Late one balmy summer's night, Martin walks in the gardens, enjoying the
night's scents and the stillness.

The rich verdant shades of summer are everywhere in evidence, and the
stored heat from the long hot days radiates from the ground underfoot.
Overhead, in the clear black night, the stars like scattered diamonds
blaze cold and bright in their constellations.

His walk takes him eventually to the Winter Gardens, where willows frame
the boating pool, and silver-gray rabbits steal over the soft grass,
foraging beneath the hedges.

He tramps along the path, hands deep in pockets, whistling tunelessly.

Niara sits on the grass near the lake shore, her knees drawn up, her
arms folded atop them. She gazes off into the night thoughtfully.

Martin steers his path towards the lake, letting off the whistling as he
approaches at a stroll, looking for all the world like someone out
enjoying the air.

Niara shifts just enough where she sits half in shadow to make a couple
or three of the bells she wears tinkle.

Martin notes the soft tinkling, his steps slowing, not altogether
silently.

Niara lifts her head. A smile blooms on her face, little by little.

"Hi," Martin says softly from the path.

Niara murmurs, "Hello."

Take the Mona Lisa. Make her darker and elfin boned, and substitute her
straight brown-black hair with ebony. Widen her almondine eyes. Color
them bronze, like those of some leopards. Occasionally, fleetingly,
re-draw that famous smile onto a Dionysian mouth. Give her slender,
fragile hands, impossibly tiny feet, and indolent grace that is the
stuff of scientific treatise. Shear her lustrous hair until the back is
just at ear level, and beginning to curl. Snip her bangs into a coronet
of short ringlets. Fold layers of night purple onto her skin, sumptuous
silk and lash-thin veiling, the second kept from floating away by
delicate gold schiffli. Shape it into a scoop-collared sleeveless halter
and billowy trousers. Lay a girdle of bells and knotted cords around her
hipband. Slip soft slippers onto her feet. Buckle a black scabbard low
on her right hip. Stick a plain sabre in it. Make her smell like incense
and apricots.

Martin raises his gaze up to the star-spilled sky above. "Nice night,"
he says.

"Yes, it is," she replies, quietly. "Enjoy your walk?"

"Some," he answers, his gaze falling to the quiet form of Niara sitting
by the lakeside, as he moves to join her there. "But not as much as I
enjoyed what I found at the end of it."

Niara tilts her chin. "Oh? I wasn't aware that you were looking for
something."

Martin lowers himself to the grassy bank beside her, one leg stretched
out, the other bent. With the faintest of grins, he says, "Neither was
I."

Niara replies with a renewed smile, before she turns her gaze toward the
open ground beyond the path. "I was scouting empty places in the
garden," she murmurs. "Then it began to grow dark, and I..." A little
laugh trickles from her throat. "The warmer the weather grows, the more
loath am I to remain indoors."

"Mm," Martin smiles. "Empty places, huh?"

Niara glances at him sidelong, her lips still bent upwards at the
corners. "Well ... yes."

Martin chuckles quietly, and doesn't press the subject further,
seemingly content to just sit back and drink in the darkness.

Niara props her cheek on her folded arms, watching him. "How does your
garden bloom?"

"With cockle shells and silver bells," Martin says, almost absently. "A
fairy maid, and a gilded groom."

Niara chuckles. "I was being serious," she murmurs.

"Sorry," he replies with a smile. "My garden fares well enough, all
things considered."

Niara says, "I had wondered if you'd had the time to look at it, since
your return. Rushing about and all, like you've been."

"Yeah," he agrees. "It's been a little busy."

Niara chuckles again, this time more softly. "Yes," she echoes.

Without another word, Martin reaches across to Niara, searching for her
hand.

Niara lifts her cheek from her arms just enough to take his hand in both
of hers.

He curls his fingers round those of one hand, apparently content to
leave his sandwiched between hers, as he looks out at the stars in the
lake.

Niara brushes the fingers of her unembraced hand against the back of his
wrist, lightly, with no inherent rhythm or plotted course. "What
pictures are made of your stars?" she asks, after a little while.

"The constellations..?" Martin asks after a moment, startled out of his
reverie.

"Con-stell-ations," Niara pronounces, rolling the vowels over her
tongue. Then, "Qirilemma?"

Martin considers, and indicates a bright star a little to their left,
about an arm's length above the trees. "That one's called Diamantris. If
you follow it east about so far..." he traces an imaginary line with his
free hand to another bright star, "and then down and across again, that
whole thing is called the Galleon, and Diamantris is the lantern on her
bow."

Niara follows the tracing with her eyes.

"They say she was lost in a storm, long ago, and so she sails the night
forever, trying to find her way home again," Martin adds.

A flight of large birds cross the sky far overhead, crying softly to one
another.

Niara says, "Like Deucis with his lantern, and Sisane and her..."

Her voice trails off as a distant clanging of bells drifts up to them
from somewehre in the city below.

Martin glances up sharply at the sound of alarms, drawing his hand back,
and getting to his feet.

Niara likewise unfolds herself from the ground.

"Never fails," Martin growls, loosening the sabre in its scabbard.

Niara pats the back of her trousers, utters a low Virgan curse followed
by "No, he has that...", then makes a quick check of her sword belt.

Martin glances back to Niara, then sets off down the path towards the
gate in the wall.

Niara follows, silent except for the sounds her clothing make.

When he reaches the gate, Martin heads through into the courtyard
beyond, not bothering with the niceties of holding it open for Niara.

In the courtyard, he finds Gavin already there, and guards hurrying
across the ward.

Martin glances round him at the activity in the courtyard. Spotting
Gavin, he makes his way towards him.

Gavin stands just outside the palace, watching the gates. He nods at
Martin, "Nice day for a prison break." A few barely discernable commands
are shouted to guardsmen as they arrive in the courtyard.

Niara comes of a little gate in the west wall, emerging a handful of
paces behind Martin.

"The Virgans?" Martin asks Gavin, his voice raised over the shouting.

Gavin nods. "I'd imagine so."

Martin nods to Gavin as he joins him, "Who've you sent out?"

Niara folds her arms as she comes into conversational range.

Gavin says, "No one as of yet, just heard the alarum... I'm sending a
troop of guardsmen to help out, as soon as they're mounted."

Twenty guardsmen cross the courtyard, and head into the stables.

Martin nods, "I'll go with them. Ready the rest, and inform Benedict,
and the King. Wake them up if you have to. I'll send word back when we
work out what's happened."

"Take the courier who brought the news with you, and see what you can
get out of him on the way."

"I will," Martin claps Gavin on the arm. 

Niara takes a step back, and sideways, before she begins to wander off
toward the stables.

Gavin pauses, "How many do you want with you?"

"As many as are ready to go. Do we know what the situation is down
there? No, didn't think so. Where's that courier?"

Niara goes into the stables.

Gavin nods, "I'll send him out when I head in... and some more guards,
probably oughta send at least fifty, in case the Virgans have any
intention of fighting back." He turns, then, and heads back towards the
palace.

Martin nods again, and turns away. "Do so," he says, heading towards the
stables at a stride.

Gavin enters the palace proper, to the north.

In the stables, Martin is just one more person amidst the sudden
activity. He heads for Farrand's stall.

Out in the courtyard, the heavy tread of guards can be heard passing by.

Niara has already led Binah out of her stall. She is crouched beside the
mare, inspecting the bindings wrapped around her legs while she
substitutes her own slippers for a pair of black riding boots. She's
already nicked or borrowed a uniform jacket, and thrown it on over her
halter.

A breeze blows in from the courtyard, freshening the air.

Despite the seeming confusion, mounts are quickly prepared and led out,
accompanied by their riders. Outside can be heard the clatter of hooves
and the tramping of soldiers.

Niara tightens the laces knotted around her calves, then gets up into
Binah's saddle.

With the help of a stablehand, Farrand is likewise saddled up with
quick, efficient handling, as Martin quietly gives orders to a second
lot of troops entering the stables.

Niara nudges Binah into a walk with her knees, checking the reins when
the second lot troops in.

With a last word to another officer, Martin mounts up. He catches sight
of Niara then, already astride Binah, with the jacket slung on over her
clothes. Without comment, he heads out, the troops parting to let him
through.

Binah follows in Farrand's wake, the sound of her little sharp hooves on
the cobbles drowned out by the shouting.

There, as the gates are opened, Martin simply nods to the mounted troops
waiting there. A mesenger on horseback gallops out the gate into the
night, forerunner to the western gate.

Spurring Farrand on into a run, Martin leads the troops out the gate,
Niara following close beside.

They gallop through city streets, the urgent tolling of bells fading
into the upraised voices of citizens rudely wakened from sleep and
demanding to know what the hell is going on. Upper story windows bang
open, throwing squares of lantern light onto the cobbled streets as the
horses' hooves clatter over them.

Then they're out the West Gate and flying down the road to the foot of
Kolvir. Before they know it they can already see the torchlights of
horsemen scattering outwards from the prison camp, chasing down the
escapees. From the looks of it, a lot of the Virgans got out. It's going
to be a really long night for all involved.

As they spur their horses on down the mountain's slope, Martin finds
himself thinking that the soldier's lights below resemble
constellations.

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5/1/98