Previous Blackbird, Anne, and Luther file.

Blackbird: [talking to Ruth]

The only thing consistent about nobility is that it is power. And the only thing consistent about power is that left about, it will eventually fall into the wrong hands.

It then falls to people like you to shift the balance once again. You are a good woman, Ruth, and I believe the people of McMannon will do well under the guidance of you and the Duchess. I wonder what the realm would be like if more women ruled? I look forward to seeing what happens in McKitrick if Julia succeeds. I would like to believe that this will be remembered as a golden age for McMannon. In contrast to the dark days that have past it will certainly stand out brightly.

But the sad fact is that all golden ages fall again into darkness. Something about the futility of that cycle makes me feel older and wearier than I am.

I hope you never live to see the fall, for you are good, and don't deserve to see your work in ruins. And I hope I do live to see it, because I am in no hurry to die, and I am an Anchor, and sad songs pay my way as well as glad ones.

Thank you for coming to my aid, my lady, and thank you for your very good advice. If you ever tire of ruling, there is a place in the Traveling Anchor for you.

If you would aid me, sire, I think I am ready to try to stand now; Lady Ruth's attentions have helped me greatly.

Narrator:
Luther fairly jumps to her side. She puts a hand on his shoulder and rises from the cot.

For once, Luther is not at all unhappy at being so short.

Blackbird:

That wasn't so bad- whoa!

I'm better now. Just that first change in altitude.

It's got a scratch on the back -- must have happened when I fell.

A little wax will cover it until an instrument maker can re-lacquer the spot. I should really be thankful -- if the hoof had hit the Lute instead of my head it would have destroyed it,

and I need my lute, while it seems that I'm hardly ever using my head lately.

Thank you again, Ruth, Wolf. Thank you, Sister Anne. I don't think I would be walking around for many weeks without your help.

If you would do me the favor of escorting me, Sir Luther, I'm ready to return to my wagon. I have stories to rehearse, songs to write ...

... whiskey to drink.

and I need someone to make sure I make it all the way back, and ward me from further encounters with war-horses.

Shall we try this one more time?

Luther: [returning the grin]

Indeed, my lady. [Takes her arm, escorts her past Wolf and out of the tent.]

 Anne stays in the tent with Ruth

Narrator:
Blackbird turns and winks at Ruth just before leaving the tent.

Blackbird: [unspoken, struggling to keep a straight face]
By Bahamut's tail, she probably thinks I have a fetish for dwarves!

Luther: [unspoken]

After all this, I *still* get the gorgeous girl.

Narrator:
Luther leads her to her horse, a muddy brown gelding.

Blackbird: [stroking the horse's nose, speaking as much to herself as to Luther]

His name is Rocinante. It is a name from an old tale of my father's homeland. Rocinante was the broken down old steed of a very gallant but foolish knight. Father used to tell me his adventures as bedtime stories when I was young. Don Quixote was his name -- he was always doing things like mistaking windmills for monsters. I picked it to remind myself how often I find myself tilting at windmills.

Narrator:
She stays unmounted, walking beside Luther and leading Rocinante.

Blackbird:

Tell me a little about Hesketh, Luther. What is he like? Was what I saw exemplar of his usual character? And what did you mean when you said that he needed a break from, um, "pitching woo?" Is there a lady here whose favor he desires?

Luther:
Hesketh has always had the lance up his butt. Not as bad as some, but worse than most. He's always got the be The Knoble Knight -- you know the type. And, he's always been trying to get me to do the same -- says I reflect badly on Robin's Lords or some such.

He has gotten alot stiffer lately. You know, trying desperately to not only impress his Lady -- who I understand is into that sort of thing -- but to get her brother to like him as well.

I was surprised as shit when he dropped me in the creek! Really, I didn't think he had it in him.

There might be hope left for that boy yet.

Blackbird: [rolls her eyes. unspoken]

Bahamut! I nearly get myself killed defending his honor and the whole thing was no big deal to him. Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

Narrator:
Luther notices her eyes rolling upward, pauses for a moment to make sure she's not about to fall.

Luther:
And *you* really surprised me. Let's face it, every other woman in the Realm would have been busy fawning over the Victor. Especially when the Victor looks like Hesketh.

Blackbird:

So, who's this lady he's trying so hard to impress?

Narrowing the field to only those noble women who truly LIKE that sort of thing, with brothers who require similar actions, who would also be caught dead in a camp with Jhereg. Well, that means, it's got to be....

Luther:
Sir Hesketh, Noble Knight of McKitrick, is after none other than Elisabeth Stanley! Odds makers are giving him a pretty good shot at it. He doesn't have much competition, and she's rumored to have quite a thing for the Big Ramrod types.

Blackbird:
Serious step down from Sir George if you ask me. I knew George; he was obsessed with the whole knighthood bit too, but he never bullied anybody over it. God, I miss him. There's a little plaque for him back at the chapterhouse in Arundel. I cried when I saw it.

Now, tell me a little about Luther. What is he like? And what drives him to compete in a world of giants?

Luther: [a little harsh]
I didn't realize I had a choice.

Blackbird:
I'm sorry. That was a stupid question. As if I needed to ask.

You know when I first accepted your offer of a drink? I really wasn't offended, that was no lie. But it was in my mind to cool things off a bit by doing so -- boy, did that ever go wrong -- and maybe to goad those ever-so-noble knights a bit, because you were the most unlikely choice to attract my attention, in their estimation. It didn't take a script to read that scene.

When I saw Hesketh grab you like that, something just snapped. It reminded me of all the other times I've felt small and helpless. [fists clenched] I strive so hard to not be helpless. I can fight better than any woman I know save one, and most men. It's an obsession sometimes -- to prove I can take care of myself. Know what I mean?

But again and again, I end up feeling helpless, feeling cornered. They always seem to have you outnumbered, you can never get the upper hand. Again and again they get me down and try to make me say "Uncle! Yes! I was foolish! I was wrong!"

And they're always right. I mean well, but I always do what my heart tells me to do, and my brain is always struggling to catch up. I'm not stupid. I'm not even slow. It's just that sometimes I get so angry and everything rushes out of me faster than I can control.

If I had it to do over again, I'd still get kicked in the head for you if I had to. But I wish I had stopped to think of some way to rebuke Hesketh without bringing blame upon myself.

Narrator:
At this Luther stops again and stares (not just looks, but STARES) in absolute astonishment at Blackbird. The notion of ***BLACKBIRD*** being WILLING to get kicked in the head by a horse because she thought that Luther had been mistreated has simply does not fit in his cosmos. It's one of those simple little facts -- rather like the constancy of the speed of light -- that forces your whole universe to hinge on a new axis.

Though he seeks desperately for something appropriate to say, a good response just isn't in his repertoire. Instead, he just stands there, mute.

Blackbird: [continuing]
He truly deserved it, but it all got lost in the rush to tell me how bad I was. That's the way it always is: leave them the slightest opening, show the slightest weakness, and you're meat.

What he nearly did -- that he came so close to having me arrested for attacking a noble.

Narrator:
Luther realizes she is shaking. Starts her walking again.

Blackbird:
To be at the mercy of some nobleman's ego. Don't they realize how terrifying that is? What an awful power that is? It's a soul-crushing, spirit-destroying thing, to realize your life is so cheap. Yet they flaunt the power so casually. To one born a commoner, it may seem normal, the way things have always been. But I was on the other side. I was a noble and know what it is like to live by a different standard. To face death or mutilation for the sake of an insult, for the sake of one blow to a horse's rear, screams wrongness to me. And if it is wrong for me, now a commoner, is it not wrong for all commoners?

Narrator:
The philosophical bent of this conversation, I'm afraid, is going right over Luther's head. He was born common, grew up common, is still common. He gets to play at being a noble knight so long as Robin lives. This is just the way the world is. It's like asking "Why should the sky be blue when red is a much prettier color?"

Blackbird seems to realize what she is saying. Stops. Looks around. The very vulnerable look she had a minute before vanishes quickly, replaced by caution.

Blackbird:
I'm sorry. Try to pretend you didn't hear that.

I'm not supposed to have opinions. Especially dangerous ones.

Better if we go back to talking about you. Tell me about being a knight.

Luther: [hoping to get things to a safer topic]
The knight business is pretty new for me. All in all, it's not so bad. Much better fare than just being a merc.

Blackbird:
New? How do you go from being a merc to being a knight?

Luther:
It's a funny story, really.

Me and a buddy of mine were in the Merc's Market in McKitrick on night, polishing off a little of the local brew, when these two knightly types come in.

Well, right off the bat, they call out "the dwarf" -- they are looking for "that freak". I'd never seen these guys before, and my friend's as tall as you are. Even I could tell who they meant by that comment.

So, I got up and we started to swing a little steel. Come to find out, they were blind too. They were after Tiberius -- that's my friend's name.

We fought a while and Ti managed to hurt Sir Wayne pretty badly. I splattered Sir Robin's knee all over the bar.

Blackbird: [unspoken]
Tiberious? As tall as me? No, that would be too much of a coincidence...

Luther: [eyes momentarily glaze at the memory]
Gods! That man can party.

Well, the next morning, I get taken down to the gaol by the City Guard -- it seems Robin is no longer man enough to deal with this himself and decided to have my ass locked up. Two weeks later, the local lord hears the case. I just knew I was done for. I mean, most folks don't do what I did to a noble and walk away from it.

That's when it gets weird. It seems, after it was all over, the judge ruled that I have to provide work replacement for Robin to do all the stuff he can't now. That is, I'm supposed to ride around the realm and be a Manly Man and tell folks things like "This Valiant Deed Brought to you by Sir Robin".

Best job I've ever had. Eat better, get better gear, get to meet the most gorgeous Anchor in the Realm. Yeah, I can live with this.

Blackbird: [smiling at the compliment]
Oh, you! When am I going to meet this rude and belligerent boor that Hesketh needed to teach a lesson?

...

Narrator:

Finally, they arrive at Blackbird's wagon. Two great draft horses are staked out nearby.

Blackbird:

Could you help me move their stakes? They've grazed nearly to the ground where they are.

You take Richard.

Luther:

Richard?

Blackbird: [one small dimple visible in what Luther is beginning to recognize as an expression of impish humor from her]

Richard. The horse. That one's Richard

... and this one's Regginal.

Luther:
Richard....as in Sir Richard? And...Regginal...as in....?

Scales! You do live dangerously for a peasant, don't you?

Blackbird: [smiles]
Always. Hang around me and you might get dead yet.

Luther: [laughs]
Yeah. We've all got to go sometime. Might as well enjoy the trip.

Narrator:
POW! As soon as she starts to put force to the stake, the four riders of the apocalypse make a brief appearance thundering from stage left to right somewhere just behind Blackbird's eyes. As she involuntarily lets go of the stake and eases off the pressure, they make their exit, leaving a poor stepchild of the mother of all headaches that had been present earlier.

The low pressure warning flicks in and out. Being a bright girl, she gets the message quickly - nothing strenuous for a while.

Luther notices her wobbliness, and insists on moving both horses. Blackbird protests.

Luther: [adamant]
If it weren't for *me* you wouldn't have this problem. Let *me* do what you can't do because of it.

Narrator:
Blackbird begins to protest, but realizes it may be best.

They finish staking the horses and Blackbird (with Luther doing the heavy lifting) puts out grain and fresh water for all three.

Luther:
Does your income as an Anchor pay for you to keep all three?

Blackbird:
Just barely, but it doesn't leave much for anything else. I'm always having to find ways to earn extra. I run pretty firmly in the negative most of the time.

But who cares about money?

Luther: [thinking]
Definitely an Anchor.

Blackbird: [nods toward the wagon]
Come on inside.

Narrator:
It is a covered gypsy wagon -- high-sided and windowed with a curved roof and a little door in the back -- the kind that is split into separate top and bottom halves [can't very well call it a Dutch door in York -- Stu]. A smaller combination window and crawlway leads to the driver's bench in front. Various tools and camp equipment are secured around the outside of the wagon. It is obviously meant to used and lived in for long journeys.

Stepping inside, he feels like he has entered her home. It is haphazardly decorated in a manner that seems to say something about her: fancy cushions that were probably looking too worn for some baron's sitting room, a peasant-woven rug on the small expanse of floor between the two benches that run the length of the wagon, and little odds and ends hanging from the walls amidst the purely practical clutter of stowed travel gear. Somehow it all seems to fit; the overall effect is feminine Bohemian.

Except for the spear locked along the wall. Stout maple, very straight, with a razor steel tip (covered by a cork protector). Luther's practiced eye reads it as the finest spear he's ever seen. Spears are common enough that they are rarely so finely worked. But this one belongs to someone who really values their spear. Locked next to it is a much lighter javelin.

Stu:
I didn't think Ti would leave that behind!

Neil:
You don't think he'd let her go off without one, do you? This one stays in the wagon, so there will always be one there. He's got a small collection of them too. He'd be seriously bummed if she wound up dead for want of a *real* spear.

Blackbird:
Make yourself comfortable.

Narrator:
She pushes aside a couple of the cushions and lifts the hinged top of the bench to reveal a storage area underneath. She rummages a bit, pulling out a few folded items of clothing and setting them aside before finding what she is looking for.

Blackbird: [raising a bottle of deep amber liquid]
Aha! I've been saving this for a special occasion. I've got other stuff, but this bottle is really special. Fifteen years old if it's a day, distilled over a slow coal fire in the highlands of Waltham, by a man who knew his trade very well.

Narrator:
She takes a pair of small glasses out of a cargo net up on one wall and sets them on the bench between them. She pours a healthy shot in each, and lifts her glass high.

Blackbird: [smiling]
To short people!

Luther: [lifts glass]
To us common folk. We should stick together.

Narrator:
Luther raises his glass in approval, and has it to his lips when his eyes stray across one of the items of clothing Blackbird removed from the bench when she was looking for the whiskey. It is a man's light jacket, way too big for her. But that isn't what makes him nearly choke. What sends him into a coughing fit is the fact that the jacket has about two more sleeves than most people have call for.

Luther: [coughing]
Bahamut's balls!

Blackbird: [perplexed]
What? You don't like it? It's got a bit of a kick, but-

Luther: [able to speak again, barely. his throat feels like a glass blower with hiccups]

Where did you get that jacket?!

Blackbird: [picking up the jacket in question]
Oh, this. Well, I know it looks a little strange. It belongs to a friend of mine. He's pretty short too -- about an inch shorter than me. But

as you might guess, it's not his height that generally turns peoples' heads.

Luther:
Yeah, usually it's the bloody big lizard!

Blackbird: [eyes wide, pleased surprise]
It *was* the same Tiberious! How wonderful! Oh, you have no idea how I miss him.

But I'd like to know why it was too much trouble for him to be here with me.

(Do you think you could play your game with Brandon if he was here?)

On second thought....

Narrator:
The expression is not entirely lost on Luther. He's used to seeing women wish for other men.

Luther:
Son of a Bitch!

Well, you knew it was going to be somebody, sooner or later. At least he's a friend.

Blackbird: [not catching all the implications of his exclamation, thinking it is just surprise at having such an unlikely common acquaintance. pours another drink]

Try not to choke on it this time. This one's for Ti.

Luther: [lifts glass]
Ti!

The luckiest damned four-arm in the Realm.

Luther is next seen later that evening

...

Narrator:
Blackbird doesn't drink anymore after that. Much as she truly wants to get drunk, she has too much at stake to risk it now.

After Luther leaves, she begins to feel depressed, and throws herself into her music. As she plays, she is grateful and terrified at the same time. Terrified because parts of songs are missing.

Blackbird: [unspoken, frustrated]
No. Bahamut. Please don't do this. It's all I have.

What else is missing?

Narrator:
Grateful that she has a chance to play her repertoire. Physical memory and associations help her put back some of the missing music. Some of the words are gone. It takes her a while, but she puts some of the songs back together. So what if they have a variation?

But she could do without the fear.

Blackbird:
I'm *not* afraid.

(That's what you said before. I don't believe you.)

There's fear and there's fear. I'm not afraid of being afraid.

(OK, then-)

-But I am worried losing my mind! Those songs were a part of me. I'm not the same without them. What if they don't come back? What if I keep forgetting things? How can I be an Anchor if I can't remember the stories?

Narrator:

The turmoil she is feeling is a boon; her muse likes her that way. It seems like only minutes and she has not one but two new songs penned. It is only as she sets quill aside that she realizes she can hardly see the page. The sun is already grazing the treetops.

Blackbird:

Brandon, Friedrich, Richard, Jhereg, Hesketh, Ruth and who else? Hell of an audience.

Next Blackbird file.