same sofrt, reserved tones appropriate for a chapel, "I'm so sorry, mother, I've obviously been terribly misunderstood! I'm upset because this scandal rag hasn't portrayed nearly the full extent of my irresponsibility, here. And look, mark you- they've almost totally failed to use my lurid quotes to their full potential! I am gravely disappointed. I can only hope some of the other independent papers have more respect for accuracy."

Trace points at Roz, who continues to attempt to remain discreet. "Ask my cousin- she's fully aware of the extent of my recent depravities. Why, she visited the prison to discuss depravity with me moments before my exciting escape occured."

Llewella shakes her head in dismay. "I just don't know why I even bother trying," she says to Trace, "I ought to know by now that you're incapable of shame. I keep thinking some day you'll actually be embarrassed by one of the scandals you cause."

She glances over toward Rosalind. "And now you're dragging even your more respectable cousins in as well. Oh Trace, what are we going to do with you?"

Trace squeezes her hand again, and brings it to his lips, kissing it gently. "I have ample shame, dear Mother," he says. "I am saving it for a special occasion. The moment I am sure I have gone so far you will not attend my funeral in your shame, I will know it has been too much. I fear there is too much love in your heart for that to ever happen, though; and thus we are both doomed to scandal."

Llewella looks at Trace darkly. She pulls her hand out of his grasp.

"So you only act this way because you're confident it will never cost you my regard?" she asks coldly. "Rest assured, I'm quite capable of loving the young man I remember, while despising what you have fallen to under your father's negligent hand."

Trace stares at his now empty palm for a moment, and says quietly, "And if it was such a concern of yours, Mother, where was your hand at the time?"

"Oh yes, Trace," she says scornfully. "Do go ahead and blame anyone but yourself. The fact is, I thought you were made of sterner stuff... that being exposed to people who cared for nothing save themselves, you would revile their selfishness and greed. I see I was wrong about you."

"Mmmn. Perhaps it would have worked, if the people I were exposed to matched that description," Trace says. "As it is, I must confess the most prominent examples of that kind seem to belong to my second Family. I haven't had a chance to decide whether I revile their selfishness and greed, yet. Perhaps after the funeral."

"Trace, you are in no position to complain about this family's selfishness," Llewella snaps. "You have tried at every turn to ruin the reputation of myself, and of all of our family, and for no reason save that you could and that it felt good. By God, if I can't teach you the meaning of shame, I will at least make you feel what it is to be disgraced."

Trace studies a fingernail on his empty hand for a moment, then continues, "I'm uncertain we should be discussing this at the moment, Mother, and I also fear we both have an inordinate fondness for the last word. In the interests of acting in an appaopriate fashion... for once... I would concede you the honor, and suggest we speak of something else."

"We can discuss it later. I would hope we need not wait for another funeral simply to talk."

"Quite right," she says. "I must go and offer my sympathies to my sister. We will speak later."

She sweeps away, leaving Trace with Martin, who has been doing his best to be very inconspicuous during the conversation. Martin says something to Trace, too low for it to carry far.

Taking no notice of the conversation, Rosalind takes a copy of the latest consular update out of a breast pocket and begins reading through it, jotting down notes here and there as she thumbs through the pages.

Fiona, clad entirely in black, a severe dress with a high collar is accompanied by an athletic tall young man with red-blonde hair in a unostentatious close black suit with a mandarin collar and sunglasses enter the chapel. The companion with the red designer stubble takes off a rust red hat as they enter, leads Fiona to her place and sits down aside her.

Rosalind slides her report back into her pocket and makes her way over to sit next to Fiona. "Aunt Fiona, please allow me to extend my most sincere condolences," she takes Fiona's hand in both of hers. "I grieve for Ana's loss. I'm already missing her."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Fiona says, all but tonelessly. She seems... washed out somehow. Paler.

Looking to Sascha, Roz smiles sadly. "I'm Rosalind, I think we met once at a family function, if there's anything I can do for you, Sascha, or for you, Aunt Fi, please let me know -- I'd be more than happy to help."

"Pleased to meet you again, Rosalind," Sascha gives her a smile, "and thank you for your kindness. Talking of it, there is indeed something you might do for me, but I think we should talk about it after the ceremony."

"Of course, come find me, afterwards," Rosalind replies.

"I thank you therefor, Rosalind." Sascha lets his eyes rest on her for a few seconds. She notices that he looks thankful but worried, before he turns his attention towards his mother, taking her wordlessly by the hand.

Rosalind touches Sascha's shoulder briefly before moving off to make room for the others approaching.

The half-sisters approach Fiona, first Florimel and then Llewella. Florimel simply says "I'm so sorry, Fi. I can't pretend to understand what you're going through. Be strong."

With Llewella fairly close behind her, Florimel steps aside toward Sascha. While Llewella makes the same sort of unavoidable and inadequate courtesies to the mourning mother, Flora looks Sascha up and down and asks softly "So, how are you holding up?"

"Thanks Flora, worse than I hoped better than I thought." Sascha gives her a tired smile.

"Well, hang in there," she says. "And don't hesitate to ask for anything you need. Your family is here for you now."

She fingers the sling around her left arm, and glances for a moment back toward Trace and Martin, before admitting "Well, most of us, anyway."

While these conversations are taking place, two figures arrive at the door to the Chapel.

First, Caine, somber in his darkest greens, walks in and looks over the assembled crowd. His eyes rest for a flickering moment each on Rosalind, on Trace, on Florimel. He starts making his way slowly across the room toward Fiona, so as not to crowd Llewella too obviously.

Rosalind returns Caine's gaze with one arched eyebrow.

The second figure, a young girl in a page's doublet looks around the room with nervous urgency until she spots Princess Llewella. Then the little girl makes a bee-line for her, stepping around Caine on her way with a respectful curtsy.

Stepping just outside the chapel door, Rosalind lights a cigarette. She keeps an eye on the goings on inside the chapel.

Arithon: "Needed a break, Rosalind?" Arithon asks softly as he approches. For those looking out of the chapel door, they see a tall man, broad of build, maybe in his late thirties. His hair is raven black cut short in a classic men's cut. His eyes are dark brown and seem to miss nothing. He is dressed in a simple suit of dark blue trimmed with a sombre gray. He is carrying an ebony walking stick capped with silver.

"Arithon!" Roz smiles, warmly. "It's good to see you again, I just wish the circumstances were happier."

"So do I." He says softly with a nod. "How is the memorial so far?" Arithon asks.

"Well, considering Trace's constant narcissistic braggadocio combined with his mother's irritated complaints about his behavior, it's been your usual family gathering so far," Roz grins ruefully, "sometimes I envy your ability to absent yourself from this felicity whenever you please," she continues in a slight sarcastic vein; then she sighs, exhaling cigarette smoke, "we're just gathering here in preparation for moving on to the funeral service at Ana's cenotaph." She concludes, much more somberly.

In the hallway, Bleys and Julian walk up to the door where Roz stands smoking and talking with Arithon. Llewella breezes through the door with a nod to the two of them. "Bleys, Julian," she says in passing, "I'll be back in a moment."

"Roz, Arithon," Julian says curtly.

"Good morning, your Highness," Rosalind says, formally.

Arithon nods to him. "Uncle."

Bleys is much more forthcoming. "Arithon!" he says, clearly delighted. "It's been... what, twelve years? I hadn't expected to see you today, that's for certain. How have you been keeping?"

Rosalind divides her attention between Bleys and Arithon and the others inside the chapel.

"Well enough, Uncle. Well enough." Arithon smiles. "How fares things with you?"

Bleys smiles. "Never a dull moment," he responds. "I always feel that I ought to be taking bets on whether we'll tear ourselves apart from the inside, or be beaten down by some external threat first. But either way, I don't see how anyone would collect on the wager, so why bother?"

"Oh I don't know." Arithon chuckles. "We are a family of survivors after all. I wish a happier occasion had called me back but I am finding it good to see everyone after so long."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, eh?" Bleys replies. "There's been quite the influx of youngsters though, Arithon. You'll hardly recognize the Family. Shall I introduce you around?"

There seems to be some sort of scuffle occurring in the Chapel itself.

"Thank you, Uncle. I'd appreciate that." Arithon nods. "It would seem that spirits run high in the young still." He comments looking at the scuffle.

"Oh for the love of all that's holy," Bleys says disgustedly, looking inside at his two nephews.

Without a further word he stalks into the room, toward the brawl. Julian chuckles darkly and walks into the room as well, taking up a position by the walls to watch the proceedings.

Arithon stalks into the chapel as well step in step with Bleys. He too is angry and looks quite prepared to put an end to this now.

"Bleys, Arithon, wait -- don't make things worse!" Roz urges them. She wants to say this before the two of them get too far away so she doesn't have to shout it across the room. "A quiet word will be far more effective."

Arithon nods agreement as he passes her but does not slacken speed towards the brawling pair.

"It's not Sascha's fault -- Trace should leave if he can't behave," Roz says as Arithon storms off.

Gerard walks down the hallway toward the Chapel, a valet rushing along beside him and taking one last opportunity to brush at the velvet of his surcoat.

"Knock his block off, Sascha," Roz mutters, darkly, then she notices Gerard standing next her and clears her throat and composes herself, adopting an amused smile. "Boys will be boys, I suppose." She says lightly.

"And girls will be girls," he replies humorlessly on his way past Roz and into the Chapel.

Meanwhile, Llewella, having finished speaking with Fiona, finds herself asked aside by the young page girl.

Caine walks up to Fiona and takes her arm gently. "Fi," he says flatly, "None of us will rest until Ana's killer is brought to justice. Least of all me. No matter what happens, you can count on that."

Fiona nods, but her eyes are filled with doubt. "I appreciate the sentiment, Caine, but after all I've heard it before."

"This is different," Caine replies. "Ana was our own blood."

"You mean you didn't really try your hardest when it was just my lover?" Fiona asks with an undertone of menace.

"Did you think I had?" Caine replies.

"No," she says, wilting a little. "You know I didn't."

"Like I said," Caine goes on, "This will be different."

Llewella dismisses the page girl and walks quickly up to Sascha and Florimel. "Sascha," she says, "I have to go help Llygwen with a few little things. Do assure your mother if she asks that we'll both be back as soon as we can."

Sascha nods. "Thank you, Llewella, help Llygwen, we will get by."

Llewella departs.

Caine walks up to Sascha and takes his hand. "Sascha," he says, "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances." Releasing the young man, he asks "What are your plans?"

Martin chuckles at something that Trace said. The sound isn't loud, but it's certainly incongruous enough to catch people's attention in the hushed and reverent atmosphere of the chapel.

"Opening some doors to find some answers, but I still have to make my mind up where to start." As Sascha releases Caine's hand, and with a smile he adds. "Thank you for your solace. I am sure we will meet again before I leave Amber."

Suddenly, turning away from Martin, palm on his face, Trace CHORTLES loudly, helpless to stop his guffaws at what one can only assume is some private joke. His shoulders heave for a few moments. It's hard to tell if this blatant laughter is an example of him trying to control himself or not; if it is, he's clearly not very good at it.

Sascha raises from his seat and walks over to Trace fast. He tries to wrest Trace's arm to his back and push him out of the chapel.

Sascha grabs for Trace's arm, and Trace in turn deflects him. There is a brief flurry of grabs, evasions, counters... all at a speed barely less than a blur. Sascha seems unable to get a solid grip, but Trace is retreating step by step back toward the altar (a wide marble table covered, for the occasion, with a black coverlet of heavily embroidered silk).

"Sascha, calm down!" Martin says from the sidelines.

"I told you to show manners and not to let yourself be seen today, it seems like I have to teach you like your bird friend." Sascha's voice is pressed but enraged.

"Why," Trace says sharply, apparently growing nearly as angry as Sascha himself, "Must respect be the other's empty, meaningless words and black fabric suited only for the grave? Even in my 'little backwater' of a home, there are those who /celebrate/ the dead- remember joy, not suffering! Why must we be this way? WHY?"

"In less than twenty-four hours you insult my dead sister, my mother, threaten her, come here although I asked you not to just to behave disrespectful again and you ask WHY? You are the most arrogant, ignorant and self-absorbed grub I've ever met!"

Suddenly, Trace jerks the black fabric from the altar, casting it at Sascha's body. "Wear your mourning on your sleeve, then, if that is your choice!"

Sascha uses Trace's manoeuvre to try and place his fist in his opponent's face.

The first thing that Trace notices is that for a black tablecloth this thing is HEAVY. Far heavier than he had expected. It must be more embroidered than it looks.

The fabric moves slowly, with a deep rustling sussurus. Sascha steps up and slams a punch squarely into Trace's right cheekbone, rocking his head back but not knocking him over.

The coverlet finally comes up to speed, and -slams- into Sascha, knocking him physically backwards a few steps. Trace heaves at one corner before it's torn from his grasp, and the fabric wraps ponderously around Sascha's body, tangling his legs, though the young Prince manages to keep his arms free.

Blood trickles down Trace's face, where the flesh itself was split open against the cheekbone by the furious strength of Sascha's blow. Trace has a long rough cut, though not one that looks either dangerous or likely to leave a scar.

Seeing Sascha won't be closing right away with his legs bound, Arithon walks past him to stand between them. "That's enough." He growls softly.

Bleys stalks past both of them to Trace and hisses "What the hell is wrong with you, child?"

Caine stands, and quietly starts closing the distance between himself and the ruckus.

"Uncle Bleys," Martin says quickly, "This is as much my fault as his, I..."

"I don't doubt that for a moment," Bleys says without turning his head. "But right now I'm speaking to Trace. You'll get your chance."

Sascha, feeling as if he made his point clear and not wanting to interfere with Bleys and Arithon, who clearly can only be here to help him [ what else? Sascha hasn't done anything wrong, has he? ], frees himself of the tablecloth and takes a few steps back, not leaving Trace out of the eyes, ready to block any incoming blows. His attempt to smile however fails, as he is still too sulphureous.

Arithon bends down and picks up the altar covering. Carefully, reverently, he replaces it on the altar murmuring quietly to himself as he does so.

Trace's eyes run over them all for a few moments, sliding from one to the next in order.

He says quietly, "I see you all thought so much of Ana that you would fight to save even her memory. Very well, then. Tell me about my cousin. Who is this woman that you all thought so highly of?"

"Bleys... tell me. Tell me about Ana."

Roz rolls her eyes and flicks cigarette ash into a nearby potted plant. She bites her tongue to keep from muttering something nasty.

"She was," Bleys says immediately, "A young woman of remarkably disciplined mind. A serious young woman, and a credit to her family. She would never have..."

"Stow it, Bleys," Caine orders harshly as he walks up.

Bleys just barely avoids actually goggling at this rudeness. Florimel takes a quick indrawn breath, as if she had just seen blades drawn. Fiona nods with a small, grim, smile.

Bleys turns with dramatic and deliberate slowness towards Caine... which may be a tactical error, since Caine uses the pause to retain the conversational initiative. "Before you lay into our young swashbuckler here, take a look at what's actually happened. Did Trace make a perfect ass of himself? Sure. But he's not the one that turned this into a boxing match. In fact, he's gone to quite some effort to make sure your treasured pupil only had to untangle his legs, rather than ask us to help him count his teeth."

Sascha steps forward, his voice is angry although he tries to stay calm. "He made fun of Ana's death for the second time now, Caine. Trace is not here to mourn, nor is he willing to be considerate of other's feelings and only ridicules ours. He should leave. In fact he shouldn't have come here as I already told him yesterday, when he started his impertinence. Still I did not react when I saw him in the chapel until he started to insult Ana's keepsake again. I don't see a single reason why I should tolerate the pain he brings to my mother or how he profanes the memento of my sister. And if you think it is me who would have had to count his teeth, then you should watch closer next time."

"There have been two wrongs here." Arithon replies in his general's voice, stern, soft yet it carries. "Trace has profaned an altar of the Unicorn, and Sascha has spilled blood in the house of the Unicorn. Both shall answer for their transgressions." As he speaks, Arithon draws forth an amulet from beneath his shirt, an ivory Unicorn's head. Those that would know recognize it as a symbol of one sworn to the Unicorn church

Sascha shakes his head. "Cousin, no offense meant, but for what I shall stand answer is for the king to decide, not you. I respect you, but authority you do not have over me. Moreover should you among all understand why I did what I did or what would you have done if Trace had insulted the memento of your mother this way? Would you have asked him a second or a third time to stop or would you have acted?"

"Trace is here to ridicule us all, he ridicules the dead, the family and if you so will the unicorn. He has no decency nor does his word count a thing as he proved when he appeared here today against his promise. Even his mother is ashamed of his behaviour. If you want to tolerate it, it is up to you, but don't expect me to turn the other cheek."

"Well said, Sascha," Roz calls out from the doorway, "very well said, indeed!"

"Young man. A word and nod to those present and Trace would have been forcibly escorted from here." Arithon replies solemnly. "You started a brawl that did not have to be. As for my authority over you, I think you will find that these situations are still covered by the ecclesiastical courts, not the King's." He walks closer to him. "You were clearly provoked, Sascha and at a time of great weakness. I have no desire to add further burdens upon you. A simple prayer of apology given to the Unicorn is all I ask of you."

"Oh. My. GOD!" Roz mutters, "can this situation get any more ridiculous?" She drops her cigarette to the ground and steps on it.

"Ignore him, Sascha," Bleys says, turning from glaring at Trace's retreating back to give Arithon a steady look. "Nobody in their right mind is going to ask you to apologize for defending Ana's honor. Not today."

"Agreed." Arithon replies. It is left as an exercise to the reader to decide which part he agrees with.

Sascha shakes his head at Arithon. "Sorry, Arithon, but I don't believe the unicorn has need of our prayers, nor a church. But even then, the king chosen by the unicorn would be the highest instance in this matter, not you. Still I promise that I will apologise to her for having lost control on her great-granddaughter's funeral, if I ever meet her in person."

"Your choice too is made then." Arithon nods sadly. "So be it. You too shall learn Her will in due time." Arithon turns from them and resumes replacing the altar cloth attending to the tiny details that only clergy would notice.

Trace's voice is somewhat slurred, without its usual crisp, perfect pattern; perhaps the notion of counting teeth is too true for comfort.

"Delightful. Apparently I'm the only one here who doesn't think this is some sort of competition- speaking of which, a nicely played response to my question, Bleys, although its utter lack of conviction and soul makes it too obvious it is one of the thousands of lines you rehearsed in anticipation of every possible conversational gambit. I suggest practice in front of a mirror on sounding natural in your delivery."

"If it is the only way any of you will comprehend today's events- so be it. I submit; I have lost. In shame I exit from the solemn house of mourning so the parry and dance of family duels may resume unabated. If someone would be kind enough to inform me of the new standings tomorrow, I would be indebted; it's important to know whom I should be hating and whom I need to curry favor with, after all."

Roz shakes her head in utter disbelief upon hearing this.

He strides towards the exit, pausing just a moment by Arithon. "If the Unicorn agrees with you and Sascha... and thinks I have ridiculed her with my actions.." he says, "...she is welcome to seek me out at her earliest convenince and demand amends."

"Her will shall be made known to you Trace." Arithon promises. "Of that have no fear."

Rubbing his jaw, Trace walks with the light tap of boots on the floor growing softer.

Caine peels off from the yammering youngsters and follows Trace. "Walk with me a moment, would you?" he says grimly. He motions Trace toward a well concealed side exit.

Llewella and Llygwen turn down the corridor, bearing down on Rosalind.

Llygwen: So, in the spirit of maintaining the good reputation the children of Llewella have quickly acquired, it has to start like...

"Rosalind! You bitch! This time you went too far! You're not gonna get away with this!"

Gerard turns back toward the door at Llygwens voice. In fact, his manner is fairly tense, as if braced to fight. With Llygwen at her fore and Gerard at her rear, Rosalind looks well and truly hemmed in to the doorway.

Roz sighs and turns around to greet Llewella and Llygwen. "You're right, Lly, I should have handled the situation differently, I won't argue about that. We need to talk about this but *this* isn't the time or place for it," Roz replies, quietly. "Can we get together later?"

Sascha walks over to Bleys to give him a short hug. "Bleys, it is good to see you, if even under these circumstances."

"I'm glad you were able to make it," Bleys begins, but then pulls away from Sascha to look over at the commotion by the door. "Oh, what the hell?" he mutters angrily.

Arithon sighs. "This is why I didn't visit more often." He bends down to retrieve his walking stick and simply watches and waits.

Llygwen looks furious, a part of it probably due to her physical condition: a purplish bruise spreads on her cheekbone, a scattering of powder burns marks her face, and she holds her left arm stiffly against her body.

She zeroes on Rosalind with the speed of a hungry shark, her bloodshot eyes rivetted on her cousin's gaze.

" 'Get together later'? You tried to have me murdered! 'This isn't the place'? This could have been MY funeral!"

"I assure you I did no such thing, Lly," Roz insists in what she hopes is a soothing tone. "I'm sorry that the situation got out of control and that you got hurt, I truly am. Can we please discuss this in the room across the hall -- let's not make things harder for Fiona and Sascha than they already are."

Lly's voice goes down a little bit when she answers.

"Oh, worried about your precious reputation, are you? You don't want the family to know all your dirty schemes? Hypocrite and self-righteous! All your father's daughter!"

"This isn't about me, Lly," Roz replies, "this is about Ana's funeral, which you are disrupting. Whatever your complaint with me, Ana has certainly done you no wrong -- why disrupt her funeral any further? If you want to go some where private and shout at me some more I'll accommodate you; but if you're going to remain here you should show some compassion to Ana, her mother, and her brother." Roz folds her arms and regards Lly from under her bangs.

"Don't you tell me about compassion," growls Llygwen, "for you had none for the hundreds of Rebmans you had killed or wounded... Some of them I knew... Some of them were my friends... After what you did, after what you were planning to do, don't you dare tell me about compassion!"

At this point Arithon starts walking towards the group in the doorway.

Roz makes no reply, she simply regards Lly from under her bangs, her head inclined, her arms folded.

OOC: "Mommy, she doesn't talk anymore! I want a new one!"

"What did you think anyway? That because you eliminated Rausch, we wouldn't guess that the plot originated from Amber?" continues Llygwen lower.

Roz still makes no reply, simply watching Lly, her arms folded.

"Cat got your tongue, Roz?" Gerard asks grimly (and loudly) from behind her. "We all heard how eager you were to root for bloodshed a few moments ago when Trace was the one under attack. You only respect the grieving when it helps you dodge embarrassing exchanges, I see."

Roz chuckles grimly at the utter ridiculousness of this statement and shakes her head. "Nothing I can say will satisfy Llygwyn while she's in this temperament, Gerard, so I see no point to arguing with her." Roz doesn't bother to turn around to look at Gerard. She keeps her gaze on Llygwyn.

"What is it you seek here daughter of Llewella?" Arithon asks Llygwyn coming her to the side of Gerard and behind Rosalind. The speaker is a tall man with raven black hair cut short, looks to be in mid thrities. He is dressed in somber dark blues and carries an ebony walking stick capped with silver. Around his neck is a Unicorn medallion like the ones priests of the Unicorn wear.

Lly turns to the newcomer, obviously furious of the intrusion. Then, as she recognizes him, her eyes open wide in amazement.

"Arithon? Llyr's bones! Last time I saw you I still had pigtails! When was it? I was nine, I think... Maybe ten!" she chatters joyously. "How are you?", she asks with a look of concerned fondness.

"Well enough." Arithon replies. "I see you've grown some." He smiles in rememberance of earilr times then sobers a bit. "I returned to attend a funeral but very few people seem to come to this chapel with that intention." He says mildly. "Will you agree to a truce until the ceremony is over? Please?" He asks sincerely.

Lly seems to consider the option for a full second, then smiles sadly at Arithon.

"You are right, as always. Let's bury the dead, to comfort the living." she adds, more somberly. Walking past Roz without even a glimpse, she enters the chapel.

Roz chuckles and shakes her head as Lly walks by. She turns to Gerard. "Disappointed, tough guy?"

"Not particularly," Gerard says lightly. "Llygwen will have plenty of time to take you apart later."

"I guarantee it," Llewella mutters with a predatory smile, as she too breezes past Rosalind. Julian catches her just a few paces inside the door, and says "We should talk, if you can spare a moment..."

As Llew and Julian step aside, Martin leaves Sascha and Bleys behind and walks over to intercept Llygwen, or at least catch her after the receiving line.

"I prefer to believe that she'll listen to reason like the intelligent and mature adult that she is -- qualities you apparently lack," Rosalind replies to Gerard. She winks at him and turns to walk back into the chapel.

Gerard reaches out with a deceptively non-chalant motion, and grips Rosalind's left bicep.

"Walk with me, child," Gerard says with restrained tension. "Arithon, if I could borrow you for a few minutes, as well?"

"You prove my point for me," Roz replies. "Leave me be, Gerard. You have no authority over me so unless you wish to prove yourself a base, overbearing bully who preys on women and those weaker than himself you will release me and ask me to accompany you."

Gerard watches Arithon for a response to his invitation. He does not even acknowledge that Rosalind has spoken.

Rosalind closes her eyes for a moment. "You disgust me," she mutters, too quietly for anyone else to hear but Gerard, "what cause have I given you to manhandle me like this, you arrogant, overbearing excuse for a Prince?"

"I will walk with you, Uncle. If you will kindly slacken your grip upon my cousin." Arithon says evenly. "If she chooses not to walk with you, your message will be relayed."

Gerard shakes his head. "This isn't a tussle between peers, Arithon. I am disciplining an unruly child. The indignity to her is intentional. I would appreciate your presence, but I will respect your choice either way."

And with that Gerard moves to walk out of the Chapel and down the halls of the castle, dragging Rosalind behind him.

Arithon strides quickly to follow coming along side Gerard. "And for what do you discipline her?" He demands.

"That's a good question," Gerard says as Rosalind walks quickly to keep up with him (rather than be dragged). "Can it wait until I find a room where people won't be tripping over us?"

A short walk later, he walks into a small parlor with Rosalind in front of him, stands aside to let Arithon in, then closes the door.

"You," Gerard grates pointing to Rosalind, "will learn caution. I permitted your little jibes when I thought they were just girlish rebellion. But now it's clear that you think yourself untouchable... that even an accusation of murder planned in cold blood doesn't require a response. And now, for your own good, I will not tolerate any more disrespect. It's time you learn your limits," he finishes, glancing to Arithon, "as my brother Brand never did. Or you'll surely end as he did."

Arithon merely watches and waits.

"Gerard, could you possibly be any more dense?!" Roz is so mad she can barely keep from screaming but she makes an effort to calm herself down.

Finally she gains control of herself, her voice returning to normal and her body language returning to its usual, long-limbed indifference. Only her cold green eyes betray the anger and disgust still simmering inside her.

"For heaven's sake, Gerard, it's not like I didn't categorically deny everything she accused me of!" Roz shakes her head. "I have already explained to you," Roz says, calmly, "that arguing with Lly was pointless. She was in no mind to listen to reason and anything I said was just going inflame her further -- by not responding to her it at least slowed the situation down a bit to perhaps give her an opportunity to get hold of herself so that when Arithon stepped in she was able to listen to reason and let go of her anger." Roz's tone is patient, explanatory.

"There are two other very important reasons why I refused to say anything further," Roz continues. "I genuinely felt it was disrespectful of the funeral. I admit I did not hide my support for Sascha, I despise Trace and my feelings got the better of me, but it's one thing to make muttering comments on someone else's disruptive argument, which only those standing next to me can hear [you can go back and check the posts if you like, Roz muttered almost everything] -- it's quite another to CAUSE a disruptive argument. Since Lly showed no sign of abating her temper the only thing I could do was not take part in it. I would have left the area, but, like the bully you've shown yourself to be, you were blocking me from leaving.

"But the most important reason -- the reason you would have figured out for yourself if you had taken a moment to think about it -- is that the Karval operation was SECRET! I was sent there on the King's orders to do a job for the Crown and I did my job -- a job that had absolutely nothing to do with Llygwen, incidentally -- and while the results of my job are obvious for all to see, the particulars of what I did, how I did it, and what contacts and resources I used, are secrets. While many people here may know some of those details, it's not my place to decide who can and cannot be brought into these matters -- I don't make those decisions. Since she was there for part of it, I was perfectly willing to discuss these things with Lly in private, but to engage in a shouting match with Llygwen over this would have been a terrible breech of security."

If Roz is still alive by this point, she'll continue. "Out of the respect I used to feel for you, I have tried to answer your questions but let me make one thing perfectly clear," Roz's eyes flash with conviction, "I may be younger than you but I DO NOT have to answer to you -- you have no authority over me, whatsoever! -- I answer to one man, and one man only: His Majesty, the King of Amber -- and I have already made my full report to him on these matters and all of it -- all of it -- has met with his approval.

"How dare you compare me to Brand -- HOW DARE YOU! You arrogant sanctimonious BASTARD!" in a flash Roz looses all control over her temper, "I didn't ask to go to Karval, I was ordered there! I was given a job to do and I did it to the best of my ability! Yes, it got messy, it happens sometimes, things can get out of control!" Her voice breaks with emotion.

"Do you think I like those kinds of assignments?! Do you think I enjoy that?!" Roz's body is trembling with anger and her eyes are welling up, "Dirty politics and dirty tricks? Duels? Murder? Do you think I like that? I have my duty to do -- damn you! -- and I do it as well as I bloody well can -- even if it means playing on the naivete of my friend! But do you think I like it?" Tears are streaming down her face now. "Making my friends hate me? Making my relatives suspicious of me? Well I don't like it! I HATE IT! I REALLY FUCKING HATE IT! But I have a duty to my King and my Country and I when I took up this job I didn't promise just to do the assignments I liked or the things that were easy, I promised to serve the realm in whatever way my King saw fit! I have done exactly that! If you murdered me right now I would die with a clear conscience because I will have given my life in service to my King! And if you think that's disrespectful you can SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!"

Arithon stands impassive through the whole impassioned speech. He seems content to let the storm play out and await Gerard's reaction. He does stand tense however, and the grip on his walking stick has changed subtly.

"I think you LOVE it," Gerard says in a level tone. "I think you love the sense of authority without responsibility. But that's not what I'm here to discuss. You think it matters whether I have legal authority over you. It doesn't matter. If you really are innocent then you'd better start working harder to prove it. Because if I become convinced that you set out to kill Llygwen, I won't wait for the rest of the family to believe it too. I'll act. I have seen what happens when we let people get away with murder because we haven't dotted the i's and crossed the t's on proving that they did it. It won't happen again."

"Name one instance -- just ONE -- where I have avoided responsibility or abused my authority -- just one instance," Roz insists. "If you can, I'll tell you anything you want to know." Roz lights another cigarette, and exhales a long stream of smoke before continuing. "But you won't be able to because neither of those things have ever happened."

"You have not been in Amber long if you think the truth will save you, Roz." Arithon comments mildly. "Bad sentiment among the family combined with the illusion of wrongdoing is all that is needed to cause your death. I wouldn't rely on the King's protection either. His choice to shield you will always be a balancing act of your usefulness versus the outcry of those that want to pull you down. And if Gerard's words have the kernel of truth I think they do, it sounds like those voices grow louder."

"Perhaps you're right," Roz nods. "Very well, I will tell you what happened in Karval -- at least the parts of it that I feel I disclose without breaking trusts or security -- none of that has anything to do with Llygwen anyway." She gestures for Arithon to take a seat and sits herself.

"By all means," Gerard replies. "Do give your side of the story."

Arithon settles into a chair and turns an attentive face towards Roz.

As she gathers her thoughts Roz sits quietly for a moment or two, blowing lazy streams of smoke into the room, gaze turned inward.

"A couple of weeks ago the King sent me on an assignment in Karval." Roz begins, finally. "The old King, Alexander, had died unexpectedly of a sudden illness. Random wanted me to go there, reaffirm our ties of friendship with the new King, the young son named Conrad, and quietly look into the matter of King Alexander's untimely demise. Those were the objectives of the assignment -- at first.

"Upon arriving in Karval and beginning my initial investigation it quickly became clear that King Alexander had been murdered -- it was rather an open secret. Who had done it wasn't quite so open but my investigation turned up one suspect almost immediately, a local noble named Baron Rausch. The more I looked into it, the more certain I became that he was the man behind King Alexander's death. It was more than just a succession play -- it was a nascent coup. What Baron Rausch's faction wanted was a complete change in government and it was soon clear that young King Conrad, who was all of 16, I think [note: don't know if it was ever established how old he was], would very shortly join his father if Rausch and his ilk had their way.

"But there was also another problem. Karval had always been a strong supporter of Amber but sometime between the last visit the Progress had made there and the unusual death of the old King, the Rebman faction had grown surprisingly strong. This had also been given a boost by the recent crisis of leadership that attends any monarch's death, especially when the heir, and newly crowned king is an untried boy. Rebman influence had grown uncomfortable strong in the Karval political scene; Karval, whose allegiance had always been strongly pro-Amber, was now wavering, and there was danger that Rausch's coup might push it over the edge squarely into Rebma's camp." Roz gestures for the ashtray sitting on the table near Arithon's elbow. "Would you?" Roz asks with a smile.

"No matter how I felt about Rausch and his coup, I certainly couldn't allow Rebma to gain the upper hand in Karval. That's contrary to all my standing orders as a member of the King's, ah, special diplomatic branch. We're supposed to be winning more shadows over to our side, not losing them." Then Roz sighs as if she hates to admit to actual feelings. "And, I admit, I didn't want to see young Conrad come to any harm. His father had been a good friend to Amber and we did little to repay that friendship while he was alive. The least we could do, I felt, was see that his son and his throne was protected.

"So I came up with a plan to get rid of Rausch in such a way that it embarrassed the Rebmans. It was spy school 101 stuff," Roz smiles grimly to herself, "some rumor, some innuendo, some gossip, a duel, grease the palms of some rabble rousers, and let nature take its course. I wasn't sure exactly how I was going to get Rausch into a duel and it really only had a 50/50 chance of succeeding anyway -- and then Llygwen shows up."

Roz shakes her head. "Silly, flighty, naive Llygwen -- she was tailor made to lend credibility to all of my rumors and innuendo," Roz sighs again. "I'm sure that both of you are familiar with how much attention a member of the royal family can generate. When one of us is at a ball or soiree -- especially out in the 'Circle -- all eyes are upon us and everything we do is watched and remembered. In full sight of all attending, I introduced Lly to Rausch. Lly flirted with Rausch, Rausch flirted back, Lly slapped him I think -- I'm not sure of the exact events, it was either insulting words or a slap, something of that nature -- I stepped in and the next day there was a duel. Unknowingly, Lly had given me the perfect excuse to remove the biggest threat to young Conrad's reign and life right in front of dozens of the best, most reliable witnesses one could ask for. Perhaps a bit unfair for an Amberite to challenge a shadow person to a duel but this was the man who had murdered his old liege lord and planned to murder his new one so I didn't shed any tears."

Roz exhales a long stream of smoke and then shakes her head again. "Okay, this is where things get dicey and the part that I admitted to Lly that I didn't handle well: After the duel I carried on with my plans, I spread rumors in certain quarters that the Rebman faction in Karval had made Llygwen the unknowing pawn in a scheme to get rid of Rausch. It was an easy sell because she came across at the ball as a rather mercurial and flighty creature," Roz shrugs. "Well, it's true, you should have been there."

"I greased the palms of some ready agitators," Roz continues, "you know the type, and told them to generate some 'heat.' These are all the things one usually does in these situations. Usually it comes to nothing but a few broken windows and a political black eye for the other faction. But Karval was like a tinderbox. The merchant class that had been big supporters of Rausch's had been having their markets infringed upon by the Rebmans and they were waiting for a spark to set them off. When I sensed the storm that was coming I packed my bags and made ready to leave." Roz stops and looks at both Arithon and Gerard squarely. "I advised Lly to do the same and she assured me that she had no reason to stick around. Then I left. I rode out well before the 'storm' actually broke and kept tabs on general events from a few veils away." Roz exhales again, "if I regret anything about this operation, it's that I didn't come up with some excuse to get Lly to come with me when I left Karval."

Roz stops and points a finger at Gerard for emphasis. "I never named Llygwen as being behind Rausch's death, so don't go there. It would have defeated my objectives to focus everyone's anger on Lly -- I wanted the Rebman diplomatic and economic presence in Karval to suffer a major setback. Redirecting everyone's anger towards a Princess of Amber would have been self-defeating. Even if I hated Llygwen I am far too pragmatic to take her out in a way that would hurt Amber politically. Even if you hate my guts, I hope you recognize that."

Roz stubs her cigarette out, angrily. "There you go, that's the whole story, warts and all," Roz looks at Arithon and Gerard in turn. "What Llygwen is mad about is not that I tried to murder her -- that's preposterous -- completely and utterly preposterous -- no, what's she pissed about is that I-- we -- won. We beat her and Rebma's fortune's in that place have suffered. Llygwen's loyalties are severely conflicted and she wants to get even with me for what I did on Amber's behalf. But she's doesn't have a damn leg to stand on. During these last few years Amber and Rebma have become political enemies -- nothing could be more certain.

"But whether Llygwen likes it or not, Amber and Rebma are in the midst of a cold war. She can hate me all she wants but that doesn't change the fact that eventually she'll have to take sides -- she cannot serve two masters."

Arithon nods. "A case where both sides feel justified." He murmurs. "Well in your case Roz, it seems the cold war is about to become hot."

Gerard says nothing. He waits to hear Rosalind's response to Arithon.

"I can't speak to how Llygwen feels," Roz says, "but while I feel fully justified in my action in Karval, I honestly do not feel that those actions give Llygwen the right to accuse me of trying to murder her. Saying such a thing is intentionally false and intentionally inflammatory and serves only to sow discord within the family. As for the Cold War becoming hot," Roz shrugs, "I guess we'll just have to wait and see. Seeing as how Uncle Caine is blaming me for his mistakes, Lly could be the least of my problems right now."

"Is he now?" Arithon murmurs. "Seems we have much to catch up on."

"We'll see," Roz says with a glance at Gerard. "I'm definitely not going into it here."

"So," Gerard says in a soft, dangerous tone, "you challenged me earlier to point out any instance where you dodged your responsibility. I ask you, do you intend to return to Karval and stand trial for organizing the riot that has claimed so many lives?"

"Absolutely not!" Roz says, unintimidated by Gerard's tone, "my responsibility is to Amber and King Random, not to Karval. Do CIA agents return to Iran to stand trial for organizing illegal student demonstrations? Get a grip." Roz responds. "Besides, I happen to be the person who saved the life of Karval's King -- somehow I doubt he would be quite so eager to throw me in jail." Roz stands, thoroughly disgusted. "I'm done here and I'm leaving. You want to kick the shit out of me you go ahead, I can't stop you, but I'm through submitting to your crap."

Roz walks out.

Sascha looks questioning at Bleys, nods in Fiona's direction and goes back to sit at her side.

As he arrives there, he takes her hand and whispers: "I am sorry for the mess, mother."

"Don't be," she replies firmly. "I was glad to see the little snot get his comeuppance."

Florimel sniffs delicately. "Oh Fi," she says in a sad tone, "is it any wonder you have so many enemies? You so relish your grudges. Isn't Trace a little young for you to make up your mind about him so completely?"

Sascha interferes: "He may be young but is that an excuse for his constant effrontery? It sure ain't Llewella's fault as it is not a lack of learned etiquette but the conscious decision of being a major annoyance just to be the centre of attention. As such he has had his will and should be content now, let's not talk further of him."

Florimel hesitates, then replies "Very well. Sascha, give us a less controversial topic, would you?"

"Less controversial?" Sascha pauses to think. "I'll try my best although I start to get a certain feeling that an obsession for controversity is what really drives this family. - Anyhow beyond dispute should be the wish for an official investigation of the circumstances that led to Ana's death and to punish the vile murderer. You are close to the king, do you know whether he has taken steps as yet in this direction?"

"Nothing that he's told me," Florimel admits, "but I'm sure he has something in the works. I don't think it's a job that anybody is likely to want though. Best case, they'll piss Tempest off because she feels she should be above suspicion. Worst case, they'll end up being the next target for the killer... whoever that may be."

Sascha nods. "Well, then it would be probably best to send more than one person to investigate. It would be good if the king's works come to some conclusion soon, else the trail might be too cold to follow and if Tempest is as suspicious as everyone believes her to be, she should be under investigation already. Are we trying not to hurt her feelings or to find out who's guilty? If she had nothing to hide, she'd probably be more cooperative in this matter or look for the murderer herself as she obviously is the one who knows the most about it."

"Two investigators?" Florimel asks dubiously. "What do you think would be the odds of them both reaching the same conclusion?"

"The king," Sascha whispers, "Let us continue this conversation later, dear aunt." Sascha, too, inclines his head.

"Of course," she whispers back.

Lly aknowledges Martins tentative approach with a little nod in his direction, and slows her pace considerably as to allow Martin to catch up with her.

Martin looks her over with concern. "God, Lly," he says, "You look a mess... no offense intended, of course. What happened to you?"

"Rosalind happened to me. It looks like I got her red-handed in some kind of dirty scheme, and thet she tried to get me eliminated, as well as four or five hundred other Rebmans. I fared better than most of them. Do not worry, I will get back to her later." She takes his hand into hers, winces under the jolt of pain provoked by the stress on her shoulder, and add with a poor smile, "It's good to see you, Martin, even under the sad circonstances. What happened to Ana?"

"Nobody's quite sure," Martin says in a low voice. "From what I hear, Tempest just showed up and told Auntie Fiona that Ana had died in battle. Uncle Gerard was there too, but neither of them are talking about it. I think it's got Gerard rattled... you know how these Elders can be when it looks like the bad old times are going to surface again. He sure seemed protective of you."

Both conversations, though they may well continue, will likely do so in more muffled tones... for a footman steps in and announces (without trumpet fanfare, but it is a solemn occasion) "His Majesty King Random of Amber", before stepping aside. Random walks into the Chapel with Prince John at his side. John looks -awful-...his skin red and stretched, as if he's healing from horribly bad sunburn, or worse.

Bleys, Florimel... oh, heck, -all- the NPCs in the room incline their heads in a small sketch of a bow, appropriate within the family on such informal occasions. Random takes the time to survey the room, looking a bit nervous. His eyes rest momentarily on Julian, on Martin, on Bleys.

John: John's eyes sweep across the room, taking note of everyone present like an inventory. His gaze rests upon Llewella and Julian a fraction longer than anywhere else.

With a silent nod and a gesture to his father, he suggests that he and Random should approach the receiving line. His father taking the lead of course, with his son at his side.

Once he gets closer, it's more evident that John is suffering from serious (though not life-threatening) burns which have partially healed.

Lly bends a tad (she is a wee bit taller than him) and whispers to Martin's ear. "How is the situation in court recently? I haven't been around a lot. Is there any faux-pas I have to avoid? And for what it is, do you know what happened to John? He looks horrible"

"Beats me," Martin whispers back, concern on his face. "Last I heard he was just puttering around in his workshop. But I can't imagine he'd miscalculate badly enough to cause that. Why don't we go ask him?"

"Why don't we indeed?" Lly grabs Martin's arm.

In the palpable silence that descends over the room, Random walks up to Fiona, with John trailing behind him.

"Fiona," he says with sincerity, "we are all so very sorry for your loss. I can only imagine what you're going through right now. If there is anything, anything at all that I can do, do not hesitate to ask."

"Just find who did this," Fiona replies in a passionate tone.

"We will," Random promises.

John will lean in to add. "I can't say anything that someone else hasn't already, but I want to give my condolences as well, and on behalf of my mother who couldn't be here today. We're both shocked and saddened. We will get Anna the justice she deserves."

Looking to Sascha, he'll offer a firm handshake. "You must be Sascha. I'm John. I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

Sascha shakes the offered hand. "I greet you John and I am glad you took the time to come. The more so that it is plain to see, you are not well yourself. May I ask what happened to you?"

Llygwen and Martin join the receiving line.

John takes note of Llygwen and Martin with a nod of acknowledgement.

"I gotta admit, I'm feeling a little tender," John says with a rueful smile, "in a context that I'm not used to."

He clears his throat. "I'm not sure how much is appropriate to say at this particular moment. Though I don't suppose I need anyone's permission to say that I was subject to an assassination attempt recently. That makes your sister's death particularly poignant to me and my father."

He'll glance at Martin. "Didn't mean to leave you out of the loop. My mother doesn't even know, and I just told Dad an hour ago."

Returning to speak to Sascha, but inclusive to everyone present in the receiving line. "I got burned investigating some very serious matters out in Shadow. It should come to light soon, but we don't wish to interrupt or detract from this time. This should be about acknowledging your's and Fiona's loss."

He spares a backward glance, a touch of steel in his expression.

"Indeed." Llygwen turns to Sascha. "I guess I won't say anything that hasn't been said before, Sascha. Ana was about my age, and she was the closest thing I ever had to a childhood friend." Tears come to her eyes as she pauses, lost at words for half a second. "I... I grieve her passing, but I can only imagine how horrible it must be for you." She regains a bit of her composure as she looks at John as to include him in the following.

"You are right, John. This is not the time or the place, but I think we should have a conversation about the events that touched us all recently. Soon."

John does a double take at the wounded Llygwen. "Lly-" he starts to say concernedly, but then nods. "Well- yes. There will be a lot of talking I imagine, in a few hours."

He'll give a polite smile to Flora somewhere in there too.

Sascha nods. "Thank you, Llygwen, but you probably knew Ana better than I did. I am sorry to have lost a sister I did not get to know better, which is my fault. I shouldn't have been away so long." To John he adds: "John, let us talk after the ceremony, I have a few proposals to help us find the responsible."

Llewella shakes her head and turns away from Julian, who looks upset, though perhaps not surprised. She starts walking over toward the King.

Random who has (no doubt) been not-quite-obviously listening in on the conversations of the youngsters, chooses this moment to say "Well, once everyone attending has arrived, we should proceed. So, where is Trace?"

Sascha clears his throat. "Your highness, I am sorry if I aroused your anger, but I threw him out for his disrespect towards my dead sister and her mourning mother. He made fun of her death and today's ceremony. So, as it seems, nothing speaks against proceeding."

"A Fool's mouth is his destruction..." quotes Lly, muttering for herself.

John speaks to his father in a low voice (though I have included it publically because he's not whispering), "Under the prevailing circumstances, Dad, I think he's completely correct. Trace's misconduct notwithstanding, this situation can only degenerate. Quickly. Let's gather everyone here and and start the ceremony."

Random smiles, a slightly manic look in his eyes. "Well, I can't claim to be surprised that Trace made a scene and got himself thrown out. It does seem in keeping with what I've heard, and we certainly needn't wait upon him. But what of Rosalind? I expected her here by now."

Llewella is now close enough to be considered part of this conversation, though she is holding off on actually barging in. Julian is closing behind her, and even Bleys is drifting toward the group. It seems that, with or without the others, the group is being pulled into a compact mass by the sheer magnetism of having the King on hand.

"Rosalind is outside with Gérard and Arithon. I thought you would have met her before the chapel." Sascha takes his trump deck out. "It is probably best, we call them in."

"... lock her out with Trace..." mutters Llygwen.

Llewella nods her head firmly.

If no one objects, Sascha searches his deck for the card of Gérard and trumps him.

"Hello Gérard," Sascha nods, "that is true, but the king is here and wants to proceed. And as he did not meet you on his entry, I did not feel like running around on a funeral, calling the names of my relatives. I guess you understand that." Sascha smiles. "We would be grateful if you came back in, uncle, and brought Arithon and Rosalind with you. I thank you."

"And is Caine present?" John asks loud enough to be responded to by just about anyone around them.

Florimel says "He went with Trace... either to chew him out or to calm him down, I expect. Or possibly both, knowing Caine."

"Well," Random says, "It's really not up to me when we go. Fiona, I'd recommend we start, and let the others catch up, but I leave the matter entirely in your hands."

"We start," Fiona says immediately, standing. The rest of the room arrays itself to depart.

Rosalind returns at this point. She'll take up a place in the back.

John will look back to see who just entered, curious. He will likewise array himself appropriately.

When John looks back in Roz's direction she will make a subtle gesture requesting that John join her in the back.

Random and Fiona start the procession, walking forward in silent dignity. As they pass through the halls of the castle, chosen servants are permitted to lay flowers along the edges of the corridors (though not actually under their feet). The route passes through the old Glass Hall, whose colorful frescoes are dim and grey in the watery light from the clouds outside. Mourners line up ten deep along the edges of the hall. The high ceiling whispers with the echoes of their muffled weeping. Fiona walks down the cleared center of the hall, looking neither left nor right.

Arithon and Gerard catch up with the procession before it has gone any great distance. They manage to close the gap with dignity and decorum, taking up places at the back of the line.

The hood of her monk-like, dark green robes drawn upon her head, Lly looks around as if looking for somebody missing.

The procession passes out through a barbican gate, the guards there holding a rigid salute. The path, perhaps two cart-widths wide, crawls up the face of Kolvir above the castle, switching back and forth. Along both sides soldiers are lined up in a flag brigade, their only equipment the flag-staffs they hold high, half-height for the occasion. Half of the soldiers, of course, stand rigidly at attention with their heels all but dangling over the long slope down to the sea. They do not fidget, but only stare straight ahead.

Julian has shuffled forward far enough to be engaged in a soft conversation with Florimel. Llewella, in turn, is speaking to Bleys. All of this, of course, is done with a sideways mutter that allows them to maintain the appearance of being completely engaged in the ritual and pomp.

As the leading edge of the procession reaches each man, their staff lowers. In long rustling sequence the unicorn flags settle down to a mournful chest height. Musicians interspersed in the flag-guard beat a soft, slow, doleful rhythm upon drums, and voice a nearly inaudible keening dirge upon flutes. No more complicated instruments are present.

At each switchback, priests of the Church of the Unicorn step back from the procession, letting their censures swing to a stop. The perfume of incense wafts over the group, strong and musky. Each group of priests falls in a respectful hundred yards behind the main procession, so that after a few switchbacks the group trails enough priests to not only conduct any ceremony but to actually found a new church.

The slope is steep, though not sheer. The switchbacks are many, but it is still a tiring walk. As the group approaches the final switchback, the Archbishop of Amber waits. Alongside her the court historian stands in his white robes of office, holding a heavy leatherbound book. He stands forward, proferring the book to Random and saying simply "The recorded deeds of the Princess Ana, Daughter of Fiona".

"I accept and honor these deeds," Random replies gravely.

Rosalind follows along, speaking quietly with John.

Likewise, though John's eyes are fixed forward. Watching those ahead carefully. He is making little effort to conceal it.

With this exchange, all but the highest of the religious fall away. The Family and but three priests (including the Archbishop) proceed onto a broad ledge, levelled by tool long ago but now worn with weather and age. It looks out over the ocean, a sea steel-grey with lowering clouds to the very horizon. Kolvir slants upward steeply, and on the ground against its face lies a slab of gold-flecked white marble. A small gold plaque has been affixed to the symbolic slab. Upon it rest some few flowers... two roses, their thorns covered with blood, rest in the center. On one corner, dusty and battered as if from long and arduous travel, is a single rose with strangely metallic-looking, unmistakably silver, petals.

The Archbishop begins to step forward as soon as the procession has reached the level ground, but Random gestures with his free hand, and she stops, looking confused. The King crosses the ground quickly to Arithon and pulls him aside, though not, one would guess, so far aside that John, Rosalind and Gerard, standing nearby, could not overhear their low conversation.

As people prepare to depart the chapel, and do in fact begin the march to the centopath, John will walk besides Rosalind.

"Morning," he remarks.

"Good, God, John!" Roz responds, sotto voce, "what happened to you." She's careful to keep her voice low so that it doesn't travel. "I tried to trump you but you were blocking."

"Oh," he says suddenly thoughtful, but keeping his voice down as well. "That was you, huh? Very bad timing. Almost blew my cover. Had to blame it on a rare seizure."

"I figured it might be something like that, that's why I didn't push it," Roz nods, "I figured I'd just try you later."

"I got burned in the course of passing myself off as a technician. It stings, but it was worth the cost. A few weeks and some unattractive peeling, I'll be right as rain. If nothing else is right. Llygwen is making some strong statements, what's that all about?"

"She's exaggerating to the point of outright lying," Roz responds, "her loyalties are seriously conflicted -- I don't think she can be trusted to be working in Amber's best interests anymore." Roz touches John's arm somewhere that's not red and blistery, if she can find a spot. "I really wanted to help you out when you called me but I was deep in the middle of something important, I hope you understand. I'd like to hear your story in more detail, and let you know what really happened in Karval. We should get together as soon as possible."

He is silent as she explains, and doesn't speak for a moment afterwards. (As mentioned in the public post,) He is watching the others ahead of them closely. He is tense, but quite controlled.

"Her complaint with you may have less relevance shortly. Or, it might have to be addressed on a higher level than you and Lly. I'd let the situation cool for a while."

"If you can possibly tell me what happened, do it now, briefly. If there's a smell of smoke in their air, it's not me. It's the lit fuse to this whole gathering."

"It's hard to go into here because it's not a short tale," Roz says, likewise keeping her demeanor downcast and solemn while watching the proceedings carefully. "The short version is that she's accusing me of trying to murder her, which is completely untrue. What actually happened is that I set some things in motion in Karval to try to tip the political scales back towards Amber -- and then I left. After I was gone, Lly apparently tried to jump in front it, turn it around back in favor of Rebma, and got run over instead. Now she's not only blaming me for her injuries but accusing me of purposefully putting her in harm's way, which is completely false. If she had left Karval as I advised her to none of that would have happened. All of her histrionics have more to do with getting revenge for the political upset in Karval than any so-called murder attempt. But if she doesn't like Amber's policy towards Rebma she needs to take it up with the King, not with me.

"As for letting things cool," Roz continues, "that's what I thought at first but apparently it's not an option. The elders are already taking her side in things and it appears that I'm going to have to take some quick action to keep things from snowballing into a mess. I've ruled out fighting a duel over her baseless accusations -- I'd prefer the solution to be political. Of course this could all be a moot point if Caine gets to me first.

"I don't know if you've heard," Roz goes on, switching subjects, "but I had to tell the King about our conversation. He went ballistic of course -- Caine has been exiled. Of course, Caine blames me for everything, a development which is rather turning into a cliche."

Roz glances at John out of the corner of her eye. "So what's happened to you since we spoke last? Can you give me a brief synopsis?"

"Caine was correct in all things, except how he chose to deal with it," he says quietly, but to the point. "He didn't lie, he just looked for the solution that pleased him best."

His eyes still forward, he continues. "You didn't have to tell Dad. Period. You made a decision. He told me that he got angry and confronted Caine, but you both overlooked that I chose to go invetigate. Caine didn't make me. Consequently, Dad made a quick decision in anger, without knowing what I would discover. My father asked me if I honestly expected you not to say something right away- and I guess I did. I wanted a credible alibi in case of a set-up, not intercession."

"It's all in the choices we make Rosalind. Here's your synopsis: I went south, found a military complex. Instead of assassination, I abducted a Lord of Chaos back here to Amber. They, in turn dimed all of the traitors out."

"We're just waiting for the funeral, now."

"It's not that simple, John, and you know it," Roz retorts, angry at being chastised by her friend. "You're being unfair and you're assuming things that are not true. If the King asks me point blank what's going on, I have to tell him -- otherwise I've lied to him by omission and I'm not going to do that. If you think I called him up as soon as you and I spoke you're dead wrong. I held off as long as I could -- and I didn't 'overlook' anything! When the King asked me why I didn't tell him about it sooner I informed him that I felt it was your matter to deal with how you saw fit." Roz sighs, frustrated. "This is really turning into one goddamn bitch of a day -- the King is pissed at me because I didn't tell him sooner, you're pissed at me because I didn't tell him later, and Caine is pissed at me for saying anything at all. Please don't lecture me about choices, John, I've got a lot of factors to weigh whenever I make any decision. Just try to give me the benefit of the doubt that I'll make the best decision I can, alright?"

"Control yourself before someone takes notice," he murmurs cooly and quietly.

"You think over everything you've said to me, and you try it again later. And next time, tell yourself that I'm not quite as dumb as I seem. In the meanwhile, I'm not going to indulge an argument with you."

"Did you hear anything I just said?!" Roz asks, amazed. "Why are you being such a jerk?"

John holds up a hand, and inclines his head to where Random is speaking to Arithon.

Lly walks a couple of paces to Martin's side and whispers to his ear: "Martin, what happened to the body?"

"Tempest said there wasn't anything left," Martin replies just as softly.

After speaking with the King, Arithon walks up to the Archbishop and exchanges a few words. Reluctantly, and with obvious surprise, she relinquishes the weighty Book of Writ to him. With practiced assurance, he flips open the pages, then flips again, searching. It becomes evident as he conducts a charmingly archaic service that the organization of both book and church have changed much since he last attempted anything this elaborate.

Despite some initial minor clumsiness, Arithon conducts the service with grace and decorum, and even his old-fashioned ways seem fit and proper for an event of such solemnity. With sincerity and passion he delivers the needed assurances, that Ana has earned a peaceful rest and will be gathered to the haven of the almighty, and that God will be with the family in this their time of hardship.

When his service is clearly winding down to a mournful conclusion, Arithon asks that each of the family members come forward to kneel and give their individual silent respects at the symbolic grave-site. None of you are likely to miss the sudden suspicious glances about, as everyone confronts the request that they drop to their knees with their backs facing the rest of their loving family.

Fiona steps forward immediately, and kneels for long minutes. Her back is rigid, her face unmoving, her eyes closed. When she rises and returns to where she was standing, it is with a look of defiance at her siblings.

Sascha follows Fiona, pulls a knife and a foulard picturing a red griffon on a blue and white ground out of his pocket, knees down and says to the grave, loud enough to be heard by those close to him: "This day we mourn for you sister.

"In the shadow I grew up in, people believe that upon death we would be asked two questions and our answers would determine whether we might continue our journey in the afterlife. The first question would be, 'Did you bring joy?' The second, 'Did you find joy?' You brought joy to our mother, therefore I thank you. Whether you found joy I cannot say, for we did not know one another as good as I wish we had, but I hope you found it, for you deserved it.

"But there is one thing I promise you here and now. Whoever is responsible for your murder, will not find joy from this day on, but will be brought to justice." Upon saying this, he knots the foulard around the knife's handle and thrusts it in the ground. "Farewell Ana, I will neither forget you nor my promise." He stands up again, bows his head for a few more seconds, then walks up to Fiona's side.

The King steps up to the stone next, kneeling with obvious unease, and spending a short but respectful time before the monument.

John follows, grim-faced and angry-looking. When he stands he does not return to the same place he came from, instead distancing himself from Rosalind.

Rosalind herself approaches the slab next, performing her respects with precision and efficiency.

Sascha bows to Fiona, gestures at the hole in the ground where his knife had been plunged, but is now absent, and whispers in an angry tone: "Roz took the knife, has she not a spark of respectability?"

"I expect she's thinking of other things," Fiona whispers back. "The only reason she wouldn't want a weapon to hand is if the King intends to take this opportunity to kill someone on their knees before your sisters grave, rather than chance a fair fight."

After Fiona, Sascha, Random, John and Rosalind have paid their respects Bleys approaches the slab and kneels. By the time he arises, most everyone in the family has certainly noticed that somewhere between Sascha planting the knife in the ground, and Bleys rising, the knife itself has disappeared, presumably palmed by one of those who have been paying respects.

There is a second tense pause, much worse than the one when people were called to kneel defenseless before the family, as it becomes clear that someone (at least) is so unwilling for there to be a weapon to hand that they will risk a major incident. Llewella glances at Sascha with respect, as if he has done a tremendously clever thing by the way he forced the issue. She does not, however, approach the altar. Indeed, nobody does for an interval of almost a minute. Then, with a sigh, Julian strides forward and sinks to his knees.

Immediately Julians back is turned and his stance strategically unsound, Gerard and Random break from the crowd and walk rapidly toward him, clearly on the offense.

Rosalind steps back out of the way, in the direction of the path down the mountain.

John will partially follow his father and Gerard. He doesn't try to crowd the other two men, but stands in reserve.

"What the Depths..." mutters Lly, loud enough for it to be audible. Her hood conceals too much of her face to show any reaction, but she clearly watches the events.

Sascha leaves Fiona's side wordlessly, picks up a fist sized stone and moves in a circle so that he has a clear line of throw on Julian in case should he attempt to run away.

Arithon merely watches, hugging the Book of the Unicorn to his chest.

Julian tenses as the pair draw near, clearly conscious of their approach. Gerard and Random lay hands on Julian's shoulders at the same instant, from opposite sides, the King reaching with his left and holding his right loosely, very much as if he is ready to produce a hidden weapon at need.

"Julian," Random says forcefully, "There have been serious accusations. It would be best if you willingly accepted imprisonment until they can be sorted out."

"Best for whom?" Julian asks rhetorically, while he spares a moment to glare angrily at Arithon. "Not for me, that's certain... helpless and silenced I wouldn't last a day and you know it. Someone would take it into their mind that eliminating me was in the best interests of the realm."

"It's not going to happen like that," Random states flatly.

"Oh please," Julian responds scornfully. "Spare me your 'better world' pitch. You've crafted a democracy that you run outright, and you expect me to sit down and roll over when you use it to destroy the only force that's consistently stood between Amber and Chaos."

"Bullshit!" Random retorts loudly, "You've been plotting -with- Chaos to sell us all out, you heartless bastard! And now you kneel before the grave of the good woman who died because of your treachery and you have the gall to pretend to be a patriot!"

"Oh, very convenient," Julian says in a mocking tone, "The moment someone opposes your agenda they're obviously working with the great enemy. Peddle it somewhere else, kid brother, this family knows the difference between accusation and truth."

John cocks his head, and sniffs. Then he abruptly starts to speak. "We know about Arban-Khan, Julian. Mock made yet another miscalculation, after Maintenon, mostly because your relationship with her is so bad. The Council of Five has become splintered."

"The Council thinks it's funny for us to destroy ourselves. They boasted about your alliance, Julian. I don't have it in me to feel understanding for you right now. That got shaken with the hydrogen filled blimp that near took me out of the picture. And the Unicorn only knows why I warned you, when you opened that tank this morning. But let us show the Lord of Chaos that if nothing else, at least we have our dignity."

Julian laughs. "Oh perfect," he yells. "John says I've allied with Chaos, so let's just -forget- the centuries I spent fighting them! After all, there's no reason to look too hard for possible deception, a moment's trust or gratitude would just complicate matters!"

As Random turns fractionally toward John, as if to gauge the possible truth of this remark, Julian lashes out with a ground kick, taking him just under the kneecap. Random slams backward onto the stone, rolling to dissipate the impact, and comes up to his feet some distance away, favoring the leg. Already a knife has appeared in the King's hand.

Gerard presses down, and Julian slams onto the stone. Julian lets out a long keening whistle as he wrestles against Gerard's obviously superior strength. The sound bounces off the stone and echoes across the mountain-side.

"I don't want to hurt you, Julian," Gerard says with implacable seriousness.

"Good to know," Julian replies, and stabs at Gerards throat with two fingers of his free hand. Gerard gags, and there is a dull popping noise as the instinctive movement dislocates Julian's shoulder. But Julian manages to gain a few steps of distance, his left arm dangling limply at his side, and for an instant he is standing free, surveying the field.

As Julian struggles back, Sascha throws the stone and charges in on him. Julian manages to turn aside, so that the stone glances off his ribs, but that leaves him more open for Sascha's kick, which slams into Julian's knee with an echoing wooden noise.

Sascha, on the other hand, has made no provision to defend himself from Julian's counter-strike, and the big man sends him staggering with a devastating right cross which tosses Sascha bodily back toward Gerard.

Rosalind watches all of this, balancing Sascha's knife in her hand, as if waiting for a good opportunity to throw.

Bleys leaps forward and, leaning back away from Julian's back-swing in his direction, punches him with clinically detached precision on the dislocated shoulder. Julian lets out a strangled shout of pain, and retreats a few steps more, onto the marble slab itself. He steps inadvertently on the blood-covered rose, crushing it and scattering its petals.

"So we're back to this," Julian sneers as Random and Bleys maneuver to limit his movement. "No peace, no justice, just knives at the funeral, knives at breakfast, everybody out for whatever they can take and damn the rest of us."

There is a low thundering of hoofbeats from below the ledge, on the path leading up from the castle. Soldiers are screaming, and the clattering sound comes closer and closer.

"If you don't want Julian to ride off into the sunset," Rosalind shouts, "you had better take him down now."

As Julian stands at bay on the altar, Arithon drops the heavy Book of Creed and moves back, firmly gripping his walking stick, until he is far enough away to divert his attention and make his way to stand beside Rosalind.

Down the path, flag-bearers are sprawled across the ground or hanging desperately onto the steep slopes. Morgenstern, huge and menacing and above all -fast- is taking the narrow upper switchbacks in a series of jaunting leaps. It reaches the upper path. Its hooves strike sparks from the stone as it charges Arithon and Rosalind.

Meanwhile, the other men of the family are closing in on their errant relative. "Your Majesty!" Sascha shouts, "you should stay out of this!" Then he feints toward Julian, shouting as he goes.

Julian shies away, and Random is immediately on his back, scrabbling with both hands, trying to bring the dagger up to Julians throat while Julian thrashes desperately to try to dislodge him. Bleys charges in, trying to pin Julian's arms, but Julian manages to snag his collar-stays and drag him forward into a head-butt. Bleys staggers back, blood spraying from his broken nose to spatter both Julian and the King.

Momentarily unable to get past the congestion of fighting figures, John hangs back, throwing suspicious glances toward the path where Arithon and Rosalind stand.

Martin breaks free of Llygwens grip, and rushes toward the combat, evidently keen on doing... something. It's not yet clear what.

Random finally manages to bring the knife against Julian's throat, slowly enough to threaten without killing. While they both strain to try to move the blade, the King (what with two arms to contribute strength, versus Julian's one) seems to have the upper hand, bending Julian slowly back into an unbalanced position.

As Julian struggles with the King, Sascha leaps forward, grabs Julian's injured arm and twists.

Julian screams in pain, his face going white, and the King is able to quickly and efficiently lock him into a position where the older prince is completely at his mercy.

Morgenstern comes thundering up the trail.

Llygwen, her eyes filled with concern, runs forward shouting "Move out!"

But by the time she reaches the path where Rosalind and Arithon had been standing, those two have already leapt out of the horses path, Arithon back toward the no-longer-struggling Julian, and Rosalind out to the other side, away from the cliff wall and the slab.

Llygwen stands for a moment in the huge beasts path, her eyes fixed on it as it bears down on her.

Then John comes barrelling in and crashes into her, knocking them both toward the rising slope of the mountain.

Morgensterns hooves slash through the air where Llygwen had been standing just a moment before.

With a shout, Martin vaults onto Morgensterns back, grappling around the huge horses neck (in the absence of any tack or harness) and trying to force it to the ground. Morgenstern bucks once, and Martin is thrown from his seat. He hangs onto two handfuls of mane, and ends up spinning around the horses head, dangling in front of it, feet still clear of the ground. Morgenstern rears and nips at him, but Martin manages to dodge for the moment.

"Call it off," Random hisses, the edge of his blade drawing a thin line of blood on Julian's throat. Julian draws a shallow breath and barks a command. Reluctantly, Morgenstern settles into a parade rest. Its posture is rigid, but its eyes still flare with anger and bloodlust. Martin drops to his feet and backs away.

John, now on the ground and likely nose to nose with Llygwen, will exhale the breath he had been holding the last four seconds. Instantly realizing that her arm is in a sling, and that he may have inadvertantly injured her while trying to save her, he begins to disentangle himself.

"Are you okay?" he asks some concern. "That thing almost got you."

He'll rise to his feet, and help her get her own footing.

"Great team moves, your majesty, if you ever decide to pick a fight again, give me a call, I wouldn't want to miss it." Sascha's eyes gleam from the adrenaline in his veins and he smiles at Random.

Random gives Sascha a look that is difficult to decipher, but the King doesn't appear to have the breath or energy to respond just at the moment. 'Later,' his look promises.

"John, would you please help your father with that possible traitor?"

"I'll be fine, John. Go help your father." Lly rubs her painful shoulder with a wince.

"I'm on it!" John calls over to Sascha.

John will walk over and help take Julian into custody, giving his father a chance to catch his breath.

"Need a hand?" Arithon asks walking over to survey the scene.

"I wouldn't refuse," John says oblidgingly. "Perhaps for the sake objectivity, given the circumstances, it would be appropriate."

Between the two of them, John and Arithon can cautiously relieve the King of his burden of captured sibling. Julian is no longer actively struggling, not wasting his strength. He has the calm patient attention of a man who has been beaten before, and has survived because he knew when to fight back and when to bide his time. He gives John a particularly ugly look, but says nothing.

John gives him an icy glare right back, but also refuses to rise to any bait.

After Julian seems well in hand, Sascha turns to his uncles. Looking at the blood trickling from Bleys' nose he calls: "Rosalind, please give Bleys my foulard you unfortunately forgot to ask for, would you?

Rosalind's eyes flash with anger at Sascha's public jab at her.

"He needs it more than you now," Sascha continues. "Oh, and I would like to have my knife back as well, if you can spare it."

"I think," Rosalind replies coldly, "that I'd best hold onto it until you can prove that you weren't leaving Julian a weapon of opportunity."

Sascha chuckles at Roz' accusation loud enough to be heard by her but does neither look to nor answer her. Instead he tries to help Gérard as planned.

Sascha helps Gerard to his feet. "I'm fine," Gerard says with the sound of someone who has just gargled boiling salt water. He coughs several more times to clear his throat.

Bleys has produced a brilliant white pocket handkerchief, and is doing his best to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

Flag-guard soldiers, substantially battered by Morgensterns charge past them, have nonetheless rallied, and come running up in twos and threes, looking horrified and guilty.

The Archbishop of Amber reaches down and reverently picks up the Book of Creed, spattered with the blood of the conflict. She dabs at it with the hems of her sleeve.

There is a second approaching rumble of hoofbeats, fast, though not so elemental nor ominous as the sound of Morgensterns approach. Riding up the trail comes Trace. He is bent down over the neck of his steed, urging it to yet more speed.

At the sight of Trace, Sascha's face darkens but he holds his tongue for now, instead he walks over to Random and starts talking with him in a low voice.

After what cannot be more than a short discussion, Sascha's voice suddenly becomes audible for those standing around where Julian was arrested.

"Offer?" Sascha looks mortally offended at Random. "You want to chaffer with me at the grave of my sister? I am not venal, I am not that low! I offered to do it because it has to be done. If you don't understand that, you don't know me at all. So I think you better ask someone else. Good day, your majesty!"

He turns around on his heels and marches off, down Kolvir, nodding into the direction of Gérard and Bleys as well as to Arithon and John.

John sighs loudly, still with a firm hold on Julian, and recently conferring with Arithon.

“Hey Sascha!” he calls. “Whatever you’re discussing with the King is your business, and nobody here is going to fault you for being in a foul temper- this is your sister’s funeral as you rightly said.“

But he inclines his head towards Trace, who is racing towards the group.

“But can you hang on for just a moment? Until we get Julian secured? Not only that- but we have a lot to talk about the circumstances surrounding Anya. Could you help us out just for that sake- please?”

Trace pulls up reins sharply before trampling his family, raising a hue and cry! "Beware, all! Julian has a plot afoot! Even now his horse speeds towards us, and you may all be in.. ah..."

Trace takes in the bloody family members, particularly the well-restrained Julian, and taps his fingers on the reins. "Ah. Yes. Very good. Well!" He glances over at the ill-tempered Morgenstern. "I see. That's... a Very Fast Horse, then. Good to know."

He attempts to look nonchalant and rein the horse about rather swiftly at the same time. "Well, then! My work here is done! Why don't I just resume leaving the city very rapidly, in that case? Tallyho!"

John blinks, and then a mildly bemused smile comes to him slowly. "Thanks. Appreciate it." He doesn't sound sarcastic, but nor does he specify what he is thanking Trace for.

There is a breathless, panting call from a switchback down the trail, much of the detail blown away in the high winds of the mountainside.. "Trace... ftz... Alan... 're... der... arrest!"

Trace seems bemused, not quite certain how to make his exit without somebody reacting more forcefully than anyone yet has. He looks around, and glances down the trail toward the city guardsmen mounting up toward him, as if awaiting his cue.

Llygwen watches Trace's arrival and confusion with amazement, as if she wouldn't have thought about that one of his antics. Then she walks to her mother, still holding her arm close to her body.

"Mother, could you spare a moment, if you please?"

Continuing his comments, John adds to Sascha, "Still- if you could stay a moment longer?"

Sascha looks at John, hesitates, sighs and nods.

Random has been rubbing at his temples as if to ward off a sudden headache. But he has a manic smile on his face, as if this sort of chaos were familiar to him of old.

"Sascha," the King says, his voice taut with the effort of sounding calm, "I wasn't offering to -bribe- you. How few -troops- can I offer you, and still have you stand a chance? We'll be taking them straight out of Amber's city guard, so we want to use as few as possible."

Sascha turns to Random again. "If it was a mere misunderstanding, then I beg your pardon." He sounds sincere.

He sighs. "I fear that as we speak the news is already spreading. Morgenstern must have attracted notice... and I can only guess how many people Trace has told of what happened. This gives them time to prepare and increases the number of men I need and I would loose more time on my way to Cornaro."

Sascha thinks for a moment. "But if I would set off to Kafsha right now and gather the troops I can find there, I wouldn't necessarily alarm Tempest. Furthermore the men in Kafsha know the woods - that would be a great advantage. Or is there a loyalty problem with the troops in Kafsha? If so, I'd need to know."

John clears his throat loudly. "Thanks Sascha, I appreciate it. I think I understand what's being discussed, and it's good thinking. But let me and Arithon get *him* out of here," he says referring to Julian in his grasp. "We can't control it if Tempest or Mock decides to trump him.."

The King looks over the confused and weary family, and says "Sascha, I credit your enthusiasm, but I think we need to spend at least a few minutes bringing the family up to date. I've made some serious accusations, and I don't expect anyone to take my word for it before they hear the details. John, Arithon, can you meet us in the Library as soon as you can?"

John nods to Arithon, and begins to march Julian towards the Castle. Arithon nods back and they march off towards the castle and another thread.

"Trace," Random commands, "You come with us. This concerns you too."

Trace glances back down the path again, and gives Random a plaintive look that seems to say "Can't I wait until I've further exacerbated the misunderstanding with the police and have a dramatic chase on the dangerous, narrow mountain paths?", but the King's returning glare is Not Amused. With a sigh, Trace dismounts. It's possible one of the people present may recognize the steed as theirs, in which case they're welcome to reclaim it...

The bemused and somewhat chastised-looking Trace joins whichever group heading to the Library will have him, which potentially means he'll be walking there alone.

Llygwen and Llewella are whispering.

Bleys and Florimel are conferring quietly.

Martin is walking over to Sascha, who seems lost in thought.

Rosalind walks alone.

Fiona and Gerard walk close to each other, but don't appear to be talking. It's a narrow path, after all.

Trace looks about for a group to blend into, but almost immediately is drawn aside by the King, who looks like he wants to have serious words.

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