The English Spy - Chapter 2

Note: All the chapters of this story follow on chronologically from ‘The Princess and his Prince.’

Gareth Ilar Philip Maximillian Konstandin Sebastian Robinson always felt he had come home when he returned to Triesenbourg. The mountain range and the forests that dominated the land held the myths and folklore that he, like all Fiorentines, imbibed from birth, always effected Ilar. For most of the year he was, he thought, a rational Englishman, a nonconformist protestant in a firm but un- bigoted kind of way. Just like his father, the Reverend  Dr. Philip Robinson, DD.   But in the land of his birth, – and of course his mother’s birth, Ilar felt very differently indeed. The Kingdom of Triesenbourg all 28425 square kilometres and it’s 2.50  million Fiorentines gave him an almost visceral sense of being in place like no other.

In truth he was not just glad to be away from England, but to be away from Adam/Adamec. He was sure enough of his love for his new boyfriend. But the idea that his cousins Matthias and Zander Beaumont and Zander’s beloved Leo, planned to move permanently in 2018 to Triesenbourg had come as a shock. More than that, the passion and intensity that  Matthias had suddenly taken it upon himself to proclaim that to be truly happy Ilar would need a Fiorentine lover, had shaken him. He needed time to think.

Still in this reflective turmoil a day later, Ilar was glad to be alone as he strode through Durazno, the capital city. It was perched magisterially in the very centre of the country, in a mountain hollow created by a long dead and defunct volcano. Looking down on the rest of the country, culturally as much as geographically,  it was widely said. The highest point of Durazno was its citadel. The citadel rose like the prow of a ship from the mountains, dominated by ancient walls joining three medieval towers seeming to stand in eternal vigilance in defence of everything that mattered to the Fiorentines and their culture. Within the walls of the citadel, two Abbeys, one dedicated to Saint Sebastian the Martyr and the other to Saint Irene and Saint Sebastian, stood stone shoulder to stone shoulder simultaneously in loyalty to Rome and in defiance of it, as they commanded a great cobbled square, (or Platza in Fiorentine.)     On the west side of the Platza, the cathedral of Saint Larius, named for Triesenbourg’s patron saint, and beside it, the episcopal residence of the Cardinal Archbishop of Durazno, held sway. That the square was named for the Harlequin, a figure central to Fiorentine folklore, rather than in honour of the country’s patron saint only added to Rome’s disquiet, – especially during the Holy See’s episodic endeavours to impose greater orthodoxy upon its most wayward of Balkan flocks.

The most recent of such efforts had been defeated by lobbing and prayer, in which the two Abbeys and the Loyal Order of Saint Sebastian, (motto: ad regem et populum sub Dei, (for King and People under God,) played their expected part. The Polish Pope died and his Bavarian successor resigned. The rejoicing in each particular was of course muted, but also as real as it was widespread. The Te Deum presided over by the Bishop of Mauren to mark the departure from office of Benedict XVI gained worldwide notoriety and was thought controversial even in Triesenbourg.

Ilar paused in the Platza. It was busy. The summer holidays were in full swing as the faithful moved happily between the cathedral and the two Abbeys. The more adventurous passed the ancient armoury fortress and as they waked along the medieval walls linking the three towers of the citadel and dared themselves to look over the walls the city below. Ilar looked on anxiously, lest anyone who knew him, should suddenly appear. At the moment, he wanted to be left alone. For the umpteenth time he looked at his phone. Soon he really would have to saunter passed Her Britannic Majesty’s Embassy,- but not just yet.  In the middle of the square a juggler, a zither player and a piano accordionist, distracted a group of amateur actors as they tried to rehearse their annual Easter performance of Parsifal. Though why they were doing so at the height of summer, none but they could fathom.

In a little café where he could watch for the arrival of the cable car that would take him down to the heart of Durazno, Ilar sipped strong Turkish coffee, – the only legacy relished by the Fiorentines of the brief, but painfully remembered fourteenth century Ottoman occupation of their kingdom.  It had fallen to Ilar to break the news to his mother and father that not only was his engagement to Darshina Mishra over, but that he had been superseded in Darshina’s affections by his own sister, Violet.

“Violet should have had the guts to come from England and tell us herself,” wept their mother angrily.

“Perhaps so” replied Ilar, with more understanding than Zj (Zonje/Madam) Robinson, ne Nuredernje, thought her daughter deserved, “but I planned to be here anyway.”

In this melancholy way, mother, father and son had discussed the family crisis yet again. This, entirely for the benefit of Zj Robinson’s devoted brother, Josef Nuredernje. What skills or insights the Foreign Minister brought to his understanding of this family crisis was entirely unclear to his brother-in-law and nephew alike, – as indeed his insights were to all who knew the Minister in their dealings with him matters of state. But, using what skills he had as Triesenbourg’s Foreign Minister and aspiring Prime Minister to be, Josef offered what balm he could.

“You must not be too harsh on Violet.  In fact you should not be harsh on her at all.” Ilar’s words penetrated the anguished noise like a knife through butter. All eyes turned to him. “Violet and Darshina need our understanding. Without it they will walk away from all of us forever. Besides, I have a boyfriend. His name is Adam Langdon.”

The sun shone brightly despite the slight chill in the air of  Thursday afternoon as The First Secretary stepped from the gates of the British Embassy. One discrete but rather important task to perform and a long  weekend would be his.

“ Blessings of  be upon you,” announced an elderly priest, with a twinkle in his eye and hand raised in benediction.
“And to you too reverend father,” came the cordial reply. John Bellemy always took pains to speak in Fiorentine even though it was almost certain that the old gentleman could speak English as good as his own.

At 32 and 1.87m tall, the diplomat knew that he was a striking figure. In a country where blonds are relatively few and men, women and all points in between are quite open in their appraising of each other, and even men greet each other with a kiss on each cheek, the cleric’s response to him had a certain dignified style about it. For a moment Mr. Bellemy meditated on the pattern of kisses his admirer might have bestowed had they shaken hands.

The Botanical Gardens were a favourite place for John, though as a diplomatic he would have given them a wide berth at night, when, as ‘The Rough Guide To Triesenbourg’ puts it, “The gardens become the major dogging rendezvous of Durazno.”  

As he savoured the sights and smells he relaxed, pausing from time-to-time exchange comments with passers-by about some aspect of the gardens. He paused particularly to admire the newest shrub from southern China. It is rather beautiful he agreed with a man whose interest in the shrub was as intense as his own. By the time their brief but knowledgeable conversation was done, the diplomat had discretely taken possession of a memory stick.

 For a moment, his counterpart from the Russian embassy came into view. Interesting and indeed attractive as she was, he hurried for the exit. Now, he was definitely as off duty as any diplomatic can be and Christina Borodnova was not going to ruin that for him.

John’s forced change of plan however yielded its own reward. Metres ahead of him he saw a smart man about his own height and maybe a year or so younger. The man turned slightly as something caught his attention. Instantly John liked what he saw and discretely followed. His bearing indicated to John, who had an eye and taste for such details, that the man was a soldier, probably in the Royal Triesenbourg Army Volunteer Reserves. –  90,000 men and 8000 women were, after all. Or perhaps he was a member of the regular forces? Whoever this stud with the carefully styled light brown hair and broad shoulders was, John Bellemy was determined to have him as a weekend treat.

The sights and sounds of Durazno were a little muted as the  weekend drew near. But much remained as it always was. The national flag a L-R tricolour of Black White and Red flew from many buildings. Most business premises displayed pictures of the King, or the King and Queen; or of Saint Sebastian; or of the major figure in Fiorentine folklore and culture, The Harlequin in his chequered gold and black flowing garb, topped with a cap, atop of which was a bell that made no sound. Many premises displayed all three of what an eighteenth century Pope was more than displeased to learn were considered by the Fiorentines their very own Holy Trinity.

The diplomat worried slightly as they passed the cable car port and skirted, -again to quote from The Rough Guide To Triesenbourg, – ‘The Capital’s engagingly pansexual red light district.’ Savouring every move of the well-dressed beauty with the light brown hair ahead of him, John still managed to note the number of perfectly acceptable tavernas and cafés they passed by. He shrugged apologetically in the direction of its patron as he passed the Café Dino and declined his favourite al fresco table, from where he loved to watch the city go by. At last, they turned down a cobbled side street familiar to theatre goers across the kingdom and to the diplomats accredited to it, alike.

 The Theatio Penny Farthing. had been established in 1884 by a wayward Englishman escaping from upper middle class conventions and taking a substantial portion of his father’s liquid assets with him as he did so. Finding that there was not a ready translation of ‘Penny Farthing’ that was in any way compressible to Fiorentine ears, the new theatre retained its English name. When after The Great War, the Fiorentines prudently replaced German with English as their second language, the Penny Farthing Theatre enjoyed a certain vogue. By the early 21st century the Penny Farthing had a long established reputation for what in Triesenbourg was accounted to be radical, indeed alternative theatre.

As he stepped into the theatre foyer, the stud paused; suddenly aware of someone behind him, gave a self-conscious smile and hurried passed a quite impressive painting of a nineteenth gentleman posing beside his penny farthing bicycle, and on into the bar.

“Ilar! Ilar,” rejoiced the directorial and management force of the theatre. The two exchanged kisses on each cheek and proceeded to kiss hands in a brief pattern from which any Fiorentine paying attention could have reasonably deduced their degree of kinship and mutual esteem.

“I see you have brought the English spy in with you,” whispered Conrad Kelmedi.

“Well, I am half English,” replied Ilar with a grin.

Conrad shrugged, hugged his kinsman and opined that no one was perfect.

“He is having undiplomatic thoughts about you, if I am any judge, Ilar.”

With that, Conrad turned theatrically to the other new arrival.

“Ah Mr. Bellemy,” he declaimed in English, “Welcome. A Kastice and a beer for our English spy, – on the house of course,” he instructed the bar man.

John Bellemy gave a forced smile, as he always did whenever Fiorentines,- often ones he did not even know, – referred to him as the ‘English Spy.’ It is just the local humour assured embassy colleagues.

Conrad did a convivial circuit of the other bar patrons and returned to his cousin.

“Introduce me to the Englishman, he interests me,” said Ilar. “And leave out my first name. My Fiorentine second name will do.”

Moments later, Conrad Kelmedi was introducing Ilar Robinson to an obviously delighted John Bellemy.

 “Mr. John Bellemy, let me introduce my cousin, Ilar….”

“Ilar Berisha” put in Ilar, exchanging a quick glance with Conrad, in silent acknowledgement of the maiden name of the maternal grandmother they had in common.

“I must go and do some proper work,” announced Conrad, “the theatre will not run itself, alas.”

“You were going to get a ticket for me for the party celebrating the opening of the Alhambra Arts Complex tonight, Conrad.”

For an instant, Conrad was utterly perplexed until almost visibly a bulb shone in his head and he began to bear himself as Roman actors do.

“Yes, indeed I am.”

“Could you, get me two? I’m sure Mr. Bellemy would enjoy the celebrations as well.”

Conrad would have sworn that his cousin actually fluttered his eyelids in the direction of John Bellemy as he spoke.

“Leave it with me,” Conrad replied without a apparent flicker of concern, as he wondered how on earth he could lay his hands on not one, but two tickets, with only hours to spare.

“I hope you do not think that was, – how do you Englishmen say- forward of me,” said Ilar gently and with a slight simper.

“Oh no,” came the entranced reply. “It will be a delight to escort you to the gallery party, Ilar. But please,” he added giving Ilar his rapt attention, “speak to me in only Fiorentine.”

“Of course I will, Janus,” came the welcome reply from one more than happy to revert to his mother tongue.

After half an hour, Janus had learnt that the man whom he was more than ever determined to take to his bed, has a school teacher, in the capital to spend a weekend with his parents. Janus, perhaps emboldened to minor indiscretion by less water with his Kastice than was wise, bemoaned that he had very much wanted to attend the Alhambra Arts Complex party but had not expected to do so because the Ambassador and her husband had taken up the only  tickets allocated to the embassy.

Tentatively Janus kissed his would be conquest. To his delight and at least slight surprise, Ilar responded with enthusiasm and kissed Janus with passion. For whatever else was going on in the theatre bar, the two men had no mind.   

“I am so glad we have met each other” said Janus in lustful sincerity as he tried to ignore the discrete pictures of the King, Saint Sebastian and the Harlequin, that now seemed to be looking with disapproval from the opposite wall.
A text message forestalled whatever further intimations of desire Janus seemed about to express. He read the message with care before returning his attention to the man at his side, who from what the diplomat could see was utterly in thrall to his every word and action.
“Until tonight. 7.30 outside the gallery”, he said. And with that John Bellemy was gone.

Ilar watched his date for the night depart and disappear from view, before chatting to acquaintances in the bar.

“Wait,” called a concerned Conrad, as Ilar was about to leave. He poured them both a glass of red wine. “I know Janus Bellemy is a bit of a blond bombshell and all of that, but don’t think with your cock.”

“I’m not…”

“Look I know it must be rough with your long time girlfriend dumping you for your sister..”

Ilar bristled with indignation. It was not often that he was angry with Conrad, but right now, it was all he could do not to strike him. 

“Darshina, was not my girlfriend, long term or anything else, you prat. We were planning to marry! Remember?”  He pushed Conrad’s conciliatory arm aside and gulped his wine.

“I remember,” said Conrad his voice a symphony of regret. “That was crass of me Ilar. I am sorry. Truly I am. It is just that shag worthy as the blond Englishman is, I don’t trust him.”

Casually he indicated the large window to their left and the clear view from the beginning of the cobbled street to the theatre entrance it afforded.

“It was pretty obvious that he was following you. Who you fuck for the night is up to you my dear Ilar. But just be careful with him, is all I am saying. Just because he is a British diplomat does not mean that he is going to be all charm and consideration.”

“Mind your own damn business,” was all Conrad got for his efforts.

Their parting did not even include the usual exchange of a kiss on each cheek. Still less did it extend to even the briefest of kisses on the hands.

“Just make sure the tickets for me and Janus are at the gallery door if you really want to do something useful,” Ilar said a little more calmly as he allowed Conrad to accompany him to the cobbled street.

“Be careful of him, Ilar,” called Conrad, as he watched his friend and kinsman turn from the cobbled side street.

It was less than an hour later that Conrad was in hurried confidence telling all of this to their mutual cousin, Matthias Beaumont.

“You know  Ilar our cousin, as well as I do,” began Conrad from his usual perch at the Penny Farthing theatre bar. “But I have never known him fall so instantaneously for any man or woman as he did for Janus Bellemy. I swear, Ilar was actually simpering at him within seconds. Frankly, I nearly reached for a sick bag and left the pair of them to it.”

Matthias listened in quiet despair. For now he was not going to tell Conrad of his feelings for Ilar. He would not tell anyone until he had first discussed everything with his beloved twin Zander.

“Zander flew back to England this morning. Hardly here for 48 hours. But at least he is happy with Leo. Quite sweet really.”

“Yes it is,” agreed Conrad, anxious to return their conversation back to his concern for their other cousin. Ten minutes later, Matthias had left the  Theatio Penny Farthing. In his pocket he carried a small Italian gun, with the injunction from Conrad to point it at anyone only if he really had to do so.

Meanwhile, Ilar Robinson was in his bedroom. It was his favourite room in the house. Here, he had created a little space of his own, perhaps as only an only child can. It had changed over the years of course as he had grown up. But even when he eventually gave in to parental wishes and agreed to study for a degree at an English university, it was in this large bedroom with its own bathroom and lavatory,- ‘facilities’ as his English grandmother in Eastampton would refer to them,-  that he found a place in Triesenbourg for the possessions that mattered to him. Family photographs jostled with books, an expanding collection of vinyl records and carefully chosen objects from his two deployments to Afghanistan, one as a British Army Reservist and one as a Royal Triesenbourg Army Volunteer Reservist, were discretely scattered about his room.

To calm his mounting impatience, Ilar gazed out of the window again. He always liked what he saw. Durazno with its array of houses and buildings seeming to cascade  down from the citadel.  The pastel shades of many buildings lent a vibrancy and colour to the capital he never saw in England. Hardly 20 metres away two cable cars, one going up, the other going down, passed his window.

He drew a breath and concentrated hard.

“Oh come on, Harlequin,” he breathed.

One of the cable cars appeared to stall for a moment and then resumed its journey.

“You are an impatient fellow,” a voice chided from behind him. Ilar knew who it was immediately. But it still took him by surprise. He turned to see the figure known to all as The Harlequin, in his ample loose fitting black and gold cheque suit and large floppy, wide brimmed hat with a bell that made no sound.

As Ilar caught his breath, the apparition quivered, one moment clearly in view and then became less clear to see, but never fading entirely from view.

“You know I have to be in numerous places at once,” continued the Harlequin, “as I am at this very moment: 23 to be exact.”

“Yes, Harlequin,” came the chastened reply. “My apologies.”

“Accepted,” the Harlequin, said, his tone noticeably milder.
“I see you have one of the more flattering paintings of me,” he continued, “and of the Their Majesties the King and Queen; and the excellent Saint Sebastian.” With each observation the figure before Ilar shone brighter. “And all this from a protestant.” At this final observation, the Harlequin shone just a little less brightly and permitted himself the slightest of quivers.
“The much loved late Queen Consort Sarah was a protestant as well,” offered Ilar gently.

“Quite so, Ilar. Now, what is it you want of me at such short notice?”

Ilar gathered himself and his thoughts with care.

“Tonight I must accompany John Bellemy, the British diplomat to the pre-opening party of the Alhambra Arts Complex..”

“The English Spy, as the more foolish call him,” said the Harlequin, for a moment almost disappearing from view.

“Er, yes,” nodded Ilar in surprise.

“Then, I must, shall we say, entertain him for the night.- For King and country.” Ilar spoke with not the slightest embarrassment, but observed the Harlequin with close attention. “The thing is Harlequin, Mr. Bellemy must not know my true identity. Janus Bellemy knows me as Ilar Berisha.  Tonight, everyone must call me as Ilar Berisha.. Even when they recognise that I am Ilar Robinson. So I want you to…”

“Cast a spell for you over the entire party at the Alhambra..”

“Yes please Harlequin. That puts the matter rather well, I think.”

“Hmm,” sighed the Harlequin, “ One way and another, that is quite some request.”

In the silence that followed, the apparition that was the Harlequin moved in flickering meditation around the room.
“This sounds political,” he said eventually. “And as a good Fiorentine you know that I  only intervene in matters of love; in matters of the heart.”

Ilar, the good Fiorentine, knew this and by way of counter argument had prepared a mental list of times from the foundation of the Kingdom in 1287, when not just his name, but many insisted, the Harlequin’s actions and even his physical presence, had come to the aid of Triesenbourg in its moments of need.

Before he could speak, the Harlequin said: “Can you give me your word that no harm will come to Janus Bellemy?”
“Upon my honour as a Kingsman and a member of the Loyal Order of Saint Sebastian, you have my word Harlequin.”

Very well”, said the Harlequin. “There is, however, something you must do for me; or to be more precise, for your cousin, Matthias Karlo Adnan Sebastian Edwin Beaumont. Matthias loves you,” the Harlequin announced simply. “What you do with that fact I leave to you. But ever since you both arrived in Triesenbourg a couple of days ago I have been receiving very slight but regular vibrations from him.”

Had Ilar’s ample bed not been directly behind him, he would have landed on the floor as his legs weakened beneath him.

“I..I..I had no idea Matthias loved me. None. None at all.”
As Ilar lifted his face from shaking hands, there were tears in his eyes.

“Your countenance speaks eloquently of your surprise, I see,” the Harlequin said looking towards a small drinks cabinet. “If I were a three dimensional being rather than just an apparition, I could pour a tincture of that excellent Fiorentine brandy for you. You look as though you need one. As it is, I suggest you get one for yourself, Ilar.”

“But Matthias does not even believe in you. Still less des he support the monarchy. It is his twin, Zander who is the royalist.”

“Because he does not believe in me, Matthias could not of course see me,- as you can now,- even though I was standing in his bedroom, a short time ago.”
Ilar sipped the brandy, its warmth restoring his composure at least to some degree as he wiped away his tears. If only he had known this before, he thought to himself. His relationship with Darshina could have been so different and he would not now be estranged from his sister violet. If only he had possessed even an inkling of this before his strange night in the woods with Adam…..

“Your cousin Matthias is a strange young man indeed,” the Harlequin was saying, as Ilar, finishing the brandy decided reluctantly against another.

“But Matthias is a Fiorentine and I could not ignore his plea. Believe me, Ilar, he was weeping for you.”

A few more details were discussed. Then, before Ilar’s vey eyes, the Harlequin simply disappeared. Hurriedly, he poured and gulped another brandy.

“Oh Dear me,” sighed a familiar voice, as the Harlequin suddenly reappeared,  causing Ilar to almost drop the drained glass in surprise. “I’m becoming forgetful in my old age. But then, I suppose if you were a 730 year old apparition, you might become a little forgetful too, dear boy.”

“I suppose I might,” agreed Ilar cordially as the brandy calmed him once more.

“ Quite, quite dear boy. I forgot to add that at some point this evening, I shall be making some small corner available to you and Matthias. You will know when and where when the time comes. It will be up to you to get Matthias there. Treat him considerably, Ilar.”

“Ever and always,” Ilar assured, as he watched the Harlequin disappear, the bell that never sounded, atop the chequered floppy  wide brimmed hat, last of all.

The principal gallery and bar of the Alhambra Arts Complex soon to be dedicated to important conferences and cultural events, was this evening simply a party in a kingdom in most ways an admired functioning social democracy; a party for those well connected enough to have been given a ticket.

The new Ambassador from the USA was thought to be sniffing excesses of socialism as much at the Alhambra Arts Complex as everywhere else in this strange Balkan land. But in truth, Mrs. Leonora L. Chadwick had yet to fully acclimatise  from living all her life hitherto in the dry heat of Wyoming and Arizona, to becoming President Trump’s eyes and ears in Triesenbourg. She did however notice how attentive the man who was in effect the deputy British Ambassador was to the handsome and well connected Fiorentine at his side.

“The Foreign Minister’s nephew,” confided Mrs Chadwick’s well informed consort, just before they paused to exchange pleasantries. Of her understandable perplexity when her casual enquiry as to the Foreign Minister’s wellbeing was met with looks of calm incredulity from Ilar Berisha, Mrs. Chadwick took care to give no indication whatsoever.

A close shave thought Ilar, as he allowed Janus Bellemy to draw him into conversation with a group of people, every one of whom knew him to be Gareth Ilar Philip Maximillian Konstandin Sebastian Robinson. Yet not one of them seemed to think it at all odd that Ilar was calling himself Ilar Berisha. The Harlequin’s spell appeared to be working.

With some difficulty Ilar managed to detach himself from his escort. The Minister of Culture, a family friend and bitter political rival of his uncle for the leadership of the Social Democratic Party, regaled Ilar briefly with what she assured him would be the “Uzdepeg” (Spectacular) plans for the 2020-21 tourism season. But before he could express what would have been genuine interest in such forward planning, he caught sight of his cousin Matthias and with the appropriate exchange of hand kisses and kisses on each cheek made his adieus.

Amid the noise and general good cheer of the party, the President of The Loyal Order of Saint Sebastian was deploying her serviceable Portuguese to its fullest extent in explaining to a Brazilian professor of Sociology the detailed intricacies of Fiorentine hand kissing.

“They were just acquaintances really,” she  hoped she was saying as they observed the Minister of Culture and Ilar.  Moments later, as Ilar and Matthias greeted each other  the president was explaining that the hand kisses between the tall  young man and the shorter dark haired younger man at his side indicated a kinship bond important to them both..

“And one perhaps of amour,” added the observant professor, in English.  

It was at this juncture that Ilar noticed the Harlequin moving animatedly amongst the party goers. As he did so everyone stopped, silent and caught and still, in whatever movement, explanation or physical action they were engaged in, everyone but Ilar and Matthias  appeared manakin like frozen in time and space.

“Quickly,” said the Harlequin. Take Matthias along that corridor. There, go into the room with the green door.”

Matthias was not motionless and manikin like, but his expression was certainly glazed. “You have no more than 60 seconds from now to get into that room, after that Matthias will become his usual self.”
“And everyone one else, all the people here, what of them,” asked Ilar, his voice somewhere between incredulity and fear.

The Harlequin quivered and flickered, rather like some light bulb about to finally give out, it seemed to Ilar.

“Oh I think I can hold spell for about halve an hour,” responded the Harlequin evidently impressed at his own handiwork. “After that everyone will resume their conversations where they left off, as though nothing has happened. “Hurry now you have only 30 seconds left to reach the room with the green door.”

For valuable seconds Ilar paused wondering about the ethics of this strange interlude; wondering whether in fact it was just a strange dream from which he was about to wake. But then he recalled himself to the deal he had made with the Harlequin and the vital reasons for it.

Taking Matthias by the arm the two ran down the corridor and into the room with the green door.

Take less than halve an hour if you possibly can,” Ilar heard the Harlequin call, “I am 730 years old you know and maintaining this spell is quite an effort.”

“What are doing here?,” asked a perplexed Mathis. He had the feeling of having fallen into a kind of brief sleep and now waking from it. One minute they were chatting and drinking and now they were in this small room. 

“A good question,” Ilar replied not knowing quite where to begin. Cautiously he placed his arms around Matthias.

To Be Continued.

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