"Well, I think that's enough of my time wasted for one day." Carri got to her feet. "Thank you for the tea, but I'll be going now." 

"Sit down, girl."

Somewhat to Slash's surprise, the elf did as she was bid. And, in further testament to the practiced authority in the Nanny's voice, even tolerated being called 'girl' again. But it seemed that was as far as her submission went.

"What you're suggesting is a fool's errand," she snapped. "It's been years since Prince Vazor left Irmway. Years since anybody's even heard anything of him. He could be dead for all we know."

The Nanny was unmoved. "A Manticore is not so easy to kill. And Vazor was a boy of surprising talents. Of hidden attributes. I'm quite sure the man is too."

"That might be the case." Given the nature of Squelon's apparent 'attributes', Slash was doing his very best not to imagine (or picture) what his older brother's might be. "But even if he's alive, we don't know where to find him."

"No," conceded the Nanny, "that's true. You don't. You don't have a location. But you have something almost as good. You have a direction."

Slash frowned at her. "Huh?"

"The river," said Hobe. "The Erinoquo. That's what she's talking about. I was on duty the day the boy abdicated, and that was how he took his leave. I tried to talk him out of it—hell, I pleaded with him—but he always was a strong-willed little so-and-so. Always curious, always restless, always looking for that next adventure. So, with nothing but his sword and a bag of gold, he headed upstream on a riverboat."

"Oh, come on." Carri rolled her eyes. "That's your big lead? Don't you think, just maybe, that sometime in the years since Vazor left, he might have decided to get off that riverboat? To get off the river?"

"Oh, no doubt," replied the Nanny. "At some point, I'm sure our wayward prince did indeed disembark and make his way to drier destinations. Not, however, before he'd taken the opportunity to see as much as he possibly could of the Erinoquo. Of the mighty waterway that is the very lifeblood of Irmway.

"The boy always had a restless mind, you see. An insatiable thirst for knowledge and novelty and new experiences. And for a landlocked kingdom such as ours, the Erinoquo was the obvious gateway to such experiences. From the moment he first laid eyes on the river without which Irmway could not be, Vazor was absorbed by it."

"Dunno about absorbed," muttered Hobe to Slash, "but if he was silly enough to dive in, he might just get dissolved by it."

"Consequently," continued the Nanny, a slight sharpening of her tone and the deepening of the crease between her eyes the only acknowledgements she'd heard the comment, "it came as no great surprise when he chose to depart by riverboat. And given its long, winding and continent-spanning course, I'm quite sure Vazor would not have abandoned the river until he had seen every last sight it had to offer. Until, if you'll pardon the pun, he'd squeezed it dry of every last opportunity. I suspect he'll have followed it to its very source. Quite possibly even beyond."

"Wait a minute. Beyond?" Slash resisted the urge to stand, given he'd probably just be ordered to sit back down again, and for a trained soldier with a very sharp sword, neither obeying nor defying an old lady—albeit one with an acid tongue and the attitude to match—was a great look. "You're saying we might have to go as far as the outlands?"

"If need be," confirmed the Nanny airily. "Of course, it's perfectly possible you'll find him well before then. A Manticore, even the un-coronated, truant kind, is hardly the most inconspicuous of figures. If you follow his course along the river I'm sure you'll have no shortage of leads. Now, the first thing you'll need to—"

"Sorry, lady." Clearly not sharing Slash's reservations, Hobe got to his feet. "My days of wrangling royals are over. Especially the ones who don't even want to be royal. I've already got me a job and while it might not be as glamorous as the Irmshield, it comes with a paycheque and all the ale I can drink. So, as tempting as getting myself killed by some outland bandit while chasing after a runaway brat of a prince might be, I'm gonna have to pass." He hefted his axe. "Toodle-oo."

Carri rose again. "This may be the first and only time I say this, but I'm with the dwarf. I've got work to do. Later, old girl."

Figuring now was as good a time as ever, Slash also stood. "Apologies, miss, uh...Mrs...Nanny. You know how it is." He pointed to the captain's epaulette on his shoulder. "Duty calls. But look, best of luck with finding your prince and all that."

As one, the three turned to leave.

"The Beard Curler of Balzanar. The Penumbral Cloak. The command of the Irmshield."

At the Nanny's words, each of them froze. And then, with slow deliberation, turned back to face the old woman. Who, with an elaborate lack of concern, leaned forward to refresh her tea from the silver teapot resting on the glittering service laid out before her.

"What did you say?" growled Hobe.

She took an unhurried sip. "I think you heard me."

"What do you know of the lost Beard Curler of Balzanar?"

"Lost? Well, I know where it is, for a start. And if you agree to this quest—and succeed, of course—it shall be yours." She turned to Carri. "As will the Penumbral Cloak be yours." Then to Slash. "And the command of the Irmshield yours."

"The Penumbral Cloak disappeared centuries ago. There are those who say it never existed at all." The elf regarded her through narrowed eyes. "Promising that which you cannot provide is a dangerous business."

"Plus," added Slash, "last I heard there isn't an Irmshield to command. And even if there was, I doubt the royal nursemaid gets to say who's in charge of it."

The Nanny put down her cup. "You'd be surprised at the artefacts former Manticores have managed to squirrel away in their secret treasure rooms over the centuries. And how eager they might be to tell their faithful old nanny all about them. Not to mention"—she gave Slash a significant look—"how willing they are to follow her loving and well-meaning advice when it comes to key appointments." The old woman got to her feet.

"You," she said, gazing at Hobe. "A bouncer at Nifty Nell's Big Ol' House of Friendly Ladies. Steady employment it might be, but it's not the kind of position to get you far with wooing the Jarl's daughter, is it? Oh, no. Ah, but as the owner of the Beard Curler of Balzanar? The possessor of one of the twelve dwarven artefacts of antiquity? That would make you a dwarf of consequence. A dwarf with dignity. Just the kind of dwarf young Gilda Ironbreaker—or more importantly, her father—might look upon as having real potential."

"And you," she went on, turning to Carri. "A so-called investigator. An elf-for-hire. Chasing around dark alleys on behalf of cuckolds, catching wayward spouses in the act. Tracking down runaway teens. Perhaps the occasional bit of intimidation for loan sharks shaking down recalcitrant clients. No life for a high-born elf with skills such as yours. But with the Penumbral Cloak, all that could change. Armed with the closest thing to invisibility that magic and science have ever managed to achieve, only think what you might become. An assassin of the highest order or, if perhaps that is not to your taste, a provider of security and information to Irmway's rich and powerful. Either way, able to subtly shift and alter the destiny of nations and those who rule them. Fitting endeavours for someone of your worth and talent."

And last, the Nanny turned to Slash. "Ah, the dragon. The only one of you to remain a soldier after the Irmshield was no more. A good soldier, no doubt. But are you content, dragon? When friends with more influence have been promoted and those with less martial prowess have been buried, leaving you with no friends at all? With nothing to look forward to but retirement on half-pay and a gradual fading away? And even then, only if an axe or a blade doesn't get you first? But it doesn't have to be that way. With a quiet word in the right ear, you could be so much more. With Vazor returned and on the throne, the Irmshield will be reinstated, and you can be at its head. A full colonel, a leader of crack troops and, in all likelihood, a peerage upon your retirement. Now," the Nanny looked at each of them in turn, "doesn't that all sound lovely?"

Silence followed her question. Silence in which Slash could just discern a faint rhythmic sound. Faint, but growing louder. And just as his soldier's ear recognised the cadence of marching feet, the door to the room burst open, to admit a red-faced footman in Irmish colours.

"M-m-ma'am," he stammered, out of breath, "it's Lord Hirschnopple. He's c-c-c-coming!"

"Oh, shit." The Nanny sighed. "We've been rumbled."