"I ... can't ... get ... no ... sat is fac tion..."
     The metallic steel crash of strings rattles through the amplifier in the flat above Black Jack Davy's. It's an hour past noon and Iowerth and his ... companion ... are out for the day. Gwilym Gwyn Garu is taking advantage of the opportunity to break the silence in a noisy fucker sort of way.
     He's sprawled on one of the leather couches on his back, calves dangling over the soft arm of it, the body of a Fender Stratocaster pressed down against his chest. The guitar is the colour of green apples, that electric green colour which isn't actually ever seen on apples. With it he wears a black t-shirt (pinched from his father's closet) and a pair of jeans. He's barefoot at the moment, nowhere near ready to go out for the day.
     He'd been wandering along the Strand the night before when he'd seen the guitar in the window of a shop. They were closed, of course. But he let himself in anyway - sneak that he is, that he can be - and helped himself to an amp and guitar. A neat stack of bills were left in its place (it's bad luck to steal music, Gwilym's firm belief, that) and everything was locked up again behind him neatly. Nothing on cameras. No fingerprints. Just that mysterious exchange.
     In truth, he'd been tempted to leave gold coins behind, but even as the world modernizes, so must fairy tales, right?
     The Rolling Stones seem an odd pick, maybe, for such a thoroughly modern, thoroughly amodern youth. But here he is. "I can't get no chain reaction..." Oblivious to the world in the electric loudness, making noise, apparently, for the pure sake of making noise.

     Even though he has the keys, and even though in truth this is his flat, Rhodri ap Davydd stands at the red door leading to the three-bedroom apartment (luxury!) and knocks. Loudly. He has to just to be heard over the door.
     That is his son in there. He's already grinning. Despite the fact that soon they'll merely look like brothers, Gwilym Gwyn Garu will always be his boy. One in the hand...maybe one on the way?
     Another loud knock sounds, followed by your father's voice, a voice used to projecting against loud music: "When I'm drivin' in my car, and that man comes on the radio, and he's tellin' me more and more about some useless information supposed to fire my imagination. I can't get no, no no no...hey hey hey!" Another knock: "Hey hey hey, open the door, will ya?"
     When you do (if you do and you don't make him knock it down), you'll find your father in his usual gear: red leather pants, a white t-shirt with a screen print in reds and blacks with Latin phrases and a distorted picture of Apollo. His hair is burnished bronze, straight -- longer on top and short in the back.

     "Da!" The chords stop strangling, and Gwilym stands up, the guitar slipped off and stood to rest against the amp as he heads over to the door. The locks are undone, the door's flung open, and he demands, "Whatever it is you're selling, we don't want any." He grins a moment later, though, and you recognise that grin; you should. He got it from you. "Get in, quick, before the women see you."
     The door is shut behind you, the lock turned again, and those red-gold eyebrows lift in skepticism as he looks you up and down. "You're stealing my schtick," your son complains. "Where's mum, not with you today?" He is happy to see you. For the moment, no sign of clouds to chase away the lightness. But then, you're his da - not his brother.

     "Now you know I'm quicker than that," he grins. He throws an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in. "I thought I heard the treble of a Fender." Your father, guitar aficionado. After the hug, he lets you go -- lets you go before you fight for your freedom. "Not wanting to intrude, just wanted to get some stuff from my closet..." He looks at you suddenly, an eyebrow lifting: "That is, if I have anything left that's not been pinched. Rascal."
     "So, how're you getting on?" Rhodri says, heading for what was his room (and is now used by The Couple). It's clean -- obviously Iowerth is using it. "Sorry I've been distracted. Your mother's at her apartment. I've been staying there. Davydd's at his flat. We're scattered to the four winds..."
     He appears with a selection of clothes, tossing them onto the dining room table, and his attention is now on you. He's either up to something or he knows something. You've seen that look. You've seen it in the mirror. "You liking London so far? Getting into trouble, I hope?" The smile is quick, a fire-flick.

     You recognise the look of pure mischief in his expression - what, me pinch? "Surely, father," Gwilym's suddenly doing his best Iowerth expression, "you cannot possibly imagine that I would ever stoop so low as to take that which does not belong to me. I leave such inconceivable notions to others, with less grace and breeding than myself." He nods solemnly, but can't maintain it; the shit-eating grin spreads into being again.
     "Things are going." Your son shrugs, unplugging the guitar and lifting it, settling it across his lap as he begins preparing it to be put away. "I only just got here. Been making the rounds of the city - learning my way around, finding back alleys." Your youngest brother knows, though perhaps you do not, that where he goes once, he will someday be able to take his shadow roads. Not so easily here; that takes magic. But he is, in his own way, taking a very long view for the future. There may come the day - or night - when this knowledge is necessary. "Not so much trouble as all that; what, think I'd let myself get arrested? YOUR son?"
     The guitar case is snapped closed around the Fender, and he grins again, that comet streak as he stands and moves to put things away. He's less orderly than Iowerth - but he's his own ways about him. "Io's off looking for a place of his own today. Took his lieutenant with him," Gwilym says casually. Nothing given away. "I woke up a bit earlier than I'd meant to. Couldn't sleep." He shrugs, a roll of his shoulders that reveals more than he intends. "London's ... big. Haven't figured out quite yet how to stuff it into my back pocket, da. What're you up to?"
     You're up to something, but then ... you wouldn't be his father if you weren't...

     Lieutenant? Rhodri is behind the times, and behind on his news. Clearly, by that expression. He sets that aside for the moment as he heads into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to get a beer -- that is, if you boys have left him any. Ah good... there are a couple left.
     "The alleys are a good place to start," Rhodri says, and by his look he approves. "There is an entire network of them. You'll sort them out eventually. I have maps, though, if you'd like them. One set per century. I've been crawling these roads for six-hundred years. Still, there's something new every night. It's like the city grows alleys... like trees grow branches." He shares a look with you. Yes, that is is precisely, my son.
     "I'll pull the maps out of storage," he says as if to himself -- a reminder for later. Want a beer? He offers a Boddington's to you, as his right hand opens his own can. "It's a busy corner. I thought you might like this flat. Not exactly Iowerth's style. He'll likely end up near the university. Or on the river," he tacks on with a knowing grin. "You're welcome to it, boyo, as long as you want it. I'll be staying with your mum any way. We're rarely here anymore unless Davy's singing and tying one on. Ever try to carry that man up a staircase?" He grins at you. Why, of course you haven't. But you will. One night you will.
     It's not so much that he's up to something as it is that he knows something. It's a shite-eating grin, canary-slaughtering, if there ever was one. "Besides, I don't want her staying here above a pub with all that cigarette smoke downstairs. It's not good for her a pregnant woman to be around all that shite." Emerald eyes toss you a wink.
     Daddy's been busy...

     An eyebrow slides up, but he holds out his hand, nodding. "If you've got maps, I'll take them." And he'll have a beer, too. He slides the can inwards towards his chest, bracing it there as he cracks it open. "I've already noticed some of the alleys seem to - change, from night to night. I haven't really figured out the details yet. I haven't been here long enough."
     He takes a long swallow of beer, eyes closed as the cold liquid trickles down his throat, then he splutters, coughing and gasping as he comes up for air. You receive a jade-eyed look of accusation - you bastard! "Mum's pregnant again? Oh, so this is why you didn't want us lolling about the palace anymore, eh?" Gwilym's expression flashes to a grin, though. "So I get to be eldest for a change? More or less. I'll do my best not to drown the mite. Did you tell Io yet? Does papa know?"
     So many questions, so little time...

     "I haven't seen Io to tell him. And papa... da... knows, yes. In fact, he knew before I knew, the great ass. As usual." The tone you have about Io, he has about his father. But he winks at it. It's old hat now. "But, yeah, that makes you the eldest son. Number one son," he murmurs and he taps his beer can to yours.
     "The alleys do change from time to time. There's a hub, in fact, not far from the strand. But it's only one of many. I've found nine such hubs over time. Some of the oldest, you'll need to be careful there, boyo. The alleys like blood. Old Roman streets, subterranean. You'll find them. I've marked the ones I've found. Call it an early inheritance. I have to turn over the work to you. I can't go off traipsing down the secret corridors of the world." But you can.
     "There are alleys where Decay Itself dwells. Disillusionment. Despair. The archetypes and Abstracts. You're the highwayman now," Rhodri murmurs. "It'll be your task to sort that out, and meet them as you will. But I have every faith in you," his smile slants, "...that you'll not only never be arrested but that you'll be the greatest highwayman of these alleys ever to have lived."
     He takes a swallow of beer for that, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "So... this lieutenant of Io's. I didn't know he was bringing someone with him. What's the story there? Ah, well... if you've made any promises to secrecy, I'm not asking you to out them," curious phrase that, "...just curious. I haven't met him. I haven't heard too much about it either way. Davydd's been busy, your mother's in the dark. You're the only one who knows anything about anything." He pauses and grins, "As usual..."

     He listens to you in silence, absorbing information. That Davydd - his papa - knew even before you did gets a knowing smirk. That's papa. Gwilym wanders over to the wall, leaning up against it. You're telling him a lot - it's a lot information. A lot of power. A lot of responsibility. Do you see it settling on his shoulders?
     "Nine hubs," Gwilym murmurs; then he nods. It isn't surprising. So much moves in threes. You, your wife (his mother) and your fellow husband are one example of such. "You've got other things to be doing. Mum'd be upset with you if you just took off - especially without her."
     A hand slaps his hip absently. No sword there; no dagger. And it makes him feel a bit uneasy, underdressed for the discussion at hand. "Well, this explains why you never got on my case the way mum did about me taking off and skiving off classes," your son mutters. He exhales. "I'll do my best to outshine you, da. But it might take a week or two."
     There is a grin. He is being full of shite. And full of bravado. You can see the glint of caution and cunning beneath it. He is not overconfident. But neither is he hesitant.
     "Io's lieutenant? Oh..." Gwilym shrugs carelessly; he's been expecting questions on this front for a while, and has been prepared. "Prince Tiernan. Son of one of the Witch-Queens; kingdom is that of the Winter Diamond. Landlocked little pesthole, exceptionally corrupt court. I did some digging when they first started running around town together. In and out of all the best brothels," he rolls his eyes, "you know Io."
     There is an edge of something like jealousy in his voice, but it's dismissed quickly. Brotherly disinterest reasserts itself, and then professionalism - giving you his report. "The queen is a foul piece of work. Said to have entertained incestuous designs on her son, but that never came to pass, or not yet. I don't doubt for a minute that she hasn't given up yet, though. She was visiting mum's court with her son and retinue when he and Io met, and far's I can tell, he'd rather spend time with a one-legged dwarf in an arse-kicking contest than stay under mother's thumb, so slewed off with Io every opportunity he got. I'm keeping an eye on him, just in case, but ... he seems to have escaped the taint of that sort of Corruption. No signs of him setting Io up for a fall, but you know me, da. I'm suspicious by nature. Io's the trusting one."

     "He's a smart lad," the word that follows that is but. "I wish he had a bit more of your cunning. He seems so wrapped up into his books, things of learning, of science, philosophy, that I sometimes wonder what, if any, practical experience he has. Though, there's no one who's going to doubt his ability to sail a ship and command a battle. He's got that in spades. The rest, I suspect, will come with time. Maybe when you're done outshining me in a couple of weeks and conquering the world in a manner of months," he chuckles, "...you can help him out." Rascal.
     Rhodri listens to your report on the Winter Diamonds. There's concern across his face -- apparently he's at least familiar with it. "I didn't realize brother was into brothels," he murmurs. "I thought he kept to the study halls and literary salons, seducing older women and their daughters." He laughs then. "See what bollocks can be made from assumptions? Hmm... well... keep an eye on Io, brawd. He's crafty but he may be unprepared for the corruption of the Diamond court. Perhaps Prince Tiernan will be a good adviser. Time will tell... but I'm hoping you find out first."
     He has a great deal of faith in you. He doesn't doubt for one moment that you're anything other than brilliant. As he grins, folding his arms against his chest, you see it there. Faith. Trust. Love.
     "There are at least nine. There could be ... probably is...more. But, oes, your mum'd kill me if I went sculling down Chiron's byways. Davydd's created several avenues from Here to There as well, back before he set the crown on my unready head," he smirks. As if. "You'll find those easily enough. You know your papa. I suspect he's going to want you to see a bit of his life," he tips back his head, inspecting your expression. Perhaps Davydd has already had The Talk with you. "I'm going to be too busy changing nappies."
     But he's not regretting his own future, his choices. You can see that. He's ready for all that again. "You're going to be off, having all the adventure. You'll have to have a little fun, for both of us. I trust you've already got that well in hand." He chuckles, knowing you better than your reputation.
     "Have you spoken with your mum about the queen? I suspect she knows much, can corroborate much of what you've said. But she should know of the corruption in her midst. It's not mine to tell, unless you wish it to be." He respects the keeper of information, you, and will allow you to be the messenger, should you wish to be.
     "You should surprise her," Rhodri whispers with the upraising of eyebrows. "Send her some flowers, pop in on her and say hello. And congratulations. You might have to do it in the bathroom, mind you, as she's tossing the cookies, but ..." He grins. Don't tell her I laughed. She'll kill me.

     "He isn't a constant frequenter of brothels," not like me, "but he goes. Drinks, plays cards, sometimes finds a woman he finds attractive. And when he and Tiernan started hanging about together, they did that together as well." Just don't ask me what else they do together. I haven't lied - yet.
     Gwilym shrugs, sliding a hand into his jeans pocket, a shoulder lifted and then falling, expression wry. "I ... did tell him of my concerns, oes, but at the same time - I have to be fair to him and his friend, so far I've seen no sign of any betrayal. And it's been close to two years now, so if he's playing Io along, he's taking an incredibly long view of it. His mother was something other than pleased by Io's request for her son as a bosom companion, but - hard to turn down the High King's son, especially when it looks so good for her. Maybe it's all an act. I'm keeping my eye on it. More than Io knows, of course."
     Which means sneaking in places I don't particularly want to be, hearing and seeing things I don't particularly want to hear or see, and in general opening myself up to all sorts of questions I'd rather not think about. But if Io can't see his way clear - well, either I'm suspicious-minded, or I'm protecting him. And the two need not be mutually exclusive.
     "Papa's ... wanting me to help him," Gwilym allows. His gaze flickers to you and away. It isn't that he's trying to hide things from you. It's more that he still isn't sure how to incorporate some of the things he's learned into his worldview. You can see it in the slight quirk, the pucker to his forehead, the wry twist to his mouth. "I'll do my best, da. And oes, mum'll be ready to jump your shite if you try to skive off and leave her with the nappies - at least you don't need to do the breast-feeding, oes?"
     A return to a quick grin, and then he shakes his head. "I haven't talked to mum about it. It's ... still Io's business, and ... right now, at least, without more to go on, it feels too much like I'd be running to tattle. And there's nothing to tattle about. Besides, I think he wants to tell her himself, and - well, he's too easily hurt in some ways, my brawd. I don't want him to think I've betrayed him."
     Gwilym wrinkles his nose. "I'm not walking in on mum while she's on her knees," he says bluntly, almost rudely, then grins. "But I'll bring her flowers. I'll show up before I'm due to make my rounds - before I've got the clubs and pubs all over me. She can coo over how nicely I clean up and I can shower her with roses or sommat, and then I can make good my escape after dinner. Sooner, if you chase me out."

     He laughs, he has to. You have a distinct way with words, just like your papa. You're more like him than you even know, and he's not about to tell you and scare the Dickens out of you. Or any other writer, for that matter.
     Rhodri takes a long drink of the beer and nods to the rest. "I'll leave it in your capable hands. And up to you or Io... or however the two of you want to handle that. It's not my business, just so long as you take care of one another." And you really don't want it to be the business of the Thief King of Avalon. You know that. He knows that. He knows that you know that. "Two years. I guess it has been. Time goes by too quickly over there," he exhales. You see him look at you, that look of a father suddenly. "I think your mother's hormones are gettin' to me," he winks. Yes, you grew up too fast. Way too fast for him. But you'll live a long time, a life beyond the reckoning of the next child, perhaps. Perhaps the next boy shall only be of this earth and know the things of this earth. Live a normal life, so much as any life is normal. It'll be slower at any rate. He'll insist on that.
     Rhodri chuckles, "She will coo. She might even cry. She's a bit of a ...handful when she's pregnant. I'll just warn you now. No teasing her, or your like to get something tossed at you. She went at da with a sword the night he found out. Course," he grumps, "... he deserved that." He doesn't say why, but you know your papa. He always gets exactly what he has coming to him. He's like the hub of the wheel of karma...
     He simply nods to the rest about his brother and of this lieutenant. He doesn't press for more information. He simply absorbs whatever you say and files it away for his own consideration later. "Well, I suppose I should shove off before he gets here," he smiles wryly. "I don't want to give him a complex. He was very particular about my knocking on my own door and requesting entry. The little shite. I've cleaned out the best part of my closet. Do you have enough clothes," he chuckles suddenly. "By the time the two of you pick me clean, I'm going to be left with only towels." As if, the clotheshorse that he is. He finishes his beer with a long swallow, crushing the can to a small bit of metal and tossing it in the recycle bin as he pushes off the kitchen counter and heads for the dining room and his piles of clothing.

     "Io is ..." Gwilym shrugs helplessly. He is. He is my brother, and we are further apart now, while sharing an apartment, than we ever have been before. "He is finding his way. As I am mine, I suppose. Neither of us really knows what we're doing, we just make it up as we go along, oes?"
     It seems to be the way of things, for the men in this family. For the women, too. He stands there, visibly grown - lagging behind his brother a bit, perhaps, and looking not-quite twenty even if he is in truth, but a grown young man for all that. The beer is finished, and he pushes from the wall to go and dispose of the empty can.
     "Take care of mum, da, alright? Even if she throws things at you, you know you love it. You wouldn't like it half so well if she were peaceful." Your son grins at you, pulling a horrible face. "And if she throws things at me, I'll just duck and let them hit you instead. You married her, didn't you? Twice so far. She's got something," he adds suddenly, "going on, I think. I don't know. When Io and I saw her last..."
     He shakes his head, looking dubious. It was a while ago, after all. He's been busy. Iowerth's been busy. Life has moved on. "Papa survived, didn't he? She wouldn't actually kill him." He is overconfident on /that/ score. Gwilym turns to you, moving to follow you slowly. "I'll stop by Sunday. The clubs open late or not at all, so I can make my propers. Do you want me to drag Io with me, or ... leave him at home?"

     "It would probably be nice if the both of you made an appearance, but you don't have to do everything together." A quiet reminder -- or perhaps a soft recognition for the difficulty of twins. His hand lands on your shoulder, then he's pulling you in again.
     This time the hug's not so quick.
     "My brilliant boyo," not boy, but boyo all the same. You'll always be a boyo to him. He gives you a shake and then frees you. "Sunday it is. I won't say a word. I'll just make sure she's at the apartment, the one above Pashmina's," he tacks on -- since Davydd's is a residence as well.
     Rhodri smirks. Yeah, he survived. He's lucky he saw her first. I would have kicked his fucking arse, the git. "Yeah, he's fine. As usual," he says it again, with a wink. "I will take care of your mum. It's what I like to do. And it is a full time job," he smoothes out, arms gathering his things. "You watching out for Io, me watching out for her. We need more eyes than we've been given, son. But keep them sharp," a soft note. I'll do the same.
     "I'll have the maps for you by Sunday," Rhodri notes at the door, turning to look at you. "You can add your own notes to them. I made a good start but... it's time for another set of eyes, I think. Another pair of feet. But you know..."
     If you ever need me... call me, son...

     Always good to know where he has to be and when.
     The hug is returned, albeit a bit awkwardly - a bit uncomfortably, what with recent and not-so-recent discoveries, it's harder to be comfortable. "Thanks, da. I'll see what I can do. I'll try not to outshine you too badly, oes?"
     He grins, that quick flash which is as much the trademark of the highwayman as ever any tricorn. Do you remember him with one of your three-cornered hats, barely able to sit up on his own, being pulled about by the corgis? He doesn't. It was a long time ago...
     And only months ago...
     "I'll do what I can," Gwilym reiterates. "Here, I'll get the door for you." There's a flicker of a glance to you. He knows. He heard. He acknowledges with that glance only. "Give mum and papa my love, won't you?"
     Once you are gone, he will be gone soon after. Gone before Iowerth and his lover return, giving himself up to the streets, to wandering. To lose himself in noise as he tries to absorb things, to absolve himself of responsibility and of sin. To lose his sins by going forth and sinning some more.
     After all, he's young yet, oes?

Posted by rowan at June 12, 2006 05:39 PM