Lon pulled lightly upon his shroud, ensuring that it wholly covered his hair and shadowed his face. The heat of his breath, trapped by the thin layer of cloth stretched over his mouth and nose, warmed his cheeks, but made them damp. In the crisp and gradually chilling air of the approaching evening, the moistened skin stung like ice when we inhaled. Alas, such discomforts could not be helped. Time had been played against his favor, forcing him out into these biting winds. Had he the choice, Lon would have rather bided his time until midday tomorrow, where the weather was likely to be more agreeable and he would have had more time to scout and plan. But he could no longer afford the luxury of a leisurely pace. Already he had wasted too much time on matters concerning the Valor captain, and now that the Honorbound’s plan was in active motion, she would not allow him to risk failure brought about by his own lack of urgency.
Amelia had always possessed an incessant desire for perfection; a desire that Lon found to be one of the Honorbound’s most taxing traits. Often her intentions and timing conflicted with his own, misaligned upon a path to reaching the same goal. The woman wanted jobs carried out immediately and efficiently as possible, while Lon preferred to move at his own pace and in his own time. His way was no less efficient, of course, for every task he undertook he carried out so to appease his own high standard of satisfaction. Being rushed by an overseer did nothing but add unnecessary stress to his job, and tended to make things more complicated than they had any reason to be. Lon much preferred a task that hinged only on what he deemed worth doing at any given point during its completion, and his chosen choice of tactics had rarely failed him in the past. Unfortunately, the guild was breathing down his neck, and their demands required him to maintain this lucrative alliance with the Scar’s Honorbound. The Lady Fairwater’s choice in tact thus vastly outweighed his own, and for the sake of his distinguished reputation, as well as that of Fangris, Lon would not disappoint.
Still, the Honorbound’s hounding garnered her nothing, and did even less to help solve Lon’s current problem. He still yet knew how he was to dispose of the Valor captain without killing them, which would have been the simplest way. A plan, one suited to meet the Honorbound’s bothersome requirements, would be concocted in due time once all the pieces had been arranged, but first there came the tricky matter of the captain’s identity. Only after knowing his target’s face could Lon truly lay his traps, and then he and the Valor captain could finally end this dance they shared. Though he would never admit to it, Lon knew he had allowed this matter to elude him for far too long. Indeed, it was high time that the two of them finally met, though “meet” was not quite the proper word for what he planned to do. As long as he had the right tools to work with, Lon was confident that he would be able to find out who the captain was without giving himself away. Already he was forming a tentative plot to make this so, which bided him return to the brothel square—in spite of Amelia’s warning—to locate the pawn he required.
For an hour Lon solemnly stalked the mundane streets, passing those corners housing scantily clad ladies, all bare skin and curves. With some amusement he watched how the women shuddered in the evening chill, and reveled in how they called to him, yearning for him to be the one to return the warmth unto their skin. A gentle stroke of the cheek and a deceptively kind word kept both his time and his coin free from their clutches. Regardless of having refused the advances, it entertained Lon nonetheless to watch them rouse so at his touch, and provided him an even greater joy to witness such desperate eagerness that they should throw themselves at him. How many had he seen act this same way before? Even those refined women of noble courts oft proved themselves little different than these garish whores where their bedchamber was concerned. All were so easy a pet to mold when treated a particular way, and Lon had never had problems finding bed companions when he wanted, money when he needed, or secrets when he asked. His charm and manner were enough to always ensure that this was so. Recently, only the woman, Fairwater, had resisted his will so sternly, and in so doing had only confirmed his strong dislike for headstrong women.
Slowly the first hour of his searching passed, and just as slowly the sun dipped behind the tallest buildings. The lack of it cast the streets under a cloak of shade, signaling the coming time for the usual influx of disreputable patrons. Believing themselves better hidden under the growing cover of dusk, those seeking to indulge in their sin and lust began filling the alleys in number. Some of them hoped to some choice of god that no one would recognize them in their hour of weakness, while others with no such scruples boisterously meandered in, half-drunk already, to satisfy yet another one of life’s many needs. There were few other places within the city that so readily gathered the desperate and easily swayed. Beggar streets, poorhouses and slums were each another such wellspring, and sufficed most often for locating those willing to partake in any manner of work for coin. But today Lon needed someone who possessed more than simple intellect and street guile, someone who would perform for him the calculative role he required. Be it a clever harlot or some weak-willed, wily cad, here, in the place where degenerates from all walks of life mingled, Lon was certain to find someone he could use.
Already he had his ideal pawn in mind, and had been keeping a sharp eye out for anyone matching what he envisioned. For years Lon had made it something of a pastime to use unsuspecting people for gain, and so could easily recognize those traits he prized most in his tools. Thus he weaved casually between the decrepit, shady streets, eavesdropping on small cliques and couples that had broken off alone, and tailing just behind those few who gave off particularly-potent vulnerable vibes. So many he trailed proved far too dull-witted for his cause, alas; lacking all manner of subtly and possessing no presence of grace. Some even wanted for a base intellect, or were otherwise worthless in another way. However, the nervous whelp, cowering, forced here on a dare, was one plausible choice for use, and the rebellious young vest recently duped out of a high sum of money by a corner vixen was another possibility. Both would be easy targets to cow via the promise of coin, threat or blackmail, and best of all, either could be just as readily disposed of once their partnership had reached its end.
Possibilities began to blossom from the wheels within Lon’s mind, ways to use either boy to his greatest advantage. But just as the details of a plan started to take root and grow, a new face suddenly appeared. Grinding Lon’s plotting to a halt, there, stepping her way carefully through the entourage was a young Crystarian girl. A Crystarian in Cambria was a rare sight indeed, and likely being aware of this very fact, the girl was keeping her hood up in an attempt to divert unwanted notice. Unfortunately for her, the pale blue of her hair was peeking out just enough to still be visible beneath the shadow of her cowl. This gave her lineage away instantly, for such a color was unnatural in Cambria and so it blatantly stood out. Moreover, the girl’s dark and striped clothing labeled her a serf of the street; another prostitute, or so Lon guessed, who had escaped from the house in which she worked to be allotted some freedom before nightfall. But he knew nothing of such a jewel dwelling in this place, and he’d always been certain to seek out the best! No doubt the brothel that owned her was charging an exorbitant sum, for Crystarians were well known for their natural beauty, and this one was so very young.
Captivated now, mostly by his own curiosity, Lon watched after her, and soon began noting other things that worked to intrigue him all the more. There was a catlike grace in the girl’s movements, her each step light and planned, and her every nimble motion, even when stepping near enough to bump shoulders, kept her safely out of any would-be captor’s reach. Quickly she pressed ever forward and faster through the brothel square, passing across from where Lon stood. For the briefest of moments he saw the flash of steel beneath the girl’s cloak, and counted there far too many weapons for any one harlot to hold. Perhaps, then, this Crystarian was not a brothel girl at all, but simply someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. Such things mattered little though, not now that she had been seen. The whispers to Lon’s side alerted him that she was being scouted, and the jealous glares of bedwomen spurned for the younger, more beautiful, were growing slowly hotter in their intensity. Lon had to move fast, before someone else did, and so struck out after the Crystarian girl just as she rounded the nearby crumbling fountain.
Truly Lon could have asked for no better luck than this. Women were always easier to coerce than men, and more often than not, far less stubborn. A Crystarian could prove simpler for him to handle as well, for they tended to lack a Cambrian’s innate bullheadedness and often possessed the greater wit that he currently required. Smiling to himself under his black face shield, Lon stepped ever faster toward his unsuspecting prey. His unwitting pawn had come to him in his most desperate hour of need, and for that, he was nothing but grateful. But better than the timing was this one simple thing: that no matter how pretty a face may be, no one missed a street serf when they were gone.
Saraya had made a terrible decision. The innkeeper’s instructions had been explicit, and she well remembered every turn to take. But while walking she had deduced there to be ample room for shortcuts, and thus, rather foolishly, she had plotted her own course. Having hoped to return to the inn before too late an hour, for the sake of time she had decided to cut through certain areas rather than go around them. If she had known that doing so would cause her to wind up here, in this contemptible place, then she never would have followed through with it. Belphor’s sphere of influence was never a good place to be, especially for someone like her. Street performers like herself were oft seen as little more than modestly-dressed harlots, and treated in like manner. To be seen in a brothel square would only enforce the false notion that female jesters were whores, and besides this, she did not need nor want the unnecessary attention.
Being Crystarian had already given her unwanted notice enough, her hair being to blame. That Crystarians were known magic users, and being that Cambrians hated magic in all forms, this had made her a target. Only narrowly did she avoid starting a fight when attempting to check in at the inn, having been confronted by a handful of those who were hostile to her kind. Calmly she had been forced to explain that she possessed no magic ability, and that the dye of her hair (a symbol of magic use in Aerim) was nothing more than flare used for the stage. It had taken some convincing, and knife juggling as well, to assure her accusers that she was telling the truth. In the end, she won herself a free meal for the unwarranted hassle, and though she had to pay for it, also a place to lodge. She was granted a stage to run as well, if she so desired, and though politeness demanded that she agree to the work, she had to wonder if it was even worth the trouble.
Alas, this was not the first time she’d caught such glares of suspicion simply from the color of her hair, and it would hardly be the last. Certainly her looks were perfect for attracting eyes to the stage, but it was detrimental in these areas of civility. It was a fortunate thing that the Mediator was not here and that there were days of travel yet before she’d reach Neurial. Saraya could afford to be a little lax for now concerning how much she stood out, but it was something she would need to take much greater heed of in the future.
If nothing else, she was lucky that most city traffic seemed to avoid this place, as the roads appeared primarily tread by foot rather than horse or carriage. The streets themselves were poorly tended (which likely aided in keeping carts away), and much of the roadway cobbles were cracked or otherwise askew. It was in dire need of repair, and yet, even with such signs of neglect, there were more patrons about the streets than she would have originally believed. Saraya had once thought quite highly of the nation of Cambria, as one would of any civilization built on merit. But even the supposedly honorable Cambrians could still lie, cheat and steal, and as she had so recently discovered, were as susceptible to suspicion and prejudice as much as anyone else.
Veil had warned her that signs of the Fall were all around them plain to see, so perhaps this was just one sign of that cruel, impending change. Far more likely, however, was that Saraya had simply been too naïve to notice such things before. There were a great many things that looked different to her now in fact, now that she was alone and the circus was no longer acting as her shield. Five days’ worth of travel had proved far more arduous solo, particularly in those instances when lodging was unavailable. Dracon would not longer defend her camp from the creatures that may creep in, and her sleep had become short and shallow by taking the sentinels’ place. Travel was lonely, cold and insufferably boring, and any stranger she met had to be approached with caution rather than a jester’s smile. There was no one to rely on now if things went badly, and any injury she sustained could prove detrimental to herself, her journey and her job. While nothing she had done so far was anything she had not done countless times before, there was a weight partnered to it now that made every decision feel heavy, and she did not much appreciate the added stress. She had only been away from the circus for a short amount of time, but already she was longing to return.
Saraya sighed and tugged lightly on the hem of her hood, moving it down a little more in hopes of better hiding her long hair. It would be better if she stopped thinking about how things had changed and instead focused on what she had ventured outside to do. She was where she was now because of the growing need to replenish, to get back those provisions spent after leaving home. Veil had granted Saraya enough coin to easily sustain her for the trip as long as she spent it responsibly, and certainly she would need it in the days yet to come, especially when considering the high price of city living.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Currently she carried with her only two silver scales; more than enough to buy whatever it was she needed. The rest she had locked away in her room at the inn, hiding it within a secret place to keep it safe. As soon as she got out of the brothel quarter, the shops and market streets would be but a quick jaunt away, only down a few more blocks. The market streets themselves would be just recently closed, but singular shops around the area would remain open to welcome any late-coming visitors. A local grocer would possess the stock Saraya needed to restore her used supplies, and even if she failed to find one, she had enough provisions to reach the next town at least. Of course, she’d rather not risk cutting things that close if she could help it. Neurial was another four days away if the roads and weather proved fair, and that was much too far to travel on dwindling winter supplies.
“Impressive,” the man said as he smiled beneath his mask, the fabric stretching with the movement of his lips. Slowly then, he held up his hands, revealing them to be empty. “You may sheathe your blade. I mean you no harm.”
“I will be the judge of that,” Saraya responded sharply while gripping her blade all the tighter. “You will forgive my curtness, but I am no whore to be bought. If you seek a bedfellow, you will need to search elsewhere.”
The man’s smile widened, the grin reaching his eyes, and he chuckled amusedly. “My dear girl,” he purred smoothly, making the acrobat’s spine tingle, “that is not the sort of proposition I bring. I could tell you were no whore simply by watching your steps. You possess a grace few others at your age could boast, and by my guess, hide a talent of which I have great need.”
The silk of his tone and the flatteries laced within caused Saraya to frown. “I know not of what you speak,” she replied flatly, denying the assumptions outright. How could she know if she possessed the skills he sought or not, and more over, what did it matter? The man was playing coy, and that only put her on edge. In her experience, those unwilling to be forthright or who spoke in empty kindnesses were often times trying to hide something dangerous or important. Getting involved with such people was risky at best, and usually led to little else but inconvenience and trouble. Her fair share of such partnerships had taught her well to be wary, and not knowing the man’s face was certainly not helping his case.
But the man seemed somehow moved by her halfhearted answer, and stroking his chin with a gloved hand, he began again. “The stripes you bear, you are a performer?”
“And if I am?” Saraya answered.
“Then I would know where you are performing tonight.”
Saraya bit her tongue at this, not wishing to reply. Already she was certain that this question carried more importance than it seemed, and though she’d rather not reveal the place, she doubted this man would let her go without telling him where it was. “I will not say,” she began, speaking it low under her breath. “Not here.” Casually then, the acrobat glanced to the nearest faces around them. Already she had succeeded in attracting one unwanted face tonight, and if indeed she must give an answer, she certainly had no desire to risk attracting more.
It took but a moment for the man to infer her intent, glancing as she had to the scattered crowds. “Yes, of course,” he agreed, his voice, too, a whisper. “Then what say you we take a walk, away from listening ears?” Before the jester could protest, and without any prompt, the man produced a gold coin from the shadow of his cloak. Turning it about in his fingers, he just as quickly then tucked it away. “I assure you,” he muttered quietly, “it will be worth your time.”
The sudden flourish of the falcon took Saraya by surprise. “You offer that much just to speak? It is a steep price for mere conversation.”
“True,” the man admitted freely, “but the importance of my task demands it.” Upon telling Saraya this he beckoned toward the nearest alley with the gentle wave of his hand. “Well?”
But the acrobat hesitated. The pricey promise was indeed tempting, but she knew it would lead to trouble. And yet, with her own curiosity piqued and growing, she felt that she could hardly deny the man an audience now.
“Together,” the acrobat thus told the man, gesturing for him to take lead. At the very least, she would not have him following at her back. A shady deal was one thing, but to leave herself purposely open to attack was another entirely. The man surely smirked under that mask given the bemused glimmer that sparked his eyes. Regardless, he walked into the alleyway at Saraya’s behest, passing wordlessly between those few people who were still watching them.
Saraya stepped in line behind him, keeping her fingers loose and dagger ready. Obviously she did not trust the man or the cryptic task to which he alluded, but, against her better judgment, her curiosity had grown too strong. She wanted know who this man was to possess such wealth, what it is that he wanted and why he would choose her. The coin he’d flashed was inconsequential; a convenient excuse for Saraya to follow him and sate her intrigue. After all, five days of uneventful travel had left her painfully bored, and this was the first thing that had happened since leaving the circus that promised a bit of fun.
Eventually the man came to a stop at a crossroad between the alleys, somewhere that was well out of earshot of anyone lingering on behind. “This is far enough,” he stated, fetching the coin out once again. Then, flipping the token off the end of his thumb, he flicked it through the air to Saraya.
“I did not think you serious,” the jester remarked when catching it, examining the coin and hardly believing that she had actually obtained gold for nothing.
“It is a small price to pay to convince you to join my purpose,” the man told her plainly. “I am looking for someone, you see, and I need your help.”
“You know I care little for that,” Saraya replied, speaking her feelings aloud. “I care only inasmuch as it grants me a living.” Shoving the coin in her pocket then, she slowly sheathed her blade and looked back toward her patron. “So, who is it you’re searching for?”
“The one who hounds me,” the man stated flatly, saying nothing more.
The acrobat raised a brow. “And you wish for me to do…what exactly?”
“First, confirm a rumor. I have heard that merrymen have the ability to read unspoken feelings and intentions while on the stage. Is this true?”
“It is, to a point,” Saraya answered, uncertain why this was important. Any successful performance relied on the performer’s ability to read the atmosphere of the room and to know the preferences of their audience. Certainly Saraya believed herself rather gifted in this area of her field. Always she had been able to pick up on the unspoken feelings and intentions of those she met, knowing the upright from the cur with little more than a glance. Being sensitive to airs and auras had been her boon for years, and went far beyond her time as a jester and acrobat at the circus. Being a performer had only honed those skills she already possessed, and when put into practice on a stage, such intuition had not only made her successful, but also kept her safe.
The man fell silent at this answer, and for a moment he paced around the width of the alleyway, thinking. “From the stage, can you infer an individual’s intent?”
“It depends on the intent,” the jester claimed. “If the intent is a dangerous one, then it is likely I would foresee it. We performers learn how to please our audience, but also how to watch out for trouble. You don’t spend years on a stage and not learn how to read a room, especially when that room holds a threat.”
“It is possible then,” the man muttered wryly, speaking this wholly differently than how he had spoken before.
Alter growled in the acrobat’s mind.
“Nor I,” Saraya agreed, daring to take a step nearer to the man. “What is possible?” But the man only dismissed her question, waving it away. Unsurprisingly though, the flippant action only caused the acrobat to bristle. “I will take part in nothing if you do not tell me what it is you’re planning,” she warned.
“There isn’t time to speak of it in detail,” the man assured her suddenly, having come to resume his kindly nature from before. “But as long as the circumstances are correct, then I am certain you will be able to find the one I seek. You’ll have to.”
“The five hells “I’ll have to”,” Saraya snapped, spitting back the stranger’s words. But no sooner had she said as much did the man produce another two gold coins from his coat.
“I have every intention of paying you for your help,” he said, rolling the falcons over in his hand. Their shine caught what little light there was remaining in the alley, but though it truly was a generous offer, her stubbornness was preventing Saraya from agreeing to go along.
“Four,” Alter suddenly quipped, taking over Saraya’s tongue.
“What are you doing?!” Saraya hissed vehemently under her breath.
“Negotiating,” Alter mused, smiling greedily. “Four falcons and not one leaf less.”
“Four falcons?” The man replied, his face twisting so drastically that his mask failed to hide it. “I thought you cared little for coin?”
“I care for it enough,” Alter sneered, her teeth slightly bared. “Besides, no performer would jeopardize her stage for such a meager prize, and you do intend on using our stage for your gain, do you not?”
The man seemed to glower at her, but, after a few moments, he did indeed pull another two coins out from his pouch. “Four falcons,” he said bitterly, though handed off only two. “Two now, two more when the job is done.”
“Agreed,” Alter spoke with a triumphant smirk as she palmed the money. The man had proved himself good for the coin; it would be enough for now.
Once the gold had made its way safely into Saraya’s possession, the man unexpectedly cleared his throat. “Now, where is it you are performing?” He asked rather loudly.
“The White Hearth,” the jester told him, furrowing her brow at his change in voice. “An inn a fair walk from here. You should know that I’m there for only one night though, and must be on stage before long.”
“One night is enough,” the man assured. “More than enough for what we have planned. You will be well compensated for your part in this, rest assured.” His strange stressing of the word “we” greatly confused Saraya, and that he spoke again of her payment, why repeat what they already knew? Before she could say anything about it though, the man forcefully shoved her away. “Damn it, girl!” He cursed at her, yelling angrily. “They’ve found us! Flee before they catch us both!”
“What are you—?” The jester began, nearly snapping for being shoved, but then the sound of boots reached her ears and immediately silenced her. Spinning around, she spotted two large men in dark cloaks racing toward them from the brothel street, and already her reliable partner in crime and gone and abandoned her.
Left well behind and on her own, Saraya’s choice was to either face her assailants or run, and cursing to herself, she turned heel and took off another way. Barreling down some other street as swiftly as her feet could go, when she heard the footsteps in pursuit, it seemed that only one of the two men was following after her. It was one too many, but after only a short distance Saraya proved herself the faster, and taking a few nimble twists and turns, she made successful her escape. Lost now within the alleyways but safe for the time being, Saraya slumped against the nearest wall to finally catch her breath.
“Ashen blood,” she swore again, cursing her foul luck and foolishness. Curiosity had gotten her into trouble once again, and Alter’s meddling had sealed their fate. Intrigue was hardly an excuse to get caught up in something like this. Now she was running from an enemy she didn’t know, was caught in the middle of a scheme she had no business being a part of, and had no way of backing out. She had already accepted the nameless man’s coin, had already revealed where it was she was staying, and had no way of procuring some means of escape for she’d already promised that she would perform. Even if she wanted to flee, she would have to wait until later to avoid both onlooker’s eyes and guards, and by then it would be too late. Besides, her honor as a performer would suffer if she ran away, and Talon needed a good rest after being so long upon the road. No matter how she looked at it, she was doomed to see this through.
The two gold falcons sat heavy in her palm, and upon remembering that they were there she rolled them around, listening to the plinking of their jingle. “This had better be worth it,” the acrobat grumbled as she started hatefully at the coins.
“I oft tend to suffer from your ideas of “fun”,” Saraya reminded her other half. “And you’d better hope Veil doesn’t find out about this.” After saying this, the jester looked up to the sky, and though she tiredly released a sigh she couldn’t help but chuckle too. “Hah…what am I saying? She probably already knows.” Forcing herself up from the wall, Saraya pocketed the two coins to join with the other one, and then started toward the mouth of the ally to try and figure out where she was. She had to give up her prior plans of restocking her provisions, not having much in the way of choice, and so wandered back toward the larger streets so to find her bearings. There were more important things she needed to ready herself for now, including a heap of impending trouble. She had hoped that tonight would prove some fun, but instead, it was shaping up to be far more “fun” than she had bargained for.