Image [https://i.imgur.com/9JnFmXw.jpg]
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Following Mirabelle and her pirates, Fig pushed Rick’s wheelchair onward through the dense crowds of the Festival Island. A maze of canals and stalls sprawled out from the central platform, swarming with traders shouting over each other to peddle their goods to drunk customers.
Flowing across the lake surface, a cool night breeze carried rich aromas from the fringes of the floating complex, a promise of delicious food for sale just up ahead.
Mirabelle was insistent that they needed to attend a private auction later on the far side of the Festival Island, though she refused to elaborate on the exact reason when Fig initially pressed her about it. Damn sneaky pirate, keeping schemes to herself.
Their group still had a little time before the auction was due to begin, so the pirates opted to venture out into the festival and find some dinner prior to the event.
As they crossed bridges and skirted the edges of canals, crossing the barge platforms one by one and making room for passing festival goers, Fig noticed Rick speaking softly, mostly to himself, expressing his wonder at the things they saw all around them.
On a stage nearby, a team of Vermili acrobats climbed over each other, feet on shoulders, into a pyramid five levels tall. The three top ranks flipped backwards onto trampolines and started tumbling back and forth in a dizzying weave of flying bodies, bouncing over the remaining two levels of the balancing pyramid, switching places with their static fellows, diving through the narrow gaps between their arms and legs, and eventually all six of the tumblers landed back on top to complete the pyramid once more with barely a wobble. Fig had rarely seen their equal, even at the Solstice celebrations in Vostrel.
They passed a wizard from the I.G.A, who performed pyromancy using red and green ether-crystals in tandem to spin flame out of thin air before weaving it into a fiery tapestry that burned overhead. The pyromancers' flame art depicted an animated scene from distant history, a great clash of ancient armies, dragons swooping down upon the flying cities of the cloud giants far above a mountain range, and tearing them asunder.
A swarm of children wearing the uniform of The Luvellia Presimis Home For Orphans watched the flaming battle in awe. They clapped and cheered loudly from a nearby bridge as their adult chaperones attempted to herd them south towards the Festival Island’s distant event tents.
‘Thank you for bringing me,’ Rick croaked up to Fig, ‘Sorry you have to push me everywhere.’
‘Well, you were adamant about coming, and despite what a grumpy killjoy everyone seems to think I am, I was hardly going to leave you behind once you made it clear how much this mattered to you,’ Fig said, ‘I’m just glad you seem to be having a good time.’
‘I am,’ Rick whispered, looking out at the lights and press of people dancing, laughing, kissing, performing, and throwing the wildest party this side of the Twirling Ridge Mountains.
The young man needed this. Fig could hardly imagine what he was going through right now, stuck in the wheelchair, robbed of his magic by The Undying King, the Fallen who held Rick’s life in its accursed hands.
It was difficult for Fig to see her usually bright eyed and inquisitive friend so diminished, struggling to move himself without aid or even talk above a laboured whisper.
If being here could help him forget his woes, even for a moment, it was worth the effort.
‘Hey, what do you want to eat?’ Fig asked, pushing the chair after Casrian and Mirabelle as they swaggered over to claim a bench in the food court from a departing group of nobles before the free seating disappeared, ‘The festival’s baked apples are world famous. I hear they use a special honey for the glaze, traded from the Eastern Alfir in the Berabrick Forest. Whatever they’re feeding those deepwood bees, it’s delicious.’
‘Ok, yep. I definitely want one of those,’ Rick said, ‘And some lake crab, the one they serve with chopped mint and hookbean sauce. Dorian kept talking about it on the river barge. He said it’s the best thing in Loverlock.’
‘For once, he’s not wrong,’ Fig said, ‘Coming right up! Just hang here for a second.’
She left Rick with a pair of Mirabelle’s pirates who held the table while the rest dispersed to gather food from the array of vendors.
Fig, slipped through the crowd, enjoying the anonymity of her beaked half-mask. She probably knew an uncomfortable number of people here, thanks to her upbringing in the Emperor’s Court in Vostrel, but masked as she was there was little risk of being approached by a childhood acquaintance, or even worse a high society gossip monger who wanted to quiz her about Fig’s latest exploits on the Outerland frontier.
Those were questions Fig didn’t want to answer, not after the events of the past weeks. She’d heard people in town whispering about the sinking of The Sunriser and Rathulin’s Star. News travelled fast. Some survivors of the battle must have made it to shore after all.
It was one of the greatest military defeats the Dynasty had suffered in recent years; two fully armed and crewed warships sunk by a single pirate frigate, wielding new weapons that suggested Garrel had broken its technological embargo to covertly arm the Dynasty’s enemies, which would put the independent city in direct violation of its standing peace agreement. Whatever happened next, it was probably going to get ugly.
No wonder security at this year’s festival was so high.
Everywhere Fig looked there were squads of Dynasty soldiers interspersed with the crowd. They wore the standard imperial issue half-plate, and from reading the regional insignia on their pauldrons Fig noted that additional troops must have been drawn in from Trent, Tallcastle and Utred’s Rest to support the Loverlock garrison during the Lovers' Festival.
They weren’t taking any chances, not with so many of the Heartland nobility gathered in one place. The Dynasty soldiers lurked at the fringes of the festivities, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. Tonight it would take a small army to assault the Lovers’ Festival with any measure of success.
Fig also spotted other small armed groups, mostly Alfir, Mardin, and Vermili in unmarked armour dotted throughout the Festival Island. They wore cloaks and costumes over their weapons in an effort not to stand out too much, but the mean looks on their faces and a certain wariness in their posture made them stick out to any trained observer. The Dynasty soldiers had eyes on them, but weren’t causing a fuss, which meant the unmarked armed personnel were probably authorised private security here on contract. She caught a glimpse of some semi-concealed old service tattoos, lots of ex-military too, from the look of it.
The private security were clustered in the crowds near VIP’s, watching bridges, and other access points. Definitely on guard duty. Half the Family heads and business leaders at the festival were surrounded by layers of additional protection.
At least it meant the pirates didn’t stand out too much in the crowd, boxed around Mirabelle. In her masquerade attire, the pirate queen would appear to be just another wealthy Heartlander who’d brought their own private security detail to the festival.
A declaration of war could be mere weeks away. Maybe less. Days? The festival might be the last chance for the Dynasty nobility to party and relax before everything went to shit. Already loud voices were demanding military retaliation against the Saltcrust “savages” and a final push to bring Garrel under Dynasty control. Mirabelle’s victory was stoking up fear and anger in the public, pushing the continent towards conflict, and no wonder. How many Heartland families lost children and friends when those ships sank?
Fig had been right there in the thick of it, cutting down boys half a decade younger than her, fresh recruits, out on what they’d probably assumed was an easy patrol assignment. They didn’t have the training to stand up to a seasoned warrior like her, let alone one with an enchanted sword. It was little more than a slaughter.
In the heat of battle how many of the Dynasty crew might have recognised her, and how many of those survived to reach the shore? Perhaps none, but there was no way to know for certain. If reports of Fig's involvement in the massacre did get back to the Dynasty, they might issue a bounty for her capture and then she’d have to flee. What then?
How many had she killed personally? Fifteen? Twenty? Dynasty soldiers. Her own people, at least in name. The battle was little more than a crimson blur in her memory once Whisper started dancing from one severing strike to another, clearing her foes from the deck. If The Rogue Wave fell to the enemy, and she was taken prisoner, she would have been tried as a collaborator alongside Mirabelle and summarily executed. She’d done what was necessary to save herself, and Rick, and even Dorian, because Mirabelle forced her hand by starting a battle with the fucking Imperial Navy instead of just running. Fig had no choice. She had to do it. She had to kill those soldiers.
Did you?
What else could she have done?
In the aftermath, she’d deadened herself to it, pushed all thoughts of morality out of her mind, something she’d long since learned the necessity of as a Outerland mercenary. But now… It kept playing in her mind. Their young faces twisting into masks of horror as she swept through them like a red wind, cutting them down even as they turned to flee.
And you were laughing, Fig. Don’t forget that. In the moment, you were enjoying yourself.
Waiting in line for food, the space between Fig’s shoulders itched like someone was staring at it, but every time she glanced back and scanned the crowd, she saw nothing to justify the feeling.
Still, that sensation remained. Her hand twitched reflexively towards Whisper’s hilt.
It was only as she walked back to set a laden armful of food and treats down on their table before Rick, that she saw the possible source of her disquiet through the crowd.
Shit.
Corundum Illisar, the duellist who defeated her five years prior, the man who executed the very humiliation that led to her disownment, was a mere stone’s throw away, walking past in the company of three war-mages. Their attire was the white, red, and gold of veterans, and fur lined cloaks marked them out as Stormchaser elites from the northern garrisons, one of the most brutally effective units in the history of the Dynasty military.
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Fig’s heart lurched. She almost bolted, before realising with sick irony that he wasn’t even looking in her direction. He hadn’t noticed her. Of course he hadn’t. There was no way he could have recognised her from that distance, let alone through a mask.
Still, if anyone’s mere presence could make her skin crawl with fear from a dozen metres away, even before she knew they were in the area, it was that man.
Corundum Illisar. That bastard. He slashed her dreams into tatters before the eyes of the court, exposing them for the childish fantasies they’d always been.
Tall, lithe, and maskless, walking like a snow leopard stalking the tundra, Corundum turned with his coterie of war-mages and started crossing a bridge to the central platform. His Alfir brow ridges, high and imperious, had their bony tips leafed with gold in the style of Alfir conquerors from ages past. Crowds parted before him like wheat before a scythe.
Fig stood rigid and trembling as she watched Corundum from afar, unable to tear her eyes away. He wore two swords.
One was lashed horizontally across the small of his back, bronze handled, shorter, and curiously curved like light bending through warped glass. The other at his hip was straight as a needle, long and slender, with a swept hilt of metallic birds’ wings that cradled the hand. That was the one Fig couldn’t stop staring at. So close. It was right there. The Hummingbird.
Fig, don’t!
A hand grabbed hers. Fig jumped. Looking down she saw Mirabelle’s iron grip holding Whisper firmly in its scabbard.
Without even thinking about it, Fig had been drawing the blade.
‘Not the time,’ Mirabelle said. She followed Fig’s eyes back to Corundum and the war-mages, then fixed Fig with a sympathetic look, but shook her head.
Fig released the sword and slumped against the bench, holding herself up by her hands and staring into space.
‘Fig?’ Rick said.
Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. She felt sick. Fuck… What was this? An anxiety attack?
‘Breathe,’ Mirabelle told her.
She staggered away from the table in the direction of the nearest canal, shouldering her way through the crowd.
‘What’s going on?’ Rick called after her.
‘Fig just had a nasty surprise. Give her a second,’ Mirabelle’s hushed him.
When Fig finished throwing up into the water, much to the amusement of some nearby festival goers, one of whom patted her on the back with an air of friendly sympathy, she walked back to their table with as much dignity as she could muster.
‘Are you steady?’ Mirabelle asked.
Fig grunted in response, joining them at the table and staring into her plate of food.
‘... Took me by surprise, that’s all,’ she said, attempting to take a nonchalant bite from a baked apple before hissing and spitting it out as she burnt the roof of her mouth.
‘Was that him?’ Rick asked.
‘Yes,’ Fig said.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘S’ok. It’s just… It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the duel, you know,’ Fig said, ‘I thought he’d still be at the Bleakfort. Illisar rarely leaves his command, and he doesn’t typically come to these things so I’ve never had to worry about running into him.’
‘I guess this year is different,’ Rick said.
‘Yeah,’ Fig responded, glaring at Mirabelle who calmly returned her gaze, ‘I wonder why?’
‘The last thing we need is to tangle with Stormchasers,’ Casrian said, peering at the distant war-mage elites as they joined a small group of nobles on a VIP platform set aside for a private party in the midst of the Festival Island.
‘Their presence doesn’t change our plans,’ Mirabelle said, ‘We’ll attend to my business at the auction then get back to the suite without further incident. From there we hide in the Floating Chest overnight, and leave on a pre-arranged river barge tomorrow morning. As long as we keep clear of Illisar’s men and keep our disguises on, we should be fine.’
Wouldn’t that be nice.
‘Let’s go to the auction tent now, and wait there,’ Fig said, ‘I don’t want to take any more risks wandering around the festival and running into potential threats.’
‘Agreed,’ Mirabelle said.
The cohort gathered their things, wolfed down as much food as they could on the fly, and finally made their way to the auction tent out on the southern tip of the Festival Island.
Attendants checked their tickets for the private auction, and waved them through. Nobody asked Fig to give up her sword or daggers; armed bodyguards were allowed, so long as all weapons remained politely in their sheathes.
Their group entered the tent along with a trickle of other ticket holders. Nobles and merchants all filtered in to take their seats for the event.
The space was large enough to contain a raised stage and a semi-circle of tiered auditorium style seating for the patrons, lit by off-white ether-crystal lamps that filled the interior canvas with a warm glow.
A few big names from the Dynasty were in attendance. Haldor Delles, the richest man in the Heartland, stood near the stage podium speaking quietly with Luvellia Presimis, proprietor of the Lost Love Lodge and the host of the night’s auction.
Falinar Barbitus, Loverlock’s Mayor, sat with his retinue, trying and failing to get Luvellia’s attention from the front row.
There were also prominent members from some of the largest noble families, and even a few WiSTCo executives with powdered faces and far too much finery to possibly be comfortable.
Beyond that the crowd seemed to include a lot of theatrical costumes, even above and beyond typical masquerade attire.
‘Well, here we are. Care to finally enlighten me about why you were so keen to attend this private auction?’ Fig whispered to Mirabelle, noting the position of attendants and security in case they needed to make a hasty exit later.
The pirate queen winked at her.
‘I’m bidding on an item for some associates of mine,’ Mirabelle said.
‘What item?’
Mirabelle pushed an auction brochure into Fig’s hand, ‘See for yourself. Number sixteen. A rare playtext… It's a Rattlestaff with original notes.’
Fig flicked through the pages until she found it. Upon an Eastern Cloud, Rattlestaff's last tragedy. Written in the bard's own hand and perfectly preserved, at least according to the blurb. The contents of the auction were from the private collection of a recently deceased nobleman.
It didn't seem like Mirabelle's kind of thing.
‘Why the fuck would you be interested in this?’ Fig asked.
‘What? You think you think I can’t take an interest in arts and culture, just because I’m a pirate?’ Mirabelle put a hand to her chest in mock offence, ‘I’ll remind you that Saltcrust has several fine theatres.’
‘Cut the shit, M,’ Fig growled, keeping her voice just low enough that it wouldn’t carry to the nearby nobles, ‘What makes this playtext important enough to you and your “associates” for us to risk coming out onto the Festival Island, surrounded by Dynasty soldiers, just so you can bid on it?’
‘Tut tut. That’s need-to-know information, Fig,’ Mirabelle said, breaking away.
The pirate queen nodded to Luvellia from across the room, and received a small inclination of the head in return as the woman acknowledged Mirabelle’s presence and moved to speak to her.
Fig puzzled over the brochure, looking for some context she'd missed. What was the point of this?
Whatever business Mirabelle had at the auction, Luvellia was involved, just as she had been in arranging the covert meetings in the suite yesterday. All those powerful people, summoned to speak to her in secret. Just how large was Mirabelle’s conspiracy?
Big enough to swallow you whole if you’re not careful, Fig.
The walls were closing in. She and Rick needed to get as far away from Mirabelle as possible, before these schemes came to a head and trapped them in a chokehold.
If they could just get through tonight they’d be in the clear; temporarily rich off Fig’s paycheck, with nothing but open road between them and whatever corner of the continent they decided to lay low in while the world fell apart.
It could burn to the ground for all she cared.
That’s not true, and you know it. Stop pretending you aren’t involved.
Fig busied herself to calm her nerves while they waited for the auction to begin. She checked on Rick, who was talking to Casrian about some obscure form of locking magic. Then looked around, trying to figure out how many people in the room were wearing concealed weapons.
Fig froze. Her eyes fixed on a bay of raised seating on the far side of the auditorium, opposite where the pirates were making themselves comfortable.
Her sister was here.
How had she missed it before?
Telissa sat on the high level overlooking the stage, beside a well dressed young-ish Mardin man with russet hair, and an older woman to whom the man bore a clear familial resemblance. They’d all removed their masks, as some others had done in the comfort of the auction tent, though a few attendees chose to remain anonymous, Mirabelle included.
Fig saw Lissie deep in conversation with the man and his… mother? Her sister looked happy, flipping through an auction brochure and laughing at some joke the man made. Hadn’t she said something about courting a potential suitor at the festival? It was hard to remember. Fig was so drunk when they had their fight on the Lodge’s balcony the previous night.
Whatever the situation that brought her here, it was only another minute before Lissie glanced out over the growing crowd assembling for the auction, and saw Fig across the room. Lissie stiffened in her seat, letting Fig know that her sister instantly recognised her through the mask. Of course she did. Their eyes met for just moment before Lissie turned back to her companions and resumed their conversation as if nothing was the matter.
Lissie had her own battles to fight here. Fig didn't approach; she'd only get in the way, which wouldn't help her make amends.
What are the chances?
‘I’m getting so sick of asking myself that.’
Of course they were both at the auction. Once again, fate conspired to make Fig’s life complicated. It was happening too much recently, far too much. Abnormal.
‘Look!’ Rick said, nudging her elbow and startling Fig’s attention away from Lissie.
She followed his finger.
Mirabelle stood muttering to Luvellia in a back corner, but that wasn’t what Rick was pointing out. Just past the pair, Alice Cotram, the Jester in her frilled costume, had just sauntered into the auction tent.
The last time they’d seen her, less than an hour ago, Alice Cotram was walking off arm in arm with Dorian.
Now the writer was nowhere to be seen and the woman was here, taking a seat at the back of the room. The way she moved was still so familiar. Why?
First Corundum, then Lissie, now this Alice Cotram person, whoever the fuck she really was under that mask. Too many coincidences, once again. Something was happening.
Where was Dorian?
Luvellia broke from Mirabelle and made her way to the stage, taking up the auctioneer's gavel.
‘Are we ready for the auction to begin?’
Her clear voice rang out above the murmur of conversation, prompting everyone to take their seats.
‘Fig, sit down!’ Mirabelle hissed.
Fig lowered into her chair, gripping Whisper's hilt with white knuckles.
‘Excellent! Thank you all for coming, we have quite a treat waiting for you tonight…’
[End of Chapter 27]