Chapter 9: The Triad
Lorena’s townhouse was more extravagant than I was expecting. An exquisite, subtly baroque flair carried itself across all corners of every room that I could see. Dark brown floral and circular carved wood lined the walls at their base and below the ceiling, and created a frame around pastel wallpapers with repeating patterns of fleur-de-lis, paislies, and flowers.
The volume of furniture, trinkets, and baubles scattered throughout the space in her flat was like sitting front row before a full orchestra as they uniformly crashed one grand, final note, and thus took hold of all sides of the range of your hearing, and precluded all else. So, similar to Santiago’s wing of the guild, but distinct in that the noise arose not from numbers, the many silly pieces of decoration that filled his tabletops, but from the collective detail each item held in its multitudinous artistry.
She led us to a small circular turret-room in the back left corner of the house. An eggshell porcelain tea set sat atop a cart against the central window, while a wooden table and four chairs sat in the centre of the room. “Do so…” She instructed us, “…make yourselves comfortable.”
Lorena had left her men outside, ordering them to “Watch the stairs and bar the door. No one enters, regardless of whether they were with Rodrigo.”
Vidal and I sat with our backs to the glass, momentarily also to Lorena who wheeled the cart from the glass to the door, carrying a kettle to the kitchen to fill it with water and hang it over a fire.
When she returned, I spoke up, “Thank you for the tea, Lorena. As it is prepared, I’d like to get straight back to our conversation. My knowledge was flawed, yes? Late-Rodrigo controlled only this district and some nearby businesses, yes?”
She nodded, I continued, “And now the remnants of late-Rodrigo are few and crippled, yes?”
She responded with a clarification, “You eye the sole remnant of Rodrigo, Jack. Those men obey me, but they were never with Rodrigo in any real sense.”
“They aren’t Ascended.” I said, and she nodded, so I went on, “What is the situation with Veha as a whole, as you understand it?”
“I shall reiterate what Rodrigo always told us.” Lorena began, pausing only to collect the kettle. She carried it over to the cart, pouring three cups of black tea, “Veha is in a shattered state. He blamed Santiago, the ‘Little Imp,’ for being too hedonistic, losing control amidst distraction caused by fantasy and wine, or something like that.” She made a fluttering gesture with her hand, I took it to mean he was acting like a drunk fool, rather than literally being a drunk. Likely, I thought, “…plastered by his perception of power.”
Lorena continued speaking after passing around the cups, and assuming a seat with her back to the door, “After Rodrigo rebelled first, Santiago’s other senior commanders, Adorjan and María Cristina…” I cut her off with a question,
“Adorjan?”
She chortled, waiting to respond until she had a sip of her tea, sighing thereafter in that forced-but-not-forced, and horribly annoying, way, “Like you, Jack, he is from Yhortor.”
“I cannot fathom missing such a rarity.” Lorena shrugged in reply, leaning so back on her chair as to cause its front legs to lift off of the floor, “Alas, please continue.”
“Adorjan departed first, and far more gracefully than Rodrigo who left in a huff and screaming insults and the like. We joined him because we figured he’d be the first and only, and we agreed with his concerns.
“Adorjan took with him some of Santiago’s other older Ascended, thus creating a pocket of power that he took complete advantage of. By the time the first month had passed, he stripped Santiago of his control over the mines, the farms, the nearby fishing and hunting fiefs of Fersaad and Insjel, and almost all of the central suburban districts.
“Finally, María Cristina consumed what was left, taking the entirety of his remaining Ascended and dealing a fatal blow by stealing the east, the district of the poor, and claiming ownership of the sewers, which blockaded his only remaining potential for smuggling and dominance over illicit trade.”
As she filled me in on the great many importances Santiago had neglected to mention, I blew softly over the surface of the tea, and tried it. Its earthy tones were strongest at first, reminiscent of my imagination of dirt or bark, but rather in a pleasant, progeny sort of way, as opposed to a gross, soiled sort of way. Progeny, in that I found it to relate to my condition of being; to relate to my Human, Ascended vessel.
Those earthy tones were followed by what I thought were hints of mint, but just as I began to consider it, Lorena concluded her speech, and so I readily replied, “So you are alone and sharing a table now with two agents you see as being agents of Santiago, agents of one of the three remaining, warring factions. Correct?”
She reluctantly nodded, sharpening her eyes as they lay upon me, digging daggers into my own in search, I figure, of anything seeming to be misleading.
“Departure guarantees immediate safety, but no promise of a home. You’ll be road-bound until you can find another loyal tribe. Remaining alone risks death, as the others will notice late-Rodrigio’s passing, and invade. Correct?”
“I have no intentions of leaving.” Lorena swiftly clarified, but before I could go on, Vidal piped up, “So join us, because we aren’t, as Jack said, agents of Santiago, but agents of me.”
He spoke bluntly, quickly… quickly in that he jumped the crossbow, so to speak. Discharged the bolt before the string was fully taught. I wanted to ease Lorena into the request, given her having just undergone a trauma we caused, one where her allies perished and all that she’d been working for transformed into a square of rubble.
So as to avoid any thoughts of surreptitiousness, I restrained myself from shooting Vidal an angry look, and rather maintained my relatively amicable gaze towards Lorena.
She took longer than I was expecting to reply, taking a good five minutes to finish her tea, and return the cup to the table, “If only because I burnt all bridges with Adorjan, and know nothing of María, I will entertain your offer.”
“I won’t ask you for any commitments, Lorena.” Vidal said, “Just that you consider trusting us. Please understand that we were only targeting Rodrigo, not–”
She cut him off angrily, uttering her interruption quickly. As she spoke, I eyed her hands collapsing into tight fists that hugged her outer thighs, “I don’t care who you were targeting. I lost friends in that fire. You’re just an out… I’ll commit to nothing until I understand what your new cabal is, exactly.”
“Understood, completely.” I said to her, giving Vidal not even a sliver of a second to reply, thereby taking back control over the conversation, “Let us, perhaps, rebound to strategy and speak of María Cristina’s faction. The weaker of the two, perhaps similar in power to our own?”
“Similar, yes, but I’ll mention first, before it escapes me, that there are rumours that Adorjan has had so much luck because he has a benefactor.”
“A benefactor?” I asked, and she went on saying “The Lord of Veha.”
“Do you have any idea as to what the arrangement is?”
“No, not other than a few of Rodrigo’s spies reported seeing guards deliberately neglecting cries for help by citizens and merchants, and other guards actually assisting Adorjan’s agents. I couldn’t say whether it’s a pay-off, or whether the Lord is being influenced by Adorjan.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“And so doubly is considering him a potential ally off the table.”
Lorena readily agreed with a hefty nod, saying “I think we should fight them both. Starting with María, we can deal a blow by ambushing her thugs in the undercity.”
“If I may.” Vidal requested this time, and I yielded to him with a quick, approving glance, “I would prefer to negotiate with María Cristina. If we can win her over by appealing to mutual interest… business and survival in the face of a larger, settled opponent, we can create a future opportunity for union. Union is what we want, correct?”
“Absolutely.” I agreed with Vidal, union is a restoration of the balance of Veha, but Lorena looked displeased. I couldn’t tell whether it was a lingering of her earlier, just outburst, or distaste for diplomacy.
“If it’s what you both agree on, I can try to get you to someone who can hail her for an audience. Be warned, though, that you will likely have to speak on her terms.”
“Rumours?” I asked about this bit of knowledge she seemed to offer us.
“Always.” Lorena clarified, continuing after Vidal and I gave her approving looks, “Let’s reconvene in a few days. Do you have somewhere more central we can meet?”
“The Silver Fawn.” I said, and it was settled.
#
One of Lorena’s three men, a short, scraggly fellow with a triple-braided beard, found Vidal on the outskirts of the Bazaar in the infancy of morning. Vidal, in turn, found me leaning out on that balcony from which my origination of all this progress was made.
“Lorena says she’s got a contact who’ll meet with us around noon. Do you want to close down the bar?”
“Absolutely not. It’s too risky to invite them into a closed shop.” I said, “Arrange a table that’s not too obvious to the windows or the other patrons, and have Efrain keep a keen eye for someone with business.”
“Right.” Vidal departed and I joined him on the ground floor after a few hours had passed, letting the time flow as I took some moments to meditate on that balcony. The surge of commotion, pain, and realisations caught up to me. I awoke that day with a binding, aura-inducing headache sitting centre-mass in my brain, screaming so loudly that its voice bounced off of the interior of my skull and rattled my cranium.
The suffering was enduring enough to remind me that my days at Yhortor would never be without such personal time spent sitting quietly, breathing, and removing myself from the duality of thought and thinker. A restoration exercise, reminding oneself of this high connection with the Mother by way of grounding which strips away the paint and decor, and leaves only the naked, Ascended form.
I thanked Her for the reemergence of my sense of duty to this art, as I joined Vidal in a full and bustling establishment with a clear head, relieved of its burden, and clear eyes, relieved of their blur.
“Good timing, Jack.” He said promptly, having come from the bar to intercept me at the base of the stairs, “Efrain waved me over, saying there’s some man at the far end looking for us.”
“Have Efrain direct him over to our spot.” Vidal went to do so, and I walked through a short maze of tables and wandering patrons to a temporary wall that had been erected with a door shielded by drapery. Through that blockade I found a booth, clean and set with a fine white table cloth, a tea set, and ample room.
I figured it’d be best to wait for them, so I could nab an ‘aisle seat,’ so to speak, and so I did just that, much to Vidal’s discomfort, and annoyance, as he shot me a fighting glance I readily dismissed.
“Welcome to the Silver Fawn… mister?” I extended an arm, giving way to our guest. He was about my height and build, but lumbered with a trivial limp, and carried three scars from the middle of his forehead, down and across to his chin, that marred his eye a milky white.
“Lucho, María Cristina’s husband.” He drew me into a hug before I could protest, bypassing my hand, and softly kissing the air beside both of my cheeks. It took me by surprise, but I felt the authenticity in the casual way he pulled me towards him, and through that ear-to-ear grin. He felt excited to be here.
“I’ve heard through my crows that you’ve been causing a sudden stir in the midtown and in the old home of my people.” Lucho explained, getting immediately to business, and pressing on his forwardness by picking up the kettle, and pouring us all something to drink.
He continued, “I cannot express how desperately they wish to see those croaky houses used right. So, I’ve neglected to let them in on the fire until I can find some way of easing in the bad news. Why’d you burn it?”
I thanked him for the tea with a singular, drawn-out nod, holding a reply to his query on the tip of my tongue as I drank, speaking finally, “To execute the faction. It’s as simple as that, really. I cannot possibly leave them to suffer when we’ve worked to cause their demise.”
“Good.” Lucho asserted, his smile becoming a toothy grin, “I’d hate to bring someone who cannot follow through to the doors of my love and our people.”
“I see your appreciation for the dynamo, Lucho.” This made him laugh, Vidal too, albeit noticeably more reservedly, “I believe that you and I share in this value, in that we share in a perception of the task and necessitating its completion, lest we fail ourselves, which is something impossibly voluntarily taken on.”
“Precisely.” Lucho affirmed, finishing his cup and pouring himself another, “This little matter now, of the three of us, changes the playing field in a way that could provide mutual benefit to our factions–now warring, but soon revelling in newfound similarity. Yes?”
I began to speak but silenced myself quickly, looking to Vidal. My expression carried, I hoped, curiosity as to his own opinion and concerns about Lucho’s brazen behaviour. Vidal looked to me, paused, and then turned to Lucho, speaking, “If we are to meet with María Cristina, to speak of this… similarity… where do you suppose it will be?”
“You’ve been so kind to accept me in your fantastic tavern, gentlemen.” Lucho began, extending his arms out, wide, to touch my and Vidal’s outer shoulder, this gesture held for a few seconds before his hands returned to the table, around his cup, “Peaceful in public, let your next meeting be the same. Yes? Little Orna, a tea shoppe at the entrance of the east district. Is that sufficient?”
I didn’t know it, but we’d have time to prepare, “Let it be a week from today. Is that sufficient?”
Lucho bobbed his head thrice, and then, unexpectedly, shot his gaze left, through a central break in the privacy curtains, where he first, and I second, spotted two cloaked men watching us through the windows.
“Ascended.” Vidal, to our shared surprise, affirmed for the table. “Good.” I said back to him, in praise, which won me his appeal, expressed in a smile.
“Let’s take this upstairs, Lucho. Follow our lead?”
“I am with you.” He said, and we stood together and made for the stairs. By the time we had crossed half the tavern to reach them, the two figures vanished, moving right, their left, towards that easy climb by the apothecary.
I pushed through two drunkards, Vidal and Lucho’s pursuit on my path nearly knocked them on their asses, and raced up the stairs, taking two at a time, to make it to the second floor on time–and on time it was. I stood a few paces past the top step when the rouges emerged from the bedroom into the hallway.
“Speak your minds, brigands.” I commanded of them, educing a chuckle from one shut up by the other, who spoke in a deep, monotone bass voice “The years of the dogmatic and the traditionalists are over, of-Santiagos.”
“…of-Santiagos?” I mentally questioned, realising quickly he meant to group us as arms of his opinion of an evil. “Should your goal be to blaspheme the…” I couldn’t finish speaking, they drew daggers and charged us at a pace I cannot adequately describe. They moved like flashes of lightning and flayed my shirt and the skin thereunder within a single second.
“Bastards!” Lucho shouted, and his verbal assault was followed by the sound of steel against hard leather; a blade leaving its sheathe.
The rogues emerged from their opening mark with seedy eyes poking out between hoods and masks behind us on the landing. Lucho had become the lead, and took the first opportunity he had to slash and stab, violently, at the left figure. The right leapt over us to their original position, leading Vidal and I to charge them.
We exchanged blows in a flurry of fists and feet, and followed as best we could manage at their hyper pace. Vidal ceded first and quickly, after six shots in immediate succession connected with his neck and head, putting him to the floor on the precipice of unconsciousness.
From my vantage, panting on one knee, holding my squealing, bruised abdomen, I spied Lucho disembowelling his opponent on the landing. Their subtle throes commanded the eyes of their counterpart, who cried out and left themselves open in their sorrow.
I stood and reeled back a perfect fist, empowered by will and ability with the strength of the night, it became emblazoned with black that grew and morphed like fire. Upon its connection with his side, a strike square to the liver, a loud crack and the sound of haemorrhaging boomed down the hallway.
The rogue collapsed and curled up like a dying spider, shivering and unable to speak or willingly move. I stood over him without mercy, and struck his temple with my boot until he was dead.