[Lady] Saphora

[Lady] Saphora hated rats.

Some people had no sense of propriety. No decorum. No understanding of their place in the world. They were, simply put, rats.

“Lionel. Nuri. And their henchmen, whose pitiful names I’ve already forgotten,” she seethed as she floated in mana-infused water to strengthen her blood and bones. Listing off the rats plaguing her barely calmed Saphora’s growing agitation. Vicious little upstarts!

She slapped the water, spraying the valuable resource across her bathing suite. They deserved nothing more than extermination—to be put down like the vermin they were.

Trembling with indignation, she set down her wine glass with a clink on the pale ivory tiles of her soaking tub. She touched her cheek, where that one-handed freak had dared to slap her a month ago. No red outlines of his finger remained, thanks to the durability of skin enhanced by daily soaks in mana, but she still ground her teeth together at the memory of his impudence. She was a [Lady]! He had no right to touch her.

Little rat.

“I never should have let that other boy live. Weakness on my part. Talentless little [Healer],” she spat. “Nettles under my nails, all of them! They’ll destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build.”

Wind chimes interrupted her pouting session. Gentle notes of music tinkled, signaling that the cabal was calling a meeting to order off-schedule. Galling levels of impertinence, really. This had better be important!

With a wave of her hand, she cleared the waters away and simultaneously dried herself off. Mana manipulation was a marvelous and under-appreciated technique. She rose up from her infusion bath and slipped into silks embroidered with her house emblem, ready as she could be for her upcoming appearance in the scrying mirror. She didn’t bother checking herself in an actual mirror. One of the benefits of picking up [Healer] as her second Class was the hard-won ability to shape her skin and hair, ensuring she looked flawless at all times.

Striding down the long hallway to her meeting room—a meticulously cultivated nook in her second-largest sitting room, stocked with rare books that flaunted her philosophical sophistication—she took a brief moment to compose herself. No matter how much those rats put her on edge, it wouldn’t do to let the others see her flustered. Projection was power; who people perceived you to be often mattered more than who you actually were.

And, unlike many of her fellow freedom-fighters, [Lady] Sephora refused to wear a mask to the meetings. She represented one of the oldest noble houses in Gilead. Sadly, these days they were less wealthy and powerful than their predecessors, but that was temporary. When the revolution succeeded, and they retook control of their city from those blood-suckers in Central, she would restore their fortunes. Densmore had drained them dry. The loss wasn’t her fault, but the victory would certainly be her triumph.

Blame and responsibility were so closely tied, she mused as she took her seat in front of the enchanted scrying mirror and answered the call of her fellow conspiracists. One belonged to small, unimaginative people who lacked the courage to do what was required. The other? That was her purview. She was a visionary. She’d certainly never lacked the will to act. She would drag her city along after her—kicking and screaming if need be.

Shimmering lines etched across the mirror, separating it into a dozen squares in a three by four grid. Faces popped up in each section, most of them hidden behind masks. Through supreme force of will, Saphora succeeded in not rolling her eyes at her fellow conspirator’s flimsy efforts to hide their identities. She’d already tracked them all down, despite their best attempts to stay in the shadows.

Knowledge was power, after all. If any of them ever tried to turn on her, they’d find that she already had a fail-safe in place. The fact that it involved that pretentious mage crafter irked her to no end, but she had to admit that there was a certain elegance to pitting her enemies against each other.

A slim woman with severe, steel-gray hair rang a small bell with a gloved hand. Delicate stitching showed off the sign of the Menders. No surprise there. Saphora’s colleagues were the most affected by Densmore’s demands.

When the susurrus of conversation died down, the women set aside the bell. “Order, my friends! Thank you for your respectful silence. Our enemies may be circling, but our position is stronger than ever. We’re poised to earn a total victory if we act decisively.”

“We’re teetering on a knife-edge, you mean. If my sources are correct, then [Inquisitors] have made inroads into our city. We have traitors in our midst,” a man with an obviously-fake basso rumble accused.

He probably thought his voice made him seem mysterious and powerful, but Saphora had always thought he sounded like he’d had too much to eat and was groaning while dealing with indigestion. The fact that he bankrolled the majority of their operations galled her to no end. She couldn’t wait until they were free of his influence.

Once we finish off the rats, I’ll ensure he’s out of the picture. After we plunder his goods, of course. His mana-refining jasmine flowers will look good in my gardens.

“Traitors!” Saphora gasped theatrically, holding her hand up to her open mouth.

“Mock at your own peril, [Lady] Saphora. We face threats from both within and without. If we’re going to act ‘decisively’ today, as our moderator suggests, then we must begin by cutting out the rot in our company. Surely you understand that, as a [Healer]?”

“Far better than you!” Saphora shot back. “The real question here, and the one you are implicitly answering by appointing yourself judge and executioner, is who purges our members? Do you claim to be impartial and uncompromised?”

“Bickering accomplishes nothing,” the moderator reminded the group. As it so often did when she spouted platitudes, her prim voice took on a bored undertone, like she didn’t actually believe the admonition she delivered.

“Excellent! Spill the bad blood.” A new speaker interjected. The only other member of their conspiracy who refused to hide his identity, [General] Kepko was a square-jawed man whose gleaming, bald head showed off a patchwork of ridged scars, earned from decades of service in the borderlands. His steady dark eyes bored into the other people, glaring out from above a well-trimmed, black mustache as if daring them to gainsay his next words.

The [General] drove a large fist into his chest. “If a purge is required, then I will lead it.”

Great. More zealots.

“I will gladly assist,” Saphora said, volunteering before the rest of the meeting dissolved into petty arguments and shows of dominance. “My position as a Mender affords me excellent practice excising infection and amputating mangled limbs.”

“I will take you up on that offer,” Kepko said, stroking his mustache. “Your forthrightness has been evident from the beginning. There’s no one else I’d trust.”

She flashed a brilliant smile. “Of course, if innocence is established after our vigorous investigations, I’ll heal any wounds. Free of charge.”

One of the conspirator’s faces blanched above his elaborate mask. His image winked out as he cut the connection to the scrying mirror, leading to shouts of outrage and fear.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Ah. No wonder he wanted to be our accountant, so he could track the flow of money. Our [Banker] apparently made a bad investment when he revealed his identity to me.

The grid did not rearrange itself to accommodate eleven members, leaving a blank spot in the middle of the mirror that seemed more and more ominous as Saphora looked at the mirror of Gilead’s elites. Were they really rotten to the core? Doomed to fail?

No matter. She acted while cowards dithered.

Smiling to herself, she thumbed a control ward on the side of the desk and activated a fail-safe of her own devising: reversing the healing spell implanted in her target. No need to involve that despicable crafter for this process. If only she held such leverage over the rest of them, then she could simply assume her rightful place as their leader.

“Who was that?” the moderator demanded, her voice pitching up sharply and taking on a strained, panicked timbre. “[General] Kepko, we must track him down immediately!”

“Have no fear. I’ve dealt with [Head Banker] Soji already,” Saphora purred. Of course the money-maker is another rat!

“Competence! Excellent,” Kepko boomed. “Madam moderator, by your leave, I suggest that we all gather in one place. Mender Saphora and I will cull the herd. Purified and stronger than ever, we’ll launch our assault on the bastions of Densmoran oppression.”

“Can we truly risk weakening ourselves like this? I called this meeting to initiate the next stage of our plan—on that, we’re in agreement, [General] Kepko—but it seems shortsighed to rid ourselves of potential allies at this late hour.”

“On the contrary. Anyone who doesn’t stand with us is a dead weight,” a woman in a peacock mask spoke up. “Better to cut away entanglements.”

“Agreed,” Saphora said, leaning forward with a snarl parting her lips. “Starting with you.”

The peacock mask stayed on the scrying mirror. The woman behind the mask let out a low chuckle. “Cunning as always, Saphora.”

Two other men who spoke little, but whose nervous eyes had always shouted volumes, were not there to hear the congratulations, however. Saphora crossed her arms and leaned up against the bookshelf behind her, a gloating grin on her face.

“Productive meeting,” she said.

“Depending on your definition. We’re now weaker by twenty-five percent,” the moderator said dryly.

“Less is more,” Saphora replied dismissively. “Let’s not waste another moment on those rats. We have to act before Densmore marshals a coordinated response. Let’s drive them from our fair shores.”

The moderator removed her mask for the first time. She lifted a narrow chin, her eyes hard as flint, and nodded. “On that, we agree. Launch the attack.”

=+=

[Lady] Evershed

An explosion of power shattered the stillness of night. Lady Evershed bolted upright in her bed, clutching at her chest and willing her wildly-beating heart to settle down.

A fulcrum. At last.

The long, blue-shaded shadows of her room stretched in menacing shapes, but a quick pulse of her mana cleared away her mental fog. She reached for her Skills, confirming that the source of the disquiet was a disturbance in distant lands to the west.

“What has that boy done now?” she muttered. Her greatest Skill from her original Class, [Lady], shifted and groaned ominously within her. [The Weight of the World: The Domineering Manifestation of Pride] was a demanding Skill, with far-reaching implications that she was still deciphering.

She rose and prepared for a fight. Worry over a thousand unseen possibilities built up within her, but she smashed the negative feeling down as quickly as it appeared. All the signs pointed toward a tipping point. A fulcrum, as she’d come to call it. She would be ready, or not. Little sense in wasting energy on unknowns. She’d prepared her entire life for moments like these, which would serve as thermals to lift her soaring like an eagle into the skies.

Panic was corrosive. It upended the best of plans. Thus, she would not panic. Everything had a place. Everything had a strength.

And everything had a weakness.

Lady Evershed retrieved her cane and marched down the stairs to the glass studio. She hadn’t reached her exalted position by letting herself get caught off guard. Planning for this day had begun decades ago, long before Nuri Shahi had ever been born, assuming that he was, in fact, the one behind this powerful fulcrum. She didn’t know the details, but she had been certain that she would one day need the countermeasures she’d laid down long ago.

Baryl met her at the foot of the stairs. He offered a cup of tea, along with a pastry from her favorite new bakery—Phantasmal Frostings, run by a delightfully sensible woman who had recently immigrated to Grand Ile. An all-too-serious expression twisted his little face.

He had a knife strapped to his belt, a pack on his back, boots on his feet, and a precious statue in his hand, she noted with a pang of sorrow. Old habits died hard, as the saying went. Nowhere was ever safe for a street rat, he’d told her once.

“Go back to bed,” Lady Evershed said as tenderly as she could. She’d taken him in the next day after his sad declaration and promised him that he could be so much more than a child of alleyways and slums. Rat was such a limiting label. His horizons weren’t discovered yet; he still had room to grow. She hoped she didn’t have to break her word.

The sweet boy shook his head. “Someone’s gotta watch yer back. Trouble’s comin.”

She combed her gnarled fingers through his dark curls. The thudding in her chest had stopped as soon as she clamped down her willpower, but now it came back again. The ache hadn’t gone away fully. If anything, it was stronger now that she knew Baryl was involved. He had tied himself to her, for better or for worse, the darling little fool.

Tasting hope for the first time in ages was a dangerous rush, especially now that she had someone to protect and to hope for. A fulcrum event could lift her to unprecedented heights, or crush her just as easily. She couldn’t bear for her ward to suffer the same fate.

“How’d you know?” she asked. Formalities, really. A terrible suspicion had already risen up unbidden in her mind.

“Got a nose for trouble.”

The way Baryl looked down and mumbled his answer gave her the confirmation she did not want. She sipped her tea and sighed before replying. “You re-Classed.”

Baryl crossed his arms. His eyes blazed with defiance. “My choice, ain’t it?”

“Indeed,” she murmured.

His half-smile looked incredibly pleased at his tacit victory. “Five minutes until it gets bad. Think someone’s comin to see ya.”

Lady Evershed waved her hand, levitating a tray of sweets over to the boy. “Thank you. Sit behind the counter and be ready.”

His chest puffed out and he stood tall with pride, a hand on the hilt of his knife. “Got it!”

Her mind raced while she watched him trot off to take up his lookout. Relying on one of her overlooked Skills picked up from running a glass shop in her “retirement,” she sent mental invoices to several key figures in the city, along with a certain spy from Naftali. She didn’t have to charge them for glass pieces she’d created, she’d discovered. As the Skill ranked up, she’d been able to demand anything she desired in payment, even if she’d never sold anything at all to the target individual.

Sending a few more invoices initiated multiple steps to her plans: the release of funds, naming Baryl her heir, calling in promised aid from various officials in Grand Ile. They’d pay up or face the consequences.

Favors were more valuable currency than gold. That was true in every nation. Here in Grand Ile, with the Mint enforcing the official coins, it proved doubly so. Luckily for her, she had spent a lifetime investing in this particular form of payment. Dividends should be excellent.

She finished her pastry, enjoying the warm glow of mana replenishment, and wiped off the crumbs stuck to her lips. “Ready. Light up the enchantments.”

“Already turned ‘em on,” Baryl reported. He perched on the edge of the checkout desk, almost invisible in the gloom of night. Only [The Weight of the World] picked him out, based on his influence against the mesh of power and prestige ever-present around her.

Pressure built up in her soul space. The outcome still hung in the balance. Whatever she did in the next few minutes seemed likely to push forward or burn her out completely, given the way vast, unbridled power churned through her Skill.

This was it. Like lightning flashing across the sky, the moment had arrived. All her plans would come to a head at once. Tonight would make or break her.

Her pulse picked back up at the thought. Glee and madness went hand in hand; she had to steady herself. She’d need a clear mind to navigate this new set of responsibilities. Running a city was less of a challenge than caring for a child sometimes, but it still wasn’t trivial.

Something had triggered a fulcrum event. Someone, more likely. Nuri had a spectacular talent for taking expectations and turning them on their head. She didn’t have proof it was him, but who else had she ever met who set off her Skill shaking and quivering like a struck gong? History warped in his wake. She was sure of it.

When the knock came at the door, she was ready. Serenity enveloped the studio as she flooded the room with her gravitas, and she gave her little friend a calm, dignified smile. Destiny came for her. She hitched up her skirts, shifted her grip on her cane, and answered the call.