Winter 2007 1

The interior of the little structure contained benches around all but two of its sides. One of those remaining faces contained the doorway. At ninety degrees to this was a fireplace, unlit, topped with a heavy steel grille that was used to cook meat when the weather was milder. Considering the entire structure was open to the air, the interior should have been freezing. Strangely, it wasn't.

As the air inside began warming up, Iceheart removed his scarf and set it aside on the bench. He had earlier offered the garment to Weft, who felt the cold more acutely and was wearing an inadequate summer sweater, conditions back in the Offwhite City being balmy. The monk had refused on the grounds that wearing things an enemy could easily use to throttle him was against his religion, and anyway it wasn't his colour, continued to shiver resentfully and refused point blank to leave his charge and go indoors.

Before Weft could nullify the second half of his objection by turning blue, Suitov had steered their expedition in the direction of the folly that stood close to the fish ponds and herbaceous borders. The plant beds were largely bare at this time of year, the carp long since moved elsewhere by the mysterious unseen forces that maintained the gardens.

Weft had complained non-stop about the heating magic. Weft was in that sort of mood. He was currently reclining attractively on a bench, sulking. Iceheart, who had been given the silent treatment by virtuosas, showed no perturbment whatsoever. He was appreciating the snow outside. He would rather have been out in it.

That very snow was being callously trampled under heavy boots. Every step chinked, suggested the boots had spurs.

Approaching the doorway was a silver-haired woman with dry skin, a rather permanently imprinted frown and a mouth covered by the collar of a heavy, long greatcoat that also covered the rest of her. It was dark grey with some dark blue wool lining, silver buttons. A bit of the long grey, black-lined, weapon she had carried earlier poked over her shoulder; a short sword remained at her side in a most plain scabbard.

Her green eyes found Iceheart as their first target while she took her first step past the doorway. She looked to be considering something before saying, neutrally, "Good day." Then she glanced at Weft critically.

Helmine frowned and reached for her coat's buttons as an afterthought. It was warmer here. How strange.

Suitov would have enthused about how good a day it was if he could understand the young lady, so perhaps it was just as well. He compromised with an expression that said well, this is a pleasant encounter.

The other one - yes, male - was radiating a very strong message of do not touch. His brow was sulcate. His togs were a light, glossy fabric in several layers. Lilac and grey were this interval's colours. He was otherwise unadorned, and not immediately obviously armed.

His eyes, green but not as green as hers, flicked disinterestedly over Helmine's weapons, noting her stance and various other details. Half a second later Weft sat bolt upright and looked much more carefully. At her face. Sparing a moment for the hair. Mainly the face, though.

The soldier peeled the coat's collar from her face and unbuttoned until the top of her breastplate could be seen. The other man... well, she gave him an equally disinterested look. Her lips didn't even try to settle into a smile. Instead, she indicated at a bench with askance and sat down when permission to sit was expressed through body language.

Helmine looked around again. She wasn't by any means tense, not even when her eyes stopped to stare at Weft again, at some fold in his clothes -- no. Helmine settled a curious but neutral look at Suitov. "I do not suppose Basaltine is in the vicinity?"

For some reason, her gaze slowly snaked back to Weft. It was as much a warning, a question and some evaluation bundled together.

Suitov visibly recognised his pet's name and would have made some response. However, Weft got in first. "Not another dog enthusiast," he said. The monk wondered why the girl's Common was strangely accented. He would take a while longer to realise.

Suitov glanced a question at him, but Weft wasn't looking.

Helmine's look turned into a stare. Stare, yes -- she deliberately took five seconds before she said something. "I prefer horses, but they cannot translate for me," she said matter-of-factly and dryly, stomping a boot against the floor. Chink! "My name is Helmine."

"Trans..." Weft said, nonplussed.

"Weft, can you understand her?"

"Yea - oh." Understanding clouted the monk. He looked back at Helmine. He blinked and thought for a moment. "I'm Brother Weft" - he used the noun for woof yarn - "of a religious order called the, er, Expressions of Warm Mercies, I think. That's Suitov Iceheart," - another literal translation; he thought of Suitov's nickname as something similar to his own - "pest and so-called mage."

Weft was speaking fairly slowly.

She wrinkled her brows. "Weft. Very well. Please do not call him a pest. We have met earlier," Helmine said and sniffed, also speaking fairly slowly. What a curious variant of Weissean this man was speaking. "Could you please tell him that it is good to see him again? I found a multitude of pleasant things in the world he indicated to me."

Weft, on the other hand, might have given the impression that he didn't think much faster than he spoke.

"Uh, she says she's pleased to see you, shows she must not've known you very long, and something about some world you showed her. She liked it. Can't have been Shade. Suitov, is she related to...?"

"I don't know for certain. It seems a sensitive subject. If you wouldn't mind, please return the pleasantry and say I'm glad she was entertained."

Weft turned back to Helmine, still with somewhat of a searching expression. "He's just ecstaaaatic to see you too. And he's happy this world entertained you. I hope he didn't send you off somewhere dangerous. That'd be just like him."

Helmine took that chance to stare at Weft as if he were retarded or something.

Weft wondered if he was mispronouncing something very badly.

"Well, it would," he said, and looked at Suitov. Help?

Suitov, as always, couldn't get into Weft's mind, which meant he couldn't check whether the monk was translating faithfully, and so had to try to guess from Helmine's reaction. He gave Weft a blank look in return. Served him right.

"Hah! Rest assured, I had a very relaxed stay. It was quite fine. Nothing dangerous." If that last word was a bit sharp, she couldn't help it. What was this man's relation with Suitov? "For the sake of future relations -- yours and mine, sir --, please lay off the sarcasm."

There was a hint of a pout -- or a purse of the lips, if we're charitable. "Sorry, but I was being serious. The sorts of thing he finds pleasantly interesting are big fierce monsters and perilous applications of magic."

"Weft?"

"I'm telling her to be wary of anything you say is interesting."

"Why, you scoundrel."

"Oh... and, um, technically, not a sir. It's 'brother' or 'monk' or my name," Weft added to Helmine.

"Oh. Do forgive me," Helmine said, then looked at Suitov. When the mage didn't seem at all pertrubed, she simply shrugged. "I am surprised though," she said to Weft, "I did not expect to meet a foreigner who knows Wessian."

"Know... what? This language? Yes, but I wasn't taught to call it whatever you just said."

Suitov did indeed look patient. He was amusing himself by guessing at words and awaiting a polite moment to chime in.

"I see." Well, she didn't, but who cared. "I think we are being a bit rude," she said with a slightly stronger voice, turning to look at first Suitov and then the unlit fireplace. "Perhaps you two would like to talk freely for a moment. I must have interrupted something." (She seemed aware of something -- that smile... smirk was a bit too amused.)

In fact, Weft's employer referred to it as catalogue number 300.5.13 local Wrexem. This wasn't as snappy as 'Wessian'.

"You didn't, I assure you." Weft glared at Suitov.

"Might I trouble you to ask Helmine if the temperature is to her liking?" the pest said, having been going to ask this even before catching her glance at the grate.

"Ngh. Helmine, he wants to know if you're warm enough or too hot or whatever."

She sniffed at that, cocked an eyebrow and sought eye contact with Suitov briefly. Helmine looked at Weft again mid-sentence. "Yes, thank you. I would love to know how it works. Fascinating."

"Not really," Weft said without much hope of convincing her. She seemed the type to ignore all warnings of boring mage stuff. It was the only reason he wasn't warning her off Suitov altogether. That and... if she left, Weft'd be stuck alone with him.

"Was that an affirmative?"

"Oh. Yes."

Suitov smiled in Helmine's direction and spoke to Weft. "Then thank you. We're lucky you were here."

"Curl up and dye."

Helmine paid attention to the way the two men interacted. She wasn't entirely sure what species this... Weft was, but he seemed to pose no direct harm. There was something she wondered about idly, but...

"Do either of you mind if I smoke?" she asked and reached inside her coat, pulling out a tin of thin cigars and a box of matches.