The Royal Oak stood on the corner of Merchant Road and Bulwark Street, it had a towering red bricked front that matched the buildings around it near perfectly, and rounded glass windows with curtains drawn tight. To the uneducated, it would not have stood out on the street in the slightest. This, of course, was the intention. The importance of privacy came directly after exclusivity in the members only club.
Renard had always felt the Royal Oak had an air of authority about it, not derived from an ostentatious design or a stunted, brutal architecture but from the subtle and confident aura that only the oldest and most prestigious of establishments could exude. It was as if the building itself was a member of the old nobility, it was elegant and secure in its practicality, and it certainly didn't need the garish ostentatiousness that seemed the hallmark of buildings steeped in modernity. The main entrance was a strong single door set into the stone and flanked by a set of carved marble gryphons with their wickedly sharp claws thrust forward, as if they were ready to tear apart any unwanted visitors. Renard was well aware the establishment had a number of more discreet entrances and exits - intended for use by the city's more distinguished sort and which he had sheepishly milled around in the past while waiting for Svenja to finish a lunch or meeting - but he opted for the front door, trying to fill his stride with as much confidence as he could muster.
On the other side of the door he found a lobby that was filled with muted blue carpets, elaborate tapestries, and portraits of the establishment’s former patrons, who ranged from personages such as previous Electors, Patricians and even an Emperor or two. There was a front desk of varnished walnut manned by an upright elderly attendant with a thinning grey widow’s peak, he wore a tailored suit and had blue eyes that lacked any of the cloudiness of senility.
“Ah! Mister Voclain, may I take your coat?” The attendant recognised him immediately, and Renard suddenly felt himself filled with a strange mixture of relief accompanied with the disbelief one feels in a particularly strange dream. A little part of him had thought the letter was some elaborate prank, and that he would find himself scampering out of the Royal Oak with his tail between his legs. The attendant pressed a bell on his desk, emitting a shrill ‘ping’ and then moved forward to properly greet Renard and remove his cloak. “We have you in the Jade Room this afternoon. As I understand it, this is your first time with us, is it not sir?”
“Actually I’ve been inside once before.” Renard held his arms outstretched as his cloak was taken, and then handed over to a bellboy in a purple hat - it seemed this was whom the bell had summoned - to be stowed safely away
“Really? I wasn’t aware. We try to keep a track of that sort of thing here, so that we can ensure your visits are perfectly tailored. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was only a short visit, it was to bring a message to Svenja the Sorceress.” Renard explained. The Royal Oak’s reputation was such that he knew his cloak would be returned to him - likely far cleaner than it had been that morning - when he left.
“Ah! Yes, of course. I remember now. Svenja is one of our more distinguished clients.” The attendant began to lead him away from the lobby, up a set of wide marble steps behind his desk. “It’s always a pleasure to have her here.”
“I’m sure.” Renard didn’t make much of an effort to hide his distaste for the woman most would consider his mother, not after what she had twisted his brother into. “I’ve never been here as a client before though.”
“In that case, welcome. The Royal Oak is an establishment which is dedicated to the privacy of our members as much as to the entertainment. Our cellars are stocked with a wide variety of wines, spirits and liqueurs as well as a number of different brands of cigar. If you do find yourself wanting for anything - anything at all - you need only ring the bell on your table, or in your case pull the tether in your private room. One of our employees will be able to provide for you.” The attendant led him past a long hallway lined with doors and expertly painted portrait after portrait with a swiftness that never quite crossed the boundary to urgency.
At one point they passed a set of open doors, leading into a common room that was filled with the misty fumes of lit cigars and the low murmur of conversation. The patrons of this room each wore the finest of gowns, and Renard recognised most of them as members of the Imperial Senate, different coloured flowers upon their lapels to mark their political allegiances, or as prominent merchants, viceroys and judges. The attendant offered him a curt smile as they passed there, “Members only, I’m afraid, sir.”
The door he was eventually led to was entirely alike to all the other ones he had passed, the attendant clasped his hands together and offered a smile. “Here we are. I shall leave you to your business, Mister Voclain. I do have to say that I look forward to serving you more directly in future. The Royal Oak knows the pressure that can come with fame like yours, and we offer services which simply cannot be matched by anyone else in the Empire.”
Renard sent a polite nod the attendant’s way. The idea was certainly a tempting one but he wasn’t going to be able to afford regular visits to The Royal Oak any time soon. Then he turned the door’s brass handle and passed through it.
The Jade Room was small, but it lived up to its name, all adorned in green curtains and a wall-to-wall viridescent carpet with intricate golden patterns sewn into the edges. The room was windowless - though it had countless mirrors lining the walls to create an illusion of bouncing images that made the room seem larger than it was - and adorned with a number of lit candelabras, along with fragrant blooming pink roses. Dominating the far side of the room was a wide, high backed sofa with a lounging figure upon it that gave Renard pause.
She wore a white silken gown in the latest fashion, and leaned back against the sofa pillows with a relaxed authority only true confidence could exude, an authority that reminded Renard very much of the Royal Oak itself. Her features were near ethereal and deathly pale, like porcelain, a beauty so impossible that the ragged red scar that ran down the side of her face seemed to enhance it rather than mar it. Her eyes were a starkly bright blue, but they had a sharpness to them which betrayed a far greater age, and most astoundingly her ears elongated into stiff, elegant points. The woman was a Vaelic Elf, one of those exotic seafarers who had fled their own doomed plane in generations past and settled upon the isle of Parnia to the east of the Empire. That alone would have been enough to make Renard’s breath catch in his throat, but this was also a woman that he recognised from reputation.
Her name was Tyla Veich, and she commanded the Scarlet Robes.
“Renard, some people would say it’s rude to stand there gawking.” She purred the words out like honey, taking a delicate sip from the crystal glass of champagne that rested between her fingers. “Not that I mind, of course.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Renard cleared his throat, half-stuttering as he tried to think of a witty response before he ended up settling on a lame sounding, “Sorry.” that echoed about the room.
“Are you just going to stand there? Come sit next to me, boy.” Tyla leaned over to pat the sofa beside her.
“Sorry.” Renard repeated, before doing as he was bid, practically scurrying to the seat beside her. “Renard Voclain.” He finally managed, offering a hand out after another few moments of staring.
“The reports never said you were shy. A rare trait in a mage - they can be asocial, but not shy - especially one who pulls off the sort of stunt you did. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” The Elf placed her hand out for him to kiss, expectantly, as though she were a baroness.
Renard, lacking the experience of court etiquette which his brother had taken to so quickly, took her hand in a shake, only to find that she had a surprising strength to her grip that reminded him more of Svenja’s goonish acolytes than a delicate landed lady.
The display actually made Tyla tilt her head back to laugh, and the sound was as melodious as music. “Well, now I know Svenja neglected your education. And yet despite that you’ve gotten by quite well on your own, as I understand. Come and have a drink now, Renard, I insist. You know who I am, yes?”
“You’re Tyla Veich.” There was an opened bottle of champagne nestled into a bucket of ice beside the sofa, he plucked it up and poured a modest serving into a crystal glass set beside it. “Svenja told me about you.”
“Oh, nothing but good things I trust?” A grin crossed those beautiful scarred features, and she leaned forward as if he were her co-conspirator. “What did she tell you about me?”
“She told me that you’re a spy. That you work directly for the Emperor and that you’re one of the most dangerous people in the entire Empire.” Renard neglected to drink from his own glass, continuing. “She also told me about the Scarlet Robes. ‘The Emperor shall be empowered to appoint servants who may root out hidden threats outwith and within his realm. They shall answer only to his authority’, it’s a clause that was hidden within a long, long list of laws the Senate approved just after the Black Prince was overthrown. Not many people even realise it exists.”
“Perhaps I was wrong. It seems she gave you some education after all. I’m sure she also told you that the Robes are full of jack booted thugs who beat in the heads of intelligentsia, poets and other outspoken citizens the Emperor doesn’t like.” This of course wasn’t something Renard needed to be told by Svenja, it was the order’s common order of business. “Not to mention independent minded wizards.”
“Something along those lines, yes. She was not an admirer of your organisation’s work, and I’m not entirely sure I am either. Have you ever heard of the poet Detlef of Blightmire? He’s a northerner, I was an avid enjoyer of his work before he was sentenced to hard labour in the Mervyn Peaks.”
Tyla seemed totally at ease as Renard made his less than stellar opinion of her order’s work apparent, “My organisation? I’ve never really thought of myself as quite so important. As for the esteemed Mister Detlef, well. You wouldn’t know the full story, but let me assure you that his poetry was the least dangerous thing about the man, and that he is extremely fortunate that exile was his sentence. I’m going to tell you what the true purpose of the Scarlet Robes really is.”
Renard didn’t hide his scepticism.
Tyla took a deep breath, before speaking like a lecturer before a class of new students. “As you well know, our Empire is made up of five wholly distinct kingdoms, and each is ruled by an Elector that is a king in his own right. There are only a few things that keep all of this together; firstly there is the Imperial Senate and the fact that the Electors get to vote on which member of the Imperial dynasty will inherit the throne each generation. However secondly, and even more important, is an extremely complex web of favours, debts, blackmail and political manoeuvring which must be kept in a perfectly precarious balance. The Scarlet Robes ensure the loyalty of the Electors, the safety of the Imperial dynasty, and keep the balance of that great web firmly rooted in the Empire’s direction.”
“And if it were to fall away from the Empire? Would that be such a bad thing?” Renard was a wizard, and wizards were not stereotypically regarded as great patriots.
“If anyone else were to ask that question, I would think they might be a traitor. To put it simply though, if the kingdoms were to become independent again, war, chaos and strife would be all but assured. Raiding bands of Wyrmriders would rampage through the lands from the west, the southern Commonwealth would strangle each kingdom’s trade if they stood alone, the Telarothi would ravage the northern coast, stealing men and women away for their blood rituals, and the barbaric Josuun longboats would return to gain a foothold in the west. Only united does Telavingia have the strength to oppose all of these threats.” When she spoke it was with an eloquent fire that made her eyelashes flutter, and - at least by Renard’s approximation - seemed to deepen the passionate red of her lips. Either this was a speech the Elven woman practised often, or she was a true believer.
Renard decided on the latter. Elves were long lived, which meant that it was a difficult thing to rouse the fire of passion in them, but that the flames were far brighter than that of Mankind. “You make it sound like a noble cause, certainly, but I do have to wonder why you’ve invited me here.”
Tyla put her glass down then, leaning forward to place an elbow on her knee and look him up and down with that piercing gaze. “I want to offer you a job. A very important job. The Elector Andros du Vogare is looking to hire a magical tutor for his son, and I think you would be the perfect man for the job, Renard.”
He couldn’t stop himself from scoffing at that, it sounded too good to be true. “That’s all you want me to do? Teach an Elector’s son about magic?”
“No, I couldn’t care less if you taught him anything about magic, from what I’ve heard he’s a brattish little tyrant. What I want you to do is gain access to the Du Vogare family crypt, below their manor estate outside the city.” She paused for a moment, letting him process this. “Then I want you to bring his father back from the dead, and find out if Andros the Younger is a murderer.”
Renard went white, “What? Just because I brought one man - a recently deceased man I should add - back from the dead, doesn’t mean that I can bring back a man who’s been dead for what, ten? Twenty years? Not only that, but reviving a corpse without the permission of their next of kin is highly illegal. I’m assuming you don’t have the Elector’s permission for this, correct?”
“You’re right, Renard. I don’t. But I have it on very good authority that the death of Andros’s father was extremely suspect. If anything were to go wrong, I would ensure that you were spared from all charges.” She dipped a hand off the side of the sofa, returning with a heavy aged tome that she held out with one hand. “I would also be willing to reward you. This is a book from the restricted section of the Imperial Library.”
Renard needed both his hands to heft up such a heavy tome, opening it carefully. His eyes went wide as he saw the author’s name. Syrenki. A man who was, without a doubt, the greatest practitioner of magic in the entire plane of Veranya, never mind the entire Empire. A man who had claimed the vaunted title of Magician, the secret desire of every wizard, sorcerer, warlock and two-bit hedge mage.
“I want you to have it, Renard. I’m sure once you spend some time perusing it, you’ll find that it tells you everything you need to know to call back Du Vogare’s father.” She watched him carefully, waiting for him to read through a few pages, waiting for him to come to terms with the weight of knowledge in just that single tome. “The library Renard. It is filled with Syrenki’s writings.”
Renard thought hard for a moment. He had spent his entire life scrabbling at the scraps of magical knowledge Svenja left him and now that he had the chance to access writings that rivalled her knowledge tenfold, was the price really that high?
“I agree.”