Summers are mild on the island of Casa Blanca. During the day, the breezes sweep down from the green hills and fill the air with the scent of flowers. The evenings would pull the winds in through the harbor, sweeping past the great white mansion that gave the island its name, whispering through the governor's rooms, past farmhouses, sweeping the smoke from cantinas, and cooling the tourists in their charming guesthouses. As near as could be told, "charming" was a Castillian adjective which translated into Montaignais as "small, expensive, unfashionable, and primitive."
At any rate, that was the opinion of one temporary resident of Casa Blanca, who found a bit of affection for the "resort"-- which in turn seemed best translated as "that place to which you go when you have worn out your welcome with friends and relations, when you have exasperated your family thoroughly enough for one year, when the thought of one more attempt at a debut at La Palais de Soleil fills you with total dread, and you just have not yet mustered the courage or monetary wherewithal to have Lady Jamais Sices du Sices assassinated." Yes, "resort" was a more compact and pleasant term.
It was near the middle of summer, far too many Guilder notes had been cluttering this tourist's wallet, and he was bored, all of which had pointed to an evening at El Toro Loco. The plan of action included drinking, tossing money away over cards, and watching the proprietor Francisco labor incessantly to keep wine and food streaming from cellar and kitchen respectively. Our tourist was, as we join him, down some hundred or so Guilders, looking over his cards at three Vodacciani. They were sailors, judging from their wind-burned hides, and given to chuckling amongst themselves as they played.
They would drop subtle hints in their own tongue, with the plan of avoiding the ears and wits of their prey for the evening. For his part, he drew some amusement from the clumsiness of their plan, and their grammar, and had formed an experiment to see if he could make his money last until the end of the night. It seemed a shame, after all, to carry more weight than necessary back up the hill to his "charming" hacienda.
The sailors' plan was disturbed somewhat by the addition of a pair of Avalonders, who sat at the table to join the game. While the trio busily recalculated the odds of taking home additional funds, and the effort involved in concealing from two additional marks their clever manipulation of the cards, our tourist looked over his new playmates. One was sturdy, quiet, with features that seemed regular enough, but gave the impression of having been more or less pummeled into shape, like a fairly well made clay sculpture. The slight formlessness of his countenance also had the unsettling effect of seeming to resemble many features of many different men he'd met, or seen, or heard of. When he looked toward Francisco, his nose had the Villanova curve; bent over his cards, his jaw set like an Ussuran peasant's. It was, therefore, at once a dead certainty and utterly impossible that he'd ever met the fellow before.
His comrade was leaner, lighter, with cleaner, chiseled features, and the air of just having stepped triumphantly from the accomplishment of some noble deed. Firm chin, flashing eyes, well kept if simple clothes all combined to create the picture of one who had lived a good life of deeds well done. The pin of the Rose and Cross glittered on his breast, completing the picture. An admirable fellow, to be sure, and utterly optimistic, and in some tiny way quite infuriating; a fellow to whom clearly no ill had ever come, who seemed to have no care in the world, and one to whom it seemed a positive injustice to lose even unearned money.
The contemplation of his playmates' physiognomy was pleasantly interrupted, however, by the sight of a different sailor, at some distance from their game. Her hair was black, seeming to whip about her when she turned her head this way and that, she regarded the players, musicians and guests with a proud and hungry eye, and her voice penetrated to the cardplayers' ears with the lilt of the Norvik Isles. Her hair and manner seemed more Vendel than Vesten, which spelled a love of money, the readiness to get what she wanted, buy any means she saw available. To be the target of her acquisitiveness seemed to our tourist at once attractive and frightening...
This delicious daydream, which had cost him by some oddly appropriate fate fifty additional Guilders, was suddenly interrupted by the crash of opening doors. A troop ("a swagger" seemed the more appropriate collective) of Vodacciani slid in through the swinging doors. They were new to the island, by the look of them, just starting their evening's revels, and had apparently made enemies already. The Vendel sailors surrounding the dark beauty stood, spitting curses. The new arrivals were turning their imagined charms on Francisco's daughter, ordering several things that were and were not normally offered as fare. The White Knight, as our tourist had dubbed him, looked up from his cards with a frown. The Man with Too Many Faces put down his cards and cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. The three cardsharps looked over the Vendel sailors, planning how best to strike them from behind as they engaged their countrymen.
The moment seemed to stretch tight, like a thread about to snap. The Vendel and Vodacciani were bitter rivals, at least at sea. If the individuals carried their nations' grudges with them, this night would become far too interesting. That seemed unlikely, however. Our tourist, after all, mused that his own nation had had brief and ugly skirmishes with several nations, Castille among them, and there had been no difficulties in his stay here, as long as he'd kept his hands covered, among the people whose King (or rather whose Church) had invaded a small section of his homeland. Most people got along, unless something had struck them deeply. With luck, these would do so as well, and our tourist could go back to losing his Guilders.
Alas. Our tourist watched a mug tumble slowly, almost lazily through the air toward the back of the most flirtatious Vodacciano. The occiput, he corrected himself, vaguely recalling a lecture on the bones of the skull he'd attended while carousing his way through a small medical school in Paix. Two hollow thumps resounded, one from each slightly elastic container, and chairs were rapidly flung aside. The cardsharps attempted to rush to join battle and scoop up their winnings, or more precisely takings, simultaneously. The Avalonders shot to their feet as well, M. Lumpy's fist rising just a little more slowly then the rest of him, and toppling one gambler to the floorboards.
The White Knight was off to rescue Francisco's daughter, now screaming at a pitch that did not so much break the windows as set them quivering dangerously, and our tourist decided that his playmates had not in fact provided entertainment commensurate with the taking of his money. Drawing his rapier, the one item on which he put some value, he slashed high at the sailor scooping up money, then kicked low as the man instinctively protected his face. As the remaining good knee buckled, his chin met the edge of the table, spelling an end to the night for him.
Mr. Lumpy was grinning now, rolling on the balls of his feet and waving his fists in slow, small circles. The remaining cardplayer attempted to bolt for the door, and met a gnarled fist in mid-dash. Near the door, Sir Bastion appeared to have engaged the ruffians, accepted the tearful gratitude of Francisco's daughter, and was keeping his adversaries at the distance of his own sword. The tourist scooped up a share of the winnings, and while stooping to pick up an odd note, met the eye of the boxer, who was doing the same. Figuring the fellow had earned his reward, he strode toward the fracas near the door. The lovely siren had narrowed her eyes at several brawlers who had begun to surround her, drawing a long, flat blade. The tourist slashed at the leg of one who had decided to leap at the lady, and watched the lady's blade skip across the heads of three of them like a rock over a the surface of a pond. The remaining men suddenly realized that they had walked into a trap, and were now caught between the darting Loup rapier of one and the thunderous Vesten blade of the other.
In a few moments, tourist and siren found themselves shoulder to shoulder, looking at several groaning would-be attackers, and grinned to each other. The Avalonders had finished recovering moneys and drinks, the tables had been righted, and the rest of the room, save for those we shall for the nonce call the Heroes, was quiet. The lumpy one introduced himself as Cecil, and nodded to the other, named Quinn. A bottle or two of Château des Demoiselles later, they made their way home, the White Knight to his rooms, the boxer to another inn, and our tourist escorting the lovely sailor on his arm, hearing tales of the sea. Not wanting the interrupt the enchanting creature, he found his steps winding up to his hacienda, into which the pair entered, still talking, until they were talking no longer.
In the false dawn, he learned her name was Asgard, though she gave no other. His own was Henri de la Praisse du Rachetisse, though "Henri" would do splendidly. He liked the way her accents clashed over the r, and drowsed happily waiting for the hangover to bloom.
It came like thunder. Henri grabbed at his head to put its halves back together, and was startled to find that it did not ache in any way. The booming sound came again, and he leapt out of bed toward the window overlooking the lower slopes of the island, and the harbor below. Picking up an ornate spyglass, a last indulgence before he'd left his familial exile in Paix, he looked out to the harbor. The Vodacce Vessel was sinking, its sailors leaping from the decks just before the magazine went up. Further out in the harbor, four large warships of Montaigne swept in, swinging in graceful curves and firing bombards into the town before resuming their courses.
"Mon dieu," he whispered "we've declared war on Castille... "
Asgard stepped up behind Henri, looking out to sea, asking what the matter was. He passed her the glass, then called to his manservant, busy at breakfast. He roared the man's name a second time, bringing a curious Castillian still wiping his hands to Henri's room, studiously avoiding the sight of a naked Vodacciana leaning out the window.
"Sanchez. Get your things, and head for the hills. I'll send for you
when it's safe. Los Montañanos have just invaded La Isla de la Casa
Blanca."