Sir Emerson Lennox

An extra passenger, or two

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Emerson could see the sun coming out of the clouds, felt it warm on his face, as it chased away the shadows created by the Marquette’s sails. Wanting to avoid it, he walked near the forecastle’s rail and spotted Dante returning, with Soren in tow.

“Need any help, Sir Knight?” One of the chained pirates asked. One-eyed, more gold than teeth in his mouth.

“What’s your name?” Emerson asked and the man glanced towards his colleagues, before answering.

“Stiles.”

“What’s the other one?”

“Just Stiles. Having a moniker is more trouble, than it’s worth,” The pirate’s reply came surprisingly thought-out.

“That so Mr. Stiles?” Emerson probed. “And jumping on a ship to raid it, isn’t?”

“Pearly Rose picked the job, Sir Knight,” He made Uher’s circle over his forehead once, then kissed the hollow of his fist to honor the departed. His face solemn. “I just did, what I was told.”

“Pearly… Rose,” Emerson repeated, not swayed by his theatrics.

“Aye, Rose Atterton. Our late Captain.”

“She was from Lesia?”

“Dokamna. A good portion of the crew was,” Stiles explained, always looking for an angle. “Where are you from, Sir Knight?”

“Was born in Ballard Castle, my family has property around Cediorum,” Emerson said and Stiles whistled impressed.

“You know the old Lord Lennox?” He asked, just as Dante pushed an unwilling Soren up the stairs. The Northman protesting frustrated on every step.

“I do, Mr. Stiles. Now, if ye excuse me…” The knight started.

“I can help, Sir Knight,” Stiles insisted, now more desperate.

It’ll be a pity to hang my talents, was his meaning.

Emerson nodded in understanding. He couldn’t begrudge him for that.

“And I would help you as well, Mr. Stiles. If I could,” The knight said and he meant it.

 

 

“Where’s the rest of them?” Emerson grunted. The mercenary captain had him waiting on the ship for far longer, than what was necessary. “I’m paying ye for everyone, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Who needs the others?” Dante replied, giving the Norhman’s broad back a hard smack. “Look at this specimen, Sir Lennox! Soren is enough.”

The Knight grimaced not particularly thrilled, but also short on time.

“I’m holding you responsible for them, Mr. Blackwood. Anything untoward happens, it goes out of your share.”

“I’m trusting Soren with my very life, Sir Knight,” Dante replied, all serious. Emerson didn’t much believe him.

“Ye do?” Soren asked surprised. Obviously having trouble buying it as well, Sir Lennox thought.

“Of course,” Dante replied readily, as if that could sway anyone!

Nevertheless the Northman grinned for some reason convinced.

Uher help us, the knight thought.

Shaking his head, Emerson left them and went to locate Glen. Leaving him alone for long, usually spelled trouble.

 

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Glen was standing in the shade across the tavern, talking with a skinny older man, a young boy watching their exchange from the sides. It must have been a riveting talk, judging by the youth’s expression, Emerson thought.

“Sir Emerson,” Glen said, weird smile on his face, before he’d time to greet the stranger. “We’re in luck it seems. I run upon Mr. Hailey.”

Emerson frowned, his black eyes set on the man. Mr. Hailey, laughed nervously and tended his right hand. “Name’s Crafton Hailey, Sir Emerson.”

The knight shook his hand. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hailey,” He glanced towards the kid watching him with interest. “Who might you be?”

“Liko,” The kid said with a small bow of the head.

“It’s my nephew,” Crafton explained, seeming on the edge for some reason. “When he told me, Glen was here… I couldn’t believe it.”

Emerson rubbed his forehead with a hand.

“I’m a little surprised you are here Mr. Crafton. I was given the impression you lived in Shroudcoast.”

“I did, tis true,” Crafton said, something about him, making the knight uncomfortable. “But I came here to find better work.”

“What happened to the butchery?”

“The owner died,” Crafton replied fast. “Business closed.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Emerson looked around them, the place looking deserted, as it was lunch time. Not much work around anyway, other than what the Marquette had provided and fishing… perhaps a lot of that, Emerson thought.

“Ah, tis all right. I’m used to hard work,” Crafton boasted.

“You’re a Northman.”

“Aye, I am. Maza Burg originally.”

“Isn’t that in Fetya?” Emerson asked, intrigued. The place quite afar from Colant’s Refuge.

“It was, forty years ago,” Crafton chuckled. “Haven’t been back since.”

Emerson looked towards the tavern thoughtfully.

“I was thinking of having something to eat. Glen as well,” He started, decision made. “How about joining us Mr. Crafton? On my coin of course.”

 

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Fish dishes were all the rage in Whitford it seemed. Nothing else of note was served in the small tavern. Emerson pushed his plate away, when he finished. His esteemed company, enjoying theirs with the enthusiasm of someone tasting fish for the first time.

Perhaps an island thing, Emerson decided.

“So, how did ye come to know Glen’s father?” He asked, after they had their fill, Liko wiping what was left in his plate, with a big slice of fresh bread. Crafton downed a cup of warm ale, before answering.

“That was years back,” He said, glancing towards a rather quiet Glen. “Through Evelyn.”

“Is that Glen’s mother?” Emerson asked.

“She was,” Crafton replied, face falling at the memory. “My sister.”

The knight sat back on his chair. “I didn’t know that.”

“Aye, tis difficult to talk about her,” Crafton said, sounding sad, with good reason. “Left us too soon, she did. Ora’s keep her poor soul safe.”

Emerson nodded, giving him a moment to collect himself.

“So you’re… Glen’s uncle in a sense.”

“Aye. His father asked me to take care of him and I did. Much as I could.”

“Because he was a bastard?”

“Not true.” Crafton said, surprising him. “Watched Sir Reeves, proclaiming her his wife, three times. What Gods witness, men can’t change.”

The knight smacked his lips and glared at Glen.

“You could’ve told me that,” He said with a grunt of disapproval.

“He didn’t know,” Crafton defended him. “Not until recently. Did Glen no good, since Sir Reeves, left him here.”

Emerson grimaced. He didn’t understand Sir Glenavon’s reasons for abandoning his child. But it was very difficult for him to contemn a dead man and a friend.

“Why would he do that?” He asked Crafton. “What did he say to you?”

Glen’s uncle frowned, stared at their table for long.

“The problem… was with his family,” He finally said.

“Lord Reeves? Why? Because of his mother’s station?”

Crafton crossed his arms, on his chest.

“He didn’t say, if it was Lord Reeves the problem, or someone else,” He said defensively.

“Glenavon had a half-sister, so it can’t be her,” Emerson said, thinking about it out loud. “Lord Reeves had bequeathed his lands anyway, to his brother. He had a male heir.”

“Maybe the marriage was the reason?” Glen offered.

“Nah, that was later. Anyway, it was known that Lord Reeves had an affair and a child out of wedlock, since the very start. It went on well after he married his current wife and had a child wit her as well. A daughter,” Emerson paused, trying to remember, what else Sir Glenavon had told him. It wasn’t much.

“Could the old Lord, change his decision?” Glen asked, finding apparently this part of the conversation, easier to comment on.

His argument sound though.

“It may cost him some prestige, but he could. As long as he’s alive, a lord can change a decision,” Emerson replied, tapping his fingers on the table. Eyes stilled on Crafton. “There was a letter,” He said and the man across from him blinked nervously.

“He means the one, we found in the box,” Glen cut in.

“Ah, aye,” Crafton said, sounding numb. Emerson narrowed his eyes, not liking his expression. “The box… ahm, these past months have been very difficult. Bodies washing ashore, the Cofols…” He stalled not making much sense.

“What bodies?” Emerson asked.

“He means, from the wreckage,” Glen said.

Where his father died.

Emerson scrunched his mouth this way and that, frustrated he brought up the subject in front of the young man.

“What happened to the box?” Crafton asked, while Emerson wallowed in his thoughts, Glen’s uncle still sounding confused as well, or something.

“I got it, I have it,” Glen explained and it was as if a lighting jolt went through Crafton livening him up.

“Yes, I remember now,” He said, sitting up straighter. “I remember it all.”

Good grief, Emerson thought. What happened here?

“So the letter? Ye saw it?” The knight probed him again.

“I did, Sir Emerson.” Crafton replied confidently this time.

“Ye can vouch, it named Glen his heir?”

“It did, in the event of his death, if I remember it correctly,” Crafton started, then paused eyes closed, as if he could see the scroll in front of him, for a good moment before continuing. “At the time, I thought nothing of it, since his… father was in good health, but now it… all comes back… aye, very clear.”

“Where there any lands or properties named in there? Any other details?” Emerson asked, when he finished.

“Not that I recall. These past months, were a big strain on my nerves, I think,” Crafton said, looking to refill his cup. Liko, had fallen asleep on his chair, head resting on the table, hair spilling into his empty plate. Emerson exhaled slowly and stooping pulled the plate away.

“I’m afraid, we’re going to need ye in person Mr. Crafton,” He said, sounding tired.

“In person?” Crafton asked, sounding worried. “What does this mean?”

“It means, you’ll have to make the journey wit us,” Emerson explained patiently. “Help Glen, if needed. Answer his grandfather’s questions.”

“In Raoz,” Crafton droned, his eyes haunted.

“Yeah, what’s the problem?” Glen snapped, irritated for some reason. Emerson could understand the older man’s hesitation. Inconveniencing nobles or high lords, could have severe repercussions for simple people. Still it had to be done.

“His grandfather knows about him already. It is not a dangerous journey, Mr. Hailey. I shall offer assistance to any potential problems,” He offered.

“What about my nephew?” Crafton asked.

“Where’s his mother? Or father?” Emerson checked to see, if the kid had fallen off the chair.

“His father got drown in a storm. Mother run off with an Issir sailor,” Crafton replied. “Last year.”

“Why would she leave…?” Emerson trailed his words.

“Most girls here do it, first chance they get. Boys as well. Not easy living on the island, or raising a kid,” Crafton explained.

“It’s not easy anywhere, Mr. Crafton,” Emerson said and moving fast, put a hand on a slipping off his chair Liko, stopping him from falling and breaking his head on the tavern’s floor.

The knight closed his eyes and breathed deeply once, putting everything in order in his head. Finding no way around it, he sighed.

“The kid can come as well,” He relented. They had the space, might as well use it, he thought. “Get your affairs in order, Mr. Crafton. The Marquette sails for Altarinport on the morrow.”