An Epistle to the Esteemed Regent Glenn Bernstein

[Rance]

First, the girl had gone to the needle-maker, a little old woman who carved bones into thin slivers, who complained daily that she wished she could whittle floating duck decoys, or that she had followed her dream of hammering out dents from the armor of tired soldiers. "Not me, child -- go to the bobbin-maker."

Then, the girl went to the bobbin-maker, who was a man who made all sorts of things. Bedposts, but not the beds. Stakes for tents, but not the poles. Even corks for bottles, but not the wine. He was a sad man whose daughter had died in a fire and he did not like young women. "Go to the rock-breaker. He will know someone."

So the girl went to the rock-breaker, who worked long days breaking chunks out of cold greatstones. His skin was tea-stained parchment and his mouth was a parched little bow. His muscles roiled under his skin. He never found ore, but that was not his job, because he was a rock-breaker. "Why you askin' me, kid? Ask the wordsmith back in town."

And finally, she went to the wordsmith, who most everyone had forgotten in Myrkentown because words were not important anymore. She knocked upon his door until her knuckles went numb. He answered, half-drunk, reeking of whiskey and paper. She split almost in half at the waist with a curtsey, and said, "I am Gloria. I heard you are a man of languages. I am looking for a man who knows some words."

"Nobody knows words anymore, Gertrude. Nobody knows nothing about words. I burn books to make my fire blaze."

The girl said, "My name is Gloria, and I am looking for a man who speaks the Jerno tongue. My tongue. I will sew you anything, but I have a very important letter to write. You see? And my hands are like spider-fingers on paper. They are bad with this language. If you do as people I know say you do, then you were once a scholar of Jernoan literature. I will pay you handsomely in sewing if you write to parchment what I dictate in Jernoan." She smiled and was almost resplendent with glee, because that was how Jernos asked for favors.

"You smell like onions. I think that my brain is tired from words I used to write," he said.

"I will pay you handsomely in sewing," she repeated.

"If it will make you go away faster, I will write your letter as you speak it, and you can stop stinking up my compost yard."

So the girl drank tea in his little library. He bent over an old journal, putting ink to paper and occasionally slapping away the silverfish that crawled in and out of the pages. The young seamstress paced back and forth in front of his bureau, the wood for which had been chopped down by the rock-breaker, carved by the bobbin-maker, and engraved by the needle-maker. Her tongue trilled and lilted in the language of Jernoah, and the old professor did his best to keep up, transcribing into Standard the young woman's lofty proclamation.

And that was how the letter came to be, delivered to the Meetinghouse by way of a rock-breaker who had been promised a new pair of socks, though maybe he realized only too late that seamstress did not mean knitter, and that the reward would not be proper compensation for the walk he had made.

An Epistle to the Esteemed Regent Glenn Bernstein,

My Name is Gloria Wynsee. I thought that I might dictate this Decree to you, first to follow up upon our fine Conversation from the other day, in speaking about the Wonders of Tyranny and the Freedom it affords Lowly Peasants, for which I was most grateful. Secondly, it has come to my Attention that there are Matters far above my Head that I would wish to better understand.

If you will peace please: my friend-brother Master C-----, my Student of Thread, a hard-working Millworker, and Fine Young Lad, was recently taken Sick with Arrow, and my Heart has been torn quite to Tiny Pieces by his Pain. Also, my esteemed friend Mister C----, who Many do not like, has been deeply erected affected by this Tragedy perpetrated upon a Young and Healthy Hard-Working Boy.

You See, Miser Messa, this is an Insult to me that such Things have happened at all, and because we see very Eye to Eye on Politics, Reason, and Wit, I wish to make a Request: I have heard through Channels that the Arrow-Shooter of Myrken is currently resting under the Glory of Fine Guards in the Remedial Egg Factory Hospital, and because I am hungry for Knowledge to inquire, as any Good Jerno might inquire, into the Nature of the Badness of Bad Things, I wish to ask for Privy Private Audience with this Criminal, to bring a Plea to her regarding the Harm she has Done to Two Very Dear Friends, that she might levy Apology to them through Myself, a Neutral Party.

Sincerely, your Loyal Subject and Dignified New Associate, and One of Many Commoners Peacefully Digsusted by a Base Criminal,

Signed,

- Menna Gloria (Glour'eya) Winsee, Fair Seamstress, Citizen of Bridlespear, Jernoah, and newly of Myrkentown, roomed quite comfortably in the Broken Dagger, happily awaiting your Response by Visit or Courier

[Glenn]

Very little took Glenn Burnie by surprise. He had lived in Myrken for five years now. Before that, it was one dark place after another. The things he had seen. The things he knew. The things he dealt with everyday. Waking up to a riot. Waking up to Agnieszka declaring war in her own unique, precious way. Waking up to Ariane Emory at his doorstep, to gods and monsters nipping at his heels. These were not surprises; they were Myrken. No hesitation. No doubt. Just a response. One after the next. This was how a Governor survived.

This, though? This warranted a pause.

Twenty-six seconds the once-mapmaker would stare down at the paper after completion. An eternity. And then he would write.

Miss Wynsee (Gloria),

To begin, I must restate that our discussion was a rare pleasure, an oasis of sorts in a conversational desert of poor manners and ill-respect, though please be reassured that it is ever my goal to bring water to this desert. It is the work of my days. Part of it, at least.

There is nothing that troubles me more than when our good citizens are put in danger, so I was personally relieved and gratified when Marshall Emory, with the assistance of none other than Catch, saw to the archer's apprehension. As it is unlikely that one individual would act suchly without the most stringent of motivations, she is being interrogated as I write this. I've personally found her to be little more than a beast and fear you may receive little in the way of forgiveness.

However, in light of our recent meeting and your assuredly earnest enthusiasm in this matter, I will allow you an audience with the captive, on the terms that you will be escorted by a Constable to ensure your safety and that this audience does not disrupt any ongoing interrogation. So long as you agree to the first term and the timing of the second is fortuitous, you will be allowed in. Simply show this note to the Constable guardian the door. I trust you to show discretion, restraint, and good sense in this matter.

Glenn BURNIE, Governor of Myrken Wood

[Rance]

The retired professor's door opened at the insistent knock, and he was greeted by the same young woman as the day before, one hand on her hip, the other wrapped around a folded sheet of paper, Glenn Burnie's response to her first correspondence. "It is curious to me, messa, how a learned man such as you can downright refuse to dictate with efficiency. You misspelled his name. You misspelled my name."

"You said 'Bernstein', you imbecile girl."

"Perhaps, but you were my scribe, and I trusted in your judgment."

"You dictated first 'Wynsee' with a y, and then secondly Winsee with an i."

She crushed the Governor's letter into a half-crushed paper-fold crane, then stuffed it into her bodice the way she had seen so many older women do. "Regardless of our inability to come to agreement, I wish to dictate another letter."

He sighed, and for lack of anything else to learn, and for letting one girl force him to reconsider his life's work as a scholar of Jernoan literature, he opened the door wide and said, "I will brew tea for you. I will pour rum for me."

Later that afternoon, the rock-breaker returned another letter to the Meetinghouse, newly inspired by correction -- no, she had not promised knitted socks, he was mistaken, but it would be so kind for him to deliver another letter, perhaps for the promise that she would never again go to him to be her courier.

To the Esteemed Regent Glenn Burnie, not Bernstein,

It is my Hope that my Letter did not receive too much Ill Will from you for the Details that may have been regrettably lost in Translation. Yet, I am pleased to see that we are in Agreeance on the Matter. I will gladly comport myself with Due Propriety in the Presents Presence of your Constable and your Fair and Ordained Law of Good Cheer.

I will, with Haste, make my way over the next few Days to the Hospital, where I will display your Letter, now safely tucked like Gold Coin in my buttocks Bodice, to the Constable. I intend to cause no Disruption, and though it will roil my Guts to speak so directly to such a Fractured Specimen of a Person, I believe it necessary to try to tame this Beast with a Jerno's words, if for the Good Souls of my Beloved Friends, and for the Final Knowledge that she is in Custody and will not be put out upon the World anymore.

I look forward to Future meatings Meetings and Conversations with you, a Dignitary of Strength and Glory, and hope that there will be Time one Afternoon to speak of my displeasure in Myrken's Weather, the Dirty Water, the Town's Social Graces, and most importantly, Effects of the Broken Dagger's Cold Porridge upon the Body's Lowermost Humour-makers. Together, I believe We may be able to solve these Issues as Commoner and Diplomat, and the Good People will be better off for It.

There is no Need to respond to this Letter, unless you desire, of course, to continue on as my Good-Minded Ink-Friend, for there should always be an Excuse to Write a Letter.

Sincerely, your Friend in a Lower Economic Status but a Higher State of Mind than Most Commoners,

Signed,

Gloria (Glour'eya) Wynsee, Upstanding Citizen