The Royal Chamber was a grand inn a street away from the town hall. It was dwarfed by some in Manataklos, but the curves of carved wood like polished branches supporting the inn were much more appealing than angular black steel. It had an ivory sign against the outer wall, with a golden throne carved into it. The doors were even richer than the town hall’s, if not as large, but she had been here many times so it was not a surprise for her.
She pulled the door open, and barely had time to make a boot print on the rug inside before a burly lionfolk spun to face her, glared at the dirt covering her, and moved aggressively towards her. He was shorter than her, barely taller than Ove, but twice as wide. Heavy arms of pure muscle shoved her out onto the street. She stumbled to the ground cradling her stomach, and catching dirt on her tongue. She panicked to spit it out. A well dressed couple watched her drag herself to her feet, snickering at her as if she could not hear them.
“No peasants! Don’t you know where you are?” he shouted. The lion man shut the doors on her before she could protest. She frowned after him, but was not angry. It was a distressing affirmation that the poor were not beneath noble folk as they liked to believe. Without her fine clothes and her Citadel, even she was just a dirty, homeless, peasant with nothing but dirt in her pockets. She hated it, but at least as Sermeledy she could pretend a little and ease herself into poverty.
Two militia women approached her as she picked at the dirt in her clothes and asked her if she was alright. It eased her embarrassment, but only until they warned her about nosing around the richer part of town. Her. She took a deep breath.
"I am not poor," Lyrua told them, thumbing the hem of her blouse. "Just dirty. My servant is indisposed and all the clothes I brought have been spoiled." This persona of Sermeledy as a wealthy-not-royal woman seemed to be working out so far, and she did not need guards lurking about, watching her suspiciously while she tried to find another way into The Royal Chamber. She should not have even tried the front. Not even gold could keep Innkeeper Sullivan’s lips together.
They gave her directions to a tailor not too far away that would clean clothes for folk with heavy purses, recommending she clean up first to meet the inn's standards. She thanked them as sincerely as she could manage, and pretended to leave while they continued their patrol down the road. The snickering couple had gone as well, but there were plenty of other tidy folk on the street, backs straight and stiff as if to lift themselves higher than more common folk.
If only she could simply disappear like Ove. If Lyrua were silverstale, Ove would have cured her by now. She stood staring into the path along the side of the inn for a moment. The heavy wooden gate, taller than her and spiked on the top, was locked from the other side. Ove could only hide in the shadows anyway. She would need Light to hide in the afternoon sun.
Lyrua brushed more dirt from her clothes. Light? Light was her specialty. But could she use it to infiltrate the inn? She did not know a spell for invisibility, so she would have to stumble through it… and if anyone was attuned to Light nearby they may detect her; a great downside to casting unrefined spells that was often taken for granted.
She examined the folk in the street again. Little had changed, but an elaborate wagon decorated like a scene from a play was making its way towards her. The covered wagon was wide enough to occupy the entire width of the road, forcing folk in the street to move aside as a team of rustoxen hauled it past. The wooden trees decorating the side of the wagon were so intricate that the individual leaves swayed with the wind.
It presented an idea. Guild specialists rarely learned much in the way of spells unless it benefitted their work, as it would not leave time to learn and practise their trade as well. She followed the tracks of the wagon towards the Guild Hall. Some may know Light for their shows, but if they were gone, then the hall may provide a place away from the Inn for her to cast the spell. It would be a bit less conspicuous than casting right at the inn, but if anyone inside were adept with Light she would still be caught.
The Puppet Master’s Hall reached high above the town, twisting like the bare trunk of a giant corkscrew tree. Wooden standees acted out some silent play around the front of the hall. Trees like those she’d seen on the wagon made a copse of the entrance, where wooden folk and animals frolicked. She slipped past them to the back of the building.
Two people were in the hedge-framed courtyard, hauling crates of props from inside onto another wagon. One of them climbed into the bulky seat behind the rustoxen while the other man reentered the building. She leaned against the wall to wait. The wagon was not leaving, so she hoped whatever it was waiting for was brought out soon. She focused on her breathing as she waited, until finally the man returned, with a troupe of Puppeteers in their stark white uniforms.
She recognized one of them; Puppet Master Mettemarie, a slender woman with black hair past her shoulders, wearing a shortsword similar to Ove’s. Lyrua flattened herself against the wall and held her breath. That woman had not taken kindly to being locked in a silver cell for three years. Lyrua remained frozen against the wall until the Puppeteers had all crowded into the back of the wagon and drawn the tarp closed. The driver swung the reins, and the rustoxen surged forward, pulling the massive wagon effortlessly into the street.
Lyrua was eager to begin casting as soon as the wagon passed by the front of the hall and disappeared down the road. She trickled out her mana and tried to shape it into her own form, remembering her experience bending the detection nets to fit around them. She wove her mana into a thin sheet like silk that would not reflect light.
As it fluttered around her skin, her body became… absent, replaced with a wavering mass of blackness like a sheet of benaffrygt skin. She broke the spell, gasping for air, having forgotten to breathe while casting again. Whatever she had done, it was not right.
She realised that if it did not reflect light, she could not be seen, but neither could whatever was behind her. The imprecision of her attempt was something she would need to temper as well, or her mana would leak like a throat wound and would as easily reveal her.
She began another attempt, this time sealing the spell tightly around her body and clothes. Taking long, steady breaths, she also ran a multitude of Light fibres through herself, connecting as many of the edges as she could so that light could pass through her. Her arms disappeared before her eyes. Turning her arms over, there was a bit of a ripple in the air that revealed where they were, but it was so subtle she did not think it would matter. She hoped it would not. At least the ripple was more subtle if she moved slowly.
It could take years of practice to refine such a casting into a proper spell. The effort left her drained and tired. She regretfully uncorked Osvaldus’s flask and took a sip of the Dew. A refreshing tingle skittered through her body like icy insect legs, and its unnervingly sweet taste and smooth texture urged her to finish the flask. She stuck the cork back in and returned it to her pocket.
Looking herself over, she was confident there were no holes in her spell allowing any bit to be seen. She waved her cloak around to be sure it stuck, and it did, although a few puffs of dirt came loose and appeared around her. She checked to see the courtyard was still vacant before beating as much dirt as she could out of her clothes. As long as she did not run out of mana, and remembered to remain quiet, she only had to worry about the mana leak. Regardless, she was proud of herself for figuring it out at all.
Lyrua hurried back to The Royal Chamber. She still did not have a way in, but now she could properly search for one. A man in a crisp yellow uniform of ironed trousers and a laced up shirt was now standing in front of the door. She would not have tried it again anyway, only to irritate the tender bruise to her pride. She approached the gate at the long side of the inn. There were only razor-thin gaps between the polished planks, but she could just make out the heavy lock between the fencepost and the gate where it blocked the light from coming through.
She curled her fingers around the leathery hilt of the silkite dagger and pulled it out. Silkite was supposed to cut through anything. She carefully moved her grip towards the gap while bracing herself on the fence to steady her arms. It slid in smoothly until the hilt caught, surprising her at the lack of resistance. Had she missed it? She slid it up and down trying to find the lock, looking over her shoulder to ease her paranoia that someone was always about to discover her. Some flakes of wood came loose, but nothing else. She could have easily been wiggling the dagger in the air.
A heavy thud in the grass came from the other side, startling her off her feet. She scrambled on her hands and knees to the front of the inn where the light was brightest. No one moved as if they had noticed. She took deep breaths, and carefully sheathed the dagger to avoid cutting herself with it. No one came to investigate from behind the inn either, so she scuttled back to the gate. It hung an inch agape. As she pushed it open, she saw the lock in the grass, a heavy block of iron split cleanly in two. That had taken less effort than splitting a leaf with an axe. It was not what she had thought when she heard ‘cuts anything’, from the Everlasting Queen.
She pushed through the gate, and closed it behind her. It creaked back open an inch, refusing to remain closed, so she pushed the lock against the bottom with her foot so it would be less conspicuous from a distance.
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Lyrua found herself in a garden. A large myriad of over a dozen seasonal vegetables in isolated little plots. She spotted two doors into the inn from here, and one was wide open. A man came out with a basket, and set it down near a plot of slumped over crops with yellowing leaves. He began turning the soil with a spade, eventually pulling a potato out, and brushed the dirt off before placing it in the basket.
If he planned to fill that basket, the man would be occupied long enough. She turned away from him, peering into the room with her shoulder to the wall. A savoury gust irritated her eyes with its heat, but roast beef and onions tempted her nose with their aroma. Fires roared all around the room, sending hot smoke into a series of chimneys. Folk were chopping vegetables with long knives and seasoning meat for cooking. Someone came in from the inn and took three bowls of stew or soup on a tray and carried them back through the swinging door. That was her entrance.
She took a stone off the ground. Quietly and carefully, she stepped slowly up to the vacant counter near the door. The cooks carried on with their chopping, unaware of her presence in the bright firelight. Crouched by the door, the man came back in, stepping only a pace away from her. She waited as he left the tray and picked up another bearing four overflowing roast beef buns with a saucer of gravy. He shouldered the door open, and it swung out. As it swung back, she jammed the stone under it to hold it, and darted out into the dining chamber.
The dining chamber alone was as large as the entire Sleepy Kiln, and unlike the other inn, it was not also the main room. The vaulted ceiling was spotted with stained glass windows that cast a multi-hued light, illuminating each table in unique colours that swirled throughout the day. There were only three tables seated, but they were large tables packed with over a half dozen folk each.
The server placed the beef buns at the table that already had stew delivered, completing their set of meals. He hurried back to the kitchen, kicking the stone out with an agitated grunt.
At the table that had been served, a woman two heads taller than anyone else sitting drew Lyrua’s attention. Her skin was as dark and smooth as black bean cake, as beautiful a shade as the Goddess’s own, with straight black hair that reflected light with a green tint. An elaborate pair of crystalline apple-green horns curled out from her forehead and wrapped around her head like a celestial tiara. Lyrua’s head spun trying to take in all of the woman’s dizzying curves.
The woman’s scabbarded sword was as long as Lyrua. It hung off the back of a seat that her figure made a throne of. Lyrua knew her by reputation. Her name was Captain Delibera of the Underbolge. She was an Orphan of Insight; a rarer race than any other. Her sailors were all pretty and pristine, unlike many of the others she had seen, who looked more… like she likely did. Delibera was known for splitting her pay with her crew and sitting with them as equals. Supposedly she could return from a month at sea looking tidier than a bride at her wedding.
Everyone dining was Delibera’s crew, Lyrua realised, so if Braheem was in the inn he would be in his room. She made her way to the agreeably vacant door frame into the entry hall. The entry was empty except for the receptionist, that bulky lion man having gone off somewhere. Lyrua supposed not many wealthy folks, at least not of the type to favour The Royal Chamber, would be near West Eddy this close to Highest Tide, so even the rich inn was short on patrons.
When she had come as High Queen, there were always swarms of rich folk from across Daggry and beyond, and they loved to compete for her attention. She paused for a moment as a realisation came… that they all knew when she visited West Eddy, at the same time each spring. Of course they would not pass up a chance to see the Queen outside the Citadel. She felt foolish for not noticing sooner; a feeling she was growing accustomed to.
There was a gold-embroidered rug covering the floor, and two round, brick fountains tucked into the corners. She walked carefully across the room, looking for something to disturb to get the clerk away from the registry. There were a couple of potted yuccas, but they were large enough to raise more than just cursory suspicion if they suddenly tipped over. As she crossed the room, she turned to check behind her. There were noticeable boot prints across the rug. Hers were not the only ones, but it still agitated her nerves.
She squinted at the fountain. It was flush in the corner, full of water and colourful fish. If the dagger could cut iron, it could certainly cut stone. The receptionist was reading something absentmindedly and Lyrua crossed the room unnoticed. Her mana was getting low and she thought she may need to sip the Dew again, but she wanted to save the rest for Ove if she could.
Her hope was to get one brick loose and have it seem like an accident. She chose one near the bottom that was not set right, as if the builders had gotten lazy, or the fountain had been filled too soon and disturbed the mortar. It was difficult with the dagger being invisible in her hand, but after wiggling it a little on each side, the brick came loose. It hit the ground with a thud, spilling water and fish out over the rug and the edge of the desk. She shuffled away as the receptionist dropped what she was reading with a start and stumbled across the room. They would not worry over boot prints now.
Lyrua flipped open the registry while the other woman’s back was turned. It opened to the wrong page, but now the receptionist was waving her arms frantically, spinning around like a cat with two toys, trying to figure out what to do. Lyrua waited while the receptionist backed away from the fountain and ran to a door near the base of the stairs. She flipped the pages. It was still the wrong page; the date was too far back and Braheem’s name was not on it. The receptionist knocked on the door, and after a moment went in.
Lyrua thumbed through the book until she found the day’s date, which was blank, and then flipped back a page. She groaned, seeing more blank pages. She eventually went back a week before seeing Braheem’s name, next to his room number and the mark of his merchant’s stamp. The fifth room on the second floor. She shut the registry and made for the stairs. The door handle creaked, and the door swung open quickly. The receptionist and Innkeeper Sullivan rushed out, the lion guard from earlier trailing after them. Lyrua had to twist forward to avoid being bumped into. Her foot touching the floor made an audible thud through the patter of their steps.
The lion turned his head, the four rings in his ears clinking together as his ears twisted, seeking the noise. Before his scrutinising gaze and swivelling ears, every sound she made seemed to boom like the Seven Bells. His snout twitched, finding an odour out of place.
“Gakere,” Sullivan growled.
Seeing nothing, Gakere followed the panicking woman.
“Those cheap bastards in Manataklos will hear of this. Should have just paid the extra to have Osvaldus do them.” Sullivan cradled his face in his hands.
“Check carefully before you jump to conclusions,” Gakere said, as Lyrua stepped hastily onto the stairs, “it reeks of peasantry in here.”
The top of the stairs had an ornate door chained open so guests need not open it. The corridor was thankfully empty, and there was no sound but the soft patter of her boots on the rug. She frowned at her bootprints, and wiped them off before continuing.
The polished oak doors of the chambers had rounded gold numbers on them that doubled as knockers. At room five, she froze in thought again. She was almost out of mana. If Braheem was inside, she could simply knock and reveal herself. Was that the intelligent thing to do? If she tried the handle, and he noticed, it would make her suspicious. If he was not there… she would have to cut her way in, and the Oil may not even be inside.
Sighing, she knocked, and allowed her spell to end. She regretted her decision before the sound of the door left her ears, but if she let herself go dizzy from mana drain she would regret it even more. It swung open, and a human man with straight black hair and a tattoo on his neck looked down at her. “Who are you?” His eyebrow raised at the dirt on her, then rested on her dagger.
“Braheem?” she asked.
“Filth… how did you get past the guards?” He backed into the room, knocking over a cup of dark liquid as he grabbed desperately for his sword. His frantic hand knocked against a bowl of fruit, spilling apples across the table. She stepped into the room and kicked the door closed.
Finally grasping his blade, he swung the sheath off and pointed it skillfully at her throat. “Thought I would go easily? Who sent you? The Tolik Trading Company?”
“I just need to buy Oil of the Sunflower Tree from you, my servant is silverstale,” she said. His blade dropped an inch as he hesitated.
“What?” he blurted incredulously.
“The guard would not let me in because I look common in these messy clothes. My servant could clean them… if she were not silverstale. And she has my coin safely hidden away, so I cannot even buy more or pay to have them cleaned. I am not an assassin. I did sneak in, but believe me when I say I just need to purchase that Oil.” She noticed a safe at the edge of the room and tried not to stare.
“Honestly I don’t even know what to say to that. Say your story is true, why would I give you the Oil if you cannot pay for it?” He kept his sword up, but his fear seemed to be dissipating.
Lyrua carefully unfastened the dagger from her waist and held it out to him. “This is a silkite dagger, a gift from the silken Queen. It is worth much more than Oil of the Sunflower Tree.” She slashed at his blade, and an inch of it slipped off like nothing.
“From the Everlasting Queen…?” He stared at the dagger, eyes bulging with avarice. He knew its value well.
She continued, “Give me the Oil, and if I have not returned with a thousand gold by dusk the dagger is yours, otherwise, return it to me when I pay.”
He reached for the dagger, letting his sword clatter unwanted on the floor, and she pulled it back. “The Oil first,” she said, trying to meet his eyes, but he was focused on the priceless dagger. His empty hand quivered longingly in the air. “And if you try to disappear with it, the militia will hunt you down and nail you to the bow of your own ship, whether they retrieve it or not.”
“The militia? W-who are you?” he asked, his voice quivering.
“Sermeledy Forrow,” she said, the lie slipping naturally from her tongue, “ask Stalherre or Osvaldus if you do not believe me, I am well acquainted with both.”
As he stumbled across the room, she finally took a look around. It was as large as her bed chamber and nearly as well decorated, though the tapestries on the walls were not quite as fine as hers. She ignored the bed and tables to watch him retrieve the Oil.
Braheem crouched at the safe and pushed a number of keys into the side. She tried to see how many but his shoulder guarded the view. He moved to block her sight even more and then twisted the keys in a certain order to release the lock. He returned to her with a glass bottle the shape of a tear, filled with liquid that glittered like the afternoon sun dancing along gentle ocean waves.
He held it out to her, his eyes on the dagger as if it were his to keep, and she took it. It rang faintly, like a gentle singing. Tucking it into her blouse, she cast her spell to disappear. She left the dagger swinging on the door handle by the strap on her way out of the room.