Chapter 2 - Merissa
'What's the best way to lose a loaf of bread? Tell a Helkorite that you're hungry.'
- Joke overheard in an Aelian tavern
The city came into sight right before sunset.
She’d been standing on the forecastle for the better part of an hour, surreptitiously watching the comings and goings of the crew as had become her habit for the latter half of this trip. Neither sea nor shore held much interest for her, nor the passing of the winds as their vessel rounded Last Point and cleaved to the southern coast.
No, what fascinated Merissa Attale were the sailors. They were a mercurial lot, these Valmontese, scowling and smiling quickly in equal measure and usually at inopportune moments. She’d heard them strike up a bawdy shanty about bedding a shepherd’s daughter while facing down lashes of rain, and grumble about the heat on a calm day. Boredom, it seemed, was their enemy - one they would have shared, if this were any other mission.
When not at work caulking the deck or working up in the lines, most of them could be found belowdecks at dice or some other game. She’d watched them play, too; debated joining for a hand or two, but the captain had been clear that passengers weren’t to fraternize with the crew.
More importantly, it wouldn’t suit her current role.
If things went badly and they needed to make a quick getaway, it might be useful to know a ship’s captain. Preferably one she hadn’t just been caught trying to fool. A lady-in-waiting from Septimanes in trouble would be shipped off at once. An agent of a foreign power, on the other hand, would be handed over to the guard, or worse.
The cliffs that rose on either side of the Bay of Blessure would have been a sight on any other occasion. Yet as the Artigo pushed deeper into the brackish waters, Merissa brushed a hair out of her face and kept her eyes fixed on the city shores.
The city of Equinox had annexed the entire island of Haedralia, which split the bay into two parts around it. From where she sat, she could see no point of entry onto the island; everywhere she looked, she saw only sheer cliffside. From there rose the semi-circle that was the outer seawall, a fortification about eighty feet tall at her best guess.
If she squinted, she could make out the glow of kymical lanterns and the shadows of figures atop the battlements. Those must be the Thronekeepers, patrolling what passed for their domain.
She’d made a study of this place before setting off on this voyage: she knew that the island on which Equinox was built was at least six kilometers from end to end - nearly twice as long as it was wide, a gigantic teardrop of stone large enough to house several smaller cities.
And in a way, it did.
Beyond the seawall rose the border walls that quartered off the labyrinthine streets and high buildings of Equinox into its four Zones. Each one was sovereign ground, belonging to a different nation and thus beholden to that nation’s laws. To stand in the Helkorite Zone was the equivalent of standing in Helkoran, in the Medean Zone to be in Medeus, and so forth. After years of such division, each Zone had its own customs, spoke its own language, and had its own standing forces. The features of each quarter had been carved deep, streets hewn so closely to the rock that it was hard to tell where Haedralia ended and Equinox began.
To cross the border walls, you needed either money or connections - or better yet, both. As far as she'd heard, those with means travelled the full span of the old capital without issue, while the commoners were bled dry by the tariffs and entry fees, all of which of course went to the guard. Only the harbour district and the city’s central thoroughfares were neutral ground, leading from the docks up to the uppermost plateau on the island.
It was at that spot where Haedren had built his Seat, his fortress and later the administrative center of the imperial government. Before the war, it was the heart of Old Immeria. As the volumes went, the Conqueror had originally chosen this place because it could command access to both the land and waves, and because it would strike awe into allies and enemies alike.
Despite her earlier dismissals, Merissa now had no trouble believing the claims.
“Hurts the eyes a bit, doesn’t it? To see it all at once?”
She was trained never to show surprise, so it only took her a second to compose herself. When she turned her head to address the bosun, it was with an open grin. He was an older fellow, bald with fishhook scars over his knuckles. His name came a second later: Harth.
“It’s… beautiful! Dimarra be praised, I never thought I’d be able to see it in person. Have you been before, Harth?” She curtsied in greeting and let out a bell-like laugh for good measure, and soon the old salt was smiling alongside her.
“Aye, milady. Passed through a few times but never stayed long. Folk like to say that Equinox was somewhere once. Now it’s just on the way to everywhere else.” Harth scratched his white beard. “There’s some truth to that, you ask me.”
Merissa let her smile linger a second too long, keeping her eyes slack and vacant. “Well I'm sure there’s still plenty to see! My sister heard that the Floating Gardens in the Valmont Zone are a must-see. Oh, and the games at the Square of Princes!”
She clapped her hands together, waiting for the old man to lose interest in the vapid tourist. He finally did, giving some excuse about checking the lines before making port and leaving her alone once more. After he was gone, Merissa puffed out her cheeks.
What in the Blessed Beyond had possessed her to pick this role, she couldn’t say. But she had to admit that it had paid off: most of the crew had ignored her since leaving Aelia. It had given her the space she needed to study.
To plan to defeat an enemy she could not yet see.
Five days. That was how long Aleixus Onator and the rest of the Untarnished had given her to find Naora. Of course, that was only the first half of her mission. She tried - wanted to try - to forget what the Prelate's message had said back in Valmont.
‘Find Naora Attale’, were her orders, ‘and plug the leak’.
The first reports about embedded Oreikhalia agents came not from their hundreds of sources across the continent, but in a regional broadsheet called the Collier Times. An even score of assets that Ebonsun had cultivated - their covers, civilian identities, current locations, and suspected assignments. The most sophisticated, well-trained and well-funded covert organization on Alteria, and somehow they'd been utterly compromised. By the time she’d boarded a ship in Aelia, eight of the flock had killed across the breadth of the Collier Gulf. Her contacts on the street had confirmed the killings, many of them tacitly state-sponsored executions.
Officially, the Congresse Royeaume had yet to make a statement about the reports. But behind closed doors, the Valmontese were furious. She'd already picked up rumours in every port they'd stopped in that they were preparing to impose sanctions on trade into the Medean interior, to embargo goods from the heartlands. It would be a catastrophic blow to her people, Merissa knew. If the Valmontese were not appeased, and soon, there would be dire consequences.
But the Untarnished had said more. They had it on good authority that the source of the information came from Equinox. A second letter, this one in Aleixus' own hand, had intercepted her mid-journey. Someone here, in the old capital, had talked.
The City of the Empty Throne, it was held, was neutral ground. None of the great powers' agents - not the Oreikhalia, not the Scions of Liberty, not partisans from Isceria or Helkoran - were permitted to run games in this city. It had been one of the last stipulations of the Equineal Accords, quietly referred to by those in her profession as the Peacebond. And as far as anyone knew, it had been largely honoured these past six years.
Until now. She had never known her mentor to be wrong about these things.
She didn’t have to ask Aleixus who he thought the leak was. As a rule, the prelates who made up the Oreikhalia's leadership didn’t like loose ends. But he’d invested a great deal into Merissa over the years, as he was so fond of reminding her. So he'd given her one chance to make it right. Her instructions had been clear: swap ships, board the first vessel to Equinox, and find the only operative they kept embedded there. An agent, it was now believed, had gone rogue. Her wife.
This was to be a test, of her loyalty as much as her skills. Should she fail or waver, she would be discarded.
Family comes second to the Mantle, for we are all kin under Its gaze.
At least her handlers had given her the name of a local broker to start: Wren. Enforcement of the Peacebond made it difficult for even her organization to keep multiple sources on the ground, so for now this was it. As far as any of them knew, Naora had been placed by the Untarnished as a sleeper, no regular assignment other than to keep an eye on the landscape. In any other circumstance, she would have been the first point of contact, instead of some wharf overseer.
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It was a quiet posting, she'd assured Merissa before her departure. There would be little danger in it.
Gathering the skirts of her dress - with any luck, the last one she’d have to wear in a while - Merissa made her way back to her cabin. She needed to get changed; she couldn’t afford to waste any time dallying about on the docks.
As soon as the Artigo berthed, her bosses would need to hear about it. Then they’d flip the hourglass.
Five days and counting.
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Merissa slid her cards and a few coins across the table with an exaggerated sigh.
She'd like to say she was losing on purpose, but that wasn't quite true. She'd never had a gift for these games and it was less-than-chance that she'd actually come out on top. With one hand she brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, with the other she brought the tankard of ale she'd been nursing for the last hour and drained it. Her third of the day, but she barely felt it. Watered down, but with just enough of a bite to keep sailors from acting out.
Two hours she'd been here, scoping out the bar. The Mess, that was its name. She’d been told it was a popular stop for most of those staying around the harbour - called Portside by the locals - but it was just the latest she’d been scoping since making the harbour.
It wasn’t much to look at, honestly: it was just an old wood building, like most this close to the docks. Here and there, she spotted the occasional bit of tarnished brass used as decorative ornaments, a half-hearted attempt to incorporate a naval theme with ship's plaques. Rather than being stylish, it merely went to show the lack of care that the management put into this place, as most of the brass displays were stained or had their names worn away.
It also reeked of beer, lantern oil, and unwashed bodies. Naora would have loved it.
Outside of her table, the Mess wasn’t all that crowded. The place was well-staffed: there was a big woman behind the bar, a pair of equally burly looking lads at the front door checking for weapons, some servers, and even a cute chanteuse on a raised stage. All told, they outnumbered most of the washed-up patrons.
Not her table, though. The Helkorite crew she’d found - their thickset Novimark accents and lupine tattoos would give any of them away in a crowd - was by far the most numerous bunch in here, but they’d let her ante into their game without too much trouble when she sat down. After all, she’d dressed the part.
Merissa had traded her gown for some worker's clothes - a baggy shirt that had been white at some point in the past and now had more than a few deliberate ale stains along with some rough brown cloth trousers. She'd tied up her hair and covered it with a small cloth, even dashed her face with bits of dirt to complete the effect. One wouldn't think her anything but a washerwoman or a dockworker, blowing some coin to drink and gamble the stresses of the day away. She shifted the weight in her chair as though to leave.
“No!” One of the sailors, a bullish fellow the others called Claymore, clapped Merissa on the back, nearly knocking her out of the damned chair. “Könir, you must stay! You will win all back on the next hand, I swear.”
“Alright, alright,” Merissa held up her hands to the table in mock defeat. “One more game, and then I’m done.” She let out a resigned laugh to the round of cheers that followed. They really enjoyed taking her money; no surprise there.
She didn’t mind: it gave her a good seat and social cover to eavesdrop on the corner booth, where a heart-faced woman and a cloaked man were huddled deep in conversation.
They’d been here since she arrived, but were both nursing their beers, which meant whatever they were talking about was engrossing enough to warrant being here. Not to mention that Merissa had seen the woman make eye contact with the bar-woman at least twice.
They know each other. She’s comfortable, a regular here. Her clothes didn’t reveal anything, so she wasn’t a pillow either, all of which begged the question of the nature of her business.
In any case, she seemed far more relaxed than her companion. A tall man, muscular frame that he couldn’t quite hide beneath his clothes. What little she could see of his skin was weathered and scarred, like the sailors. But the way he sat in his chair - back straight and always to the wall, openly assessing everyone who stepped in and out of the Mess, hands ready at his sides - told her soldier. More than that, a veteran; someone who had seen real combat. And if the wrapped bundle tucked beneath his chair wasn't a weapon, she was Empress of the Farthest Isles.
That’s Wren with him. She couldn’t think of any other reason a local would be sitting down in a quiet corner in a bar like this with someone so clearly not from around here. But if she was going to make an introduction, she wanted - needed - to be sure.
Merissa leaned forward and pretended to look down at her newly-dealt cards, letting the noise of the bar surround and envelop her as she sunk into the Pall.
It was always there, beneath her skin; a soft cold, the kind that came right after closing a window. Her gift. It was an old friend, one she’d known since she was a girl. She pulled her shirtsleeves down to conceal the slow crawl of goosebumps up her arms and made sure not to make eye contact with anyone. That way they couldn’t see the sudden splash of ink across her irises, the manifestation of a power she’d had since she was born.
The voices weren’t hard to track. In a place like the Mess, the corner spaces and far walls weren’t nearly as well lit as the central tables. She had her pick of the shadows there. To anyone watching, she would be studying her hand, engrossed in the game, coming up with her next play - but a sliver of her had been cast afield. Merissa focused on the two that were alone, isolated from any of the others.
“... say how many have been coming in.” A female voice, probably Wren. She definitely sounded local. “But I heard about it over a month back, been getting steady reports since then.”
“Not in large groups?” The man, low and quiet. He had a burr to his voice that made him harder to place. “Just ones and twos?”
“Exactly. Heard from one of my dockside contacts that they’ve been smuggled in by boat - I think someone’s paid off the harbour watch to look the other way. Must have been a lot of money to do that for human cargo, and for so long…”
Back at her table, Merissa smiled. Her instincts had been right. She matched the bet when it came to her turn to ante and kept her cards close to stop any of the Novimark lads from peeking. All the while, she maintained her focus on the back and forth across the room. This is more interesting than gambling.
“... they’ve gone since?” Asked the man. There was something in the way he asked, lying in wait beneath the surface. Merissa settled on menace.
“I don’t know what I don’t know. Other than the fact they aren’t turning up Portside, or in any of the Zones where my people have eyes.”
“Well then what good are you?” A pouch being lifted off of a tabletop, followed by the telltale jingle of coins.
“Hold on, hold on. I might not know where your friends are now, but I can point you in the direction of the smugglers.” Wren paused. “They’re the best in Equinox at moving people through checkpoints: I’d stake my chances they were the ones who did the bringing. They’ll know more for a certainty.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re called Undertow. Not the biggest crew, but efficient, and careful. They move around after each big job, always have another bolt-hole. Their leader’s a Latent. He keeps them safe from the bigger fish.”
“So you’re saying you know where they are tonight,” grunted the man. “Can you take me to them?”
“I could... but I'd want a bigger fee. You can start with another round.”
A slam on the table - her table - jarred Merissa right back to her own body. One of the mates, a woman with the shaved head that the others had called Anja, had just won a big hand and was busy collecting her winnings over loud protests from the rest of her group.
Merissa grimaced in what seemed like remorse over the bad play, preparing to dive right back in to get the rest of the details on this ‘Undertow’. But as she prepared herself for another trip, the rest of her table suddenly went quiet. Following their gazes, she turned towards the door, only to see a trio of well-dressed young men entering the Mess.
Judging by the flowing coppers and burnt oranges of their tunics, the arming blades at their belts, and their long braided hair, they could only be Iscerians. Not just Iscerians, she corrected herself. They’re bravos. Which, in and of itself, wasn’t a problem. But the way the one in front was sneering at the Helkorite crew - and the murderous stares that her gambling partners were sending right back - couldn’t be a good sign.
In her experience, bravos were nearly as good at winning duels as they were at starting them.
One of the newcomers ordered a round of drinks while the other two slouched into seats right in front of the chanteuse. “Make it quick,” she overheard the first say, “my friends are thirsty!”
“Damned dusters,” Merissa heard one of the sailors grumble under his breath. “Can’t they find their own place to drink?"
Not quietly enough, however, as she saw one of the bravos whip his head around towards them, golden eyes narrowed in clear disdain. For a second she thought he’d try to approach, but instead he turned his back to them to face the performance as the bard finished her latest piece, oblivious to the promise of blood in the air.
“My lady singer, do you take requests?” The voice of the lead bravo, a sliver-thin man with the hawkish nose and the sharpest cheekbones she’d ever seen, carried throughout the Mess. She’d seen enough performances to know that it had been meant to.
“I… certainly.” The chanteuse, the kind accustomed to bars like this, didn’t hesitate when the bravo tossed her a purse full of scepters. “What would you like to hear?”
“How about ‘Let Fall the Tears’?”
With that, half of her table was on its feet. Claymore was already moving, closing the distance between her table and theirs, fists balled and ready to swing. The Iscerians were up as well, hands going for their swords. The only thing that stopped the collision was a second figure - equally large - who had stepped in between the two parties. One of the bouncers, Merissa saw. The barwoman had called him in.
“Nobody starts fights in my Mess,” the older woman called from behind the oak and brass, a steady gaze leveled at everyone involved. “You wanna spill blood, take it outside. You don’t like the music, you can leave too. My people’re paid either way.”
Merissa was already looking at the exit. This could go sideways any second. But a glance over at the table saw both Wren and the scarred man looking their way too, their conversation on hold. There was still so much she was missing. Naora had to have sat down with Wren at least once - she’d be able to tell her where to start looking.
No, she needed to wait this out and approach Wren after the broker concluded her business with Grizzly over there. It was the only way.
“Upon crown of salt, Arlar built her gates:
her hue of cut rubies, her gold of the earth,
‘A jewel’, he proclaimed, ‘our finest, our fate,
so that men may gaze on and see our true worth.’”
The chanteuse had started to sing. Merissa froze, for she recognized the tune as well as anyone. ‘Let Fall the Tears’, the lay of the Iscerian city of Rhetium before its fall.
And the best song to incite men from Helkoran to violence, she knew. They had, after all, been the ones who’d razed it to the ground.
The sailors, most halfway back in their chairs, had begun to curse and yell. A few were already shaking their heads as they stalked out the door. Not Claymore and Anja. They stood and stared, shards of hateful glass where their eyes once were. The singer continued, unperturbed, as the bravos sang along with aplomb.
“Come let fall the tears over our Reddest Ruin,
no hopes, thoughts, or fears left for unjustly slain;
Will the Wolves at our door, ever-baying for more
fight collar and lash or will all turn to ash?”
The chorus was the tipping point. Merissa reached to stop Claymore, but he was already moving. Then everyone was. The bravos were ready this time, weapons in hand - for they knew as well as anyone that this provocation had been deliberate - as the Helkorites collided with them. The bar staff were there too, but far, far too late.
As the first blow struck home, the Mess began to finally live up to its name.
Her mission was certainly off to an auspicious start.