It was midway into the afternoon yet the keep’s eastern wing was unusually dark; lit only by a small number of candle-wreathed sconces with the curtains of every window tightly drawn. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the hall conveyed a certain warmth under the solitary candlelight. It was the sort of air that was heavy, suffocating even, and was made even worse by the cloth stretched over Lon’s nose and mouth that served to mask his face. Such surroundings only enforced what he had come to believe of these horrid Cambrian manors: that the dark, stone walls of a lavish estate were not so dissimilar to those of a prison, particularly when firelight alone gave them their glow. Without the presence of natural light, the hallways exuded an oppressive gloom that he found almost nostalgic. There may have been no jailers here, nor the harrowing ashen walk of death scratched by the heels of the defiant damned, but when bathed in black, flickering shadows, cold stone and silent surroundings captured that dreariness all the same.
Trekking down one of the wing’s few conjoining halls, Lon’s leather boots plodded in absolute silence across a plush and rich red runner, passing by the smoothed oaken doors of guest rooms and meeting halls. The stifling atmosphere of shadow, smoke and wax were enough to make one feel unwelcome, though he supposed it could not be helped. Someone of his profession was not truly welcomed anywhere, least of all in such a grand abode. On top of this, certain precautions had to be taken to ensure the secrecy of his arrival, and that often made his visits unavoidably dour. To be unwelcome was thus by nature, and he could not fault the lord of the estate for that.
Quietly Lon made his way toward the far end of the decorated guest hall, to the room where his patron, the noble Honorbound of the Scar, sat waiting. All in Cambria, including himself, knew that a call had gone out for the assemblage of the esteemed, and every Honorbound in Cambria was duty bound to attend the moot. The city’s local dignitary had readily welcomed the Scar’s prestigious lady into his private home upon her visit, knowing that his city was but one of many stops the Honorbound would take on her journey northward to Neurial. It was common practice for the Honorbound to use these trips to check in on the surrounding districts to see how well the cities fared, and the vest here was no exception to having his worth be tested. Having had days’ worth of notice, the man was putting on quite a show, but the Honorbound would not be fooled by gifts and pleasantries. Word had already gotten back that something in Meridia was amiss, and the digging Lon had done at his patron’s request had garnered him a well-kept secret to be divulged at the proper time.
Turning down one last corner, Lon slunk beneath the mighty shadow that guarded the guest wing’s final hall. The hulking brown bear, frozen permanently on its two hind legs with mouth stretched open in a fearsome roar, was but one of the many sizeable stuffed trophies littered throughout the manor. Yet, as impressive as the creature may have been, Lon merely brushed it by, sparing the dead beast no more of a glance than he would have a vase or chair. He did not understand the Cambrians’ appeal for such crude décor, and likely never would.
And so, Lon simply continued deeper into a more elaborate hall, one dotted on both sides by crested shields and towering candelabras. There, waiting at the center room beside one such ornamental light, stood the Honorbound’s steward. She was a whinn—as stewards often were—tall, stiff and expressionless, with long, gold-plated hair of a midnight blue nearly black, and yellowed skin like pale sand. Lon had expected the woman’s presence, for she was his only true obstacle to meeting the Honorbound. The secretive Whinnari race always placed their ilk around those in positions of power, though no one knew to what avail. The same was as true in Cambria as it was everywhere else. Every Honorbound, every ruler of every nation, had a whinn somewhere in their council, and for admittedly good reason. The primal insight gifted to the bestial folk allowed them to detect the approach of gigantic drakes and beasts, and so with a whinn to give preemptive warning, many cities were spared disastrous fates. But Lon could not stand Draken’kin, even the civilized ones, and had a particular hatred for the whinn’s haughty mannerisms and tell-nothing rules and ways. That he was forced to deal with one was certainly a loathsome part of his contract with the Honorbound. Fortunately, the benefits he gained from this partnership usually outweighed the hassle.
As Lon approached the steward from the shadows of the hall, the high collar of the woman’s mantle could not hide her visible disgust. He noted with some suspicion how the scales along the bridge of the woman’s pointed nose crinkled, as if he carried with him some foul stench that he could not perceive. If this was so, it was likely cheap perfumes that the whinn smelled, along with other carnal musks. Lon’s recent visit to the city’s brothel square had left him wearing much of the same aromas that coated the harlots within, and if indeed they lingered still, they would be hard to miss. Unable to catch such scents himself, Lon had thought the perfumes long faded, but the whinn’s heightened sense of smell had likely outed the position of his recent whereabouts. If the whinn was wise, however, she would not broach the topic.
“Lizard,” Lon sneered under his breath in a most offensive greeting. The steward’s stone-like face hardly shifted in response however, though the slitted pupils of her emerald eyes became intensely thin. Even in the hall’s low light, he could detect too the slight movement of a muscle twitch, and watched as the woman worked to deny him the satisfaction of her snarl. That she fought so hard against her anger caused Lon to grin, amused. “I’ll let myself in,” he then told the whinn, dismissing whatever answer she could give as he reached for the Honorbound’s door.
“Mind your tongue and manners, boy,” the steward snapped with lowered breath, folding her clawed hands into the large sleeves of her colorful, ornate robes. The motion caused the fabric to catch the light, revealing how each arm and hem was stitched with a multitude of elaborate patterns. Lon was aware that the embroideries were meant to serve as an outward symbol of the woman’s high position. That she drew attention to them now meant that they too served as a warning: a warning to Lon that one wrong step would earn him a terrible fate.
Lon chuckled to himself at this and flashed an arrogant smile. “In as much as it suits me,” he coolly replied, ignoring the steward completely. He knew as well as the woman did that such idle threats were empty, for as long as the Honorbound had need of him then Lon’s position was secured. It mattered little that the woman could have Lon hanged or worse with but a word, for in being Whinnari, she would not act against her liege’s wishes. No amount of prestige or pomp would suppress Lon’s willful nature regardless, especially that of a lizard, for a lizard in power was a lizard still and meant nothing to him at all.
The whinn expectedly turned up her nose at Lon’s overconfident reply, causing the blue gem embedded in her forehead to catch the light and twinkle. The tattoos upon her brow and nose did likewise share the glow, their colors matching that of the stone. Lon puzzled at those markings for the briefest of moments, these colors being yet another Whinnari secret, and left the whinn to stew in anger as he pressed on through the door.
The room that housed the Honorbound was most grand indeed; a place prepared for only the most prestigious of guests. The immaculate state of the abode was obvious at a glance, with fine carpets, pelts and satins adorning every corner. The bed was gargantuan, with a sturdy headrest lined with antlers, numerous pillows and no less than five blankets of varying thicknesses layered a foot high atop the mattress. Cases stacked with books and parchment accompanied a grandiose oaken table, one surrounded by several chairs and multiple scrawling tools. It was a bedchamber and study rolled into one, and though the room could comfortably fit an entire farmer’s family, it housed only one occupant. No comfort had been spared to appease the local lord’s most important guests, and among the room’s expensive trimmings sat the Honorbound, reclining before a roaring fire.
In the light of a large hearth of bleached-white stone, the uniformed woman flipped a page of the book she read while resting in a high-backed, cushioned chair. Though the usual light from the room’s tall windows was currently absent within the chamber, the glow of the fireplace lit up the noblewoman well enough for Lon to see. Her long, straight, brunette hair appeared almost red against the fire, and while half of it she tucked behind her left ear, the other half was left loose to dangle, shadowing her slim and angled face. The woman was a might scrawny for a Cambrian, who were commonly of fuller frame, and beneath the fur shawl slung upon her shoulders for warmth, she wore a rich green bodice that curved to her lither shape. In true Cambrian fashion, the shoulder line of the accompanying coat was decorated with small, golden pauldrons. There, a cape would be hooked during important events to signify the woman’s station, and her forearms were shielded by plates of similar gold-encrusted steel. Being a woman, the chest of the ensemble had been cut out and sewn with separate cloth to allow for her breasts to breathe, and the collar upon the garment was pinned closed with a silver brooch. That brooch, Lon knew, bore the emblem of the Scar, a crescent moon hung above an evergreen wood, and no one but the Honorbound themselves would be permitted to possess it.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Continuing deeper into the room, Lon’s eyes darted to the woman’s waist where she normally wore a heavy belt that housed a sword and buckler. Tonight however, they were missing, and the man spied the armaments lying harmlessly on a small table nearby instead. In the beginning, the woman had always armed herself when they had the need to meet, but this ceased some time ago. Lon suspected this was because the woman no longer considered him a threat, and to this day he could not decide if her laxity was meant as a compliment or insult.
“You are late,” the woman said as Lon stepped into the inner rings of firelight.
“My apologies, my dear Amelia,” the man began, dipping into a bow, “but it could not be helped.” The woman scoffed in response to his words, the usual reaction to his common show of mockery. Lon was aware that to bow to another was not the Cambrian way, for it was considered a show of weakness and a sign of one lacking in self pride. He, of course, had neither weakness nor lack of pride, but got away with using the gesture because he was not of Cambrian blood. Often he would use the bow to simply annoy his patron, to imply a prestige to the woman that he believed undeserved. To him, it was a game he played to see how far he could test the Honorbound’s patience, yet the woman did well to ignore his goading for the sake of their partnership and goals.
Amelia closed the book she had been reading and rose up from her place. “Do not test me, Develli,” she warned with subtle hints of threat. “The contributions I give to your guild are steep, and are not given in exchange for cheek.”
“Yes, of course, lady Honorbound,” Lon replied obediently, though arrogance still tinged his voice. “And we of Fangris are ever grateful for your continued support.”
“As you should be,” Amelia spoke sharply, her pretension putting the man’s own vanity in place.
A wry grin threatened to creep onto Lon’s lips in harsh reaction to this verbal slap, but he remained composed. Instinctually, he realized that something must have happened for the Honorbound to already be wound so tightly. There would be no chance for an oral spar today, only talk of business. “Has something happened?” He asked, wondering what it could be, though frankly caring little.
“You have been trailed to Meridia, Develli,” the woman stated harshly, wasting no time on idle chatter.
The frown Lon made in light of the news was not a shallow one, for if this was true and he had been tailed, it was by no small feat. Never once since he had joined the guild had he failed to see a trap before it was sprung, nor failed to round on and dispose of those who dared follow his steps too closely. His ability to predict the intentions of his enemies’ movements and scrutinize the details of his surroundings is what allowed him to adapt to the unexpected, was the reason he had survived so long within the shadowy work of his field. For someone to be closing in on him without his knowing, it should have been impossible.
“And you know this how?” Lon asked calmly, hiding his slight apprehension and disbelief.
“You are an important piece to me,” the woman began in answer, “but you are far from the only one in my employ. I have other eyes throughout the Scar, eyes that have told me that the Valor has made a move, a move that most likely concerns you.”
“You presume much,” Lon remarked in counter. “For what reason do you think I’m to blame?”
“Timing,” Amelia told him flatly. “The facts are that your arrival triggered a stirring within their ranks. The Valor would never openly oppose an Honorbound. It is not their way. And if it is not for me they now prepare, then there is only one other of consequence in this city that could spur them into action.”
Frowning again, Lon furrowed his brow. Though he was disinclined to admit it, the woman had the right of it. The Valor might conduct their business in secret, but they were noble through and through. They would never move against an Honorbound without proper proof or reason. He, however, was not protected by such honorable customs, and if the Valor meant to move on him, then they would gain all the proof they’d need to depose Amelia. This could not be allowed.
Lon puzzled this for a moment in silence, contemplating this unexpected turn of events. “It must be that damnable captain of theirs,” he spoke aloud, permitting the Honorbound—just this once—to freely know his thoughts. “Only they would deem it necessary to hound me across the Scar.”
Amelia lowered her gaze in hearing the admission and fell into deep thought, then paced back toward the fireplace and peered into its blaze. For a short while then, both were quiet, formulating their separate thoughts until the woman spoke again. “To have attracted such attention bodes ill,” she stated. “The Valor cannot be allowed to interfere with our venture; not now, and least of all those high within their ranks.” Turning away from the flickering flames, Amelia faced Lon again, her expression having somehow grown even more serious than before. “You will dispose of the captain here, in Meridia,” she ordered, “before they can reach Neurial and convene with the rest of their kin.”
Lon raised a skeptical brow as he processed the demand. “You would have me kill them?” He questioned. Even if the situation was dire, this did not seem a wise course of action considering what he knew of the Honorbound and the image she wished to keep. But then again, performing a mere assassination would be easy work for him, and Lon took great delight in receiving simple jobs.
“No, you will not touch them,” Amelia clarified, knowing what the man was thinking. “Not while I am here. The Valor may be a thorn in my side, but do not forget that, to the public, I am sympathetic to their cause. For their captain to come to harm while I am present in the city would only further fuel their suspicion of me. This must be avoided at all costs.”
“And yet you wish them dealt with? How do you propose I do this, then?”
Now it was time for the Honorbound to smirk, her vile grin one worn by those who had grown confident in their position. “You are a smart man, Lon Develli. I am certain you will figure it out.”
Lon took the snide words in stride, though inside he was irritatingly agitated. The Valor’s captain of the Scar was an enigma to him, his one and only nemesis since his work for the Honorbound began. The two parties had been tiptoeing around each other ever since the existence of the other was discovered. Lon had assumed that the Valor captain was aware that Amelia had a right hand man in play, just as he had come to assume that the Valor kept the Honorbound closely watched. In the months he’d been at Amelia’s command, Lon had quietly disposed of his fair share of Valor spies and sneaks. But even with the liberal use of torture, he had never learned of his opponent’s name or face. It was just as well, he supposed, for as far as he knew, the captain likewise knew nothing of his identity and only that he existed. Even so, this gap in his knowledge concerning his foe was nevertheless Lon’s failing, and the only one he could recall having made in recent times. It was a failure that he had been careful to not admit to the Honorbound, though that hardly mattered now. That Amelia would call on him to find and remove the one whose face he did not know, it implied that the woman had secretly known of Lon’s failure all along. As much as he hated to admit it though, this problem was indeed one best dealt with before it got out of hand, and though taxing, it was well within the limits of his contract to handle the job as tasked.
“Now, onto other matters,” the Honorbound said, dropping the troublesome topic at hand and returning to the fireside chair. “What have you learned regarding Meridia’s affairs?”
Now was Lon’s chance for a little revenge for the task Amelia had so suddenly thrust upon him. And so, in exchange for the Honorbound’s dismissiveness, he decided to play coy. “The river docks,” he answered vaguely. “I would advise you to check there.”
For several moments the woman waited, expecting Lon to say something more. “Is that all?” She prompted when nothing came.
But Lon responded only with the same kindness she had shown to him. “You are most wise, Honorbound Fairwater. I am certain you will figure it out.”
At first his snide retort elicited a stunned silence, but Amelia proved quick to recover from the verbal blow. “In this, you are correct,” she answered smoothly, refusing to take his bait. “I need nothing more of you. You are dismissed, for now.”
“As you wish,” Lon acquiesced with a cynical playfulness. He had expected to have no fun at all during this particular visit. How happy he was to be wrong.
“And Develli,” the Honorbound began again, causing Lon to pause in his retreat. “You spend far too much time gallivanting through brothel halls. No man should so reek of gaudy women’s perfume, especially those in my employ. It will not be tolerated.”
Lon chucked to himself and gave the woman a devil’s smile. “Nose sharp as a whinn’s,” he quipped, and then, giving another loathsome bow, he entered the shadows at the edge of the room and quietly took his leave.