Frays In The Weave 5 Debriefing: 3

He fondly remembered the restaurant from the first time he'd been here. After that he'd made it an almost daily routine dining here, but that was half a year or an eternity earlier.

Arthur was enjoying a gorgeous wine; rounded, full bodied and without any sharpness at all. The food had, as he'd fervently hoped when he ordered it, been exquisite and the company was one he never seemed to tire of—and he had had plenty of time doing so sharing cramped rooms and more often an even more cramped wagon with the man since early autumn.

Harbend was in short nothing like the businessmen Arthur had met during his years behind and in front of a camera back on Earth. Not that Harbend wasn't a businessman, quite the opposite, but he had none of the tired arrogance of the too rich to enjoy their wealth that flocked around the money Arthur generated. It had been more like a game the already successful had to partic.i.p.ate in rather than a real compet.i.tion—well with one ghastly exception. At least Arthur suspected Christina Ulfsdotir to be behind the murder of his wife and two children. He had never been able to prove it. Had fled from it all rather than try to prove it, Arthur corrected himself with a guilty grin.

Harbend proved to be a good friend, even though they didn't always agree with each other and sometimes made their decisions from a very different moral and ethical viewpoint.

Arthur toasted his friend again. They were both getting a little bit drunk, he more so than Harbend, but then he had his med kit available should he need to sober up immediately for one reason or another. Harbend didn't have that benefit.

Arthur studied the face in front of him. Stubbled in a way that didn't agree with the strangely Asian features and topped by an unruly hair that should, if Arthur recalled correctly, be gathered in a knot to one side and otherwise mostly be shaved. Harbend was younger than Arthur, which showed, yet old enough to be to be middle aged, something that didn't show. Somehow, though, Arthur suspected him of having experienced more during his life, with the possible exception of tragedy perhaps, but then that wasn't a kind of experience Arthur cared to see any friend carry around.

Still, life back on Earth, or anywhere else in the parts of the Terran Federation he had visited for that matter, in general seemed simpler, more prepared and orderly. The only exciting event concerning all of humanity Arthur could recall was the finding of the Gate fourteen years earlier, and Otherworld behind it. Otherworld with secrets of magic and legend, and most of those legends only rumours carefully filtered through the official channels on both sides of the Gate. Now he was a part, a very small part, of those legends, and the reality he had seen was both more complex and at the same time more mundane than what he'd been left to believe. h.e.l.l, he'd even made holo shows about what was to be expected once Otherworld was finally opened for tourism.

Arthur frowned, drawing a questioning look from Harbend, and swallowed a sip of wine. The memories made it taste bleak, as if he didn't want to make it justice any longer.

"Harbend," Arthur began, "what will happen now when I'm a taleweaver?"

Harbend stared back across the table. The difference in height between the men wasn't as accentuated when they were sitting down. "I do not know. The Weave is a part of you." Harbend grinned, looking very much like a younger man than he was. "Your problem, or opportunity, not mine."

"And your problem is more personal in nature, I guess," Arthur countered mischievously. "Or have you forgotten her?"

Harbend had the decency to blush, but the blush soon turned into a satisfied grin. The boyish smile was contagious, and Arthur joined a silent laughter that for a time banished his tired thoughts.

They finished their meal in silence, both men leaving the wine in favour of clear water, and it wasn't until they rose and left the restaurant Arthur spoke the question that had been lingering in his mind.

"We can't leave Verd, can we?"

Harbend's face gave away that he was mulling over the question carefully before he voiced his answer. "We can. I honestly believe we can, but not until we have done the duty others would have placed on us." He gazed over the garden, eyes more thoughtful than sad, even though his voice had carried a tired quality that would have been easy to mistake for sadness by anyone who hadn't shared the time they had spent together.

"People who deserve to know what has happened, and those who would demand to know?" Arthur asked when they entered the garden surrounding the restaurant.

"Yes, I think that is about right," Harbend answered.

"But how could we tell when we haven't even told each other all about it?"

Harbend winced at first. So, I was right about that, Arthur noted for himself and grimaced. "I was going to," Harbend started, but Arthur interrupted him.

"Please, don't. Whatever you truly believed I needed to know you have already told me. I think our friendship can stand a tweaked version of events or two."

"Thank you." A silent reply, but filled with genuine relief nonetheless.

Arthur waited for Harbend to leave the garden and closed the gate behind them after he entered the side walk as well.

"You know that when we are interrogated..." Harbend started to protest, but Arthur continued without pausing to listen. "... we need to tell them stories conforming to each other enough to keep us out of a second interrogation."

Harbend looked unhappy. "I do not like it."

"I know, and I agree," Arthur said. Then he smiled. "d.a.m.n it, there are things I don't want to share with you, but we need to fill each other in and agree on one version." He shot his friend a grin before continuing. "It'll take close to half a year before the caravan returns, and by then I hope I'm far enough away from here it won't matter any longer."

Harbend shivered in the afternoon cool. "When the truth is known here we need to be away," he agreed. He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was, Arthur noticed, the same, rugged one he'd worn during warmer days. In as much as any winter day on the Sea of Gra.s.s could ever be called warm.

Arthur shrugged. He'd made a living of distributing half lies mixed with stunning truths all over Federation controlled s.p.a.ce. A very good living at that.