image [https://i.imgur.com/9JnFmXw.jpg]
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‘Looks good to me,’ Bron leered, smoking as he lounged in the mouth of the alley.
Rumdoodle rolled her eyes at him and flipped open an ornate silver hand mirror to check her disguise one last time.
A pair of round lensed glasses gave her a look of innocent bookishness. She had her brunette hair tied back in a tightly braided ponytail, showing off ivory white brow ridges that marked her as one of the Alfir caste; the hairstyle was popular with more traditional young women in the Magisterium. It helped to naturally age her down a few years and pass as a graduate student without having to rely on too much makeup.
On the clothing side; her blouse and vest covered a lot of skin, while also being fairly form fitting and showing off her curves more than she usually liked to. She did have a button undone at the collar, revealing her smooth throat and just a hint of collarbone, but no further, aiming to tantalise. Rumdoodle’s natural tan was deeper than most academic shut-ins, thanks to all the time she’d spent sailing the Wine Sea recently, contrasting with her pale white eyes, she hoped it would add an attractive exoticism to her appearance.
Bron whistled suggestively at her as she turned around, checking her outfit.
‘You just have a hard-on for the sheltered student look,’ she said, adjusting the fit of her plaid skirt, functionally cut just above her ankles to show off polished black shoes with a modest heel. She loved this pair; they looked unassumingly smart, but she could run quite well in them if necessary, and they’d been modified with a hidden metal plate in the toe, perfect for kicking overzealous suitors in the groin. Speaking of which…
Bron flicked his cigarette and swaggered up to her, stroking his black goatee, ‘Of course I do, especially when you wear it. What’s not to like?’
The lanky Mardin criminal put his arm on the wall above her shoulder and leaned down, getting so close she could feel his hot breath on her forehead. His open shirt stank of tobacco and bergamot.
‘Allisandra, how about, after the job, you keep the cute outfit on?’ he whispered in her ear, ‘I’ll take you out for a drink to celebrate. We can crash some high-society parties, do some dancing, and see where tonight takes us…’
She stifled a laugh and slipped past him, stooping to gather her bulging briefcase and a cylindrical document case with a carry strap, ‘No offence, Bron, you know I have nothing but respect for your talents, but it’s a hard pass from me.’
He shrugged, smiled, and wagged his finger at her, ‘One of these days you’re going to say yes. There’s chemistry here, I can feel it and I’m not crazy, I know you do too.’
‘Aww, you’re going to be so disappointed. Sucks for you,’ she turned at the end of the alley, threw him a coin-purse which he jumped to catch, and blew him a kiss, ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck!’ He gave her an exaggerated thumbs up, ‘We’re all set to make the diversion. Just don’t get caught.’
‘Me, caught?’ she mimed offence, then stepped back and seamlessly joined the flow of foot traffic bustling through the low-city.
Port Vermil heaved with art and commerce. It was a metropolitan sprawl, built between a cluster of tall hills with slopes that stretched down to extensive dockyards and lines of moored vessels, loading and unloading their goods throughout every hour of the day and night.
Working her way uphill, Rumdoodle wove through the diverse crowd of singing Vermili market traders, and Mardin dockhands lugging heavy sacks inland. Patrols of Dynasty soldiers in weathered armour pushed their way through the crowds, drawing curses as they stamped on toes and glared accusingly at everyone they passed.
A procession of five red-skinned monks with silver teeth and nails, not one of them standing over three feet tall, kept to the edge of the busy streets, lest they be trampled underfoot in the morning rush. She’d never seen their like before, but recognised them from stories about the diminutive Kadrul people, one of the castes who primarily originated from the Gravalt Free States, the archipelago to the east of Sedalia.
The people of the Free States were rarely seen on Sedalia’s shores, but there was hardly an obscure caste, material, spice, fashion, or vice from anywhere in the world that you couldn’t find in Port Vermil, if you knew the right place to look. It truly was the jewel of the Wine Sea.
It also stank. On sunny summer days, the sun soaked fish-markets stewed in their own fetid fumes. Trails of smoke and steam wafted from countless stalls and businesses, forming a haze that hung in the paved streets, half spiced, half foul, and all without a breath of wind to shift it and relieve the oppressive humidity.
Of course, the nobility lived far above all that. Across the surrounding hilltops, mansions and guild-houses with brilliant marble facades jostled garishly to outshine each-other, interspersed with open air amphitheatres, museums, and verdant parks. The smog of the low-city never made it up to where the rich dwelled.
Rumdoodle climbed the last few steps of a winding switchback that cut its way up from the low-city to Alderbank, the most westerly hilltop district, and wiped her brow on her sleeve. As the morning progressed, the sun’s heat was becoming almost unbearable, especially when walking uphill.
She’d made pretty good time from her rendezvous with Bron, a testament to her skill at navigating the busy crowds, and the excellent state of fitness she’d worked hard to build and preserve. A childhood surviving on the streets had taught her the value of always having greater stamina than the person chasing you.
Rumdoodle continued along an old fortification turned terrace, where groups of perfumed aristocrats and guildsmen assembled beneath their parasols to drink morning tea and exchange scandalous gossip. In the bay below, ships of a hundred different shapes and types bobbed on their own mirrored reflections, becalmed on glass-smooth azure waters that stretched to the horizon under a faultless blue sky. While the nobility typically made her lip curl, she couldn’t deny that their view from the Alderbank district was fantastic.
A nearby clocktower chimed, letting her know it was almost time for her appointment. She couldn’t afford to be late, it would send completely the wrong message. The first impression she made with this disguise was vital to her plan; it built upon the weeks of correspondence she’d used to set up today’s meeting, and her observations of the mark at public events, watching him talk and socialise, figuring out what made him tick.
She picked up the pace, turning the corner onto a broad, tree lined avenue that sloped further uphill towards the governor’s palace, then she crossed the road and took a gravel path through a set of beautiful fountain gardens that spilled her out into a wide sunlit plaza with café tables set out for business.
It was quiet here, a stark contrast to the hollering crowds of the low-city. A few Alfir couples, draped in the latest fashions, sat at tables in the shade sipping rich coffee blended with cardamom. A couple of soldiers patrolled nearby, their armour polished to a mirror shine, smiling and saying good morning to the people they passed. It was easy duty up here in the hilltop districts, their only job was throwing out any low-city rabble who dared wander into the aristocrats’ backyard. Fortunately that didn’t count her today, she looked like she belonged, although appearances could be deceiving.
Standing high over the plaza was the entrance to The Delles Gallery.
Hosts of gilded marble statues clamoured across the building’s balconies and towers, and the Delles family crest was prominently carved in pride of place above the entranceway.
It was ostentatious, built like a palace, and it deserved to be. Those walls housed the most prestigious private collection of artworks and rare texts in the entire Heartland; thousands of unique artefacts, gathered and preserved under one roof by Haldor Delles, the richest man in the Radiant Dynasty.
Rumdoodle was going to steal a priceless painting from right under his nose. He would never even know it was gone. That was the plan at least, now it was just a matter of playing her part with characteristic excellence.
If there was one thing she prided herself on, it was being one of the best liars in the world.
She took a breath and made her way into the Gallery.
A doorman greeted Rumdoodle, waved a detection ward over her body and possessions to make sure she wasn’t carrying any concealed magic items, and showed her through a lush foyer. Exotic plants sat in intricately decorated vases and pots along the walls. It was several degrees cooler inside, and the smells of the city were replaced by clear air, with just the hint of varnish. A mahogany reception desk island stood in the centre of the room, and a young Alfir woman with curly golden hair sat behind it, smiling politely at Rumdoodle as she asked for a name.
‘Oh, of course, it’s Susannah Milsen,’ Rumdoodle lied, making a show of struggling to open her briefcase as she flashed an awkward smile over the reception desk, ‘I have an introductory note from Professor Tyris, he’s my supervisor in the Art History department.’
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
‘That’s not necessary, we’re expecting you,’ The receptionist said, and motioned to a cluster of cosy armchairs around a coffee table in the corner, ‘Take a seat. Lord Delles is finishing another meeting. He’ll be with you shortly.’
‘Ok, thank you, there’s no rush, I’m happy to wait,’ she said, nodding excessively while she went to sit down. She let her skirt ride up just a bit to show her calves as she crossed her legs. With luck, and all the preparation she’d put in, all she needed now was for the old man to play along and take the bait.
A newspaper on the coffee table caught her eye, the Port Vermil Gazette, lying open on one of Dorian’s “adventures”. Huh, so his editors finally decided to release another one?
Word was that Dorian had disappeared in a sunworm attack near Dualspire a few months ago, and nobody had heard anything since. Not wanting to burn through their backlog of Dorian Darling articles too swiftly, the Gazette had slowed the release schedule of his column to a crawl, to the wailing dismay of his most dedicated fans.
Rumdoodle checked in with Eddie Longs, Dorian’s literary agent, a week after hearing the news of his disappearance, but Eddie, chain smoking and day drunk as usual, wasn’t able to tell her anything she hadn’t already learnt from gossip in the salons.
That was ok though, she’d asked more out of curiosity than real concern. Dorian would re-emerge at some point, with an unlikely sounding tale to explain his absence; he always did. It was frankly uncanny, but she’d witnessed his ability to bumble through deadly situations without getting a scratch on him enough times that she’d learned not to worry about him too much.
Better to focus on the task at hand.
After a few minutes, a door opened on the far side of the reception foyer and an opulently dressed Alfir man stepped through it, flanked by a Orend bodyguard wearing a short-sword. The signet ring on the Alfir’s finger confirmed this was Haldor Delles, though Rumdoodle was already well acquainted with his likeness.
He had short, greying hair that turned wispy at the crown of his head, and his bony brow ridges were long, twisted and willowy. Small golden eyes twinkled in the deep shadows under that brow; they looked her up and down, lingering on her legs, before he turned to exchange a quiet word with the receptionist.
Here we go.
Up close, his presence was surprisingly underwhelming, especially measured up against his reputation. This was the man who had enough power and influence to rival the Emperor? It had taken surprisingly little effort to gain access to him.
Then again, powerful men often let their guard down around exploitable young women with pretty faces.
His conversation with the receptionist concluded, and he turned back to Rumdoodle with a welcoming smile.
‘Miss Milsen,’ he said, ‘Or do you prefer Susannah? Haldor Delles, at your service. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Your dissertation supervisor speaks very highly of you.’
‘Thank you my lord, Susannah is fine,’ Rumdoodle rose and rushed up to him, performing a clumsy curtsy, ‘I’m so grateful for the opportunity to study marginalia in the 1st century scriptures, but you really needn’t have come to meet me yourself.’
She rose from the curtsy and stood very close to him for just a moment, as if by mistake, letting him smell her presence, before taking a step back and lowering her eyes, pretending to be flustered.
The bodyguard behind Haldor frowned slightly but said nothing. He was a trained military mage who’d earned distinction in the Rossack Rebellions before joining the Delles private forces. Rumdoodle didn’t want to tangle with him, so she was careful about her approach. No need to get his hackles raised unnecessarily.
‘Nonsense,’ Haldor responded by reaching out and raising her chin to meet his eyes and laying his other hand on her arm, ‘Old men like me are always thrilled to find that the young still share our interests, and I never miss an opportunity to show off my collection, especially to one so eager.’
He gestured for her to join him. His hand stayed on her arm, ‘Please, this way, I’ve had a cosy little study room prepared for us.’
His eyes roved her body through the modest and conservative outfit as they passed through a set of doors and down a long ornate corridor lined with framed portraits of Alfir nobility going back a thousand years.
You old creep! I’m sure you’re very excited to show a naive student to your cosy little study room.
‘Wait here,’ Haldor told his bodyguard as they arrived at the doors to a small room.
‘Yes my lord,’ came the response, and the bodyguard remained in the corridor.
The study room had a plush chaise-longue against one wall, a drinks trolley with rows of crystal decanters, and a large work-desk in the centre of the room, displaying neat stacks of tagged and catalogued books in special dust jackets.
It was exactly the same setup she’d heard about in reports from other young female visitors to the Gallery; good, that meant fewer possible surprises. She’d managed to get him in the room alone, now it was just a matter of time before news of the diversion arrived.
Haldor immediately crossed to the drinks trolley and unfolded a knife from his jacket pocket, which he used to open a chilled bottle of sparkling fruit wine, scoring around the cork and popping it off with practised flourish. He poured two glasses and offered one to her, which she accepted with a blush.
‘Is this your first time visiting Port Vermil, Miss Milsen?’ Haldor asked, taking off his jacket and sitting beside her as they opened the first of the scriptures.
‘It’s my first time outside Vostrel,’ she lied, ‘Thank you again, for the invitation to browse your collection, and for covering my travel costs. It’s so generous of you.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, sipping his drink and casually putting his arm around her as they leant in to look at the beautifully detailed marginalia weaving down the borders of the old religious text, ‘If today goes well, there’s no reason you couldn’t return as often as you like. There’s much more here to study, my collection is extensive and exclusive. Few are given the access you’re enjoying.’
He inched further into her space over the next few minutes as they flipped the pages, occasionally pointing out a particular feature of the artwork, but for the most part his focus was clearly on getting as close and intimate with her as she would allow. She could hear him breathing in the scent of her hair, lightly perfumed with jasmine.
Oh, come on! I’m a respectable lady as far as you’re concerned. You could at least be a bit more subtle about sniffing me.
Rumdoodle suppressed her rising revulsion. She’d planned for exactly this scenario, going off reports about Haldor’s promiscuous sexual habits and appetite for impressionable younger women. But now she was here, she couldn’t stop wondering exactly how many poor girls had been in this exact situation before, sat in this very room, and how many of them had no idea how to respond, let alone rebuff the shameless advances of a powerful man who could make life very hard for them if they dared to reject him.
It would be easy for this to go too far if she wasn’t careful, time to move to the next step.
She laughed nervously, blushing and fanning her face, ‘That wine has gone right to my head, I almost forgot to get out my notes,’ she said, fiddling with the clasp of her briefcase while the older Alfir’s hand began to creep lower and lower down her back.
‘Oh bother!’ Rumdoodle exclaimed as the briefcase clasp finally opened with a burst, chaotically spilling paper and writing implements across the floor.
She got to her feet, breaking out of Haldor’s grasp, and started scrabbling around on her hands and knees, picking up and reorganising the notes.
‘Susannah! Leave them, it’s not important,’ Haldor said, frustration clear in his voice.
‘I’m sorry my lord, It’ll only take a second!’ she said, continuing to sort through the papers.
There was a moment’s silence before she heard him sigh and stand to help her.
‘Here,’ he said, grabbing the briefcase and helping her put the notes away.
With his attention distracted, she quickly took his jacket from the back of the chaise-longue and tucked it out of sight beneath the upholstery, disguising the movements as she tidied the mess.
Haldor was none the wiser. Briefcase closed once more, the two of them finally returned to their seats at the table. The interruption seemed to slow him down, but after a few minutes of helping her take notes on the artwork, he insisted on pouring them both a second glass of wine, trying to make up for lost time.
‘I won’t be able to take proper notes if I have too much,’ she protested.
‘You need to live a little,’ he said, pressing the glass into her hand.
Academia doesn’t have to be all musty archives and droning professors. Art is about appreciation of life, and of beauty,’ he looked dangerously into her eyes, leaning in close again, ‘It’s ok for us to have a little fun, and nobody has to know.’
‘I need to complete my research so I can return to Vostrel,’ she said, ‘I can’t afford to stay in a hotel here for long.’
‘I’ll cover it,’ he said, ‘stay for a few days, for a week. There’s no rush. I’m enjoying your company; aren’t you enjoying mine?’
‘Of course, my lord. You’re being very charming,’ she said.
‘Call me Haldor, please. You’re so tightly wound. Relax, indulge, enjoy the moment.’
He put his hand on her leg and leant closer still.
‘My lord, please. I–’ she started, but he lifted a silencing finger to her lips and continued, forcing her to lean back, almost falling off the seat as he pressed his advance, a feral look in his eyes.
For fuck’s sake, come on Bron! That diversion needs to come soon or I’m going to stab this creep, and damn the consequences.
‘My lord!’ The bodyguard stuck his head through the door, looking in and then awkwardly averting his eyes as he saw Haldor in the middle of trying to crawl on top of Rumdoodle.
Right on cue, thank Illfish.
‘What!’ Haldor spat, huffing red in the face as he rose to confront the man, ‘You know better than to interrupt.’
‘Apologies, my lord. It’s urgent,’ he said.
‘For your sake, It had better be,’ Haldor growled, leaving the room to talk to the man outside.
Rumdoodle fought to regain her breath as she waited. Her heart hammered so hard within her chest that she felt lightheaded and sick.
That was too close.
[End of Chapter 11: Part 1]