Day Three-Twenty-Nine: Beard equals grouch

MAN, Pagan is a DICK

We met the old man after breakfast this morning. Hoban, snarkily asking us if our accommodations were sufficient ("We SLAVES don't make people sleep in the cold, after all"), led us to the main hall of the manor after we'd finished our salted bread and presented Pagan in all his splendour, standing at the top of the staircase to the manor's second level.

Pagan reminds me a lot of King Gok, at least physically. He's an old man, his white beard cascading out of his helmet and down his long face. He has shrewd, narrow eyes perched atop high cheekbones like hawks, and he stands with a slight hunch, always leaning on an ornate metal cane shaped like a crane. He wears light armour, and I get the feeling he never takes it off, 'cause it doesn't seem to impede him at all. (Though it might explain the hunch…)

He waved us over, smiling through his beard, though the smile didn't carry up to his eyes. Those remained suspicious and scrutinizing. "Greetings, humble masters. I am Pagan, lord of this manor. Hoban, here, says that you want to speak with me? I trust it is about the message I sent with him? He was several days late in returning."

I nodded, mouth dry. That was partly my fault - but only partly. Dude should learn to speak up. "Yeeeeeah. Um. Hi. Dragomir, here. Dragomir the Mayor. This is Edmund? My bard? Our bard, rather, I don't really own him or anything, like you and your -"

"Cease thy long babbling tongue, / It makes thee sound over young," Edmund whispered, digging an elbow into my arm.

I straightened. "Ah! Yeah. Um. Hi. Again. Uh, I wanted to ask you about us leaving your land, because, well, we've already -"

Pagan tutted and stepped down into the main hall, tapping his cane on each step as he descended. "I'm sorry, young man, but that is not possible. My land is off-limits to foreigners. You will have to leave, unless you get special dispensation - "

"Yeah? Yeah?" I stood on my toes, anticipating the solution to my problem.

" - from me," he finished, smile twisting in apology. "And I do not grant it. I want no villages on my lands. And from what Hoban tells me, your settlement will not remain a village for long. I wish to remain inconspicuous, and a bustling community on my doorstep does not engender anonymity."

I slumped. Edmund took the floor.

"Pardon mine intrusion, fair knight Pagan, /

But question you I mostly must; /

Why canst we not lift tankard and flagon /

And leave thine presence in the dust?"

Pagan stared at Edmund a moment. "Pagan? Flagon? Never heard that combination before. And I've known a lot of bards. Regardless, I'm not sure I know what you mean, Master Edmund."

Edmund tried again. His second attempt didn't make much more sense. Having lived with him long enough, I translated. "Can't we just act like you don't live here? You're far enough away that visitors to Pubton would never notice your manor, and we can… I dunno… pay taxes, or something…"

Pagan thought about that, then tapped his cane. "No. These are tumultuous times, and I'd rather not be caught up in them overly much. My many ears in the surrounding lands have told me of dark armies and strange creatures on the prowl. I would not have them bothering my estate until after my time is past. I have endured enough warfare for a dozen men, and I prefer to avoid more as my armour rusts and my skills wane."

I commiserated. I wouldn't want a bald bureaucrat and his evil army of nightmare beasts knocking on my door either. "Fair, sir, but my people need -"

Pagan sneered. His civility teetered and slipped. "I don't care about your people. I care about my people. We're vulnerable, here, and can't survive a force of any size. Take your village and leave."

My arms flailed without prompting. "Now, now, hold on a sec, let's be reasonable -"

Pagan shook his head and turned to Edmund. "Master Edmund. You have seen my house. You know the extent of my hardships. Do you not agree that I have earned a quiet retirement, my lands free of vagrants? Have not my heroic actions in the Battle of Two Forks, or my role as general in the Third War of the Grand Knife, or my bold assault on the Fortress of the Spoons, not granted me some degree of control over lands which I legally own?"

Edmund bit his lip. He has massive respect for heroes, and I could tell he'd recognized all of those battle names. He wouldn't argue Pagan's rights to privacy. So, instead, he took a different tack, nailing something I hadn't noticed.

"Good sir Pagan, I grant you now /

Your vast stipend of renown and fame; /

Yet I must humbly ask thee how /

You know this poor little bard's full name?"

The room went quiet. While it lasted I thought back, wondering if I'd ever called Edmund anything other than Ed during my trip. I had - the previous evening, when we'd sat up alone in our room, trying to puzzle out a rhyme for 'Edmund'. (Only one that sounded plausible was 'Redmond', and I don't know what that is.)

Pagan coughed into his gauntlet. "Er. Hoban… Hoban told me your name was, er, uh… what was it, again, Hoban…?"

Hoban's eyes flitted to the paintings on the walls. "Oh, um, Ed, my lord. Yes, you, you, you asked what their names were, and I reported what I heard, and in your supreme, um, like, omniscience -"

"That will do." Pagan tapped his cane. "Yes, I heard the name 'Ed', and KNEW it must belong to 'Edmund'. There is no other appellation suitable for a, uh, majestic songster like yourself."

"There could be, / there would be, / there should be," Edmund insisted, stepping forward like a hunter on the trail. "Edgar, Edward, Eddard, these be all goodly titles / For a man of my poor constitution and vitals."

'Vitals?' I mouthed quietly. Edmund shrugged.

Pagan's eye twitched. "I believe we're getting off track, here. The answer -"

"Edlam, Edman, Edgoor -"

" - is still - "

"Edrom, Eddlefast, Eddie -"

" - a resounding - "

"Edquest, EdEd, Edpoor - "

" - and ANGERED - "

"But Edmund? Spy I name thee!"

"NO! STOP FUCKING RHYMING! NO NO NO NO NO! WHAT THE HELL KIND OF NAME IS EDED?!"

Pagan stomped his feet, slamming his left foot down so hard on the final 'no' that it left a deep mark in the wooden floor. He continued to rant, all pretence of patience or good hospitality clearly gone.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he howled, pointing his cane towards the big double doors at the front of the manor. "YOU CAN'T HAVE YOUR FUCKING PUBTON, OR WHATEVER IT'S CALLED, ON MY LANDS! IF YOU LINGER ANY LONGER I'LL HIRE MERCENARIES AND DRIVE YOUR BEGGARING PEASANTS INTO THE FUCKING IMPERIUM AT THE POINTS OF HUNDREDS OF SWORDS! DON'T SEE IF I WON'T!"

When he stopped ranting, breathing hard, my mouth responded with the stupidest thing it could concoct on short notice. "Does… does that mean we SHOULD see if you DO? 'cause that's a double negative, and Robert always says, or in this case never doesn't say -"

We were on our way home minutes later, driven by slaves carrying spears. They apologized, because they'd come to rather like us in the last day-and-a-half.

Looking at the manor from a distance, sighing, I turned to my pal and shrugged. "Diplomacy. I knew I'd suck at it."

He patted my shoulder. "You tried, 'tis the most you could do. / Truth be told, our chances were few."

"I guess. Hey, what'd ya mean when you called him a spy? I don't get it."

Edmund cocked an eyebrow. "Did… didst thou not see his many works of art? / All pieces of which eyes were a prom'nent part?"

"Yeah, 'course I did. They were everywhere. Hey, hey, that reminds me, I had a great idea the other day. Wouldn't it be awesome to cut out the eyes on those paintings and peek through them from the other side? You could totally watch people."

Edmund pursed his lips, spread his hands, and waited for something.

"What?"

He shook his head and started walking.

I don't get it.

Took us half a day to find our testy dragon,

Dragomir the Mayor