“No, no.  Like this.  Now watch carefully.”<br/><br/>Naomi performed the move again for what felt like the hundredth time today and she performed it flawlessly.  It had been a busy day at her fencing studio and she was grateful for the silver coin her students pressed into her hand at the conclusion of their lessons.  This would be the last private lesson of the day and, since it was still early afternoon, she might actually get a good meal and an early bed for a change.  She could not remember when she last slept through an entire night.<br/><br/>The young man, a son of a local merchant, watched carefully as Naomi performed the<em>`Glaire</em>.  Her footwork was perfect.  Her wrist spun the hilt of the long slender rapier in tight circles causing the blade to sing.  She was one with the weapon, “born to it,” her father had told someone once, when she was but five or six years of age.  Indeed she was born to it and in her hand the rapier became like a lute to a troubadour.  But the song her instrument sang was not one of romance or heroes.  Nor was it one of love and passion.  No, the song her instrument sang was one of blood, suffering and the wide-eyed look of surprise as her opponent understood, too late, their death was at hand.  In her fingers the rapier became an instrument of justice, loyalty and the defense of self and Nation.<br/><br/>In a flash it was over and she ended the move in a deep, knee-bent thrust.  Her blouse was soaked with sweat and her long, tightly braided, sunlit hair hung in damp ropes across her back.  She paused a moment and seemed to drift away in thought as a memory suddenly passed across her vision.  She blinked once then smiled at the young man who stood slack jawed watching her.<br/><br/>“Now then,” she said catching her breath.  “You try.  But this time, keep your right foot angled towards that far corner at the start.  I will count the rhythm.”<br/><br/>Naomi sheathed her blade and counted aloud as she wiped sweat from her face and arms with a towel.  The boy showed promise but still had a nasty habit of dropping the tip of his blade too soon in the set up.  A tell that could prove fatal in a duel.  But the young man finished well and she clapped her hands in approval.  Money would buy praise if necessary and if it kept them coming back, well, so much the better.<br/><br/>She bowed her head and thanked the young man as he pressed three silver coins into her hand.  He had that look in his eye.  She had seen it a thousand times in the eyes of boys and men alike.  Appreciation of her beauty and strength.  Sex and danger in one lithe package.  Who would not be drawn into such a dream?  But that was all it would be for this young man; a dream.  He would go home and fondle himself as he watched her in his mind.  She smiled and shook her head pushing him out the door.  He grinned in the dusty, sunlit street, walking backwards, away from her.<br/><br/>“Until tomorrow then,” he shouted and performed a flourished, courtly bow.<br/><br/>Naomi closed the door, crossed the room and began gathering up her leather vest and armor that she had discarded earlier.  The day had grown hot quickly and she could teach just as well in a light silk blouse as she could in a leather vest.  Besides, she had no dueling practice scheduled so it did not matter.  Sitting on the edge of a small writing desk she counted the day’s takings.  Not bad.  She would eat well this night and have enough for a hot bath and an ale before retiring to her rooms above the studio.  She slipped on the vest and began unbraiding her hair when the door opened.<br/><br/>“Sorry but we are closed for the day,” she called without looking up.  “Come back tomorrow early if you are seeking a lesson.”<br/><br/>“I am aware you are closed.  But, unfortunately, I cannot come back tomorrow for I am in need of your services now.”<br/><br/>The voice was deep and husky and the accent spoke of wealth and power.  Naomi paused and peered between her braids towards the voice.  Standing in the open doorway was a large rotund man in his late forties judging from the girth of his belly.  He wore finely made clothes of deep reds and greens.  A merchant from the looks of him.  His face was as fat as his body and there was a whisper of a beard he was obviously trying to grow and refused to give up on.  His dark eyes were deep set and tiny.  His brown hair was close cut but had a sheen from too much scented oils.  A ring-belt around his considerable waist held a small dagger that Naomi judged was more for show than function and a purse of rich leather.  The purse was clasped with a silver buckle.  His sausage hands sported several gold and silver rings and one in particular caught her eye.  A thin gold band with a red gem in the center that, she surmised,  would probably fetch a pretty penny on one of the black markets.  Naomi finished untying the first of her many braids and brushed the hair over her shoulder.  She looked at the man and then at his purse.<br/><br/>“Well, come in and close the door before you flood the place with horse flies,” she stated matter-of-factly as she started working on another braid.  She watched him as he closed the door and turned toward her.  He looked around the room half expecting to see someone else.<br/><br/>“You are the one they tell of?”  He asked almost reverently.<br/><br/>“Depends,” Naomi mused.  “What is it they say of me?”<br/><br/>She was half teasing, half mocking both him and the rumors of her skill.  It was true, she had killed six grown men in single duels since she was fourteen, but it helped to hear how the stories had mutated.  The fat merchant folded his hands over his belly and whispered as if he were in church.<br/><br/>“I am told you have killed twelve men in duels.”<br/><br/>Naomi blinked.  “Twelve you say?”<br/><br/>“Aye Miss, I have also been told you are for hire as a bodyguard?”<br/><br/>Naomi continued working on the braid.  She said nothing for a moment and this caused the man to shift his weight several times.  He looked embarrassed.  She made him wait until she finished with the braid.  Standing she shrugged on her leather doublet over her vest and watched him closely.  He was nervous, that much was clear.  She kept her gaze on him as she bucked her sword belt and adjusted the frog.  She wore her balanced, silver handled rapier, sheathed in its black, polished scabbard; one of her best.  Her twelve-inch dagger hung on her right hip.  She could, if need be, fight with both weapons at the same time.  Fact was, Namoi DeMonet could fight with most any bladed weapon she found, save perhaps a great sword.<br/><br/>“Aye I am for hire,” she stated as she looked down her nose at him.  “But why do you need a bodyguard?  The city is safe enough in the day and you don’t strike me as anyone important.”<br/><br/>The insult struck the man as if she had slapped him.  He narrowed his eyes at her and she saw now his nature.  He spoke calmly, deliberately.  A man who was used to being obeyed.<br/><br/>“I am Tal Corval, perhaps you’ve heard of me?”  She had not but it did not seem to matter as the man continued.<br/><br/>“I seek your services for one or two hours, beginning now.  I am to meet an important client in the city center.  I cannot tell you the particulars, but suffice it to say there are others who would like to prevent this meeting, if you catch my drift?”<br/><br/>Naomi nodded.  She understood the system of smuggling contraband and the dangers it entailed.<br/><br/>“I am willing to pay handsomely for this short period of employment,” he said as he patted his purse.  Naomi understood the wisdom not to ask too many questions.  The whys were not important nor were the reasons.  All that mattered was the gold.<br/><br/>“Very well,” she answered.  “I am your sword for this afternoon, but understand this.  If I say ‘move’ you move and if I say ‘run’,” she looked him up and down.  “Well, you run as best you can and don’t look back.  My price is…”<br/><br/>Tal Corval held up his fat fingered hand.  “You will be paid to your satisfaction I assure you.  To seal our agreement I am prepared to offer you an advance.”<br/><br/>He opened his leather purse and brought out a small coin bag.  Tossing it to her he watched her reflexes; she was fast, very fast.  He nodded his approval.  Naomi shook the small bag.  Gold, maybe five or six coin.  More than she would make in three months of teaching.  She tilted her head and studied the man.<br/>Whatever it was he was smuggling in was important, but that was not her concern.  It was time to leave.<br/><br/>************************************<br/><br/>They arrived at the city center without incident.  That did not surprise Naomi since any attack would come after the exchange, on the way back to Tal Corval’s house.  She did not know if he had been watched entering her studio but, if her reputation was as he told her, then the bandits or rival business men would need to hire one or two extra swords.  Naomi smiled to herself at the thought of such fame as she took up position well behind and to the right of Tal Corval who was standing before a stage set up for the afternoon’s entertainment.  From her position she could easily scan the crowd marking any suspicious movement.  Her experience living in the border towns during her service taught her much about rogues and bandits.  Assassins too she could recognize.  She saw nothing out of the ordinary as the crowd grew.<br/><br/>The fire eater, having finished his meal, left the stage.  Naomi scanned the crowd again and saw one rather tall figure standing a short distance from Corval.  Black cloaked the man hid his face in a deep cowl but the air around him seemed charged and people intuitively gave him a bit more space.  He was too tall for an assassin but that could be a ruse.  She made note of him.  A movement to her left caught her attention.  There was a jostling in the crowd as a cutpurse was caught.  She snapped her attention back to Corval.  Someone new was standing next to him almost touching his shoulder.  Both men were watching the stage, in fact, the entire crowd was watching the stage, but Naomi had her job to do.  She moved toward Croval and took up position at his back.  The crowd was tight this close to the stage leaving little room for maneuvering should anything happen.  Then she saw the exchange.  Corval passed something to the stranger who inspected it and nodded.  At this Naomi understood; Corval was smuggling something<em>out </em>of the city not in.  With the exchange made the man shoved his way out of the crowd.  Naomi watched him go.  The job was over.  Simple.  Easy money.  But payment would have to wait for Corval and indeed the entire crowd was watching the stage in rapped attention.  Naomi’s eyes shifted to the stage and beheld a young woman; a Bard.  But this richly dressed woman was no ordinary singer of tales.  This was a Royal Bard.  Naomi frowned wondering why such an important individual would be permitted to tell her tales out of Court, especially one whose looks were unique to say the least.  Then the red-haired Bard spoke and the crowd pressed forward.  Her voice vibrated the air and, as she began her tale, none could take their eyes away.  She wove a tale that became a tapestry of heroes and lost quests, of danger and love and the heartbreak of failure.  This was a Master Bard and Naomi’s heart was lifted by her imagination.  Suddenly the Bard was finished and she thanked the crowd who stood in utter silence and awe.  Naomi wanted to learn more of this “Dreamer, and the Shadows” for if what the Bard described was true, then Naomi needed to see it for herself.<br/><br/>When the Bard left the stage she was roughly greeted by a large, brooding, armed man.  He appeared to be her minder or protector but his roughness spoke of a different kind of closeness.  He was angry that much was clear.  Naomi pressed closer, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her rapier.  She had taken only two steps toward the woman when Corval grabbed her from behind.  He grinned at her and said something about this job being a test and that she had passed the test.  Naomi frowned and pulled her arm away.  The only voice in her head now was that of the Bard and her tale.  Corval pressed another small pouch into her hand, but she did not even look at it.<br/><br/>“You did well lass and I will be calling on you again.  For more important jobs.  Ones with actual danger.”  He said laughing.  With that he turned and joined the dissipating crowd.<br/><br/>Naomi turned once more to where the woman stood, but now the Bard was approached by an Elf who seemed as interested in the tale as Naomi.  Indeed, Naomi wanted to ask the woman more.  She wanted to hear more of the tale and learn more of this “Shadow”.  Instead she held back.  Watched.  Shortly another man approached.  It was the hooded man she saw earlier.  He approached the Bard and spoke.  There was something odd about both men.  But the new one was more than odd.  He spoke to the Bard and her minder took a step back as if to be near the other would not be wise.  Naomi shifted to her right coming to the edge of the stage where she could get a better view.  Her hand tightened on her sword hilt when she saw the man was not a man but a Wraith.  Elves were not uncommon to her.  They came, went their own way, and bothered no one.  But a Wraith was rare indeed and usually meant trouble.  He spoke to the Bard, then stepped back and waited.<br/><br/>Naomi too held back.  What would she say to the woman?  How could she explain how the tale had affected her?  She did not have the words to describe it.  This “Shadow Gate” intrigued her, called to her.  Naomi waited.  She would follow the Bard and her rough looking companion and any others who joined them.  She would follow them and learn more about this “Shadow.”  But more importantly, she would help the Bard prove it if she could.<br/>