I. Traviata

Picture, if you will, a cantina somewhere in the Castillian capital city of San Cristobal. It is siesta time, and the sun throws long blades of light through the windows and across the floor. The sound of guitars can be heard from the next street over. The music is joyous, but muted by the warmth of the day.

Near the back of the cantina, a young Castillian student lounges in his booth, his booted feet propped up on the table. Sitting in his lap is a guitar, and sitting at his right hand is a bottle of wine. The student is tall and dark, as is typical of his race. His beard is trimmed to a fashionable goatee, and a ponytail curls down over his collar. His shirt is a pristine white; his pants and vest are black with gold trim. His hands and fingers are long and slender, moving with nimble grace as he tunes his guitar.

The sleepy stillness is broken by the entrance of another student. Seeing the first student, he strolls to the booth and slides onto the bench opposite. Looking up, the first student greets his companion with a slow, lazy smile.

"Buenos dias, Miguel. Will you have some wine?"

"Si, Diego ... ah, I see you've asked for the best year available. Do you not worry about your finances? Or does your father not care how much you spend?"

"My father sends me more than enough, Miguel. So there's plenty more where that came from."

"Things change, Diego. Today you are the son of a wealthy Don; tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow can take care of itself."

"And if you find you have lost everything?"

"Then I shall be pleased that I have lived to the fullest while I had the chance. Now stop talking and enjoy your wine. There is only one bottle of it on our table, after all."

II. Pagliacci

On a rainy Septimus morning, young Diego watched as they lowered his mother's casket into the ground. He was ten years old. Beside him, his father, Don Enrico, stood silently. It was a small gathering, consisting only of a few close relatives and friends. All stood, stony-silent as the priest's whispered words fell across them like gossamer web. Don Enrico was dry-eyed, but Diego could tell from the pressure of his father's hand on his shoulder how strong the emotions were behind the silent facade.

The grey clouds crawled across the sky as the funeral procession made its way back to the villa. The rain was a light, desolate drizzle as they came to the villa gates and trooped slowly across the flagstoned courtyard to the foyer. There, Diego and his father stopped and waited as the mourners filed past. Diego knew that they'd be gone before siesta, but right now he wanted more than anything for them to be gone, immediately. They couldn't possibly understand what the loss meant to him and to his father.

"Dry your eyes, Diego. We have guests, and it is going to be a long day ahead of us."

"Is the Montaignais ambassador still coming this evening?"

"Yes."

"I don't want him to come."

"We can't tell him to go away, Diego. Monsieur Renard is an important man, and he is a guest in our country. When he arrives this evening, I want you to put your best face forward and smile as if nothing has happened."

"I want Madre. I don't want the ambassador."

"We'll always have her memories, Diego. But however much it hurts we can't let it ruin our day, or anyone else's day. What if we'd spent all our time, while Madre was around, being sorry for ourselves? Then we wouldn't have any pleasant memories of our time with her. Cry if you must, but never let that interfere with your life."

III. Faust

Under the warm afternoon sun, Diego Valdez galloped down the path from Barcino to the Valdez rancho. He was seventeen, almost eighteen years old, a student at the great university in San Cristobal, and all the world was his oyster.

The gates of the villa stood wide open as he approached. The red-clay shingles and white-washed walls seemed ablaze with sunlight and quiet with the siesta. All was exactly as Diego had anticipated and longed for over the past few months of his studies. Standing in the courtyard beyond the gate was old Don Enrico Valdez, and with him was a gentleman of noble bearing and haughty demeanor. Diego pulled the horse up and dismounted in a fluid motion. Tossing the reins to a waiting servant, he greeted his father and the visitor effusively.

"Diego! Welcome home! You of course remember Monsieur Jerome Renard, the Montaignais ambassador?"

"M'sieur Renard! Buenos dias, it has been too long since we last met! My studies take up far too much of my time, else I would be home more often."

Don Enrico smiled to the ambassador. "My son hopes to join the diplomatic service after he is done with his studies. Largely your influence, I have no doubt."

Diego laughed. "Padre, our rancho practically borders Montaigne on the north side. It would be remiss of me to not pursue a career in diplomacy. Now, I must go inside and wash up from my journey. M'sieur, you will be joining us for dinner, of course. In which case, I shall see you again this evening. Adios, senors."

The two older men watched as Diego strolled across the courtyard and into the villa. The smiles faded from their lips as soon as the young man himself disappeared from view.

"He is a promising young man, Enrico. You must be very proud of him."

"I am. You have of course heard him on his guitar; I understand from his instructors that he is showing quite a bit of talent with the sword as well.

"I knew I would get a warm welcome from you ... from him, I was not so sure."

"This military action was an affair between the Church and your king, Jerome. It does not concern our two countries directly, and it does not concern our friendship. In any case, your Corporal Montegue -- General Montegue now, no? -- has proven his point, and that should be the end of it."

"And there is no reason to bring a war onto Castillian soil? Quite right. You have nothing to fear from the Montaignais army, Enrico. No-one, least of all his Majesty Leon-Alexandre XIV, wants a war."

IV. Gotterdammerung

Cher Diego,

It is with great sorrow that I write this. I only hope that you will not think too ill of me, or of those of us who have always been close to you since you were a child. For the sake of your mother's memory, I beg of you to think kindly of us. Remember that your mother was one of ours, and we are not all of the same nature as some.

You will perhaps have already heard of General Montegue's march into Torres, and of the taking of Barcino. I cannot reveal to you Montaigne's intentions after this, as you may well understand. My loyalties must lie first with my king, just as yours must lie first with yours. But you are no doubt anxious for news about your father and of the rancho.

I shall not beat about the bush: Don Enrico is dead. He died honourably, with a sword in his hand. As he had promised, he did nothing to bring bloodshed to Montaigne: his death was in the defence of his own home, and on his own doorstep.

It was Jerome who brought me the news. He was better pleased than any friend of your father ought to be, for it seems that he has taken the rancho as part of his spoils of the war. You are perhaps aware of his promise to your father, to avert war by any means possible; I fear that he never had any intention of keeping this promise, and I have recently found that his voice was in fact one of the loudest in the cry for war. You are perhaps also aware that an invasion of Torres must make an unnecessary detour eastward from Barcino, to bring the fighting directly to your father's rancho. I leave it to you to understand the significance of this.

Do not return to the rancho. It would be suicide. Remain in San Cristobal, and complete your studies. I am sending with this letter as many guilders as I dare, for the sake of your education. But this must necessarily be the last of our communications, for we must now be enemies.

Farewell, Diego, and may Theus watch over you.

Your former tutor,

Madeleine Lacroix

V. Cavalleria

Under the warm afternoon sun, Diego Valdez galloped down the path from Barcino to the former Valdez rancho. He was nineteen, almost twenty years old, a graduate of the Aldana fencing academy in San Cristobal, and all the world was his oyster.

The gates of the villa stood wide open as he approached. The red-clay shingles and white-washed walls seemed stark in the sunlight and quiet with the siesta. All was exactly as Diego had expected and longed for over the past two years of his exile. Standing in the courtyard beyond the gate was a gentleman of noble bearing and haughty demeanor. Diego pulled the horse up and dismounted in a fluid motion. Tossing the reins to one side, he greeted the former ambassador with cold courtesy.

"M'sieur Renard. Buenos dias, it has been too long since we last met. My studies take up far too much of my time, else I would have been here much sooner."

"I'm surprised at you, Diego. I hadn't expected you to come quite so far into hostile territory. You are either braver or more foolish than I thought."

"Hero or fool, it's hardly polite to miss an appointment. Or break a promise."

Renard eyed the pin on Diego's lapel. "I suppose you've come to avenge your father. How tiresome. Should I have someone fetch me my sword?"

"I don't duel with unarmed men, senor Renard."

"To the blood?"

"To the death."

"An eye for an eye, is it? That hardly seems sensible. Here you are, a Swordsman, and here I am, an amateur fencer. I'd say the result is almost a foregone conclusion, and it's not going to bring your father back ... or, for that matter, return this rancho to Castillian control."

"To the blood, then. For my satisfaction. And then you leave the rancho and never return. I will have no quarrel with whomever takes control of the rancho, at least until Castille regains what Montaigne has taken from her."

"Very well. En garde!"

The clang of steel on steel soon drew a number of spectators from inside and around the villa. Many were Montaignais soldiers, but some, Diego noted, were ragged-looking Castillian peasants. None of the old, familiar servants were visible, but Diego had a suspicion that one reason that the soldiers had not stepped in to break up the duel was that the peasants were holding them back. Another reason, of course, was ghoulish voyeurism.

Renard was a competent fencer, but Diego's training and natural agility proved superior. A few swift lunges, a quick feint and a riposte soon had the two men facing each other across the doorstep where Don Enrico had fallen. A fitting place to end this, thought Diego, as he threw all his concentration into one swift lunge. The former ambassador gasped and fell back, clutching his left shoulder. Diego, too, drew to a stand-still, inspecting the blood that glistened on the tip of his blade. Somewhere, someone began to applaud, though the sound died off almost immediately.

"As agreed, senor Renard, a duel to the blood. You will now return to Montaigne, si?"

Renard nodded dumbly. Smiling, Diego turned to leave the courtyard. The kick to the back of his knee caught him completely by surprise. Another kick to his side made him gasp in pain, and then he was on his back, looking up at his old enemy. The point of Renard's sword was a tiny prickle just beneath his chin.

"You are far too gullible, M'sieur Valdez. Just as your father was. Now ... weren't you the one who wanted a duel to the death?"

"Ah, so it's to the death, now?"

"Is there any reason it shouldn't be?"

Diego grinned. "Did you really think I'd be foolish enough to initiate a duel, without someone to second me?"

Renard frowned. His sword wavered almost imperceptibly.

Diego's grin grew wider as he continued, loudly for the benefit of the spectators, "the guild has certain laws about duels, senor, and your own king has left it to the guild to enforce those laws. One law is that only a Swordsman, such as myself, may initiate a duel."

"Which you have done, with witnesses."

"Si. And the witnesses, including my second, will attest that we agreed on a duel to the blood. That duel is over. What we have now is a second duel, to the death, initiated by yourself. And you are not a Swordsman -- I've checked on that. Perhaps your men may not report you ... but my second certainly will. And then, senor, you shall have to deal with more than just a lone Castillian Swordsman."

Diego's eyes flickered quickly towards the still-open gate. Renard, doubtful now, allowed himself a quick glance in that direction ... just long enough for Diego to knock the sword aside with one hand and slam his other fist into the side of Renard's knee. The Montaignais stumbled. Rolling to one side, Diego was on his feet and armed again in the blink of an eye. A quick slash drew blood in a nasty cut across Renard's left thigh. Unprepared and surprised, Renard fell heavily to the courtyard paving.

"Now ... as you were saying ... a duel to the death, was it not?"

"Wait, I --"

A dead silence descended on the courtyard. Diego glanced around, but no-one made any move to apprehend him. Nodding curtly, he wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it. Turning on his heel, he strolled casually out the gate and to his horse. Mounting, he looked back at the men only now appearing at the gate.

"You," he said, pointing to the highest-ranking soldier in the group, "take care of the affairs of the rancho until your superiors tell you otherwise. When Castille takes back what is hers, I shall return to take back what is mine. I hope you will not abuse this place in my absence."

The soldier nodded silently. Satisfied, Diego turned away and began the journey back to San Cristobal.

VI. Trovatore

Picture, if you will, a cantina somewhere in the Castillian capital city of San Cristobal. It is siesta time, and the sun throws long blades of light through the windows and across the floor. The sound of guitars can be heard from the next street over. The music is joyous, but muted by the warmth of the day.

Near the back of the cantina, a young Castillian Swordsman lounges in his booth, his booted feet propped up on the table. Sitting in his lap is a sword, and sitting at his right hand is a bottle of wine. The Swordsman is tall and dark, as is typical of his race. His beard is trimmed to a fashionable goatee, and a ponytail curls down over his collar. His shirt is a pristine white; his pants and vest are black with gold trim. His hands and fingers are long and slender, moving with nimble grace as he polishes his sword.

The sleepy stillness is broken by the entrance of a student. Seeing the Swordsman, he strolls to the booth and slides onto the bench opposite. Looking up, the Swordsman greets his companion with a slow, lazy smile.

"Buenos dias, Miguel. Will you have some wine?"

"Si, Diego ... ah, I see you've asked for the best year available. Do you not worry about your finances? I thought you'd lost everything when Montaigne invaded and occupied Torres."

"Si, I have. But for now I have enough to treat you to a good bottle of wine, so help yourself."

"Have the lessons of the past two years taught you nothing?"

"They have taught me that nothing lasts forever, Miguel. Now stop talking and enjoy your wine, because that's not going to last forever either."