Fantasy A Gothic Reverie

[Elephantom]

A Prelude To Events
I​

Piracus strode down to the outer atrium of his father's manor, a day after arriving in Calun. He regretted spending last night downing shots of brandy, the alcohol's after-effects raging within his head. Tired from the journey, and weary from the liquor, he had skipped formalities and went to bed straightaway. The place had reeked of age and negligence, and still did, what with the coat of dust and detritus covering everything, but he was too disoriented to care. Now, not so much.

He looked at the building now, noticing the callous shots of vine which had proliferated on the marble floor and the garden fences, emerging from cracks in the wall and the tiles, circulating around yellowing columns. The ivory of dust was present everywhere. Piracus frowned. “Well, it's my fault. I shouldn't have trusted the neighbours to keep this place,” he mumbled to himself, mouth dry. He sounded weak, his voice shaking. He had a weak stomach and a weaker head, he admitted, and there was no use going around that.

Egarus of House Targa, otherwise known as the eldest son of Galius and father of Piracus, had ordered the house's construction when Piracus was only a fledgling student of the Scholarium back in the capital of Tharin. The old man wanted to celebrate his recent success in the elections of the Labour Party, his party, and bought a good share of the valley lands as an investment to splurge his money on— yet, even in his recklessness, his instinct had proved correct. The city of Calun had risen amongst the other conquered cities, by the hands of controversial governor Arraye and the funding of Egarus.

Piracus peeked outside the window beside him. The sun arching from the horizon illuminated the city in a sierra shade, setting the flying birds and the sparse clouds above with shadowy contours. A bitter grin split his lips, the least he could muster his with the soreness of his head. A beautiful sight, if one could ignore the maze of flesh scuttling beneath, committing whatever hideous crimes they can do. It did little to lift his darkening mood.

Piracus exhaled, his smile fading, and inched closer to the window. Sequestered below the New City, the hills containing most of the upper estates and noble demesne, was a level of flat buildings which made up the lower district of Calun. The occasional peak of a belfry or a sloped roof broke the monotony, along with the hills of Shrinemont and the sloped roads of Gem Ave. The domes of the city's guardhouses, shrouded in familiar black, were interspersed between them, holding points of interests and serving only to catch stray eyes. The criminals owned the Old City, that much everybody knew, and most of the guards were under their payroll.

The streets were hidden by the multi-tiered apartments, revealing the thin cracks of alleyways and the main roads, chaotic shadows casted by a parade of clotheslines, long stretches of wire and hemp joined from building to building. The better part of the Old City, on the north-most sides and excepting the flourishing economy of the riverside merchant areas, was a dark squalid place hidden from the sun and the law, chock full of crime and poverty. Its counterpart— built upon the valley hills of Calun, overshadowing its port brethren, and bridged by the forested hills of Shrinemont— prided itself for being a paragon opposite of the Old City. However, the contrast was superficial, not beyond the skinny crust level. As it was, crime existed in both sectors, one done with knives, the other done with pens.

Calun's other points of interest, aside from the Targasi Hills, included the Trade Wharves beside the Kalt river, where merchants docked to resupply and occasionally sell or buy, and the valley mines and acreage beyond the city's walls which bore a yearly harvest from tenant farmers— the grains were sold to the merchants, and a fraction of the money received given to the landowners.

“A fool I am, to let my thoughts wander,” he said to himself. “I should relax.” His lips twisted with a downward tilt, his eyes following afterwards as he turned to examine the mess of the manor again.

At the entrance to the gardens— and, in extension, the outer atrium— two dry lamps, its contents black with age and its wick withered beyond use, hung from either sides of the hallway. The corridor led to an adjacent courtyard, six pillars of marble and mosaic tiles scattering into a delta from the hallway's linearity into the expanse of the yard, where, snuggled in a corner near the opening chambers and the corridor, was the alcove leading to his father's garden.

Piracus' shoes strewed dust as he walked to the feet of the enclosure. The bushel of leaves, with undesired fungi sprouting from the soil and cracks in the wall, were cultivated by his father out of some petty spite towards an agrarian law was ratified by the Empress a few years ago, just as Piracus graduated from the Egean Scholarium; the greenery had nothing of exceptional beauty to it, bearing only nostalgia and fading sentiments.

Piracus paused for a while. He backed away and strolled along the hallway, his steps creating a steady rhythm on the ground. Clip, clop. The sound was deafening in the quiet. He climbed the short stairs to the waiting room and the exit of the building. The solitude of his manor, which was situated on the rightmost end of Egarii's Cross, kept it isolated from the rows of apartments which made the bulk of the buildings on the Targasi Flats, situated in the New City.

Piracus shook his head and descended down the porch. He really needed to stop thinking too much.

---


A statue of General Marsius, famed for heading the then-popular 1st during the Kalt campaign, stood at the centre of the Cross, flanked on all sides by a canopy of stores coloured with bright awnings and inviting light. The avenue broke into four lanes each going outwards, in individual directions, giving the location its name— those paths were crowded with pedestrians, some haggling with the peddlers, a few pausing to view the goods but making scarce an advance to buy, while others were idly going their own way. The smell of incense, from a nearby hawker showing samples of his wares, and sweat from the people created a heady, nauseous stench.

Hidden away from the main street in an alleyway, Piracus fumbled for the letter pocketed away inside his waistcoat, which he had found stashed inside his estate's mailbox. The letter was innocuous in appearance, painted lavender and smelling like that too, containing no return address nor any names of sort— to inattentive eyes, it may as well have been a lover's dispatch. Piracus knew otherwise, and scowling, he cursed his lack of ignorance. He glanced at his surroundings, beheld the envelope with a stare, and then opened the lid.

He glossed his eyes over the message, which read:

Piracus

Lykos's shop, row of penance, urgent​

He groaned, contemplated his predicament, and went back to the pedestrian path, intermingling with the moving crowd.

 

[DarkledMind]

“Well then, make haste.” Petrus spoke, his gravelly voice echoing slightly in the stone chambers of his mansion. His dark eyes showed no humor; his mouth was set into a thin line of annoyance.

The fellow Eye placed a fist over his heart and bowed. He kept this position as he proceeded backwards. Petrus rolled his eyes. “Just leave already.” The lower ranking Eye stood up straight and exited with a nod.

A sigh left the old man as his subordinate exited the newly built mansion. Petrus rolled his shoulders, and heard them crack as he did so. He was the oldest living member of the Eyes, at the ripe old age of fifty; fifty-one was just in a few weeks. He ran his worn hands through his hair, musing the dark and greying locks into finger wave patterns.

Petrus was used to positions of leadership; he had been in them his whole life; in fact, he had been trained by his former “father” Archenor to become such a leader. But it was more exhausting than he would ever want to admit. Being a former Captain of the Imperial Army was one thing; being the leader of the Eyes--the Empress’ personal force of assassins--was another.

The Eyes were an elitist force, and when the Empress rose to power, Petrus was very much surprised at the position he was given. He had not been professionally trained to be an assassin. In fact he still preferred to wear Archenor’s steel armor when sparring with his subordinates.

Sometime after the Empress had ascended to the throne, he asked her, “Why me?” She had simply smiled, a dark look even for her, and responded that it was an award for his exceptional subterfuge. The memory sent shivers down his spine.

Petrus slowly walked towards a little shrine he had set aside in his home. A picture of his dear wife, captured by an astounding artisan, was the centerpiece. He smiled fondly at the memory. Her golden locks flowed down her shoulders, and roses were littered in her hair like snowflakes. The artisan had captured her dark blue eyes perfectly, for the fire within them seemed ready to jump out at her husband. She was instructed to keep a single, vapid expression, but Petrus kept making faces at her from behind the artist. The intensity of her humor had been captured in her eyes.

Oh how he missed her. It had been twenty years and yet he refused to remarry. They told him he would be left without an heir. He did not care. If anything he would simply follow in his adoptive father’s footsteps, though the idea sickened him.

He let his thoughts wander to more happy memories of his wife. He stayed at the altar for a moment. He fingered the small memories of her: her jewelry box, a letter she had sent him when they were only kids, her favorite books. Things to keep her happy, wherever in the afterlife she roamed.

“Enough, Petrus. Enough.” He sighed and pulled his hand back from the altar with a sigh. He has business to attend to in Caslue. He donned his travelling cape and a hat. He hesitated, and palmed his wife’s locket. He held it tight in his grip as he wandered around the house, gathering what he needed. He didn’t think it would be too long of a trip. Besides, most of his “gear” was already packed.

When he was finally done, Petrus visited the shrine one more time, and deposited the locket. He just needed her company around the house. He paused, and exited. “Being a traitor has its perks,” he mumbled to himself as he locked the front door of his new mansion.

He exited through the courtyard, a glorious little thing. Petrus, unlike Piracus, had a wonderful green thumb. His little wife had helped him foster and grow the talent after Archenor had passed. Petrus paused at the climbing roses by the front gate. Though it was late October, the last of the buds were wilting. He gently caressed the soft petals of a yellow rose. As he pulled his calloused fingertips away, a few petals fell to the ground.

A pack slung over his shoulder, Petrus walked to his stables not far away. His estate may have been massive, but he kept it only minimally staffed, and only with men and women he knew well. No chances were to be taken.

Much to his disappointment, the stables were devoid of human life. The little family he had hired to care for his livestock always managed to put a smile on his usually grim face. The young girls always brushed the horses, and braided the late blooming flowers into their manes and tails. At first the father had chastised the girls for braiding daisies into the master’s finest war horse. Petrus only laughed, and welcomed it further. That day he had used Phyruss, just to prove how much he liked the young girl’s touches.

Phyruss was a grey gelding, well trained and well ridden. Today, he would be needing him. It was not a long trip to Calsue, but the events that would thus transpire there might be noteworthy. Plus Phyruss was his favorite horse.

He pulled the gelding out from the stables. The old man, though usually hardened, had a smile on his face. He talked sweetly to his horse as he prepared for the ride. Soon, he was ready, and Petrus placed his pack on the horse. He mounted the gelding, and steered it up the hill, towards another mansion.

He would not be alone on this mission.

 

[0stinato]

"Calun! City of- town of future! 'True heartland', are you serious. Those are the words of someone who's never been here before. Feel free to call me ambitious, nothing of the sort is near true, sir!"

Schoe muttered all this and more while staring her brother's monthly letter in the face; Ira had never been to Calun before, but revered it for reasons Schoe could no longer comprehend; yes, she had come to Calun of her own accord when she'd sought to make her name, but, unlike Ira, she knew she wasn't delusional. Calun stunk. The river was the place's only redeeming quality, and even that had undergone a subtle transmogrification throughout the months she'd been present. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she recalled the river's colour being something akin to blue. What was it now? Anything but. Slime glittered under its surface.

Approaching her desk, Schoe lifted the head of a hammer - it was a long-dead instrument, its iron tip now only useful as a makeshift paperweight - and slotted beneath it her brother's words. She couldn't stomach writing to him now.

No - she'd procrastinate until later. Having the black thoughts of Ira's blind words raising up irritation behind her eyes, the prospect of her latest commission looked far more appealing. It was, in fact, quite interesting, and she'd finished the initial sketch only hours ago. Ira's letter had interrupted her flow. She had to get back into it.

Schoe's palms raised to her neck and she stretched it, feeling the muscles release their tension into the surrounding skin, and then she proceeded to flex her fingers, until she felt truly ready for action. The sketch sat in front of her and there she focused on it, drawing all energies to her brain. A chill was in the air, a result of the wind gliding over the river and into her warehouse where it stagnated near the roof, but Schoe embraced that chill; the cold helped her mind work.

Her job was no small feat. It was one of the biggest project she'd had in terms of actual scale. A fire pit cover, someone had announced they desired. A fire pit cover, to prevent fools from falling into the hot embers in the great halls. And was a fire pit cover rare? Not at all. Schoe had acquired a sturdy one very easily for the commission. Her client, though, wasn't content with a mundane grating like this though. No no no. He wanted the middle to fold outwards via the pull of a lever, for easy access, so a servant could easily toss in a log or such, perhaps a handful of rough coals, to warm the room during the interval between meals.

As such, Schoe had planned to bastardise the grille completely. It was a relatively simple structure, as far as her mind's eye was concerned.

With the grille suspended between two clamps, she circled it, one eye screwed closed, muttering to herself.

"Metal, metal, metal, damnable metal, of course it's always metal! Cock's body!" she swore, folding her arms. "Egean Council has all the metal it wants at its disposal and what do I have!"

Schoe pivoted, her sharp eye taking in all her worldly goods, scanning for usable metal: three shelves filled with various failed attempts at intricate clockwork automatons, a stash of empty sacks (once containing coal), her tools (some broken, some scarred from work, and some relatively new, all piled together), a chest (containing three pairs of decent, unstained clothes, and two other sets of working clothes), a bed (the frame of which had been stripped for materials several times so now resembled a decrepit skeleton of its former self) and the previous commission she'd completed only yesterday.

It was a doorbell, fashioned from a weaved leather bell-pull and a simple mechanism that triggered when the appropriate weight was applied. However, it was rather unique because of how many bells were attached to it. Five. Five bells! That exceeded the church! Five, because it had to be heard across the house. As it sat now, carefully organised on a table, it resembled some siphonophore, limbs of trailing wire and bells curled up as it awaited installation. That was another pain. Schoe had tested it, of course, and it worked in her warehouse. But she had not had the opportunity to test the device in a gentleperson's house. How did she know five bells would be enough? The wires would certainly be long enough to secure around hallways and walls, but what if they were too long?

Schoe turned away, fearing the anxiety that came with the lack of answers to her questions. Back to the grille. It seemed she had no metal to spare. What a headache. As much as she detested doing so, she'd have to scrounge again. Find the unclean metal, melt down the unclean metal, shape the newly-virgin metal, sculpt and perfect and re-work again and again.

This was the problem with being independent. You had nothing as an independent. Nothing. Nothing at all, except the air you breathed. And even then, the air seemed as if it wanted to tax the hell out of your lungs.

 

[Historical Storyteller]

There was once an old gentleman in Calun by the name of Apfel Maltbier who lived in one of those big four-story apartments in the best parts of the Old City. The most striking features of this gentleman was his short height of five feet, three inches and his red beard which flowed all the way down to his knees. He worked as a commissioner in the local city office, one of the many faceless bureaucrats keeping the government of the Empire together with pen and paper. There his endless responsibilities included gathering taxes, approving certificates, enforcing laws, tending to the tedious duties of bureaucracy, and he was good enough at those. He was not educated but he was intelligent, he was not qualified for such a position but he worked hard, and he did not like his job but he didn't let that get in the way of performing his duty.

Every morning he slept late, rising up only in the early afternoon. A luxurious hot bath was prepared in advance, with sweet-smelling soaps and shampoos awaiting him. But before he could cleanse his flesh of dirt and decay, he would first proceed to the toilet to empty his entrails. After successfully executing his morning routine of two shits a day, he ate breakfast and lunch prepared by his faithful servant, Shropshre. And sometimes, his excessive eating would loose his bowels enough for him to take a shit a third time today. And when it was time for the master of the house to leave, Shropshre would bade his master to change his clothes.

Apfel raised his voice to protest and he screamed his heart out, for he was happy to wear the same clothes all week, all month and all year long while Shropshre used all the tricks in the book in an attempt to make his master change his mind. The servant's tactics varied but his goal forever remained the same, to rid these filthy garments off his master for they made him stink as much as a fresh corpse. Though Shropshre's most typical attempt went like this; Shropshre made his master feel guilt, calling on the multitude of promises that were broken in the course of his lifetime, many of which included Apfel swearing oaths to change his clothes later or tomorrow or in the foreseeable future; Shropshre tried to appeal to his master's pride, saying that such uncleanliness was not suited to his master's status, as Apfel was indeed quite rich and influential; Shropshre brought shame on his master, accusing him of being no better than a dirty pig, and that last one tended to sting Apfel the most.

And when these entreaties did not work, Shropshre desperately held the doorway hostage, refusing to budge an inch. But oftentimes, Apfel won, pushing his servant aside with disturbing ease, and striding out of his house triumphantly. Though Shropshre occasionally scored victory, when his master was too weak to resist his servant's determination. These rare successes made the servant sing with glee while the master wore a scowl on his face.

When Apfel walked down the streets with his trusty cane, he always greeted his many neighbors with a big hearty smile. Hellos and hi's were exchanged, and many inquiries of health were made. A few short stories were traded and the daily stream of good news and bad news rolled off their tongues. And it is at this time, Apfel is currently engaged in a rather curious conversation with a man in his late 30's or early 40's.

 

[Elephantom]

A Prelude To Events
II​

The sun was disappearing from the sky's vista, blue washing over the cobblestone roads, spotted with yellow from the streetlights and shops. Laugher remembered Calun fondly, as he had in his childhood, and little much had changed. The buildings remained the same, rust-red and grey with the occasional blot of black, and lingering stench of shit and wet mud had yet to dissipate.

“You doing okay?”

“Mostly,” Laugher lied. Life hadn't really done him good since he'd been conceived.

“I'll agree with that. Ain't nothing much happened in the five years you been gone. What were you doing aroundthe capital?”

“Nothing you should bother yourself about.”

Lykos shrugged. “Just asking.”

Laugher took a swig. The ale tasted like piss. “I'll say this, Lykos, it wasn't better than what I had going on here.”

“A shame. Well, here's your food.”

He fixed his eyes on the steaming plate Lykos set before him— a marine assortment of foodstuff stir-fried with mustard and served with seasonings. His favourite. The man knew a good deal about him.

“. . . your friend said, ‘Where the hell's he gone off to?’ And listen I did-” he paused, forehead furrowing, and glanced at Laugher. “You even listening, boy?”

Laugher broke his gaze from the food and glared at Lykos, frowning. The food-seller was a nondescript man in every way, save for his squarish jaw, pug nose, dark skin, and small height. At his best, he was homely, and even that was inflating the case. “Quite,” Laugher grumbled. “Yes, if you let me eat, that is.”

Lykos casually ignored him, half his attention focused on cleaning the counter. “So, I haven't seen you in a long time, and neither have yon pals. Y'know, Ashboy took your leaving pretty bad,” he said, almost posing it like a question. Almost. But Laugher wasn't sure.

“Well, I expected him to,” Laugher replied. “But the letter should've cleared up shit for him.”

Lykos raised a brow, lips twitching. Was it disappointment, or confusion? “He never mentioned no letter.”

“He probably threw it out with all the junk mail he gets from the rest of the boys.” Laugher shoved food into his mouth, foregoing use of the spoon. “So, how's he doing?”

Lykos stopped wiping, exhaled, and looked Laugher in the eyes. “Like I said, he's angry with you. Your departure didn't only hurt him personal-like, Laugher, but it nixed some of his business too. You were one of the best Daggermen in this whole city, a poster-boy for them, could kill anyone-”

“That's just a bloody exaggeration,” Laugher interjected. “I'd done only half of what people think I did.”

“Well, you're still a legend alright.” Laugher opened his mouth to speak but Lykos silenced him with a gesture of his hand. “Look, Laugher, it means all the shit how the people see you. I ain't gonna hear another word about it.”

Laugher pursed his lips, and turned down to his good, sullen. An awkward silence came between them, which Lykos broke. “So, why'd you leave Calun?”

“I guess I got tired of it.”

“Tired of what?”

Laugher finished the last bits of his food on his bowl, then cleaned his fingers on his cloak. “I guess I'll tell you some other day.”

“Ah, well. A man can't always get what he wants,” Lykos said, more to himself than to Laugher. He shook his head. “I'll bet you wanna know the news around here?”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Well, truth be told, there ain't nothing much going on around here in Calun, except for the Crests and the Union tubs blowing shit up.”

Calun's Crest was the single most uppity freelancer band in the whole mainland. They hadn't the best of images in Laugher's mind. “Bloody gods, you talking about those fucking mercenaries?”

“They ain't mercenaries anymore, not since the war died down and everybody settled back. They're more of a political party now, speaks for the Tharin traditions and rights. The rumour is, they'd even brow-beaten old Arraye to work for them.”

“That ain't right. The Guthlac man never took any bullshit from fops like the Crests.”

“Rumours. They were around for a while, but the guy who used to lead them, Charlvain, was jailed by some of them Symposian priests working for the Empress. Corruption, tax bullshit, political money-mongering, and other charges. But I'd gather the empire got a gist of the real going-ons of the municipality. So, the Crests elected a new guy, cut his teeth in the armies, son of old Vain, goes by the name of Bartholomew.”

“Let me guess. This man doesn't know a shit's worth about politics?”

“Maybe. But he sure as hell's pissed off with governor. Pro'lly thinks he's behind his father's death. ”

“Vain was executed?”

“He was executed hard.”

Laugher smiled. “Finally. Good riddance.”

Lykos frowned. “But Vain's a prissy fop compared to Bartholomew. That guy's looking for blood.

“Arraye's got some old Tharin blood. They should be friends, real good buddies. Hell, I heard even Vain was friends with the Old governor.”

“Bad blood's bad blood, Laugher,” Lykos said. “Doesn't matter now. Ashboy wants to meet you, by the way.”

Laugher frowned. “How the fuck does he know I'm in the city?”

“Laugher, you strode right in through the city gates. It'd be strange if they didn't know you were shitting around. Look, for old time's sake, just go to him. The same place.”

Laugher nodded. “Nothing much ever changes in Calun, do they?” He dipped his head, staring at the spoon he had earlier abandoned. His reflection, curved, returned his gaze, draped in the familiar black-and-white grin of the Fool's Mark. A notch in his lips ran down the rest of his chin, a scar, and another went over his nose. He looked the same as he had, all those years ago, when he had earned his name. A bit older, wiser, and unshaven though.

Lykos grunted, an affable expression, and patted Laugher on his shoulder. “Easy, Laugher. You're getting all thoughtful there, like some wishy-washy fop.”

“True.”

The rest of their conversation was filled with chit-chat, catching up with times.

Laugher looked around, noting the dark. “He's supposed to be here now,” he murmured.

The shop, a wide yet narrow hole in the wall wedged between a band of countinghouses, was worn down by age, its lacquered woodwork rendered warm grey by the grime lingering on most parts of the city. The road before the stall was divided into sections covered in a marble veneer, the side ends used for pedestrian travel, the main pathway travelled by carriages and horses. The Row of Penance, as the place was named, started with the Temple of Greed, on the left, and ended with the Black Circle on the right.

Not long after those ominous words left Laugher's mouth, a shadow entered the stall, clothed in a sable cloak, dress trousers, silk tunic, and a buttoned jacket. The stall's lamp revealed his features; a chisel-jawed man, who would've been handsome if not for his thin, cruel lips and sharp nose. He had olive skin, constantly fluttering eyes, a posture reeking of nobility, and long hair bound into a ponytail.

“Piracus,” intoned Laugher as he examined the visitor.

Piracus bowed. “The one and only.”

“You're late.”

“Well, am I?” His lips curled into a smile. He leaned and entered the stall, sitting beside Laugher. He gestured his head at Lykos. “Can we trust him?”

“He's deaf sometimes. Aren't you, Lykos?”

Lykos promptly ignored Laugher, withdrawing into the depths of his shop.

“So, what is it that you require of me, my good man?” Piracus said, a pair of interlocked hands resting on the counter. His smile, forced and sickly sweet, seemed to disguise malicious emotions.

“Your ears, Piracus. Don't forget your obligations and her demands,” Laugher admonished the man.

Piracus's brows furrowed. “I know, fellow,” he said.

“You should,” Laugher answered, keeping his words curt. “I spent the day poking around here and there, got info from our benefactor. There is an Imperial dispatch after you.”

At the mention of the Empire, his eyes widened, but he scarce showed any outward surprise. “How did they know?”

“There's a rat, obviously, and I see no more holes to allow such a slip. As far as I've dug, they don't know who's our benefactor, they don't know our contacts, and they don't have any solid leads on our objective, and there's that.”

“Why Calun?”

Laugher smiled. “Why not Calun?”

Piracus glowered at him. “From what you're saying, my good man, I may well be a suspect here, perhaps the only one, if this mission's as compromised as you say it is.”

“Not completely compromised, I assure you. They don't know what we're after, and they don't have any hard evidence on you.”

“What are we after?” Piracus deflected his statement back at him.

Laugher grinned. “An artefact of importance, stashed away near the fringes of the Empire.”

Piracus shook his head and smirked. “I fear, good man, that this city is not in the fringes of this Empire.”

“Not the artefact, but the key to it!” Laugher hissed.

Piracus was not taken aback. “That's vague, my good man,” he said. “Care to elaborate?”

“For the moment, I'm just warning you, man. Keep your caution about you, divulge as little as you can.”

“Then, do we have any assets of our own?” Piracus said. He folded his arms, shifting his eyes outside.

“Only me.”

“That's a disappointment.”

“You don't have trust in my abilities?”

Piracus stayed silent, surveying the streetlights and the pedestrians, no respite in his stare. “Are there any local assets we can manipulate?” he said.

Laugher shifted in his seat. “There are quite a few, in fact.”

“Then, I suggest you get some means to use them,” Piracus said, standing up. “In the meanwhile, I will try to exercise caution. If you see anything suspicious, inform me. You do know where I live, don't you?”

“I do. Good luck.”

“To you too, my good man.”

Laugher watched him leave, disappearing from view as he walked into the right lane towards the Black Circle. “Lykos?” he said, facing the counter again.

Lykos emerged from within the innards of his shop. “Yes?”

“If you see Ash, tell him I'll meet him soon.”

“Alright.”

“Another thing, man.”

“What?”

“I sorely need another plate of this.”

“You haven't paid for the first one yet, Laugher.”

“Can't this one be on the house?”

“Business is business, my friend.”

“Shit.”

 

[0stinato]

What made a more suitable piece of packaging paper than newspaper? Tens of sheets, folded around differing object, each one secured with a length of string, Ira felt as though he was making gifts of his technologies. But it was an important thing; dust, however lightly it might settle on the tops of alembics, burners, tool boxes and old books, it didn't change the fact that the dust would settle to begin with. And with the age of some of Ira's books, to add more dust would make them mostly dust overall. So the newspaper was vital.

His knots were small and neat. While he tied them, his eye didn't even move from the string to the papers; none of the words entered his eye. If he needed to read a paper, article or journal, vitally, someone would often point to it. It was one of the things the learners in the Scholarium talked about while on break. Ira would hear a fair bit of their discussion while he himself took a smoke-break, but most of it was nothing that concerned him. Take last week; he'd shared a match with Raquell, some more-or-less insignificant, slow-paced researcher, and she'd spoken about a celebratory party happening down in Calun... Her very words came back to haunt Ira now as he stood away from his now-wrapped room, dusting his hands off.

"I tried to work out what the party was for, but the paper was surprisingly vague. Did you read it? Did you work it out?"

On Ira's negative, her eyebrows raised, "You haven't heard about it? You simply must read it, Ira! Who knows, you might get an invite. I know Piracus is going..."

"Is he really," said Ira, "Well, that doesn't surprise me. He's got many connections... I could only wish to have that many. Though I admit, I'd get quite flustered I'm sure. How did you find out?"

Raquell gave a crafty smirk and bounced her cigarette on her lip, "I didn't find out, I noticed. It's important to keep your eyes open."

Ira agreed with her there, though put the matter out of his mind as soon as he stubbed out the smouldering cigarette-end. Back to the research, back to the papers, back to the pen-and-ink formulaic life he was content on leading. For three days he carried on working, his eyes forever pointing inwards and never outside, until he was delivered a sealed envelope.

Chrysanti, the youngest of the Guthlac children, estranged and strong, was the sender of such a letter. And to Ira she extended the invitation of accompanying her to the celebration, in Calun. Ira had seen potential in Chrysanti when he first met her; a 'Workers First' labour march attracted his attention simply because of its intrusion to his senses, and he had stepped outside to face the din. The first person he saw, he approached, asking if the aural invasion would stick around for long. And Chrysanti explained exactly who she was and what the march was for. They did not talk long, though Ira asked if he might write to her; her cause was just, important and entertaining. It would do well for Ira to affiliate himself with it, to garner connections just as the elusive Piracus had.

Such a move... was paying off. A ball, a celebration, festivities, clamouring - nothing Ira was used to. Neither he nor Schoe could agree to such a thing off their own backs. Indeed, the two of them were identical in that they relished their own companies. Schoe was never idle in her... doings (what they included, Ira never asked) and nor was he. In their own company, with naught but the own breath to talk to, they would succeed tenfold than if they worked with others in the vicinity.

But this invitation did not promise work. It was indeed a festivity treat, one Ira would have to tolerate with a smile. He could not refuse, after all. Being invited by the youngest daughter was dreadfully intense. And hence why Ira was securing his research materials so closely. The celebrations might only take a night or two, but Calun, in its size and infamy, had ample opportunity to ensnare him. He was not taking a chance.

He would make an effort to see Schoe too... though his last letter had not mentioned he would be in Calun any time soon. Ira wondered, while penning the correspondence, whether he should, in fact, mention the invite. Eventually, he neglected to, and posted the letter. Would Schoe be jealous if he did? That girl... within her, somewhere deep Ira could not reach into, there was an anger he did not understand. He was almost sure she would be furious if she discovered his chin-wagging with the Mayor's family in her city.

To keep the peace, he would consider an excuse, and would see her after the ball. As such, he had to stay elsewhere in Calun first, during the ball. Avoid Schoe, just in case. If Ira knew anything about her, she would harbour resentment for years over this...

While travelling to Calun, Ira admitted he had made a mistake with the letter. He should have mentioned the invite... and, as though admitting his mistake removed a physical weight off his back, he found himself smiling. Look forward to the party, and to meeting Chrysanti again. She was a woman who he trusted, whose intelligence he took for granted. As he crossed the threshold into the city, into Calun, a city he had only taken at face-value previously, he hoped Chrysanti's family would be equally kind, equally intelligent, equally useful, as Chrysanti herself turned out to be.

 

[DarkledMind]

Wilhelm laid in bed, daydreaming. His lithe fingers traced the thick, surgical scars that lined his chest. They were rough, crude, experimental, even. He knew them well, the way they cut across his skin, leaving savage marks. Nothing leftuntouched in their wake. But luckily for him, his pectoral muscles were left unharmed. He could still move and lift with ease, though not until several months after the surgery. Though that was years ago. Only the scar remained, a faint memory, stark against his skin.

The day dreaming ended when he felt a hand join his idle fingers. Rough and uncouth, the thumbs first started at the scars, and then began to wander. Wilhelm grabbed the man by the wrists and, with a firm, but gentle pressure, removed the things from his body. He smiled up at the customer. Wilhelm's amber eyes glared a clear warning. It was lost in his wry and complete fake smile.

"It's fifty for another go. And then hourly fees," Wilhelm spoke between clenched teeth. He knew he had to be firm. In the beginning, he had lost a good deal of coin from underhanded, forceful customers.

The man above him laughed. "Oh, it might be worth anoher hour fee, or gods another go, just to look at you. You fascinate me."

The customer spoke so casually, so offhanded, like what he had uttered was a compliment to the man below him. But Wilhelm had heard that sort of thing, several times a day, every day, for the past three years. No, it was not a compliment; it was an insult. It made Wilhelm feel like a freak of nature. When he was at his lowest, he gave in to that feeling. Then, he thought that he was a scientific experiment, a screw up of nature. But now, now he knew that that was not the case. Science had advanced enough for Wilhelm to be himself. That was all.

"Well," he chided, "Pay up, pretty please." Wilhelm pressed up on the man above him, and moved him aside. Wilhelm sat straight, before he leaned back on the heel of his hands. They buried themselves into the down mattress. He tossed his head, his deep brown hair sliding over his narrow shoulders. This exposed both of his amber eyes. He smiled wide, though it was artificial. Always colloquial to customers.

Sunlight streamed through the thin window. Small particles of dust suspended in the air, glowing in the beam of yellow light. The light pooled upon the white sheets of the bed, and illuminated the scene. That was why Wilhelm had chosen this tiny apartment for his living and work. The gorgeous lighting was the selling point. The thought briefly crossed Wilhelm's mind that he should get this man out of his bed. He wanted devote the next hour of sunlight to sketching. But he needed the money. He always needed the money.

The customer shook his head with a smile. "No. I dont have the time. I need to go see my wife. She thinks I am at a business meeting."

Oh well.

"So next time, then?" Wilhelm suggested with a small, coy, smile.

The customer's laugh was more a snort of mild amusement. "I suppose I don't get a discounted price for returning?"

Wilhelm struggled contian his disgust. He snarled, but quickly lifted a hand to cover the expression, and toy with his mustache. Thumb and forefinger ran down either side of his lip to make a small circle. They came back together at his goatee, on which he tugged the slightest. He hummed in thought.

They argued for a few minutes about prices, while the customer covered himself. As the conversation continued, he felt the urge to vomit. The years had not made this process any easier. The situation made him disconnect from reality. For a moment, he swore he could see himself in his own thoughts. The way he laid on the bed, and the way the customer robed himself, was all seen from a third person perspective. It was as if Wilhelm was a fly on the wall, watching this exchange take place. Finally, after deciding on a price, a date, and a time, the customer left. Coin was exchanged at the beginning of the interaction. The customer left, and Wilhelm relaxed. It was his last appointment of the day. No one else would be entering into his home, entreating for his services.

Wilhelm stood, not caring to dress himself. He walked to the living room, running a hand through his hair. His lithe fingers detangled the knots, and worked in slow, steady strokes as he walked to the main room. There, he found his fire that he started before the interaction. Though it no longer burned, it was still a heavy bed of coals. The pail of water on top was steaming. He smiled to himself.

Though he did keep himself clean, he decided to take a hot bath earlier that day. It had kept him positive through out the wearing day. It was a process to take a bath, but he preffered it. It afforded him a level of privacy that was unheard of at a public bath house. Wilhelm, despite his main occupation, was a very private person.

After he set up his bath, and boiled enough water, Wilhelm dipped his toes in the wooden tub. He winced at first, but scalding water was what he wanted. He wanted to wash away a week worth of dirt and decay, dead skin and callouses. He lowered himself into the bath, and hissed in pain. But this was the way. He needed to cleanse more than filth from his body.

After his skin turned a soft pink from the heat of the water, Wilhelm started scrubbing with the bar of soap. He scrubbed every inch of his body, including under his nails. And where calluses had built up, he took a pumice stone and wore them down into fresh, nubile skin. Then, he washed his skin again, and again, until he finally felt clean. It wa a rigorous process, one that did not allow for much day dreaming. Which was good, because his thoughts began to wander during day dreaming. Then, his mind would fill with a darkness that would need more scrubbing.

After the bath drained, Wilhelm sat in is favorite chair. The wood was smooth, and then laquered, then a cushion sat upon it. Wilhelm took his fingers and ran them through his hair. He stared at his thigh, covered in tiny, pin prick scars. He reached to the end table, and opened up a box. In it, sat three needles and vials, two of which were empty. The third was filled with a clear liquid.

Wilhelm repeated the process he had done every three days for five years. He turned the vial upside down, and tapped the glass with a flick of his finger. The tiny bubbles rose to the top of the viscous liquid, to the end of the needle. Wilhelm lowered the pulnger, and pushed all the air out of the vial. The liquid seeped from the needle, which told Wilhelm that it was ready.

Without hesitation, Wilhelm plunged the needle into his thigh, and injected the liquid. His thigh ached as his medicine entered his system. The first few times he did this himself, he did not place the needle in properly. Thus where all the scars came from. Technology advanced more than was ever thought possible, yes, but the needle was still too big. So a simple mistake could not only cause scars, but waste the expensive medicine.

Wilhelm removed the needle form his thigh. He placed a small piece of cloth over the now bleeding wound. He placed pressure on it, and watched the blood seep into the linen. Tomorrow, he would have to visit the apothecary to get more medicine. Wilhelm always warned Nought several days before he absolutely needed the medicine. It wasn't a common combination of herbs to create a polstice, but a synthetic hormone. And Wilhelm needed it to survive. At least that was how he thought of his situation.

The night had begun. The street lights had barely been lit. It was time to head to his second job, his job as a Daggerman.

 

[Elephantom]

A Prelude To Events
III​

Gem Ave was an Old City district. Pushed up against the steep walls of the valleys, bearing one of the few roads leading to the upper tiers of Calun, the hill boasted the record of having the highest altitude an Old City man could get himself on— aside from Shrinemont and the two Pives. The place was also known as the Penny, for the copper paint of the rows of building that decorated its lanes— the result of a redevelopment project, by some sympathetic noble with a poor eye for art and a hunger for needless good. Or what he thought was good. Laugher knew for sure that no man of the Penny, or what it once was, appreciated the changes.

Ashboy's old lair was behind the hill, just beside Gem Ave(s western face, backed against a loose slope pitching from the hill, hidden on the other side of its walled pathways. To reach it, one had to go circumnavigate around the hill, through paths that went through Shrinemont and leant down to the lower, concealed parts. This meant either using some of the official shortcuts established by Ashboy's guild, or using uncharted, rough pathways jutting out from the district's rim and through the Pives.

Laugher, acting the wise-ass, went along the route his five-summers-younger counterpart used to take, fit for the thrill-seeking rogue he was. Five years can do a lot to a man, he thought, grimacing. He wasn't the man he was anymore, but it didn't deter him. He figured a good moon spent doing his old daggerman routine would get him back to shape, and so, he pretended that was the reason he was visiting Ash.

The building was stuffed beneath a growth of grass and bush. It looked like shit. A year of negligence, Laugher supposed, sneering at the corpse of his nostalgia. The idea of visiting Ashboy again, knowing the loose banality of their childhood would never return, pricked at his mind — but, still, he couldn't resist. Five years of pent-up memories governed his body.

Even then, he wanted to see how his old friend was doing, even if part of him knew he had to suffer a lecture. Failing to keep back his frown, Laugher resumed his walk.


For six weeks, the Union labourers had rebelled in the undergarments of the Old City. A curfew was placed by the guardsmen, slacking protests from dusk to dawn, forcing out all the night crawlers and keeping the shady people holed up in their shacks. The big districts went by safe, places like Gates and Gem, bothered by the occasional anarchist or two springing up a powder bomb. The slums districts, such as North Gens, suffered the worst, wrecked by blue-collars junkies to build their havens upon, ignored by the authorities. The Labourers' response to the extremism were thin and weak. In the middle of them, the grayshirts were baffled— tyranny was at an all time low. Why bother, then?

Of course, everybody knew why, but they just kept their mouths shut. Nobody wanted the Union's eyes, much less the Crest's. Though Isaac didn't care for either of them, he did love his life. Fame's avoided like the plague nowadays, he thought, puts you on the spotlight.

The Prentice Union popped up a few years ago, birthed by the struggles of the country's famine after the Ascension Wars, shortly before House Targa and Guthlac's reconstruction efforts. They came in part from the Labourers' Guild, resting near Calun, splitting from the ones who dismissed the radical ideals they proposed. The official Party's job was to appease the peasantry. With the exception of a few good people, outspoken advocate Lady Chrysanti for one, they aspired to do nothing but hold parties and look pretty. The majority of the collective were pretty-faced studs with a good tongue and shiny teeth. No wonder people hated them.

The Crest of Calun, otherwise known as Calun's Crest, was here from the beginning, during the Emperor's time, perhaps even before. Isaac loathed to find out more about them.

And like this, decades of blasted non-production fed the populace, kept them from giving a shit about the Empress' incompetence. Then the Prentice Union came along, starting from underground roots around Calun, shoving trouble down the city's administration. Of course, they don't make a difference either. They move around only when their puppeteers needed them moving, Isaac thought, shuffling his hands inside his pockets. Aside from the low-class and the naive, not a single grease monkey feigned ignorance that it was the bloody Crests, in all their golden glory of being the finest mercenary band to ever exist, who controlled the Union. Calun's pride? Isaac never bought that bullshit.

“Bullshit,” he repeated to himself. The streets of Ades Gates were astride by lamps, symmetrically placed, unusually neat for an Old City location. The street-lamps casted yellow lights, greased up— like a bull during mating season, Isaac mused— by the rows of eatery straddling the pavements. Them and their oily food. His gaze wandered, hovering over the fake mendicants and the tourists, settled on the place he was seeking. The Quartz Thorn, bearing the single most absurd name he'd ever seen, was the cleanest building in one of the cleanest districts the Old City had to offer. The Ades Gates, named partly after a famous person in Calun, were kept clean by virtue of a great influx of outsiders and visitors— the southern entrance to Calun, connected to the Capital, led straight to the Gates. It was the first place one got to, if they wanted some points in their life for tourism.

It was night-time, Isaac realized. The moon slung its wan light, crowning people in hoods of shadow. It irked him. He was already pissed off. Today was his turn to be errand boy, and last night, partying to the tune of a harp, he'd missed his sleep. Getting a nap became a priority, but it was outclassed by a call from the higher-ups— they needed another daggerman to help him for one of their dirty work. The Thorn was a popular haunt for those few looking for a job to do.

Isaac stretched his fingers, bones clicking. Here it goes. He opened the door and stepped inside. At first glance, the place was tidy, smelling faintly of detergent and lye, perfect for tourist A dozen men or so populated the counter and the tables scattered around the room. They were varied in their appearance, some natives and a few dandies, but not a single man had dressed as the obvious assassin. Isaac almost mistook them for normal people. Almost. They had that cold glint in their eyes, the geometry in their position, that suggested otherwise.

Barkeep, the innkeeper, was cleaning the table. He smiled when he saw Isaac approached.

“Looking good, Bar,” Isaac said. Barkeep was the ugliest man currently within the room, had a face ridden with scars and a barrel chest.

Barkeep grinned, settling his rag on the table. “Isaac. Haven't seen ye' in a long time.”

“I share that sentiment.”

“Dunno bout that sorta long word, but ya look like hell, Isaac. Skin and bones.” There was real concern in his eyes.

Isaac shrugged. “Real bad night, is all.”

“So, what can I do for ye, young fella?”

“Nothing. Just business today,” he said. Thinking over it for a moment, he added, “Could do with a mug of watered wine, the lightest you've got.”

“Aight.”

“By business, I gather you're looking for a dagger? Nobody comes here otherwise,” some man interjected, right beside him.

Isaac snapped back, looked at the new arrival. He was a lean man, pepper-and-salt hanging from his head in wiry strands, clad in a boiled leather vest. Isaac knew him, a tough old killer, Lance. He hadn't noticed him sitting there earlier. Quick, silent bastard. “About right, Lance. I suppose you're looking for a job yourself?”

“I'm already employed.”

Isaac blinked.

Lance continued. “There's lots of other guys sitting here, kid, looking for a job. Not much heat these days, I'll say. There's Fop, Gallows, and the Pilferer around here, pick your poison. They're all the same kind of nasty.”

Isaac, turned towards the counter, set his arms on the wood surface, and pondered about it. “Alright, Lance, I'll follow you up on your word.”

Isaac approached the nearest, a man with an almost outrageous goatee and moustache, which he supposed was prone to fits of fondling. The Fop looked like that sort of man, a stuck-up dandy who slathered bitter lime on all who dared contradict him, handy with his tongue and much about nothing else. Sadly, appearances do deceive when it comes to the sword dance.

He took the sit right beside him, forcing a smile. “Fop, old fellow, they tell me you're looking for some work, and I had to confirm, seeing as I've got a job in hand. So, are you, man?” he said, leaning back against his chair.

 

[0stinato]

Someone was throwing up outside. From the pitch of the retch and amount of splatter that followed mere moments after, it was most likely a male. Staggering around, drunk at this time of day, breathing fumes and emptying his stomach somewhere nearby. By the sounds of it, the fellow was undergoing a lot of distress, because the sounds somehow kept coming. After a while, the morbid half of curiosity died away, leaving only disbelief in the man who could hear it. How much could a man's stomach hold that it was able to maintain a frequency of vomit so?

At this thought, the concerned man remembered that it was vomit somewhere close outside, trickling around the imperfections in the ground. The dim shudder of human instinct took over as he stood, abandoning his current project, crossing the room and slamming the window shutters closed with the bandaged palm of one hand. In all likelihood, the shutters would do nothing; the stink would permeate through the wood, its gluey thickness grasping onto every surface. The man returned to his seat, all too aware of the reality of the last few minutes of clean air inside his shop, and allowed himself a deep, deep second of misanthropic thought, forehead buried in his palm.

After that was done, he leaned his chair back and bellowed, "Analise, shut the windows!"

A few moments' clattering echoed downstairs and then, "Alright they're shut!"

He didn't thank her. Why should he, he was saving her nose. And such a dainty nose at that; it would stream with blood if she so much as sniffed too violently. So unlike his own. No, hers was soft, with nostrils that almost looked inviting, while his was aquiline, striking, and the definition of large.

So, when it came right down to it, who would really suffer the most?

This is Nought, sitting in his chair, surrounded on all sides by shelves of varying fullness, each one holding either sealed phials of liquid, or cases of pills. Viscosity in the liquid varied, as did colour, as did volume. The pills varied in size and colour, from white to suspicious beige. There was almost nothing identical in the shop at all and, upon entering, one might assume there was no order to the apparent chaos stacked against the walls.

Ask the man behind the desk, staring at you with eyes sharper than his tongue, yet more exhausted than his shoulders, and he would immediately be able to point out the particular thing you were looking for. Over there - your everyday caster-oil substance, only more potent, with artificial taste. Over there - this pill would work wonders for gastric distress, this one for chronic pain. Over there - sealed in a locked cabinet, they're none of your business anyway so stop prying.

Not unless you asked nicely would Nought stand and unlock the cabinet for you. He would offer no explanation to the unnamed products within the cabinet, and merely watch, reading you. Any questions you asked would be rewarded with sharp, curt answers. It was hardly a wonder his clientele was composed of people who needed his expertise rather than wanted his merchandise.

The depressive brother had seen the only way to make money in Calun was to attempt to make something of nothing. Ingredients, cheap but recoverable, formed the basis of his life plan. Create medicine, sell medicine, earn money, survive.

There were more unsavoury ways to make money too, but Nought had no trustworthy background in anything - his name spelled it all out. Nought, nothing. Zilch. Nada. Even to those who attended his services, Nought was well aware he was essentially a one-man factory.

He sat and returned to that one-man factory identity with blissful half-ease; his practiced hands, nails made ugly through the repeat, semi-monthly processes of creating these specific liquids, had only the final touches to put to a set of very small, crude-looking phials, each one filled with a slightly viscous liquid that, if held up to the light, would reveal its colour to be an off-brown. Too light-grey to be brown, but too brown to be light-grey. Nought leaned on the counter as he secured each one's lid once again, and sealed the phials inside a leather case. When was he supposed to come and get them again? Tomorrow? The day after?

Nought didn't know, nor did he care.

His days melted into one long, long, vomit-tainted eon of misery in the dingly little store. A troublesome corner was beginning to get damp coming through again, but Nought had stopped pretending as if it was a problem. If not for the fact he could see the colour of the sky through the shutters, Nought would have convinced himself he was already dead, and simply serving purgatory working in some place like this.

He lit a cigarette and stood up, calling Analise again, telling her to come down.

She did so, appearing to him on the stairs.

"Turn your shirt round. You're wearing it backwards."

"Huh? Oh. Oh, I did wonder why... it felt weird."

"Mind the front, I need to make things."

He slouched into the back room, intoxicating the air with smoke. Her throat, upset by the ash - it was as if she could taste it - had her coughing even in such a small amount of fug. She took up her place at the front, folding her arms beneath her breasts and leaning on the counter. Nothing was likely to happen, so she began occupying herself in other ways, taking the money out of the rusted holding tin and playing with it. Stacking it, re-stacking it, organising them by glimmer, rolling them across the counter... Analise had many ways of playing with money.

It was not long before her ears were distracted by the quiet clink of Nought using his mortar and pestle in the back room.

 

[DarkledMind]

The Fop was, in fact, Wilhelm.

The part-time daggerman sat at a table in The Quartz Thorn for a good long while. His hair, despite being thick and long, had dried by this point in the night. Now, it was braided together; a few strands of his earthen brown hair fell from the braid. The stray hairs tickled his nose, and he let out a huff of air. The strands flew up above his high forehead. He hummed a quiet noise, then stroked his hair back into place.

“Now listen here Mud, you filthy fiend--” Wilhelm sat across from a man who looked out of place in Arius. Wilhelm wore classic Inlander garb. It was a few years behind the latest fashion for the nobles, but still the highest of fashion for his class. This allowed him to blend in the Arius district. Mud, though, had no such desire to blend. He wore peasant garb, ratty with age, though clean. The lingering stains on his robes attested to how rare of an occurrence this cleanliness was.

Mud leaned forward, and laced his fingers together. His palms were pink, and his hands covered in dark dirt that was still lighter than his deeply colored skin. A crooked, lackadaisical smile spread across his wide mouth. A hint of sharp white teeth glimmered in the dim light. “Filthy fiend? Is that just because we differ in opinion? Come now, Fop, I thought we had an understanding, here.”

The Fop crossed his arms and turned his nose down to clare at Mud through thick, cow lashes. “You know I would never stifle an opinion.” His amber eyes narrowed. His thin brows knit together.

“Then why call me a fiend?” Mud’s head was always at a slight tilt, like it was never screwed on straight. It tilted even farther to one side, almost threatening to tip and fall.

Wilhelm straightened his back and tilted his chin up slightly. He glanced around for a moment before leaning in to hiss, “Because what you are suggesting is--”

“Fop, old fellow, you looking for some work?”

The two daggermen turned to stare at the newcomer. Their glares were colorful and piercing and unsettling. They were silent for a moment too long. Finally, Wilhelm started to adjust himself and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted before a single syllable was uttered.

“Aye, yes, that’s me,” Mud said in his thick, accented drawl. A mischievous grin formed on his scarred face. His green eyes glimmered with amusement.

The Fop rolled his eyes and let out a huff of air. “Ignore my dear friend Mud, here. He’s just an impish devil.” The Fop pulled his braid over his shoulder and idly started to play with the ends. He stared with a skeptical eye at Isaac and examined the man.

But Mud would not cease his prattling. “Devilishly handsome? Devil of a good time? Devil-may-care?” Mud listed off every idiom he could think, rapid fire.

The Fop gave a half-bemused laugh and a crooked smile crossed his thin lips. He sideways glanced at Mud for a mere moment. “Anything but admitting what you are.”

The smile that always seemed ever present on Mud’s scarred face soured and turned. His lips pressed together, and his unusual, green eyes narrowed at Wilhelm. Satisfied, the Fop turned to Isaac.

After a quick moment of staring and examining, The Fop decided that Isaac was worth his time. He flipped his braid back behind his shoulder with a slight twist of his head and flick of the wrist. “I am available for hire, yes, but what sort of job is it?”

 

[Elephantom]

A Prelude To Events
IV​

Cutter dozed in lune's gaze, one arm cradling a pike, the other slack by his side. The door he was guarding remained closed, and on the other side was his boss. It was their old hideout, so the chief said. Cutter asked, why Shrinemont? The boss said he wouldn't understand.

Most likely, he was speaking the truth, but it didn't take long for Cutter to forget about it. Just another job, he told himself, then nodded off where he stood. It took him less than five minutes.

What woke him was a distant footfall. Anyone else would've mistook it for a pebble pushed by the wind, or a bird crashing into a rock. Cutter didn't. He'd experienced the complete low of the streets long enough to know the difference between an old fashioned sneak and an error of mother nature. He pushed open his half-lidded eyes, wary in spite his drowsiness. “Hey, who goes there?” he shouted, waving his pike. He tried his darnest to appear threatening. Damn you, lunk, haven't you got the senses to run, Cutter? Could've saved your hide, fool.

He gulped. No time for second thoughts. He almost ran, but then saw the contours of a silhouette appearing from the rim of the slope. It was the rough path, few took it. Too late to run now. Cutter shook his head, and repeated the call again.

The man stayed silent. Cutter got a good gander at him as he came into view. He was a bulky man, not too much but enough for his height, clothed all in black or shades of it. He was uglier than old Pete from down the docks, not the kind you'd blanch at, but the kind that terrified people. Asymmetrical eyes, a gaunt face cruel in its figure, broken nose, chipped jaw and lips. He inched nearer, and Cutter gasped. His face was painted black as char, which he had mistaken for a dark complexion, a grimace splitting his mug with a slit of white. A tattoo, nothing else, he mumbled to himself.

“Easy there, kid, you look like you're itching to tonk a fop. I'm here to meet your boss, I'm sure he told you about me, Laugher?” the man said.

“Laugher?” Cutter said. “Sir,” he added belatedly, dumber than the lunk he'd thought himself to be. The last thing he wanted was to provoke his boss' friend.

He laughed. The sound was light against the gust of wind, both sharp and easy-going, yet it clung to his ears— it had a deliberate tinge to it, as if it was intended for theatrics. “Laugher, yes.”

“Right, sir.” He came close to stammering. “Boss has been waiting around for you.” Cutter moved, swung the door open.

Laugher passed by, cast a glance at him, and went inside. Cutter closed the door and leaned against it. He sighed. Maybe that was the last he'd see of this guy. You're lucky, you fool, real lucky. Still something inside of him said otherwise.


Isaac yawned, taking his gaze elsewhere as the Fop and his friend argued. There was the people Lance had mentioned earlier. Gallows, a tanned-skin man attired in plain brown, was sitting around the corner of the room. He'd gotten his name from his brief occupation as a gravedigger and pickpocket, hanging around the gallows where fat purses happened to be rife. The Pilferer was sitting near the Fop's table, drinking by himself. They say he used to be a tax collector before his luck ran out and he got into debts. Whatever happened afterwards was murky as shit.

“Shifty characters,” Isaac muttered. Dusk had long since ended, night entering its early phases. A dozen patrons had rolled in during the short time Isaac was here.

“I am available for hire, yes, but what sort of job is it?” the Fop said, suddenly. Isaac scratched his stubble, turned his head towards him. The Fop was looking at him, straight.

“Alright, alright,” Isaac stuttered, sitting down next to the Fop, and beside his friend who went by the name of Mud. The name was familiar, but he couldn't exactly point out why. Interesting fellow. Better keep an eye out for him.

Of course, that meant taking an initiative. Ash, his boss, seemed to hate those. “It's a pretty cut-and-dry game, if you ask me,” Isaac began. “This guy's got some dirt my chief's is interested in, hidden in his manor. We dress ourselves up, bullshit our way in, get the low-down on his manor, and steal his shit right from under his nose.”

Isaac took a long breath. “Pretty basic stuff, if you ask me, Fop. So, what about it?”


Piracus sat beside Lance, shuffling into a stool, adjusting his long coat. “You're right where I left you,” he confirmed. “Aren't you ever bored, my good man?”

Lance raised his mug.

Piracus gave a slow nod. “Good for you,” he said, then called for the barkeep, asked for a cup of brandy and a refill for Lance.

“So?” Lance said.

“So, we move. Do you know Arraye Guthlac?”

“Our fine governor.”

“Indeed. He's hosting a ball, and I'm invited. That means you're invited too, Lance.”

Lance stared at Piracus. After a while, he said, “Got it, sir.”

Piracus took his liquor and drank it in a single gulp. With a flair of his cloak, he left the premises. Barkeep raised an eyebrow. “If you don't mind me intruding, who's that supposed to be?”

“My employer,” Lance answered.


Bartholomew gazed at the portrait before him, an unsightly interpretation of his own face. He gestured at his aide to come nearer. “Friedrich, what do you think of this grotesque painting?”

Friedrich was the stereotypical nervous paper-pusher, except, he was audacious rather than timid. “Quite awful, sir,” he replied.

Bartholomew controlled his rage, smoothed his hair, and pushed a smile on his face. No scowling now, he reminded himself. “I agree, Friedrich. Say, who created this monstrosity?”

“Florin the Younger, sir,” Friedrich said. “He came last thursday, if I'm not mistaken. In fact, you, sir, had commissioned from him.”

Bartholomew sighed. “I can't have people disrespecting me like this. Have him and his painting hanged in the courtyard, and make sure people see it. Inform my treasury, compensate his family.”

“Sir.”

Bartholomew eyed Friedrich. He was chubby, and had thin eyebrows almost invisible against his sickly pale forehead. His hair was short and golden. “Yes?” Bartholomew said.

“Florin doesn't have any family.”

“Then compensate his nearest friend.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bartholomew stared at the portrait. It was him, but attired in humble garments with facial features exaggerated to the point of ugliness. His burgundy hair, which reached down to the nape of his neck, remained unchanged, and so did his smooth jaw.

He turned and faced his aide, who was still standing there, patient as always. “Well, have you anything else to say to me?”

“Sir Arraye has sent you an invitation.”

“From the Guthlac family, that old fellow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Off you go, then.”

Friedrich scuttled away quietly, leaving Bartholomew alone in his waiting parlour, to stare at the ugly painting again. He sighed.

 

[Historical Storyteller]

The Guthlac Manor was built a century ago and it was never overrun, at least not yet. It's a formidable castle with twelve-foot walls hugging the Manor, six watchtowers eyeballing every corner, and atop of each are cannons ready to fire anytime. The walls themselves are made out of a special kind of stone that makes cannonballs stick to it like glue. But if you manage to get in as near as possible and fire the cannon at close range, you'd blast these rocks to kingdom come. After a dozen or so shots, you'd smash it into a million pieces. Now, a clever lad might think to get a ladder and scale all the way up, but if the walls were manned then all the guard had to do was push the ladder down and let gravity do the rest of the work for them. And good luck digging tunnels under the walls, they'll throw grenades inside and that will be the end of the story.

The only gatehouse here has two steel-reinforced doorways, an inner and outer one, and when you got inside and looked up you could see little gaps up top. These are affectionately named murderholes, where the nasty people drop heavy rocks on you to help you die. And if these stinking bastards find it in their hearts to make you suffer even more, they'd pour a flammable substance down on the hapless intruders and uninvited guests then throw down a torch. The result is that people get some serious burns for their trouble.

If you somehow managed to get inside in spite all of that, don't congratulate yourself on a job well done just yet, as everything inside the Manor is trying to fucking murder you. Bring a shield as you'll be shot everywhere with crossbows if you're lucky, they're usually armed with muskets. Don't run across the grass, they'll install hidden traps there,. Don't touch the paintings or anything valuable, they will explode. Don't try to fight one of the servants on your own unless you have this insane death wish. The same rule applies to the residents of the Manor, the Guthlacs. Don't be fooled, these Guthlacs come from one of the toughest aristocrat warriors the Empire has to offer. The moment you let your guard down you invite a quick death.

And last but not the least, inside the Manor is a special fallback tower right in the middle of the area. That is the place where everybody will run to after all their defenses are overwhelmed. So you can blast the walls, break through the gatehouse, walk through the valley of death to get to the Manor, fight people who are armed to the teeth, and you will still be screwed over by this one tower that has enough provisions to last a month. With so many insane preparations, one thinks that the owner of the Manor was expecting an impending assault sooner or later. Or maybe he just didn't like people trespassing and ruining his lawn. Whatever the reason, the Guthlac Manor is a formidable fortress and if anyone were to capture it, they'd get one of the best strategic positions in the city.

Inside the Manor, Mayor Arraye Guthlac was in his bedchamber, sitting near his work desk. Elections were drawing near and he had to start a new public relations campaign, he already thought of his theme. It was a simple but bold move. The plan was to go in and make a speech, remind the people of all the good things he's done, which wasn't so hard to do. He built the city from the ground up with the people's help, transforming Calun from a small but significant city to a sprawling urban metropolis. He passed numerous laws that made life much better for everyone and he made sure that it stayed that way. The city was a safer place with him being tough on crime and executing the most serious offenders on the spot. And when an army came to threaten the city itself, he'd call up the guards, the militia and stand their ground with him leading them, and he'd beat them back.

"That's right, this is the easy part but..."

But then he'd mention all the mistakes he'd made. These mistakes were just as important as his accomplishments because they revealed the character of their mayor. Just what did he do wrong? What were those mistakes?

He shook his head.

Arraye never made mistakes. And if he did, he'd live with them. That's just the way he lived his life this entire time and he sure as hell wasn't going to let a few regrets dominate his life.

"Good, good, everything's in order." he said, throwing his head back.

Arraye got up from his chair and walked down the hallway, looking for Hiero. "Boy, where are you? Are you done planning the festivities?"

 

[0stinato]

As a matter of fact, and perhaps to be expected, the middle Guthlac child was not at all finished with planning the celebration. So seriously had he taken his duties, he had employed the assistance of big-sister Telga, who was staying back at her family home for the party. It was she who instilled the fear and resentment into him: fear for the gargantuan expectation, and resentment towards his father for dumping those expectations on him. At this point, he was rather pleased with himself for seeking out Telga; with her on his side, he could tap into a richer wealth of knowledge which would be foolish to ignore, plus he could delegate to her.

As it happened now though, she was not with him and instead one of the servants was following him around, making a list of specific things Hiero mentioned. In the Guthlac's own hand was his own list, calligraphised and well-creased. Many crossings-out and replacings splattered the paper, a result of the brother-sister conversation Hiero and Telga had endured over few glasses of wine the previous night:

"If I was you," Telga said lazily, alcohol and warmth taking their toll on her usual acuteness, "I'd try to persuade Father to bring out some of his vintages. It would be fine to purchase them through the budget he's set for you, because you're supremely over-budget as it is, by my estimation..." as Hiero's obsession became scattering price lists and paper to discover if she was right, Telga took a long drink from her glass before leaning forward to set the delicate thing on the low table ahead. "You really are over-budget, Hiero, I'm sorry."

"But- but- how, I... wait so," Hiero, the alcohol taking him to the opposite end of the scale to Telga, swapped his position in the armchair for a kneeling position on the floor, spreading the cost sheets - written in Telga's estimating hand - into a peacock-feathering of letters and numbers. And, just like spread peacock plumage, it intimidated him.

"So..." he continued, examining his list, "several hundred things here, oh my goodness... so, catering, that is, food, drink and possibly more food... and possibly more drink too, people never stop at three glasses, do they. And then entertainment, so, music, expensive music, sophisticated music, not some street-juggler... and then... invitations, they need to look perfect..."

"Decorations for the room too."

"Oh. No, no, no..."

"Hiero," Telga moaned, "calm down... it'll be fine... just cut costs somewhere. Get Father to offer up some of his vintage so you don't have to buy some in, you know. Maybe don't hire the most expensive people to produce the invitations as well, they're really costly for something you could get a pair of urchins with a crayon to do..."

"No! It has to be perfect! This is my reputation on the line!"

"You sound like Father now, stop it... just don't hire the most expensive people to make invitations, Hiero, if you ask the servants, or just ask Allemand, he'll organise whoever he can, you know that. Cross them off, you don't need anyone to make invitations."

"I don't see where you're coming from, the invitation is the first piece of paper anyone sees, it must set the bar."

"If you set the bar, you won't be able to jump over it. Besides, Father has written to many of the people already asking them. And those people have written to whoever they are bringing, invitations are hardly necessary, especially not the... most expensive..." she yawned, "ones you can find... pass me that up... there, t'is scratched out, do not write it on again, you are not using those people under my watch."

She had fallen asleep very soon after that, leaving Hiero to consider her words in an increasing head-nodding stupor. His handwriting had suffered and now he squinted at the paper trying to tell whether that cipher of a word he had scrawled said "puddings" or "pull-downs." What was a 'pull-down'? Probably nothing, probably just a fault in his hand, or brain. In the end, he decided it said "puddings" and left it at that.

He was unsure of the name of the servant tailing him, though he spoke with gravitas despite this. He was fairly sure the man's name began with an A, though didn't consider past the first letter. The man was listening, and Hiero was speaking.

"For decorating, we'll keep it fairly minimal, because we aren't here to pretend to be something we're not, we're having a party here to project ourselves. We'll keep most things in this room the same, I don't really consider it important to be getting in specifics. Only, of course, the better linen for the tablecloths, and we'll have centrepieces on each table. But as for the room, it doesn't need much doing to it, agreed?"

Hiero didn't mention he had to cut 90% of his decorating ideas because of the budget. Didn't mention it because, by this point, he believed his own made-up-on-the-spot reasons. Yes - the room was better like this. It demonstrated Guthlac wealth, status, hierarchy. And yet it professed no one was afraid to be themselves. Scuffs on the floor? Yes, that was from where Lavey, Marika, Rostav and I played cards one evening: Rostav scraped his chair over the marble.

As Hiero crossed that scuff he grimaced. "Get the floor done too, actually. Vital, that, write it down."

The servant - who was Lapeno, his name did not begin with an 'A' as Hiero had guessed - smiled, having already written it down. He had not been speaking much, leaving the listing to Hiero, but wrote down every important word he could gather. Buff the floors, best linen for tables. His performance of note-taking continued as Hiero moved away from his position.

"I don't want to insult the chefs here by hiring in people, obviously. Plus we already have the best ones in the city," another lie, designed to convince himself... well, perhaps it was true if one was asking Hiero's father, or one of the other siblings, but Hiero complained regularly, frequently attaching the word 'frugal' to his father's hiring of the chefs. "So... all I'm going to do is buy in some really good ingredients. Some of it I've never ever heard of but I spoke to one of the chefs the other day, the one with the really patchy beard?"

Lapeno gave a slow nod.

"Him, him. He said what I decided on would be okay to work with, so I'll leave the majority of that up to the cooks. And potentially... no, actually, I will not say that out loud... mustn't have a witness in case you decide to hold me to my word. That's law, that is, I read about it."

"Of course, sir."

"The food will be quite expensive, especially some of the hors d'oeuvres... though I'm looking forward to tasting every single one. Did you know one will include cured seaweed? Amazing, those orientals, thinking of some very strange things. Anyway! Proceeding on over to here, I'm considering no centrepieces on the tables here, I don't want to detract from the paintings, you understand? Simply the tables, perhaps flowers. Yes, flowers it will be, I will send for them. I must have the freshness of the windows carried on to this wall... Tell me your opinion here, loose petals scattered on the tables here - imagine in peach or cream colour - is that appropriate or tart-ish?"

Though before he could even turn to look at Lapeno, Hiero heard the distinct growl of his father's voice calling for him.

"Boy, where are you? Are you done planning the festivities?" Arraye's words were not questions; they were statements. Show yourself and tell me you're finished.

Hiero headed towards the main entrance of the room, tucking his hands behind his back as was acceptable. Left hand held right wrist, and right hand held the mess of a list he and Telga had created.

"I'm here, Father," Hiero stood his ground in the room, very much prepared to lie through his smile if he had to. "Finishing touches, Father, and all should be achieved within budget, if there are no complications. I have it very much planned out, planned in, planned everywhere, Father. It has been as simple as... well, as simple as walking. It takes some time to learn, but it becomes automatic after a while."

He offered his father the same smile, accompanied by easy, half-open eyes behind his glasses. He was almost convincing himself it was easy... almost. What held him back from believing his own words was the phantom of a hangover ghosting beyond his mental vision; a headache that threatened to begin pulsing, a nausea that wanted a single opportunity to turn his stomach. The wine had been far from kind last night, and it was even further from it this day.

Historical Storyteller

 

[DarkledMind]

Isaac yawned, taking his gaze elsewhere as the Fop and his friend argued. There was the people Lance had mentioned earlier. Gallows, a tanned-skin man attired in plain brown, was sitting around the corner of the room. He'd gotten his name from his brief occupation as a gravedigger and pickpocket, hanging around the gallows where fat purses happened to be rife. The Pilferer was sitting near the Fop's table, drinking by himself. They say he used to be a tax collector before his luck ran out and he got into debts. Whatever happened afterwards was murky as shit.

“Shifty characters,” Isaac muttered. Dusk had long since ended, night entering its early phases. A dozen patrons had rolled in during the short time Isaac was here.

“I am available for hire, yes, but what sort of job is it?” the Fop said, suddenly. Isaac scratched his stubble, turned his head towards him. The Fop was looking at him, straight.

“Alright, alright,” Isaac stuttered, sitting down next to the Fop, and beside his friend who went by the name of Mud. The name was familiar, but he couldn't exactly point out why. Interesting fellow. Better keep an eye out for him.

Of course, that meant taking an initiative. Ash, his boss, seemed to hate those. “It's a pretty cut-and-dry game, if you ask me,” Isaac began. “He's got some dirt my chief's is interested in, hidden in his manor. We dress ourselves up, bullshit our way in, get the low-down on his manor, and steal his shit right from under his nose.”

Isaac took a long breath. “Pretty basic stuff, if you ask me, Fop. So, what about it?”

Wilhelm chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought. This Issac fellow seemed familiar, especially with his talk of a chief. It seemed as though he night be a part of the upper circle that Wilhelm had heard so little, but dreamt so much.

His amber eyes narrowed. Being what he was, by nature, made the man was suspicious. And Isaac, even if he was part of the upper circle, was not immune to Wilhelm’s speculation. “I see, it does seem the job is fairly...” he searched for the word, “forward, yes. Not easy but there are no surprises.”

He leaned forward, a look of malice in his eyes. “Though, you seem to be vague about whom the target is. Perhaps, that is the dangerous part?” His voice was rife with implication, and raised upwards as he spoke. He hummed a laugh and stood straight again.

“I’ll take the job regardless of whom it is, yes. But of course, I will need to know. I need to use the proper disguise and identity, you see.” He sat down in the uncomfortable chair.

Wilhelm reached towards his flagon of ale. When he raised it, it was empty. As he was speaking, Mud had stolen every last drop. He glared down his pointed nose at his companion. Then a small smile crept onto his thin lips. “Cheeky bastard.”

Mud laughed and raised his own glass. It was still full. “I’d toast you, but it seems you have a hole in your cup.” He popped the end of the word “cup.”

~~

Petrus adjusted his black cloak around him as he settled into the chair. The room was dimly lit by candle light. Shadows were cast across the walls and ceiling in stark washes of black and grey. The gaps between the shadows were lit with the wan, yellow light of the single candle. Petrus could not see the figure in the room that sat across from him, except a shadowy outline.

The figure lounged in the chair across from Petrus, confident. One arm wrapped around the back, and the masculine figure slouched. A palm laid on the rough hewn table. Petrus let a small smile escape him, hidden only by the length of his beard, but not obscured by it. Though his eyes wrinkled at the corners, and gave the hint of his smile.

The Eye sat, and leaned back into the uncomfortable chair. He mimicked the man across from him. The smile stayed, but something flashed into his eyes. It might be a trick of the dim light, but they seemed glassy and they danced with a fire of their own. Still, Petrus could not see the face of the man across from him. But he could see the slight stiffening of muscles. He could almost smell the change in the man’s attitude.

Petrus sat like this, and stared. The first droplets of wax started to run down the taper candle. The runs of white wax pooled in the brass candlestick. But Petrus did not move, did not flinch. All the while, the man across from him started to move with unease. It was the little things. A slight tapping of the finger, a roll of the shoulder . It brought the other man’s emotions to light.

“So, why am I here? It’s been an hour. I’m starting to get hungry,” the man murmured more to himself.

Petrus rolled his tongue in his cheek, and popped his jaw with a single click. He leaned forward, and the chair creaked. He folded his wrinkled and aged hands together. “You have some information I need.”

The man across from Petrus leaned back into his chair with an equal distance. “No I do not,” was the immediate answer. Petrus’ ever present smile grew, and twisted at the corners. The man gulped.

“You do. I know you do,” The Eye’s voice was low, gravelly, from too many years of drinking distilled liquor and smoking cigars. The man across from Petrus remaind still for a moment. But his confidence came back to him. He rolled his shoulder and relaxed once more. “Maybe I do. What will you pay for it? What even do you want? I know many a thing.”

Petrus licked his dry lips. He leaned back again. His smile faded, and instead his eyebrows narrowed to become stern. “Recall the last bit of information you sold. And don’t lie. I will know.”

The man across from Petrus scoffed. “How do you know what I last sold?”

The smile came back. It rolled across Petrus’ cheekbones and made his eyes wrinkle once more. “Your wife is very beautiful. You are a lucky man.”

The man stiffened and leaned forward into the light. His blue eyes were wide. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

Petrus mirrored the motion. He gripped the edge of the table. His nails dug into the soft wood. “Or what?” He hissed out with a smirk.

The man across from Petrus tried to reach across and grab the much older man by cloak attached to his armor. But Petrus expected this to happen. He leaned back as the man grabbed. The man missed, and fell hard onto the table. He caught himself with open palms down on the wood, and winced as splinters cut into his flesh. In a single smooth motion, Petrus unsheathed his dagger. His cloak fell behind his pauldron clad shoulder. He did not hesitate as he brought the knife down, and into the man's hand

The man screamed in pain, the sound muffled by wooden walls. Petrus chuckled and leaned forward, and placed his weight onto the dagger. The dagger drove deeper into the man’s hand with little resistance. The man grunted in pain, and clenched his teeth together.

“Now, calm down, a little, please? I was being nice. See? I stabbed your left hand, between two bones. Sure it will bleed like a bitch in heat, but you’ll live. And you can still work. Now, tell me.” Petrus placed an infinitesimal amount of pressure on the blade. This pressure increased as time passed. He received another grunt of pain from the man.

His only response, other than the grunts and moans of pain, was a very agonized, “Fuck off,” and spittle to the face.

Petrus sneered, and leaned back. He left the dagger in the man’s hand. His own, gloved hands reached up to wipe the saliva from his face. He hummed slightly in both disgust and interest as he flicked it from his fingers. The Eye sighed, and grabbed the dagger. His two fingers tapped the side of the details handle, before he gripped the blade, and twisted it sharp to the side.

An hour later, he exited the room provided for him. He placed a few coins into the hands of the owner. She smiled, and so did he. “Might want to go get a doctor. There is enough coin if you do, and plenty more if you don’t. Now, excuse me, I must make my way to Calun. I have a party to attend.”

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Eh, Ozzie, tag me in chat and tell me what you think Arraye would do. I think I gotta edit my work, he was out-of-character in this post. I'm really sorry for this, I'm gonna fix this as quickly as possible, I hope to do this as early as tomorrow night when I'm done doing my work in school.

 

[0stinato]

Having booked a room at a tavern that was, as told by a useful everyman on the street, in "a better part of town," and secured his belongings up there for the time being, Ira decided he would make the effort to visit Schoe sooner rather than later. It was best to get the guilt of his sparse letter out the way. Best to surprise her... Ira knew where the storage buildings were situated: on a map, he could pencil in the exact c-shape they occupied in the city. However, from his position in the Calun streets, he felt rather less confident in his surroundings. As such, he would rely on his senses for some of the journey.

He brushed dark curls away from his forehead as he tilted it, deciding that the best course of action would be to locate city-dwellers; where there were people, there was knowledge... what a joke. He walked and, as he navigated though bustling bodies, families of varying volume and the occasional stray animal, aiming for what he could pinpoint as the loudest area, he considered not only his surroundings but those who dwelt there; their eyes lacked a certain something. Some acuteness, some spark of acceptance at their place in the world.

No human's place was static - seeing a billboard with several different hand-drawn fonts occupying it, naming candidates for the upcoming mayoral election sparked Ira's appreciation of the political system. No one's place had to be static, not with the idea of democracy... if someone felt stuck, trapped in his life, unhappy and unfulfilled, he did not have to stay there. Take Schoe - she griped mostly about her place in the world. Ira never griped about his. Complaining got you nowhere - doing got you everywhere.

And Calun central was the place to confirm such a philosophy. Before he elected to ask for directions, Ira decided to take a quick stroll... for research purposes. He was not a man who was oblivious of his place in the world: he knew exactly where he stood, and for what he stood... but something he was aware he lacked - because other people told him, of course - was his sense of place against the backdrop of people. These people were competition, always. From the bread-seller with a haggle-worthy tongue to the lady rounding up children of varying shades of skin tone, every one had the chance to be, for example, Calun's mayor. Every single one. Only they wasted time, and wasted life, and perhaps that bread-seller was happy, perhaps that lady was happy, perhaps the children were too, but they remained capable.

Despite the drifting thoughts, Ira himself had no wish to be Calun's mayor. It was not his field, nor his city. But how long had he dreamed about leading the hunt for knowledge back at the Scholarium? How long had he wished to build himself into someone who could not only research, but command the direction of that mental vessel?

The Scholarium was out of reach for now though. Now, he would await Chrysanti's correspondence, and her visit. No time to consider the future mayor, the current mayor had business Ira was invited to. And Schoe had business Ira had to attend to, whether he liked it or not.

A colourful flash of vibrancy occupied his eye for a split second and Ira found his head turning of its own accord, chasing the non-beige, the non-greys. Something in the city central had captured his eye. His eyebrows raised as he took in what it was, before approaching. A man with the tightest-hugging tights Ira had ever seen had zipped past him only to hop up onto a wall and produce, seemingly from behind his back, a set of panpipes, heavily decorated with... junk, it seemed like. As Ira neared, he noticed a feather - blue-green in colour, possibly from a magpie - a round piece of semi-rusted metal, a nail, and a small effigy made of straw, tied around the neck to the panpipes, which the man was playing, swaying side to side as if in an effort to waft the music around.

"Excuse me, there, sir," Ira found himself saying. Immediately, he retracted the hand he was reaching out to shake with - was he disturbing the player?

The man opened his eyes wide and fixed Ira with a stare Ira would only expect from a bird, "You are interrupting my interludes!" he said. "I will have to begin again!"

"Before you do--"

"Yes, yes, quickly then! Let me hop down, as it were," he did indeed hop down, springing from his perch and making the panpipes vanish. "Quickly then, my lord!"

Ira quirked an eyebrow, "I'm no lord, sir."

"Your shoes suggest otherwise!" said the man, thrusting his chin to the side as he gestured to Ira's feet. Dumbly, Ira looked down to notice the barest tip of his leather boot poking out from beneath his cloak. "I never have the wrong first impression!" he said, pointing at his own face. "There must be something you are neglecting to tell me!"

"I... I wonder if you can help me, where are the storage houses from here, please? I know they are near the river, though I am unsure whether the river is from here."

The man pointed in two directions at once. One of his hands pointed towards where Ira had just come from - the other pointed through the central area. Given that Ira knew the river was not where had just come from, he took the other erect finger as a gesture. Though, in truth, the man was hardly pointing so much as letting his hands adopt their usual stance when turned upside down.

"That way?" Ira pointed himself the direction he thought was correct.

"The river, yes, my lord," he said. "Though if you go far enough over that way," he circled the unhelpful hand, "you will eventually curve around the world and hit the river you are searching for. It might take longer, but there it never matters the direction you go if you go far enough."

The man's back seemed to react to his bored tone: it straightened and both legs slammed together. His hands crossed each other, elbows to his waist, and he began to sing, eyes glazed over and staring at the roof of the building opposite. The voice was an echoing chamber of harmony, every note rushing forth from his throat, until it seemed as if he had always been singing. Ira took a few steps back, but the man did not react and, as a few people's heads turned to the man's direction, Ira took his cue to leave, and quickly. As he hastened away, the song followed for a while: "no matter where you go... a river does its best to flow..."

With the certainty that he had run into some sort of Imp in a man's skin, Ira did not let his pace suffer until he located the side-streets that would take him quickly to the store houses. As he walked, he smoothed his hair, trying to let his expression settle into its usual placid state. He had been ruffled.

Schoe's warehouse was not difficult to find. Unlike the others, it did not have a chain securing the heavy door in place. It had a regular lock, as it was the main place his sister would come and go from. There was little point opening the huge doors. Ira hit the regular door with his fist, hard as he could. The sooner he was back in reality with Schoe, the better.

It took a minute for her to open the door. She did so with a half-hidden scowl that softened into intrigue when she recognised her brother behind the door.

"Ira? Wh... what are you doing here? I didn't prepare anything, you should have writ you were coming."

"Quite right, I ought to have. Only at my time of sending, I had no clue I would be coming. It was only a recent development that saw me travelling here."

She let him in, her expression not changing, and led him over to her little living space. Once there, she let him have the chair while she took an upturned bucket. Once comfortable, they lapsed into their mother tongue for a few minutes, conversing as if a thousand Inlander ears were listening. It was a reassurance they partook in upon seeing each other; somehow, it reassured sister and brother that their bond through blood, signified by their conversion into their Eastern tongue, had no intentions of breaking.

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Arraye gazed at Hiero with those ghostly blue eyes of his, observing every little movement, searching for anything in the boy's posture that seemed out of place. Then boy stood his ground, he was firm and unyielding on the surface, but that wasn't enough to convince Arraye everything was ready. He had to check the proceedings for himself, unless he dared to risk disaster by placing complete trust on his son.

"Good. Good good," Arraye turned to take look at the servant, Lapeno, and beckoned him to come closer with a wave of his hand. "I presume the list you're holding in your hand are notes you've taken for the party?"

"Yes, sir." the servant replied at once. It seems Arraye guessed right.

"Let me look at it then."

Lapeno immediately handed Arraye the notes and for a few minutes he was busy perusing them. While reading the papers, he frowned, he sighed, rubbed his temples with his hands, and finally he handed back the notes to the servant and closed his eyes. For a few moments, the entire room was silent for nobody dared to interrupt the master of the Manor, for Arraye never liked having his thoughts being disturbed.

"First of all," Arraye opened his eyes and looked straight at Lapeno, "Your penmanship needs some work. I couldn't read half of what you wrote." And to this Lapeno nodded and responded with a "Yes, sir." and a "I'll do my best, sir." with a touch of "You won't be disappointed, sir."

Now this time, Arraye turned to look at Hiero. "Second of all, boy, are you trying to bankrupt the family? Cut half the orders, we don't need that many things. Ignore the decorations, we don't need any more fancy carpets. Food doesn't have to be exotic, but it has to be plentiful enough for the guests. Let's focus on entertainment for now, hire a competent storyteller that can perform the 24 Kings of Inglun without any trouble. Remember, money doesn't grow on trees, boy. If you spend like there's no tomorrow, you'd be destined to be poor forever."

Arrayed turned his back and headed towards the door, "I hope you don't have any questions, boy, I'm headed towards the city council to talk to the bigshots. If you need help, don't forget to ask the servants, especially Allemand. He's by the stables, inspecting the horses. If you can't find him, go find Caulain. She's in the Manor office, handling all the letters sent to me. And if you can't find either of them, go to Eigle. He's probably in the library writing his war memoirs. And don't disturb Cugno, he's already got his hands full taking care of my bear, Rosso."

 

[0stinato]

Initially, Hiero was entertained by Arraye's presence - picking on Lapeno for something as trivial as his hand. Although, when he was smirking about the exchange between Lapeno's passive self and his father's strictness, he was unsure just at whom he was laughing: was it at Lapeno, the unfortunate, the scolded, or was it at his father for simply being ever so picky, ever so overly malicious? Given his own handwriting on the now-folded sheet of paper, laughing mightn't be the best idea.

His smirk vanished as soon as his father's eye turned on him - suspicious, it was, full of suspicion like tears. A look of rising redness, brow furrowed to tinge the whole expression with doubt. In response - perhaps somewhat in defiance - Hiero raised his chin slightly as he looked at his father. Down the nose, that was the way. But his father's words cut through his façade, buckling his confidence and raising, from its crippled shell, sparks of anger.

Every word he said Hiero disagreed with.

"Bankrupt the family? You're the one who set this wretched budget, a budget I was up all night ensuring I stuck to! You tell me to cut it now, now, when I've already envisioned it all? You will rip that all away from me? For what, for me to hire a player?" Hiero's voice was somewhat tinged through with a constant disbelieving gasp, a gasp birthed by his sudden head-rush. This was the cue his stomach was waiting for, and the sickening began.

As fast as the head-rush came on, Hiero's mind rushed on a tilted axis: "What can I get rid of, what expenses can I cut, where can I cut half the orders?"

The wine and spirits he was to send for would have to be executed, the room decorations eviscerated, the food sacrificed. All for his father's... amusement? Bank account?

"I reiterate, you set me a budget!" Hiero said to the retreating back of his father. "To pull it away from me now... that's... where is your honour, Father! Where is your... your shame!" but his father was gone - gone to deal with people more important than his son. Gone to deal with his business after whisking Hiero's into a muddy mess.

All the while, Lapeno stood, head slightly bowed, awaiting the end of Hiero's soliloquy - it was not intended as a soliloquy, but it was clear his father did not listen. After his mouth had stopped exercising his anger, Hiero stood for a few minutes, attempting to steady himself against the emotions. His head was a merry-go-round of unhappy thought. One moment he worried about the budget, the next about how he was not going to cut out the seaweed amuse-bouches, and occasionally a fixation with poisoning his father's bear. A slice of revenge, perhaps.

"If you need any help-" Any help indeed! To destroy Hiero's all-night plan was to tear down the temple before his mind's eye. A theoretical palace of promised reputation, promised adoration, promised impressed eyes. All those guests would be his guests, not his father's guests. All the praise would be his praise, and all the party was to be his party but-- no more was that to be true.

Arraye had flown down, knocked Hiero's temple down and rebuilt it himself. He'd put his paternal touch all over Hiero's creation, a touch Hiero never appreciated interrupting his discourse.

"Anything I should do for you, master?" asked Lapeno. "Shall I fetch you Allemand, if he is available, as sir said?"

"Cock's body, no! Of course not! Give me your list!"

Lapeno handed the thing over and Hiero held it before his grimace to look over, "That, that and that has to go, and-- Gods, that's why he said carpets, I never mentioned carpets, why have you written carpets, you idiot? Tell me!"

Lapeno pointed, "It's... candelabras, I did not have much space."

"You-- well they have to go as well," Hiero's hand caused the nib to bite the paper most dreadfully. "But - and I repeat that - but, do not touch anything in the food-and-drink department, I will have to go and talk about it to the cooks again. My ideas for décor, scrap them all. My requests for entertainment, scrap them too. I'll sort music out after I pick a player. By all the Gods above, my Father might have removed the rudder from my hand, but I will take it back from him. At least with the player I get to pick him! I'll see to that immediately, and I'll be back within a couple of hours at the latest. In my absence, I want you to prepare this room the way I specified, with the platform at this Eastern end, yes? And I expect you will have told Telga I need to see her immediately as soon as I get back. If you could make a start on all that now, it would be wonderful, gather who you need."

Lapeno nodded, "I'll find some assistance, and let her know," his tone was not rapid, but remained as passive yet capable as ever. Even when Lapeno walked from the room he did not find the need to raise his pace to an allegro. This did not comfort Hiero who, as soon as Lapeno was out the room, failed to calm himself and lashed out at the nearest object. It was not a crippling kick Hiero launched at the table-leg, but one that was enough to shift it slightly from its original position. If Hiero could not attack his father personally, he would have to settle for attacking his father's belongings instead. Like that bear.

But no, there was no time to concoct the perfect poisoning plan. Plus, Hiero did not possess any poison, nor know how indeed to go about the process of attempting to assassinate Rosso. The thought abandoned him soon after those realisations, as Hiero dressed for the outside world. He had to focus on the par-- his party. He was not about to let his father take this from him.

So - the player had to know the 24 Kings of Inglun, a play Hiero knew a slight bit about. Comedic and unique, its only necessary component was a single player. Just one man, who would provide his audience with the tale of the 24 Kings. If one had asked Hiero what he felt about the play an hour ago, Hiero would have confessed he rather liked the edition, from what he could recall of it. Comedy, he would have said, is a precious thing, and a playwright who can inspire such comedy through a singular stage-presence is a talented man. If you were to ask him what he felt about the play now, he would spit and order you to culture yourself.

He was let out of the gates after reiterating his business to the gate-keepers - "Yes, my father has ordered me to discover a player for the party. Yes, I am going out alone. Yes, one of the servants knows, but I don't know his name, I think it begins with an A." - and immediately turned his navigation towards Libre Ave. If Hiero knew theatre - and he knew at least more than the layman, his own creative streak driving the desire for him to write something of his own - then Libre Ave. was the place to try first. Of course, given his father's sudden insisting that Hiero's budget should be subjected to wearing a corset, Hiero was concerned about the monetary side of his hiring a player. However - the worry would come later. If his father was so excited about this play, then he better be willing to pay for a good man to perform it, that was Hiero's logic. And, if not, Hiero would find a way to pay whoever he hired. Whatever it took, this party-- his party was going to win over the smiles of the city.

He adjusted his glasses as he walked, reaching for a level of personal perfection, and picked up his pace - Lapeno might not have been in a hurry, but Hiero was not about to dawdle, not when a play was involved.

Perhaps, he would be fortunate enough to hire that wonderful man he'd seen as Kyng Johan a month back? So expressive was his posture, and so natural his voice, that Hiero had watched the man's performance with a slight open mouth the whole night. His constant guttural rasp lent its best to Kyng Johan's character - the worst King, the worst King of all time. And his death scene, what a delight that was. To witness the player fall was a tragedy. A loss from the world of the play.

The thought perked Hiero up slightly. Just the memories of it all pushed aside his shallow grudges as he walked, until his father became an inconsequential stain in the back of his mind, a stain he would clean up later. For now, he was going to be as shrewd and picky in his judgement as his father was with that servant's handwriting.

Libre Theatre, a masterclass was performed there sporadically. Hiero reminded himself he must remember to book for whatever the next one was... as long as it was not the 24 Kings of Inglun. The walk had sweetened some of Hiero's sour mood, but not enough to cause him to forgive his father's tampering...

Someone constructed a powerful trill somewhere nearby. So constantly did the high note shift up and down in pitch it broke Hiero out of his thoughts and attracted his eyes. They locked onto a figure who did not seem to be able to walk normally - he side-stepped slowly: one leg out, draw the other up to meet it, and continue like that. All while playing the panpipes.

Hiero waved a raised hand at him to get his attention, "Hullo there! Know of any competent players around here, fellow?"

"The docks," the man swivelled to stare at him without missing a single beat, lowering the panpipes and placing one hand on his hip. The other thrust out the panpipes, "are that way and I do not want to have to tell you again, my lord!"

Hiero lowered his hand, "Just what do you think you're saying to me? I asked you a question, insolent caitiff!"

"Pray, my lord," the colourful man continued, rearranging his stance, "I do beg your pardon, do please repeat?"

"Do you know of any competent players around here? I want to hire a single one, to perform under the Guthlacs' personal employ, for at least one night. Do you know of a good man who may fit the bill? And do not speak back to me, I want a single answer, no extras!"

"Why, what a splendid night it sounds. And to top it all off, a player. Though - a singular player? For what play might this man be performing?" the man asked this question of no one and before Hiero could order him to relay a straight answer, he burst out with, "To perform a sacred play, one man on stage alone, beneath the angel lights he doth sway, and before the crowd, he quoth, says, 'My humble lords and ladies of Calun, my sincerest appreciation for your presence, for you I play by my self, just one, the 24 Kings of Inglun,' and so with no word of his beyond, this single man performs his--"

"You know it's the 24 Kings... just like that, do you? And what is that poem? I have never heard it."

"My lord, of course I do know the play, I have performed it out travelling with a troupe before. And the poem, 'twas my own creation before you cut off its tail!" the man fanned his face, let out a sob. He swallowed his spontaneous sorrow very quickly, and blew one note into his panpipes before Hiero interrupted him yet again.

"You know it, do you? Now?"

The man's eyes grew in size, "Yes I do."

"And you play, ah, that? The pipes too?"

"Yes, my lord." The man proceeded to mime playing the panpipes without producing any sound. Hiero tilted his head, examining the man's wide kinesphere - yes, he seemed erratic, but if this man not only played but performed music as well, Hiero would save himself a hefty sum of hiring a few sparse musicians.

"You are a professional player, yes?"

"Yes, my lord, yes."

"Right, great. Follow me immediately, you will perform. You will get paid very well, I will see to it personally, for your services. I must show you round the play space, you are not busy at this time?"

"Well... I perform my own pieces on the streets for this very occasion, my lord. To become hired, my lord."

"I have never seen you on stage, fellow."

"No, I prefer to be out of doors, though it seems I will be hired for," the man's body tensed into a pencil-like position. "indoor work."

"Yes. Yes... come, I will work out terms back at the house. Tell me your name, player, that I might get through the papers quicker."

"Bonvillian, Jan, Mister."

"Well then, Mr. Jan Bonvillian, you will be our lord of the dance."

 

[Elephantom]

Nightly Work
I​

Isaac chuckled. He drove a hand through his hair, a dull red skirmish spattered on a pale scalp, and diverted a glance at the odd figure sitting next to the Fop. Mud. People encounter mud everyday, but they only notice when it spreads its shit on them— Isaac wondered if the same went for this motley man. Most names going through and out the criminal network had some meaning to them. Some did not, but this man had the feel of someone who went along with the former bunch of hoods. Cementing his doubts further, Isaac could swear he had heard of this strange character somewhere. He just couldn't remember when.

“Well, forwardness means jack shit, if you're asking me. Take my word for it, the game that goes around this ancient city nowadays, it's all bullshit. You get me? Filthy politics sans the politics, and I bet it'll go on even after hell freezes over,” Isaac said. He inched closer and pushed his hand forward, setting it on the table. He stared at the Fop. “Here's the clincher, our target's the mayor. The governor. Old iron. Arraye Guthlac. It's the election, mate. It's got a lot of people riled up. People you wouldn't want to rile up.”

Isaac sighed. “Mind if I take a bit of a smoke?” He took out a roll of tobacco, lit it with a match, pushed it inside his mouth. He knew getting into the habit of smoking cigarillos was wrong, but he couldn't help it. He took a drag of the smoke, and rolling his cigar to a corner of his mouth, he spoke, “Honest, man, it's a joke. We're all expendable. The city's expendable. There's the Prentice loose on the street, the Veil fucking knows why. There's some blue-blooded freak out there on the south with no lack of bastards, some tyrant who took over half the east, and a fool general who lost half his army. Who am I to trouble you with the woes of this bitter city? There are bigger worries out there, likely.”

Isaac shook his head. He dug his teeth into the hard paper of the cigarillo, gnashing against its chewy texture. He'd been rambling too much. He moved the topic. “Don't mind me. Shit has pushed me towards the anxious lot. Don't even have a clue what we need to do. Jack fucking shit.”

He let the smoke fog his mind, letting himself loosen. “You know Arraye, our spirit-blessed mayor? Right. Like I told you, he's our target. We need to sneak in wearing disguises, and get a book. It's the last known copy, the only one there is. Some tome by the late Lukas Percival. I'm sure you know him, fop.”

Isaac paused and nodded to himself. “I've got some contacts, ghostmakers, forgers and counterfeiters. They know their trade but they ain't going to suggest anything anytime soon, man,” he said. “What's your take on this, Fop?”


“Lance, do you ever get drunk?” Piracus asked in a conversational tone, his sharp smile unceasing. He looked down the rims of his bifocals, at Lance.

Lance returned Piracus's glance with a controlled scowl. They were walking past Avry Street, a shithole hidden between the Gates and East Helaes. The stone roads were covered with a layer of soil, crowded on by half a dozen dung-sweepers taking a rest by a nearby fountain. The roofs were black with grime, the walls desecrated with crude remarks about the Holy Symposia and the Empress. The sewers were lined alongside the road, left open and uncovered— people who wanted to navigate had to do so with one of the many boards of wood lying around. A watchman scurried after a destitute-seeming man, down an alley, almost slamming into the two. Lance shouted a curse. Piracus looked daggers at him. The watchman neither stopped nor did he apologize.

A sense of duty, thought Lance. A rare thing these days, in this country. Estimating with his own experience, he supposed the walk would take fifteen minutes. When Piracus slipped a subtle complaint to Lance on that matter, Lance informed him of his prediction. Piracus responded with a look of doubt.

The contractor examined his employer's features— it radiated an air of cheer, yet exhibited the passivity of cynicism. Or ambivalence. Lance squinted and nodded his head. “Drinking's a way to forget the world.”

Piracus smiled, though it was wrinkled with the beginnings of a grimace. “I need a bit of advice, my good man, if you gather what in saying. How exactly do you get rid of the hangover?”

Lance scratched his head. “I go to the local apothecary. It's just around the corner, I believe.”

“Wonderful! I believe my walk will not have been for nought. It is a far distance, what bridges the two cities together, you see.”

Lance nodded again. “Indeed. This apothecary, his name is Nought, as far I've heard people call him.”

Piracus smirked. The coincidence was not lost on him. “As long as his medicines don't come to nothingness. Take me to this stranger.”

“Alright.”


“What is this dung-heap, Lance?” Piracus casually asked, without breaking composure. He was wary enough to step over the trail of vomit that lead from the entrance to a nearby sewer opening. Not even a grating to cover the hole.

“It's as it is,” Lance lied. It just wasn't. He figured the place had gotten itself a downgrade since he was last here. The plaster from the walls were chipped and peeling away, flaky skin swaying with the wind. The wooden boards were rotting, wrinkling due to the moist conditions, the gaps crusted with dry mud. There was a few homeless people, revelling in their squalor, haunting the area. Lance made it a point to ignore them.

Lance tottered to the entrance and opened the door for his employer, before he could whine about the visible dirt on the handle. Lance didn't mind the dirt himself— better than listening to a nobleman commit themself to an hour-long rant about the evils of social stratification and beggar privilege. He'd been doing dirty jobs since he was fifteen, and this was just another in his whole big list. It wasn't different enough to warrant special attention.

Lance stepped inside, followed closely by Piracus. The bitter tang of herbs, a bit of piss from the outside, one-fourth aged spice, and damp cloth clung to the air. He sneaked a peek at his employer, hiding it beneath a furrowing brows. The last of the Targa family failed to show any outward disgust, still flush with undue happiness. His doubts had proven to be useless, much to his own satisfaction— he'd been doing petty jobs for petty noblemen, and those tend to leave the regretful taste of time terribly spent in his mouth. This one was either smart or stupid. In both cases, there was a promise of entertainment.

Lance strode towards the counter, rang the small bell on it. Then, Piracus twisted his lips into what he considered the most devilishly innocent grin he had ever seen. Lance stepped away from his employer, abiding by his caution. “Ah, witch doctor, good man, I need something to cure this disastrous hangover, the result of drinking rotten, bad wine. I'm sure you can understand my predicament, apothecary. If you don't mind me speaking, I strongly believe this ill debilitation should be empirically banned, cast only on hooligans of society's power tiers.”

Piracus didn't stop. “Don't mind me and my rambling, witch doctor. Prescribe me the best of what you've got, but don't even think of passing me some obscure parasite.”


It was quiet outside. Nothing much to do, Marksman reflected. It wasn't as silent inside, however. The engineers were wasting time next to him, sitting on barrels, swinging their bottles of rum, and taking turns telling bedroom stories. Marksman heaved and listened, but he couldn't pick up the details. He wasn't like them. Sure, give him a map and some coordinates, and he could pitch a shot on a vase from a mile away. All the engineers were skilled, a few came straight from the Scholarium, some picked up for their natural intuition. That was as much as everyone else who carried the big guns for them, could agree on. Yet, Marksman never got along with their juvenile humour.

The new warrant officer, Remus, got the sharp end of their jests when he sat down for lunch at the officers' mess and was greeted by firecrackers. The officer was singed from top to bottom, lost his eyebrows. He had hearing problems for the next few hours. Last Marksman heard, complaints were being sent to the brass. Of course, Remus Cantusa was the brass around here— his job was to take in the complaints, transfer them to the chief warrant officer, Titus, who then shifted it along to the captain.

The captain never listened. He was a lazy arsehole, even lazier than the engineers. Nothing wrong with it. The man could do something if he wanted to. But half the time he didn't. Half the time, Marksman observed, the captain lounged about in his office with the ardent evasion of decorum often seen in Argamanthi barbarians— the very Argamanthi Walter supposedly fought against in the Battle of Argamanth Creek. Marksman supposed he picked up more than he ought to have during the battle.

The captain's sole aide, a lieutenant or so who went by the name of Silvester, was another of the Tharinaen dregs. The Tharin domination, as they called it, offended a lot of people. The grunts, of course, fought fire with fire. Those troopers from former Captain Sanguinius's army showed their hatred for him without reserve, in all the subtle ways possible. When Marksman was passing by the mess halls and the kitchens, he overheard the cooks planning to fill Walter's bread with sawdust. He didn't intervene. He had his share of disappointment for the newly elected officer, though he preferred to remain ambivalent.

Marksman grunted, inched away from the engineers, and exited the pavilion. He needed a break. The night was young, dark, yet enough was provided by the moon's gaze for him to make his way. The engineers' chatter soon faded and died, replaced by the soft ambiance of the soldiers still awake and those on watch duty.

He met Chief Warrant Officer Titus Flavius Caepio standing before his own tent, next to the arms station. His face was illuminated by a street lamp— an angular, harsh face buried by marks of stress, age and scars. He looked worried. Marksman approached him, concerned about his haggard appearance, but just as he attempted to speak, Titus accosted him.

“Marksman, is that you?” the officer said, beckoning him closer. “I need you to do me a favour, Marks.”

“Anything you ask, I'll get it done,” Marksman answered, sincerely. The officer had been serving in the army for a while, enough to have a reputation of his own. Everybody knew and liked him. He wasn't the most kindest of men, but he was the type you respected.

Titus scrutinised Marksman from toe to head. “You're walking around here right, gonna be ambling around for a while?”

“Guess so.”

“If you meet Remus, tell him to report to me as soon as he can. I'd sent for another boy, but they're all off somewhere goofing off.”

“No doubt,” Marksman answered without the slightest of hesitation. He knew for a fact that they were goofing off.

“Well, you know who Remus is, Marks? The new guy?”

“Got trashed in the mess hall.”

“Right, right.” He dismissed Marksman with an absent-minded wave. “Off with you, then.”

Marksman mumbled his affirmation and continued his stroll. The camp was situated just near Calun's outer fields, just where the valley tapered off to include the wider plains, sitting close to the official garrison barracks. They were already packed to the brim with about half of the army, under Colonel Severius. The city was prepared for their visit, which was announced beforehand in anticipation of a joint practice session. General Longinus had suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of the Argamanthi insurgents— the same battle the new captain had come from. Longinus was forced to hire new recruits from the fringe cities to avoid losing face, but he was lacking experienced officers who could teach this men some discipline. He came to Severius with his problem, and Severius, convinced of the greater good of the empire, decided to write to the south's warden about it. The warden agreed and overruled any decision General Spurius Cato, of this army, could make. Everyone was happy in the end.

The barracks were situated just near the eastern valley pass, underneath the Ades Caverns, on the other side of the road opposite the Kalt. It had an illusion to it, like the whole camp was dug inside a cavernous growth of rocks, which loomed over the camp like an ill omen. Marksman allowed his logic to rule over any sort of superstition, as he was an engineer, but he couldn't say the same for other cadets.

“Country hayseed,” he muttered to himself, arms crossed. He took the branching path, a hangman's noose looped around the camp, the longest there was. A plethora of lamps decorated the tents, orbs of light floating amongst darkness. Marksman admired the sight for a moment before continuing on his way.

He found Remus, the new Warrant Officer and the most recent victim of the engineers' pranks, on a path jutting off from the original to the left side, out the cavern's mouth, near the edge of a precipice. Marksman dared a glance down the cliff. A steep slope of jagged rocks. It was a death certificate with peerless guarantee.

Marksman shuddered, then approached the officer. “Officer Cantusa? You're not obliged to perform watch duty.”

Remus glanced at him and smiled. It seemed forced. “Oh, it's nothing, soldier, just about nothing.”

“I'm an engineer, sir, if I'm to correct you. I believe we met after your little accident.” Though it was hard to discern, Marksman felt the heat of a glare being passed his way. He quickly added, “If it makes you feel any better, know that I did not participate.”

“What's your name again, engineer?” Remus said, relaxing his stare.

“They call me Marksman. Marks, for short.”

“Alright, then, Marksman.” He paused, considered, and then spoke again. “It's a rather odd name, don't you think, Marksman? How did you come by it?”

“I was a bastard son. Never got any name.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried.”

“I don't mind it. The truth's the truth and you can't change it. Nobody can.”

“Well, you're right on that, Marksman.” Remus changed the topic. “Why are you here, then? Engineers aren't given watch duty either.”

“I was talking a walk. I prefer the solitude over the vulgar fellowship of the rest of my crew.”

Remus shifted, glancing at the far off breadth of the Kalt, and the fog hiding the other end of the valley. “The same goes for me, I suppose.”

Marksman shrugged. “One thing more, sir. was told by Officer Titus that you're expected. I recommend hurrying.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Oh.” He looked at Marksman, mouth agape for a second or three, before darting for the Chief Warrant Officer's tent.

Marksman shook his head and resumed his walk again, whistling a tuneless song.


Titus fixed his eyes on the new officer. “So, Remus Cantusa, is it? You're the son of Scipio Cantusa?” The gentle yet steely voice of a taciturn man rolled off his tongue.

Remus gulped. “Yes, sir.”

Titus looked down on his paper. “Alright. I knew him once. We fought together on the Northern Campaign.”

Silence penetrated the atmosphere, creating a tense wall between them. Remus made an attempt to break it. “Why did you call me here, sir?”

“It concerns your recent accident, as many eyewitnesses have told me.” Titus said, setting aside the papers. “That includes your own letter, officer Cantusa.”

Remus breathed a sigh of relief. “I trust, sir, that my letter has been acknowledged through and through?”

Titus coughed. “On the contrary, our captain's far too busy to review your situation. So is his aide.”

Remus frowned. He struggled to keep his voice calm. “What about the lieutenants, sir?”

“They're not obliged to follow your whims, officer, not until the captain says so.”

Remus couldn't control himself any longer. He was outraged. “Whims? It was an attempt on my person, sir!” He almost lurched off from his chair.

Titus barely even flinched. “Calm down, officer. I've decided to review your situation, and your attitude towards the engineers.”

Remus exhaled and pinned his arse to the chair, not trusting himself to let loose.

Titus continued, “I assume you want to speak with the captain?”

“Certainly, sir, I would be grateful for the opportunity.”

“You'll get your chance, Cantusa. I'm assigning you to personal guard duty for our captain, under the pretence of administrating the military police.”

Remus gaped at him. “I did not gather what you just said, sir.”

“Our captain, Cantusa, suffered four assassination attempts since his promotion.”

“Why?” Remus asked.

“Allow me to clarify it to you, officer.” Titus stressed it to the point of stilted intonation. “Our darling captain has Tharin blood in him. Do you understand what I mean, Remus Cantusa?”

The Warrant Officer's mouth went dry. Scarce was the inlander who achieved the position of an officer, and just as quickly, someone had it. Not only that, but someone he was serving. He couldn't handle it any longer. “That's impossible, sir!
Tharin men bear traitorous thoughts by default, sir, and I'm to serve one? I've no desire to be accomplice to treason!”

“I order you to simmer down, Cantusa. Listen. You're going to do what I tell you to do, and if the captain dies, like it or not, the blame's all going to be tacked on you, officer Cantusa.”

“But,” Remus ventured.

“Dismissed, officer.”

Remus lifted his hand in a numb salute and marched back the way he came. He needed a drink. Badly.

 

[0stinato]

Perhaps Analise would have triumphantly cried, "Got it!" upon retrieving the copper coin that made its escape from her grasp and bounced under the counter. But her tongue became static as she crouched beneath the desk upon the sound of an opening door and the ring-for-attention bell. Instead of poking her head up and apologising, as she was supposed to be running the front of house, she leaned her head against the floor, peering through the gap between the backpanel of the counter and the planks. A couple of pairs of shoes, one looking much less dusty than the other. Her mouth pursed into a curious protrusion as she stared. So absorbed she became in her task, she only noticed voices when her brother's cut in.

He had definitely seen her, judging by the way he pushed the chair forward with his foot as he spoke. One of the legs hit against her backside.

"Witch doctor? What in the seventeen hells are you on about? Secondly, no I don't know your pain. Finally, get out from under there, you stupid girl."

Nought forced Analise from out beneath the desk. She stumbled as she stood, and placed the copper on the counter, giving her hair a quick, ragged swipe with her fingers. Dust dislodged.

"I dropped a penny."

"Well obviously. Go upstairs," Nought ensured she was gone, and tugged the curtain across the open doorway so prying eyes could not seek information about what went on in the back rooms. Trade secrets, muttered curses and tearful lunches. Not one of them Nought was willing to share. His cigarette was burned down so, as he sat down, he simply stubbed it on the coin Analise had left on the desk as he looked at the two men. One of them he recognised, though never bothered to know his name. Been in a couple of times. Serviceable attitude, that one had. Serviceable as in, ever so slightly pliable.

Indeed, the other man was doing that now, bending the other man into the shape he needed, a shape of submission. Nought blinked at the man who demanded his services and sighed.

"What sort of parasite could I give you? Are you paranoid I'll install a tapeworm in your guts?" he asked, quite seriously. He had full awareness that was within his means. He'd simply have to acquire that tapeworm... "Just because I can't afford a shop in a nicer location doesn't mean I don't do my best with my goods, and it doesn't mean I'm a fucking witch, do you understand me? But - you want the best hangover remedy, I can give that to you. Though I must assure you, 'best' and 'strongest' are two different things. Do you want the one that will make you feel better, or the one that will actually effect you? I can tell you don't want the latter, no one ever does."

Nought got up. He stretched a muscle in his back as he walked to a shelf by the door. A brown glass bottle, corked and sealed with wax was what he selected, bringing it back to the counter. It contained about 50 millilitres of liquid and didn't look like anything special. Once back at the counter, Nought opened a drawer and dug through papers, finally bringing out a small card with the instructions for use on it, which he laid on the desk.

He stared up into the man's eyes, "Take it with another liquid, mix the two. One part medicine," he tapped the bottle, "to ten parts liquid. More if you feel awful, less if you're easing off. You can take it without another liquid of course, but you'll likely get the wrong dose and really fuck yourself up. As I said, this will make you feel better. It will relieve the headache, makes the nausea bearable, generally lifts your mood. It won't actually obliterate the alcohol in your system. And other important instructions are: no stimulants for forty-eight hours, no alcohol for forty-eight hours and, if possible, take it with food. I say forty-eight hours because it will be out of your system by then. By all means keep some for your next debauchery-infested, ethanol evening, but I sell it in small quantities only. If I sell it any bigger than this, people have a tendency to be stupid with it. Oh, and, minor side effect may be a vague sense of paranoia, but that's usually neutralised by the happier mood.

"That's all the important details for this, if you want it. Any complaints, bring it back and detail to me exactly why you weren't happy with it. Write it down if you must. As you can see, I'm all about giving my customers the best."

He proceeded to flick the penny towards the two men, scattering ash as he did so.

"The best, you understand, gentlemen. Twenty-nine silver, if you want it. I do have to ask for upfront payment, you understand, no I.O.U.s, or tabs here. I'm not a tavern. Twenty-nine silver, or tell me something else you want."

Upstairs, Analise was sat at the open window, trying to listen to the conversation downstairs. Those men had interesting shoes, and she was wondering why the man with the less-dusty shoes would come to a place like this. It didn't quite make sense to her. Eventually, she became distracted trying on a dress, and danced around the shared bedroom swinging the hem of it, bare feet smooth against rough wood.

 

[0stinato]

The first thing the player did was insist on seeing the room he would be performing in, to which Hiero obliged to lead him there. It was an ordeal to even walk with Bonvillian though, as the man would stop and stare at paintings, mimicking not only the pose of the people in the picture but the facial expression too. All in all, Hiero was rather amused. He eyed his chosen man carefully. To run into such a fellow in a mere few minutes after leaving, a stroke of luck had seen him favoured today. Although by Bonvillian's dress, Hiero supposed it would have been impossible to overlook such a man.

Lapeno was in the process of beginning to set up the dais, and he seemed rather surprised to not only see Hiero back so quickly, but to see him alongside the colourful Bonvillian, the tunic-wearing, patched-tights man with panpipes in his hand. Lapeno straightened up and approached, his face noticeably creased simply by Bonvillian's presence.

"Master, can I do anything for you? Is this your player?"

"He is indeed. He wants to check the acoustics of the room if that is acceptable. I know not what he'll do to check such a thing, but I am not a professional player myself. Hoi, my player, Jan, you are a professional yes?"

Bonvillian tilted his head, "Yes, my lord, I trained, unfortunately, at Brookmyres. In the Penny District. Yes, sir, I know, such a disappointment, do not look at me in such a fashion!"

Hiero's expression had adopted an air of betrayal and disgust at Bonvillian's confession.

"You see, my lord, I am a talented player, you shan't be disappointed with me. But I could never get work in Libre Ave. because I did not go to the Lyly School of Arts. You see, the theatres in Libre Ave. usually employ those who form boy groups early from places like the Lyly School. As I was from Brookmyres, I was unable to ever get on stage. How I have wept for the stage, my lord!" and Lapeno was shocked to see tears stream from Bonvillian's eyes like pearls of water from a leaking bucket. Hiero did not seem the least bit surprised and simply urged Bonvillian to continue. "Well, yes, sirs, quite tragic. Though I must act and play and perform, you understand, my lord, it is my lifeblood. I told you, I do act on the road on the off-chance some man may wish to hire me. How I wish my parents had the funds to send me to the Lyly School all those years ago... but 'twas only the Brookmyres they could afford. The travelling troupe came after my time there of course, I worked since I was 15 to pay off my parents' debts..."

"Yes, do carry on. Are you a professional?" Hiero said, tone tinged with impatience.

Bonvillian nodded, "As professional as I can be in the circumstances. I passed through Brookmyres, I performed since I was 15, I play daily on the street, I am but a humble busker now, my lord. Until now, that is, if you will have me, my lord. Indeed I know the play you wish me to know, and my prowess with music is quite unmatched, from the discordant whistling I have heard in this city, my lord."

"A Brookmyres player..." Hiero raised a hand to his forehead. "No matter. Brookmyres or Lyly, education does not matter, does it?" he forced a tight smile to his lips. On the one hand, a player from the Penny District had no business crossing the Guthlac threshold... but on the other hand, this man was Hiero's pick. A way to wrestle control from his father and take back his party. He was not going to drop Bonvillian for an educational difference. As he considered, Bonvillian paraded around the room, his face a picture of focus, occasionally offering a single note on the panpipes and raising his voice in a variety of tones and timbres, testing the air and the room's walls. Lapeno kept a close eye on the maverick.

"Please, could you fetch the paperwork for the player? It is on my dresser," Hiero said to Lapeno as he watched his reveller with eyes of glass. His mind was busy convincing itself Bonvillian was not a bad idea. Besides, what a charity case it would be! Hiero welcomes a Brookmyres' player into his midst, and the Brookmyres player rises to the stars. He will be on stage in Libre Ave. and perform for the Empress. From a colourful nobody to a vivid and opaque somebody, all thanks to Hiero's decision.

Yes, and a musician too!

"It is not as acoustically kind as I would have enjoyed," Bonvillian reported. He was stood with one foot on the dais, looking up at the chandelier, bristling with candles. "But I cannot choose. I will adjust my voice accordingly, though, if there will be people in this room, they will be bound to absorb my sound as I make it..."

See, he did know what he was talking about.

"You'll be able to perform then?"

"Indeed, my lord, I have examined the place. I already have the first act of the 24 Kings in my head... a rather nice play-space, wider than I am used to. Oh, the 24 Kings will be plenty of fun to perform again. I remember it like it's a song."

"The paperwork, master, and a quill and ink."

"Wonderful, thank you. Jan, do come over here, I have some things you must sign."

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Nothing is scarier than having to lead a thousand men who hate your guts. Everyday the men were eager to make a mockery out of Walter, practically stepping on his balls the entire time. His soldiers, his own soldiers disobeyed direct orders whenever they could get away with it, they ignored his suggestions, the engineers blew up his personal belongings for fun, the chef served crappy food, the juvies laughed at his face and called him names, and at the end of the day he could hear voices outside his tent telling him how awful of a Captain he is. They gave him no rest, and made his soul cry out in anguish. This was injustice, committed by his own subordinates, pure and simple. But oftentimes they were far too tricky for him to reasonably dish out some real punishment to these clowns. The successes he scored against these troublemakers were few and far and between, unable to make a real difference, unable to send a clear message that he was not to be fucked with.

And this wasn't the worst of Walter's problems. Someone out there wanted him dead at least four times, which explains why on four separate occasions some random strangers tried to gut him like a fish! The first was the moment after he received his promotion, the second was through the river trip in the Kalt, the third was when he just received Calun, and the fourth happened inside this camp itself. He was fortunate to have narrowly escaped death but he knew that whoever was responsible for this wasn't going to stop anytime soon. Just what did he do to deserve this? What was he, some cosmic plaything for the gods? Damn the gods. Damn the army. Damn these cowards trying to get him killed. Damn them all. He did nothing to provoke them and yet they treated him like shit.

Walter spent his days looking out for signs of trouble, wondering if someone was out to kill him again. In his dreams, he was tormented with nightmares of how his own men would get him killed on purpose. In battles, they'd run away and leave him to fend for himself. And sometimes, these men in his dreams would hand him over to the enemy, and gleefully torture him to death. And as time passed Walter's well-justified fears transformed into paranoia. When a man entered his tent, Walter barraged him with questions, asking who he is, why did he come here, and memorized every little detail he could about the man. He couldn't afford to let his guard down with anyone, no, each and every one of them was a suspect. Each of them could easily end his life before he knew it.

And that was why Captain Walter spent his days doing nothing but thinking up of conspiracy theories.

And when he wasn't doing that, he calmed himself by performing ancient rituals in the Inlander tradition. Walter lit up a dozen candles and drank a special potion that helped him travel to the dream world. A place where all spirits and gods reunited with men when they slept. And he spent the rest of the day unconscious in his own tent, with his own guards standing watch while he was in deep slumber.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

In that great structure called the City Hall, powerful men from all over Calun gathered to address the many issues of the city. For four hours they met every week to speak to all members of the Council, with Mayor Arraye, several of the judges, and other relevant officials present. And if the problems were deemed serious enough, they'd call for a vote to establish a committee to meet this specific problem. If two-thirds of the council members agreed, the Mayor was required to approve of this to get them started. If the Mayor vetoed the vote, the council members would have to get a three-fourths majority to overrule him. That was the way the City Hall functioned.

When the four hours were up, everyone went home. Arraye hailed his driver and got into his personal carriage without much trouble. When the horses were whipped into action, they headed straight for the Guthlac Manor. During the ride, Arraye took the opportunity to think about what happened in the council chamber.

Arraye and his colleagues are getting increasingly worried about the Prentice Union's growing strength. Disgruntled workers were rising up everywhere demanding representation and thousands are continuing to fill up Union ranks. Worse still, news spread outward to neighboring cities and even out into the sleepy countryside and now potentially millions of people were closely watching the Party's developments. So closely were their eyes kept on the Union that Arraye couldn't afford to use any cheap tricks to undermine their influence. He'd have to play nice if he was going to get anywhere. And it wasn't like the Union didn't have any valid points of their own, the city was corrupt as hell and they were just trying to get their families fed. The guild and all the big businesses weren't running the show fair and square, they were absolutely brutal to their own workers and they gave no crap.

Promotions were rare, so loyal, hardworking fellows weren't rewarded, instead the guildsmen would often hire their friends and family to manage the business. The working conditions were appalling, death was not an uncommon occurence. And if you were working a dangerous job it wouldn't be a surprise if you got health problems after a week's stay. The hours were long and unrewarding, oftentimes earning only three coppers for working a full thirteen hour day. And sometimes, if business was bad, the guild would cast the blame on the workers and withhold their pay. And we're not even beginning with the numerous complaints about the abuses made by the owners and managers. No self-respecting man would just sit by and twiddle his thumbs after being subjected to this. No, they'd hop in the Union, hoping to finally get respect for their work. And, if they didn't, Arraye feared that they'd start breaking down factories and tearing down shops. And they could do just that.

Half the Calun Militia belonged to the Prentice Union, and they had the support of the people in and out of the city. They were heavily-armed, well-organized, and led by charismatic leaders that earned the love of their people. If they wanted to, they could just walk straight in and take over the city in less than a day and crush the military in a single, well-executed surprise attack and move up secure the city walls. And who knew how long the military would take to subdue the revolt? Three months, tops, was the estimate of military planners. In that time, the Guthlac Manor, with its impregnable defenses would be overrun and their supplies depleted a long time ago. It was a total nightmare, worst case scenario, and Arraye hoped to avoid it if possible.

If he had it his way, he'd try to diffuse the ticking time bomb that was the Prentice Union so nobody would have to rise up in arms. And while he was at it, he'd attempt to undermine the Union's influence by introducing reforms of his own and claiming all the credit. All of them aimed at appeasing the working classes. There would be committees established to handle the problem, safety regulations introduced, schools set up, complaints addressed, money pouring in to charities. All the good stuff coming in for the benefit of the masses and he'd become a public hero. If he just played his cards right and acted like a true politician then everyone would be happy, him included.

Besides the growing influence of the Prentice Union and the possibility of a popular revolt, Arraye was alarmed by the rising crime rates. Two hundred thousand people lived in this urban metropolis and the number soared even higher with each passing year. When people came, they also brought their problems with them and one of them was crime. Murder, rape, assault, theft, vandalism, extortion, flooded the headlines of every major newspaper. The guardsmen scrambled to impose law and order in the streets but they were deemed unfit to solve a problem of this magnitude. There were just too many people to police and the guardsmen weren't given proper training to address these issues. When street gangs grew large they often fought each other for dominance in the city and soon they introduced a new dark chapter in the city with their widespread violence. Nobody felt safe walking alone in the streets at night so everyone had to be armed to fend for themselves.

A number of criminal organizations scammed innocents out of their hard-earned money and nobody was clever enough to track them down. Corruption was at an all-time high with officials accepting bribes and doing favors for their buddies. And to make matters worse, there were rumors of Captain Walter, the newly-promoted military commander, planning to throw a revolt to free the peoples of Calun from the oppression of their government. Nobody knew if this was true or not but from now on everybody kept their guard up whenever Captain appeared.

Just then the carriage screeched to a halt and Arraye arrived at the foot of the gates. It was time to go. Arraye opened the carriage door and landed feet first on the ground. He looked around, told the driver to leave and he paid him for his trouble. He bade the servants inside to open the gates and at once, the huge steel doors gave way for Arraye to move inside.

"Hiero!" Arraye shouted from outside, "Are the preparations ready?"

 

[Elephantom]

Acts Of Desperation
I​

Flipping through the rest of the scroll, Lanqui sighed. He bound the letter with a thread, fed it to the fireplace, and then watched as the heat consumed the vellum. As if it could fix everything, he thought. A few hours away from midnight, the near city of Nere and its glimmering spires flushed with the commotion of men and the sounds of festival— it was the third night of the Xani ceremonies, and restricted to his countryside estate, he was unable to enjoy it. But he never did have a love for the senseless joy of festivities most people of Mare seemed to indulge in.

He heard his door open. The moonlight from outside gushed in through the window beside him and casted a wan light on his cousin. He hid his surprise. “Madame Gene, you're ever welcome, but do you have any present business?” he asked her.

“You seemed worried,” Madame Gene said. She sat beside him. “What ails you, coz?”

“If that's a short-hand manner of visiting your cousin,” Lanqui answered. “You could've just said so, Gene.”

“Do I need any reason to visit you, little coz?” Her gaze was unrelenting.

Lanqui caved in. “No, you do not.”

“Then, do tell me about your ills, coz.”

Lanqui exhaled. “Can I be frank with you?”

“Of course,” she replied without any hesitation.

Lanqui blinked. He knew the possible consequences of telling a person about the inner workings of Mare, yet he trusted Gene. “Yes, yes. Well, Arco- you remember him, don't you?”

“Why, I think I met Sir Arco during Lord Incifer's party last week, no?”

“Indeed, indeed,” Lanqui said. He observed her aquiline nose, scratching his stubble. “I knew him for some time. He's a close acquaintance of mine, or rather, a distant friend. Well, well, uh, he's trying to, uh, do away with Incifer.” He felt a measure of idiocy saying it so non-nonchalantly. But, sometimes, directness worked to your advantage.

“Oh, my!” Gene exclaimed. “You don't mean the magician, do you?”

Lanqui nodded. “Incifer.”

Lanqui wanted no part in deposing Incifer, and nor did he desire to get himself tangled with the Lion and Arco. Lanqui had first met the renegade mage in the course of his one-month stay as a guest in Wind's keep. Incifer was a quiet yet imposing figure, through force of personality rather than physique. He was attired in the odd, flowing robes of his own culture, drawing attention to him in addition to the fact that he was a sorcerer. He was gaunt, had the greyish-white hair of a sixty year old man, and a thick, slightly nasal voice. What distinguished him most was his pale skin, white as the snow that plagues the distant lands. A sharp contrast against the dark skin of Mare natives and nobles. Lanqui met him five times again, in ballroom parties and luncheons, and once conversed on the political weather. He was intelligent, concise, and eloquent with his words, but exuded an air of mystery. All his answers were clipped to the point of vagueness.

“But is he not impossible to kill?”

“Fairy tales, or so Arco thinks.” Lanqui sighed. “He suspects Incifer is a pretender.”

Gene straightened back against her chair and frowned. “Does Arco have any personal animosity towards Lord Incifer?”

“Perhaps.” Lanqui managed a weak smile. “It's been going on for a time, nothing but a proxy war, between the renegade unbelievers and the Mare loyalists. Now with Arco throwing himself on the Lion's side, it's gotten interesting.”

Lanqui continued. “Arco abhors Incifer, but even more than that, he fears him. It's not a rooted terror, I believe, Madame Gene. Incifer's been around for a time, quite a time, and if it had been that, he'd have played lackey long ago. But what he has is enough to provoke delusions and scepticism.”

Madame Gene pursed her lips, folding her hands on her lap. “But where do you come in, coz?”

“Madame Gene, my cousin,” Lanqui said. “I come in for my funds, my money.”

“But I thought Arco had wealth enough to aid his means and the means of others?” Gene replied.

“He has none at all,” Lanqui said. “Whatever he has, he wastes to supplement his facade. He's in great debts, Gene, I will tell you that.”

His cousin went silent, brooding. She was a refined woman, more so against the pale light of the full moon. “He has been behaving quite erratic, coz, I've noticed that.”

“He goes on the king's fund these days, that fool.” Lanqui forced a chuckle, which sounded bitter even as he heard it himself. “He was carrying money in the form of raw goods, cousin. He was going to exchange them for silver here in Nere. They were a token of aid from Trader sympathizers, and Arco was sent on the covert mission to retrieve them. But it was lost to highwaymen. Now, he fears for himself. He knows the Lion won't forgive him. So, he asks for my money. To fund a search for the bandits and the money, and to deceive the Shah.”

“I never would've pegged little Arco as the audacious sort.”

Lanqui had met Arco when the man was still a solicitor of Crowent Street. They became fast acquaintances, as Lanqui frequented his establishment. Afterwards, when Arco founded his guild, they kept a steady contact. The man's misery was understandable — paranoia, fear, and loathing pestered him since his rise in society. He was fierce in his own right, even democratic to a degree, but made him so influential was his place in the merchant's guild of Mare, the Traders. He was the keeper of the guild, and had part in establishing the network. Arco viewed the unorthodox Incifer as an abomination — a handful of filth blotting Mare's culture.

Lanqui bade his cousin farewell with a bow, asking for a moment to himself. She heeded his words and went out. When he was sure nobody was nearby, he picked up a sheaf of paper, opened his brass writing-case, and set out the tools before him. He took the quill, dipped the clipped end in ink, and dragged it across the paper. It was obvious that he couldn't avoid the upcoming conflict.

“Of course,” muttered Lanqui to himself. He needed to pick a side. “Of course.”

He wrote a message to Barso, a loyal henchman and former associate of his father. He kept it short and curt.

Monsieur Vin,

I require a meeting with Arco Ceroy of the Merchant's Guild, which, I trust, you are well aware of. Settle one at the soonest with his assistant and report back to me.

Monsieur Plaigne
​

He wrote it in a scrawl, sharp and jagged, dried it with sand, and bound it. He took out another piece of paper, and thinking about it, he wrote another letter to Lord Wind, saying to expect a visit from an associate and official. This, too, he would convey through Barso Vin.

He bound both letters with threads, and set them next to his first letter. He would tend to them tomorrow.

Lanqui got up from his chair, back creaking sorely, and returned to his bed. He shuffled his covers on and pretended to sleep. He needed to think on his approach tonight. Tomorrow would likely be a busy day.

 

[Elephantom]

Nightly Work II​

The crowds thickened near the Imperial Bank down the Streets of Penance during evening time, when most of the counting-houses opened and the accountants began their jobs, staying through the night— monies were exchanged for writs, deposited into lockers, and taken as loan. The Imperial Bank was the heart of the city's economy, next to the guild plazas on the western side, the docks edging off into the Kalt river near the east, and the hazy beyond. The city's funds ran through the area, and so did the coins from the foreign merchants and the taxes wrenched from citizen hands.

The repugnant stench of sweat, a product of the blistering heat, wafted in from the Black Circle, clinging to the winds alongside the chorus of murmurs and the distant shrieks of crows. Colonel Severius turned his gaze outside the stained windows. He'd seen worse, yet they were all justified with the promise of a better future. And, here it was, with muggers skulking in shadows, shops closed, the destitute coming in numbers, and the immigrants from the foreign cities shunned by the masses.

Severius rubbed his eyes. “Hasn't gotten any better than last I saw,” he muttered to himself, pursing his lips. His stomach grumbled. When did he last eat? The three days the army had been in the city were hectic, time spent sorting documents and baggage, pushing slackers to do their work.

“The city's not what I expected.” The Marean accent was thick on the gravelly, deep voice. “I've only read about the empire's sprawl, monsieur, never seen it. A grand scape fit for the eyes, they said, the greatest in this land.”

“That I cannot argue with,” Severius said.

“And that applies to me too, yet I was expecting something more different.”

Severius slipped a glance towards the speaker. He was a dark-skinned man in his forties, the age made apparent by the pair of gray wings running beyond his temple, providing a contrast against his dark brown hair, and was of a lean frame. A scattering of wrinkles lined his face, not too much to disturb his appearance— a girl in the right state of mind would've considered him handsome, with his curly hair left wild and loose, angular jaw, and the distinct Marean nose— but noticeable.

“I presume you're a tourist?” he asked.

“Monsieur Rousseau Blanchett, at your service,” the foreigner replied, smiling, with as much a bow as his seat allowed.

“Colonel Severius Caldus, of Her Majesty's Keep and the Third.”

Rousseau nodded. “The uniform shows it,” he said, more to himself than to the colonel. He faced the window again, folding his arms. “Fascinating, isn't it? The urban life's unique in its own right.”

“Having been a man of the country for a few decades, I don't find it particularly fascinating,” Severius said, dryly.

“Have you a reason for that thought, monsieur?”

Severius shrugged. “It's an ugly sight, I assure you, uglier than it looks.”

Rousseau raised an eyebrow. “An old friend taught me that beauty can be found in the grotesque too, monsieur.”

“I never was much of the poetic type, sir. If you ask me, you should've visited Tharin. The Capital's always been the better city, the better experience”

Rousseau twisted his face in mock despair. “I would've gone had I not been bound to this city by business.”

“Foreign business. The recent flux of outlanders prove that. The empire's turning cosmopolitan by the year,” Severius mused.

A vague smile stretched Rousseau's lips. “And that's a bad thing, monsieur?”

Severius chuckled. “Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. More for everybody, I suppose. This world needs more peace anyway.” He leaned back. “Anything else, fellow? I suppose I owe you a few answers, you being a foreigner and me a government servant.”

Rousseau rubbed his chin, brooding for a moment. “Can you enlighten me on the city, monsieur?” he said, finally.

“On what matter of the city, sir?”

“On the geography, I suppose.”

“Of the city?”

“Of this district, at least.”

“That much I can give. Mind you, sir, it's been a good few years since I've been last around this city so I'd rather you didn't take my word for it,” he said.

Severius cleared his throat. “This place right here is the Black Circle, fronted by the Row of Penance, also called the Row of Nides, and the Temple of Apathy around the end. I'm sure you know the name of the district. The Trade Wharves close to the Kalt, the river, is a popular site for merchants and free men with an eye for business and a bone to pick with the Traders. The Marean Traders, yes. Those men have been dominating the market for the past few years, holding the northern sea-posts and agricultural technologies unique to their country. I'm sure you're aware of it, at least.”

“Why do they call it the Row of Penance, monsieur?”

“The Nides sect of the Symposia celebrate the Spirit's death with lifelong penance, humility, and resignation. The Temple of Apathy is their hold in this city.”

“And what do they preach?”

“They're beggar priests. What do you think they preach?”

“Ironic.”

“You're not alone on that.” He paused for a moment, taking in the room with a sweeping gesture of his hands. “This is the Imperial Bank, doubling as the city's treasury and tax department. The rest out there are the solicitors, money-lenders, firms, and smaller counting-houses. The Trade Wharves hold the liquor factories and warehouses, past the docks yet close nearby. The guilds are behind the Row of Penance, behind us, still close enough to the riverside to ease access for foreign merchants and guild members from outside the city.”

“Why do they call it the Black Circle?” Rousseau asked.

Severius stared. “It's black, that's why.”

“No, no, I mean, is there anything besides that behind it?”

The grime covering the stone paths and houses, and the iron barring the windows and locking the doors, gave the Black Circle its name. The metal meant vacancy— sold to the government and ripe for buying— or warning, to stave off thieves and sneaks looking for easy money. The city was going poorer than a rat's arse, with the gold being siphoned off by the nobles, military, and the criminal syndicates. Severius wasn't surprised with the recent surge in crime. The peasants were getting tired of horse shit, and people who get tired of horse shit tend to have a higher view of gold. A bit too high for their own good.

Severius forced a smile, knowing that it would be anything but earnest. “The story's a simple one, fellow, if I'm going to get straight to the facts,” he said. “Our governor here got elected a few years back. I was around right then, saw the inauguration. Nothing grand. The city was poorer than it is now. Well, he has a brother. They both served at the same units during their military days, going their separate ways afterwards. The mayor, Arraye Guthlac, became the mayor, going down in this city's small history as a saviour of sorts. His brother, Aleaye, used the inheritance he'd allegedly stolen from his brother to invest in the liquor business.”

“They do not sound like local names, monsieur, not any I've read about,” Rousseau interjected.

Severius rolled his eyes. “Because they're not. They're likely Old Tharin.”

“With certainty?” Rousseau uttered.

Severius glowered at him. “Trust me, if I could track people's heritage and names, I would've been a genealogist. I am not.”

“As you were saying then, monsieur.”

Severius squinted. “This brother of the mayor made his fortune with those liquor factories, setting up an industry just right around the corner, near the docks like I told you. The kind called whiskey, bred and procured right there, sold off to the masses and the fops. The boys around call it Ale Whiskey.”

“Ale Whiskey?”

Severius nodded. “Ale Whiskey.”

“Odd name.”

“Odd name,” Severius agreed, nodding his head.

“I gather what you're saying, monsieur.”

“You can connect the rest of the dots by yourself,” Severius said. He folded his arms.

“Number twenty three,” one of the attendants from the desks droned. Severius checked his writ, looking over the number— it was his turn, number twenty three, in bold numerals.

Severius cringed. “I have to attend to business now, sir Blanchett. Perhaps we will meet again,” he said.

“Perhaps,” the Marean echoed.

Severius shook his head and went to the counter, clutching the papers of his office. He set it down on the examiner's desk. “Colonel Severius Caldus from the Third, of the Majesty's Keep, on behalf of General Longinus of the Fifth and General Spurius Cato of the Third. The documents concern a public tax regarding the acquisition of arms for new recruits.” He pulled out a scroll and laid it next to the others. “And we have the Border Warden's report on this.”

The examiner smirked. “The city does not fall underneath the jurisdiction of the Border Warden, sir. It's a misfortune, but I'm far from sure if the Warden's commands are valid in this province,” the examiner stated, tapping his pen on the desk, staring at the colonel. Severius gritted his teeth.

“The jurisdiction of the Wardens are loose. The papers here, by code 1020, dictate the command compass by the cause and location of cause, not the immediate site. You can read the Warden's report,” he said.

The examiner coughed into closed hands, shuffling the papers on his desk into a neat stack. His papers. “I will need your report as witness and mediator.”

Severius's eyes twitched. “I haven't the time. Make haste, fellow!”

“I'm afraid the Imperial Bank offers no excuse when it comes to due processes.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Severius threw on a martial grimace. It was ever effective in intimidating men of weak will, such as the examiner.

“What do you mean?” the examiner croaked as his smooth monotone contorted into an anxious squeak.

Severius inched forward and looked straight into the man's eyes. He held up the envelope, resisting the urge to smile, and placed it before the agitated everyman. “I have a signed letter of command from the Empress herself, fellow.”

“What?!” the man squeaked.

“That is true.” He nodded, speaking slowly as he did whenever circumstances forced him to abandon honesty.“She won't be pleased when news of it reaches her ears. And it will, I assure you.”

The man broke down. He stammered, clucking and fumbling with his pen, as the attendant hurried to his aid. His hand flew, the pen he was holding slamming against the table. Severius rescued his papers as ink flew everywhere, on the examiner's paper, jacket, and the official lapel of government servitude. The attendant shrieked, lips frothing with spitting rage, sparking a chain of commotion as both toppled into each other in their attempt to rectify the examiner's mistakes.

Colonel Severius Caldus sighed.


Laugher sipped from a cup of tea, folding his legs one over the other. “Now, I thought our meeting would be more climactic. How many years has it been? Five?”

“A lot,” Ashboy said. “But we've been talking for a while, y'know, for a good while.”

Laugher nodded. “A good while indeed. Are you aware of the letter I've sent you? Should've arrived last week.”

“No worries,” Ashboy replied. “I'm fully aware and have read it.”

“Good. I take it that preparations have been dealt?”

“And set in motion.”

Laugher grinned. “All on time. Who did you sent?”

“A guy who goes by the name of Isaac. He's a new kid, tough for somebody green. I suppose he used to work for the military at one time,” he said.

Laugher drank the last bits of the tea, setting it down on the table. “What about the guy outside?”

“Calls himself Cutter, shaky as hell but reliable enough. Ain't as green as Isaac, having been around for a year. Why do you ask?”

“I need some muscle, Ash. I ain't as spry as I was back in the old days, and even if I was so, I won't be taking risks.”

Ashboy grimaced. “True. You might as well need the protection.”

“The prentice. They leave a bad taste.”

“The city's down on its knees, weak and vulnerable. Things are going to get ugly in a few months,” Ashboy mused.

The daggerman laughed. “They're going to get ugly alright, just not as late as you think.” His cackle died down soon. “The prentice are too weak to support this city-scale riots. Got any other candidates who wants this city down?”

Ashboy shook his head. “Ain't the empire . . .”

“Our common benefactor?”

“That'd complicate the real objective.”

“The crests?”

Ashboy smirked. “You're right on that. They're the ones backing the prentice, supplying them with funds, arms and a pat on the back.”

Laugher frowned. “Hell,” he muttered. “Anything else going on?”

“The Prince has been quiet these days,” Ashboy said.

“Either he's supporting the Crests, or he's trying to stay outta the inevitable conflict. The latter, likely. He's an arrogant piece of shit but he's still got his senses. I hope. He knows when a city's going down, and if this city goes down, he goes down too.”

Ashboy bit his lips. “And we go down as well. Shit.”


It was nothing like he expected. He asked himself, was it because of the crowd? The nights of this city brought cool airs only, never heat. He took out his handkerchief, wiping the sweat beading on his forehead, dripping down and beyond his cheeks. His tunic, wet and hugging his skin, refused to let go of his back. Titus was waiting outside the Imperial Bank, on the pedestrian footpath of the Black Circle, eyeing the men and women passing by. They entered the Imperial Banks, most did, save for a few loitering nearby.

Titus groaned. A full term spent around the north and the mountains had left him unable to cope with his city's climate.

He looked on as Severius, flustered and moody, emerged from the crowd. “Sir,” Titus said, then saluted.

“At ease, officer,” Severius murmured, waving the officer down. “And stop doing that. The gesture looks sardonic on you, Titus.”

Titus gaped. “Is that so?” he asked.

Severius frowned. “That is so.” He handed him the stack of papers he was carrying, along with an envelope and a scroll. “Carry the papers for me.”

“As you say, Caldus,” Titus said. They were both friends, of similar age, and both used the other's name when people weren't around. “How did the process go?” he said, trying to spark a conversation.

“Badly,” the Colonel grumbled.

“Better than last time?” Titus asked.

Severius shook his head. “No.”

“It'd probably be for the best if you take it as tough as you can. The general doesn't seem like he's going to go easy on you.”

Severius nodded. “He won't. He seems to have taken offense at my action, but it's for the better good. Longinus will appreciate it.”

Titus shifted the stack of papers on his arms, brows furrowing, as he narrowly avoided a pedestrian. The man's elbow, a merchant by his dyed robes, connected with his guts and nearly made him lose his balance. He bellowed a curse at the hurrying man.

Severius raised an eyebrow. “Anything wrong, Titus? It's frighteningly out of character for you to act on impulses, man.”

“Nothing much,” Titus said, exhaling. No use going roundabout this problem, might as well just say it outright. “Well, there's the heat, been bothering me for a while.”

The Colonel faked a cough. “There's more.”

Titus sighed. “This one captain, Tharin blood, pain in the arse.”

“You're talking about Remus?”

“No. I'm talking about Walter.”

Severius gritted his teeth. “Of course,” he said. “Heard he was transferred from the 5th, got his team slaughtered on the battle of argamanthi creek, and came out as the lone survivor. Instant promotion. What about him?”

“Four assassination attempts.”

“That's absurd!” Severius cried.

“He's a Tharin officer, Caldus.”

Severius snickered. “That's still pretty much unwarranted for. Does he have any bad blood with the wrong kind of people?”

“Not that I've heard of. If you ask me, I think it's those partisans.”

Severius grimaced. “Of course. Why not? A cherry on the top.”

“I've assigned some protection detail to him. Remus and a few reliable men. The people will behave far from nice if a hero like him's rotting six feet down.”

Severius removed his hat, brushing his hair back. The Colonel's hairline had long since started to recline, showing the beginnings of a bald spot on the centre of the head, peppered with gray hair. He was getting old. Titus looked him over. He was a gaunt man, cheekbones protruding, jaw sharp and a few angles away from being a clean chisel figure. His stance was uniform and straight, dark eyes perceptive, quick, and somewhat anxious.

“The people won't like it at all, and we've already got enough tension as it is. I bet he's shaky, thinking of high-tailing his arse out. What do you think we should do?” Severius said.

“I suggest you have a good talk with him. Appeal to his patriotism,” Titus suggested.

“A good talk, right.” He snorted. He took out a clock from his pocket, peeking at the time. “Hell. We've already wasted enough minutes as it is. We should go now.”


Here he was, gazing at the distant silhouettes of three men, one in a horse, the other two standing nearby. Sulayman, called Sulay by his friends and everyone else, pulled the rein on his gelding, forcing the beast to a halt. They had rusty farming tools, clutching them tight, standing side by side and blocking the road. They were all pink-skinned, skittish, and had probably never seen a fight in their life. Sulay was reminded of his past life, as a Slavemaster of the Emperor's Host. He'd seen desperation, raw and dark, in a slave's eyes one time, right before he attempted an escape, like he was going against fear, against reason, hoping and daring yet knowing the inevitability of his fate. The peasants had the same look in their eyes. Some men like to go down hard.

“Get out of my way,” Ashok snarled. He wouldn't go down without giving them a bit of hell, that was that. He rested a hand on his family heirloom, pulling it forward, letting it catch the glint of the stark moonlight. It had been given to him by his father once he had passed adulthood, a relic passed down from generation to generation. The handle was long, about the length of his arm, carved from hardwood and reinforced with metal bands— he had it replaced a few days ago, no hard matter. Wood rots fast, metal doesn't. The head was made out of dhur alloy, the real clincher, the size of his hands, maybe smaller, with a spike on the back-end of the haft. A tough maul for tough men.

“Money is what's ailing folks like us. A lack of it,” the one in the middle, with auburn hair and eyes of uneven size, said. He had a nervous quality to his voice— looked like a weasel, and talked like a weasel.

The man on the left had a crooked nose, big frame, and cradled an axe on his arms. His tunic hung about loosely from his shoulder. Starvation had done a number on him. The guy on the right was nondescript, bald, and wore shoes. All had poor clothing and dirt smeared on their faces.

I'll have him, the leader, first. Bloody arrogant prick, he thought, glaring at weasel-face. He spat on the side of the road. “Cur,” he growled. He lowered the hand, from the pommel to the leather grip on the handle. Then, he stepped down from the beast and onto the ground.

The leader, trying some bluster, advanced forward, short spear aimed at him. He threw too much weight on it, throwing it off the mark. Sulay lurched aside, hooking the pick of his hammer around his stick. He pulled hard. The weapon flew off from Weasel-face's grip, landing on the rugged path with a clatter. The man tried to get away, but Sulay grabbed a fistful of his brown hair with a free hand, reining him in as he did his horse. The leader let out a cry but a swift knee to the face cut him off midway. Sulay heard the sickening crack of bones, felt the blood wetting his trousers. He snickered and shoved Weasel-face off the road. He tumbled down a small, sloped cliff, blood trailing, and disappeared into a ravine.

The one on the left swung his axe in huge, wild slashes. Sulay leapt aside, driving the pommel of his weapon into Broke-nose's side, catching a kidney. He let out a short yelp, crumbling down into the ground, and was finished off by a swing to the face. The bandit on the right, Barefoot, shook off his cowardice and jumped to his friend's aid. The slavemaster sidestepped and pushed the spiked end of his hammer forward, hitting the running peasant on the shoulder. Thwack. Steel punctured flesh, going through bone and gristle.

Barefoot let out a groan, stumbling to his feet as the steel held him on. Sulay pulled the hammer out, ichor spurting out, and slammed the blunt fore against the peasant's head. He flew back, losing the sickle from his hand, and hit the ground. Sulayman walked to the still body, raised his weapon, and brought it down on his head, splattering the area with gore and bits of his brain.

“Shit,” he murmured, examining the blood on his weapon. He cleaned the fragments of bone from the steel, using the dead man's shirt, and connected it back on the belt beneath his armour. The leader, who had fallen into a ravine, had yet to get back up. He was either dead, knocked out, or just bad at climbing. Broke-nose's head had caved in from Sulay's swing, and Barefoot's was just pulp.

Sulay grunted and went back to his gelding.

 

[0stinato]

A sniffling child perched on her mother's knee as the maternal touch of a damp cloth was applied to her knee. All the while, the girl was hushed and her younger brother stood uncertainly nearby, his feet shuffling anxiously. The boy had to move out of the way as the door behind him opened, revealing his father, armed with a bowl of warm water and a reel of bandages. Behind his father, a servant, a Guthlac attendant, just in case anything had to be fetched.

"Dada's brought bandages to make you all better," cooed Telga, resting her forehead against her daughter's head. "Let me soak the cloth, here."

Bos Kemble laid the bowl carefully beside Telga on the bed and knelt down in front of his daughter. All the while, the son stood behind, still in the shadow of his sister's injury. And, just as shadows tend do, he wanted to run away. However, now there were two extra grown-ups in the room.

"What happened?" Bos asked Telga.

"I haven't quite worked that out yet," Telga said, dabbing the cloth on their daughter's bloody knee, pulling away the redness, replacing it with a slight bit of cleanliness. "I believe that Taurus might have pushed her."

"He did push me, he pushed me down the steps."

The small mind of a five-year-old did not know much, but Taurus had some grasp of justice already. A childish, saccharine justice, a justice that started every argumentative phrase with, "But..."

"But she ran away from me on purpose."

Bos turned his head, looking his son up and down. With a sigh, he rose and walked over to Taurus, drawing the boy closer with a hand on his shoulder as he leaned down.

"That's not an excuse to push Grettle. She's got a cut on her knee because of it, she got hurt. I don't want to hear that you've been playing roughly with each other again, not while we're here or at home. Hurting each other isn't a nice thing to do. And causing someone else to get hurt is still a bad thing. Taurus, look at me. It's not a nice thing to do, and I want you to apologise to Grettle for pushing her."

"But she called me a copycat."

"Then we will deal with Grettle in a little while, after we've made sure she's okay, but at the moment she's hurt. Come over here and say sorry."

Bos took Taurus by the hand and walked him over to where Grettle sat clinging to her mother. Telga herself had her eyes closed, her arms supporting Grettle loosely. Lack of sleep, and over-indulgence in alcohol was seeing she was getting a long, drawn-out repayment. There was always a balance. Pleasure led to displeasure later. This was reversed for the little girl though; her displeasure of injury was giving her great pleasure in making her little brother squirm. She clung on harder to Telga, the sibling competitiveness overruling the pain from her knee. She had mama, and he didn't.

"Sorry Grettle."

It was not a worthwhile apology, given that Taurus hardly looked at Grettle as he said it. Bos saw it as enough though, and took up a seat next to Telga on the bed, picking up the bandages. The chapter of apology was done, and now he had to return to his fatherly duty of fixing his child's wound. He wrapped the bandage around Grettle's knee quite tightly, and secured it with pins.

"Be careful now," he said. "Don't let these poke you."

"Put another layer around and tie it," Telga murmured. "So she is less likely to be hurt."

Bos did so, his rough hands soft as goose down against his daughter's skin. At one point, she leaned forward to have at his prowess with the bandage. But that was what seven years of raising children caused - children were exponentially more difficult to care for as their age increased. Their needs would change, but the difficulty would only increase. A baby, the helpless creature, needed the base necessities. A toddler wanted what it liked, and only what it liked. A child wished for the world on a plate. And Bos had two of those children.

Grettle, already becoming an independent force in her own right, a seemingly precocious child, but really simply indefatigably curious, stood up against her younger brother as if he was a mini devil. Bos had no trouble believing she did run from him, that she did cruelly pin him as a copycat. Such things were typical of Grettle. And what was typical of Taurus is that he did copy; he followed Grettle. That was Taurus' best ability. He would become infatuated with the idea of someone, and idolise them. His parents were, of course, immune to this, but his big sister was in the firing line.

Bos had imagined that being around Telga's family would give Taurus some distraction, and gift Grettle some new experiences. After all, Telga had instilled in the children's heads wonderful expectations of her siblings' personalities: the determined Rostav, very strongly-willed, very like Grettle in the fact he always wished to attain his own way. Grettle had pouted at that, although in a playful way. Taurus simply asked if Rostav was a boy, to which he got an affrimative answer. That pleased him well enough; the dreaming Hiero, a man who knew the power of words, well-read, if a bit dismissive of the real world. Plays too much in his own head, something that the Guthlac siblings' mother also did. Taurus interjected a rather insightful, "but imagination is good," to which he was met with a smile and an explanation that one day you have to wake up from your dreams; the business-like Marika, with her insatiable appetite so like the Guthlac siblings' father. Perhaps too much like him, for she could be quite scary at times, but always had a real presence. Grettle immediately said she wanted to be like Marika, to which Taurus accused her of being a copycat; the troubled Lavey, who Telga tried her best to skip over. She merely explained Lavey's presence as, "a bit on the horrible side, but at least you know what not to become;" and finally the absent sister Chrysanti, a girl whose heart led her somewhere, and whose head had her stay there. Despite Telga's own opinions on Chrysanti's wild departure from the Guthlac household, she could at least admit that her beliefs and wish to change what was wrong was very admirable. Grettle asked which of Marika or Chrysanti was better to admire, to which Telga automatically responded Marika... but that may have been out of personal stigma.

All the while, Bos was taking as many mental notes as the children; he, of course, had met the Guthlac siblings before, but he was not a man to ignore his wife's voice. She had the intimate knowledge of not only her brothers and sisters, but of their intrafamily relationships. Telga knew who liked who, who hated who, and who spat on who. Though she never quite revealed too many exact identities.

However, despite Telga's painstaking stories of her siblings, Taurus, intimidated by the new location and abundance of aunts, uncles and Guthlac servants, only clung more to Grettle, who was becoming increasingly frustrated with him.

"Are you okay to walk?" Telga said as she let down Grettle to the floor.

"I think so. It just aches a lot, mama."

"Yes, well, I don't want to see you getting hurt like this again. That means, I don't want you to be mean to Taurus," she turned her attention to Taurus, "and I don't want you to be pushing her. If either of you decide to be mean to each other again, you will be put to bed early without supper."

"They eat queer stuff here anyway," Grettle said, folding her arms. Her knee seemed to be the last of her worries now.

"Only because you haven't tried it."

Bos smiled, "We eat the same sorts of things, fish, vegetables, grains."

"Then, what was that green thing with the horns, the vegetable, mama said it was a vegetable."

Bos frowned and looked sideways at Telga.

She looked up with a yawn and said, "That was fennel."


After having his chosen performer sign away his evening, Hiero sent Lapeno away to file the papers. To get formalities done so quickly filled him with an unusual sense of accomplishment, though the whole affair seemed to have moved very rapidly. He always left formalities until the end, if he could help it; the doing of the thing was always more rewarding than the recording of the thing. Having done the recording first for a change, Hiero stood around wondering what else he could do to cut out expense from his party.

He settled himself at one of the long tables, tapping the end of the quill against his temple. As he'd said, he would certainly have to re-think the menu. Cut a quarter out of the hors d'ouvres ideas, obliterate the list of alcohol... Telga was correct, he would have to persuade his father to give up the hoarded stocks of vintage.

"And, if he won't surrender it to my needs, I'll take it anyway," Hiero schemed, a smile twitching on his lips. "I, Hero, and villain. My spoils of war are not the bottles but the happiness of my dancers."

"Quite right, my lord," Bonvillian said, taking time out of his prancing-pony routine to reply to Hiero. "If you put on a celebration, but no one celebrates, then the mere thought to put it on was unneeded. 'Twas unnecessary from the moment it was conceived as a thought! Dear, pointless endeavour, may your execution be swift and your life in heaven be long, for it was not you that confused the system so. And by that, I clearly mean--"

There was a tremendous thud that caused Hiero to instantly jerk his body round - it sounded as if the colourful reveller had thrown an instrument against the floor, so hollow and loud the thump was.

But Bonvillian merely had his hand flat on the other table across the room. He had slapped it surface with a tremendous force, so powerful Hiero wondered if he could kill with a palm like that. His avian stare secured Hiero to the bench, meaning the man could only respond with a glare of his own.

"-- actually execute it, you see. The poor idea, it is more, ah, what is the word. Moral? Pitiful? Kind? It is more moral - or pitiful - or kind - to do execute it immediately, do you not agree? My lord?"

Hiero, his glare holding its own against Bonvillian's eyes, scowled. "What? Please, I just legally hired you, are you to reveal to me now that you are mentally idiotic? That you are mad as Ingnorance? Have you a coherent thought in your head since birth?"

With this, Bonvillian looked genuinely hurt. His lower lip protruded and with it came a snarl of the non-intimidating variety. "Methinks, Ingnorance is not nearly as intelligent, nor joyful, nor talented, nor skilled as I. Mayn't I be some other character in your eyes, sir? Within my mother's eyes, I was the Marean Mak, of the Second Shepherds'. She said, 'Jan, you would be the one among us to dress a sheep as a baby.' Although, she also implied I would be tricked as easily as the shepherds."

"I'm afraid I don't know that one."

"It is Stygian in origin. Mak steals a sheep from the shepherds, disguises it as a baby, and the shepherds praise it before realising it is, in fact, not a baby but a ram! Ahem - 'Give me leave him to kiss, and lift up the clout. What the devil is this? He has a long snout!' and so on. What I fail to understand is how the sheep kept so silent for so long. If I was a sheep, I would have certainly bleated by that time."

"Yes... well... who wouldn't."

"Quite as I said, I--"

Hiero leaped up, interrupting Bonvillian with a swift, "Shut it, one second." His movements had changed dramatically. If he was not dressed in such an attention-grabbing attire, fully worthy of demonstrating his inescapable avarice, one might think he was trying to burglarise the manor simply by reading into his stride. Tight shoulders, smooth leg movements, an angled head so his aural sense was fully engaged, he was the picture of a nervous robber. He left Bonvillian behind for a while, until he heard his father's voice again, sounding loudly through his Manor, as if the house was his own personal echochamber.

Hiero cursed and backtracked back to the main room, grabbing Bonvillian by the arm.

"Sirrah, that hurt."

"I'm going to have to twist the truth here, do not give me away. You went to the Lyly School, correct?"

Bonvillian's mouth pursed so tightly Hiero was amazed his lips didn't begin bleeding. "I believe I see. 'Tis an act, a performance of sorts--"

"Correct?"

"Y... yes, my lord. The Lyly School. I lived in the East Mary Wing."

With the story understood by both men, Hiero stepped forward, straightening his back and smoothing his hair, "Yes, Father?" he said, raising his voice. "I'm in the main hall." He then prepared himself further, raising his chin as his father came in the room. So - his father was asking if he was 'done?' Of course he wasn't done, how did the man expect Hiero to have re-thought the entire budget in nothing but a couple of hours? The thought brought up a heat from within Hiero, a heat which he fought to keep down.

He offered his father a smile, "Why, things are moving along very well, Father. If you see here, I've found a singular man to do the play you wished for, plus he will provide our musical entertainment. That means this man alone is saving us from hiring an entire ensemble of musicians."

"If it pleases you sirs," Bonvillian said - though his inability to keep silent only served to heighten Hiero's frustrations - and produced his panpipes, "I may be able to play more than one instrument at once. Though that in itself would be an experiment."

"Yes but most importantly, I found us a player. He knows the 24 Kings inside and out, he performed it many times at the Lyly School. It was the... play he did for his final examinations. It is lodged in his head, he knows it line-for-line, Father. As for the rest of the preparations, I am in the middle of organising and re-organising them, since now you have decided to restrict my budget further. This will require some huge work and effort on my own back, and I still beg you to rethink the budget you allow me, or I may have to begin digging into my own purses. Though, as I said, on the happiest note so far, the player. His name's Jan Bonvillian, you might have heard of him, or perhaps not since you do not frequent the playhouses."

Bonvillian gave an unpracticed bow to Arraye and straightened up again, his lips stretched in a wide smile.

Historical Storyteller


"What will you do while you're here? Do you need to work, or is it a holiday for you?"

Ira rocked his once-steaming tea around in its cup as he considered the answer to Schoe's question. The plan was to contact Chrysanti, and to attend the Guthlacs' party with her, and the rest was left up to chance. He did not wish to leave his work at the Scholarium to suffer the agony of time, as time was the same culprit that would ultimately wipe his mental knowlege from memory. However, Calun was nothing if not an opportunity. Religion had an anchor here in the form of the Archabbot. And that was enough to distract Ira's thirsty eye...

"Hm, at the moment I am not considering work but if I was, I'm sure I could find some work here. The university, or even in the Labour party efforts. I've got enough brains in my head to apply myself, though, of course, I'd be much more comfortable pursuing my research... however, this is a bizarre situation I am in, and so I do not think it is prudent to plan too far ahead."

Schoe nodded, but something behind her eyes told Ira she was not just looking at him but looking into him. It was a dangerous glance. She knew Ira better than Ira knew her so, where Ira could certainly understand the intent behind his sister's eyes, he could not tell about her what she could tell about him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, regretting the question immediately.

"What I find most bizarre is your letter. No mention of coming to Calun, nor expressing any intent to arrive here. You are usually so clear in your correspondence. Thus, your coming here must be prompted by something else. Is it the Labour party that brings you here? By the sounds of it, it isn't. Helping with the Labour party cause sounds like a whim. What I want to know is what you're not telling me. Because none of this adds up."

"At least you're up-front."

"Ira, don't dodge my question."

Ira gave a sigh, sipped the dregs of his tea and pushed the empty cup towards the centre of Schoe's small, much-scarred table. "Okay, well, could we go to somewhere to eat, it's a good evening for it and since I dropped in on you so suddenly, it's the least I could do. I'll explain everything, but I need to repay you for being so accommodating."

"Well... alright, fine. But only because you're paying, I couldn't afford to do it myself."

"I'll be glad to pay, just to repay you. You know this city better than me though, where would you have us go?"


The early-evening was indeed as pleasant to exist in as Ira had professed. Schoe decided to head to Gem Ave., as the food-courts got progressively more expensive as they went along. Schoe explained this to Ira as they walked from the cheapest tavern towards the most expensive inns, saying it was a pretty good rule of thumb for the rest of Calun. Cheap for poverty on one side, pricey for the vice-seekers with more than coppers in their pockets. Ira did his best to judge when would be a place that was both 'good enough' and 'not so cheap as to insult Schoe.' Although Schoe would most likely not be insulted, his debt to her would only feel more mountainous if he did not pay it all off in one go.

For the majority of the time, Ira attempted to keep the conversation light, and Schoe revealed a few anecdotes about her products that took up a fairly large chunk of time while they both ate. However, true to form, Schoe dragged it back to where Ira did not want it to go. From talking about one of her clients who wanted 'a metal whip-handle with the ability to insert different thicknesses of whip for different occasions,' for Gods-know-what reason... she referenced how only Gods-knew-why Ira was even in Calun.

"So you said you'd tell me, yes? That'll help you pay off your debt."

Ira dabbed his lips with his handkerchief and prepared his explanation quickly in his head.

"Yes, well, the letter I wrote to you, I wrote and sent it off before I got this particular piece of news. Or, rather, not news but, I suppose, an invitation. One of the scholars I'm acquainted with was invited to the Guthlacs' party."

"So that's why--"

"Not quite no."

Schoe did look exactly how Ira expected her to. Offended, as if Ira had thrown a creation of hers in the muck of the Kalt.

"No, I received an invitation from Chrysanti Guthlac to attend as part of her group. Separate from the Scholarium entirely. Just a coincidence on that part. But, in the end, the result is the same. I'm in Calun because I was asked to attend this party. I know, I can tell you really hate the idea, but it is something I have already agreed to, and it is something I will be doing."

"I can't... I mean..."

"I know, it's probably quite insulting for you to be working so hard for your daily bread, and to have me come in and take some glory for myself... well, the only glory I want is my research, and you know that, I'm attending this party out of necessity, and, of course, it would be nice to see Chrysanti again. It's worth to hold onto contacts like her."

"That's... you... you always have the luck. You know a lot of people, Ira, like one of the main players in the Labour party, an important-sounding Scholar at the Scholarium. You get contacts easy and I get nothing. I'm obviously jealous and I can't hide that, but I work so hard. I try to keep the contact with my clients in case they could offer me something but I never hear from them again. I don't know what to do to get myself noticed in this damn city, and here you are entering the Guthlac Manor and you've only been here a few times."

"I can't apologise, really, but I really don't want you to consider this a bad thing. Besides, if I am at this party, it would be fairly easy for me to drop your name into a couple of conversations. I could get you business, potentially. After all, rich people always want more, don't they."

But Schoe scowled and looked down. "I don't want help, I'll get my name known on my own. Or else it doesn't count."

There it was, the king of the deadly sins, Pride, infecting Schoe's mind with his monstrous tentacles. This was not a healthy, chin-up, love-yourself Pride either. This was a self-destructive, fear-phobia Pride. Ira made a mental note to break through Schoe's Pride defences and reach her before he left Calun.

He also ordered a couple of mint teas to finish their meal off.

The strong-smelling leaves, infusing before them, created a musk in the air that both refreshed and pressurised the siblings. It raised Schoe's spirits an inch or two, and put pressure on Ira to fill the silence.

"Syráta," Ira said, joining his hands together into a ball.

"Syráta," Schoe echoed, doing the same, before she picked up the teapot. At least the Stygian way of having to bless food before you ate gave them a way to break the silence. After she was done, Ira poured his.

"I don't mean to be so jealous, I'm sorry. I just truly believed I'd have an easier time of showing my talents here than back home."

"This is your home now, I suppose, though?"

Schoe shook her head, "No, no. I know you're married to this place now but... there's some draw I can't shake. I'm completely furious and ashamed of the new Rajah but... I'm not furious and ashamed of my country, Ira. It's still my home. I left behind something when we left there. Fled from there. Whatever it was we did."

"I think I gained something by coming here."

Schoe nodded and stared into her cup, deflated. Ira, the cup at his lips and with a straight back, gave his tea a try. To see their silhouette through the window, one might think it was a painting depicting Optimism and its opponent.