by A Van Wyck
“Oh, look at you!” the foremost huffed needlessly, seizing both of her ladyship’s hands. It might have seemed a warm gesture but also prevented the audience’s escape. The companion came to hunch over them like a pet crow. Twin smiles beamed. “We’ve missed you, you know. Why, just the other day I was saying how much we miss you. Did I not say, just the other day, how much we miss her?”
This last was directed at the companion, who’s head bobbed.
“She did say she missed you.”
“Oh, you look lovely,” the foremost gushed, sounding graciously forgiving of some shortcoming on her ladyship’s part. “Younger every time I see you, I swear. Will you be staying for the summer?”
“Do stay for the summer,” the companion crow interjected with experienced ease.
“Well,” her ladyship began, “the country is a very fine place but one does long for the sights of the capital.”
“Marvelous!” the spokesperson exclaimed, obviously taking that for an affirmative, pumping at her ladyship’s wrists excitedly. “You must visit,” came the gushed order, “I insist!”
“But of course, Farisa,” her ladyship promised. The other one – Lomia? – was nodding in vicious approval. “Little could please me more than a few bells worth of ease and good conversation.” He noted the lady hadn’t specified that these things could be found in the company of the two crows confronting them.
“It is settled then,” the lady Farisa confirmed but didn’t let go of her ladyship’s hands. “There is so much to tell you,” she attempted a whisper, eyes thinning to secretive slits. “You will never guess at the things…”
“–dastardly, despicable things–” Lomia interjected so smoothly it sounded like a single person speaking.
“…that have gone on here during–” at which point Farisa finally caught sight of him. He could all but hear the tortured squeal of a mental axle as the old biddy threw on the brakes, “–and who is your lovely companion?”
He felt the intensity of their eager gazes settle on him like the noon sun, trying to draw his secrets from his very pores.
“Ah!” the lady sang, to all outward appearances pleased at the opportunity for introductions. “Lady Haviena,” she began formally. “Lady Massien. This is my niece, the Lady Valda Lavidica. Valda,” she turned to him, gesturing at the women, “these are Farisa and Lomia, two old friends.”
Once again, not necessarily friends of hers.
He curtsied as he’d been taught, lady to lady, meaning no dip at all, just a spreading of the skirts and a bow of the head in deference to age.
A broad smile spread across Farisa’s face, doing horrible things to it. Lomia looked about ready to clap excited hands. This, he reflected, must be how it feels to be the last entrée on the platter.
“Oh,” Farisa bubbled, “the things we could tell you, dear!” It sounded like a promise.
Whatever she wanted to tell him, he instantly decided, he was better off not knowing it.
“You must bring her along, Hemlin!” Farisa demanded, only halfway pleading. “You simply must!”
Her ladyship laughed as if at a joke. “But for now,” she stated smoothly, glancing toward the empty pulpit, “you must excuse us. As you can imagine, Valda is anxious to complete the next leg of her Daughter’s Pilgrimage. We should catch the priest before he retires.”
“Of course, of course,” they nodded in unison. “We look forward to seeing you without your veil, eh? Eh?” the old woman waggled wispy eyebrows at him most suggestively. Lomia fairly crowed.
“May I call on you later?” her ladyship enquired courteously. A flurry of affirmatives threatened to overwhelm them. “Well,” her ladyship finished with a smile, deftly extricating her hands from Farisa’s grip, “until we meet again, then. Fare you well, ladies!”
The sudden silence was a balm to the ear. And the nerves. Her ladyship might be too proper to sigh in relief but he wasn’t. He let out a heartfelt breath, his veil billowing.
“Yes, quite.” The lady commented. They stood a moment longer, regaining their mental equilibrium. “Well,” she said with a shake, “let us get on with it, shall we?”
Nodding, he followed her through a service door, well camouflaged between two pillars. Even the inside passages were fronted in marble and bright lamps lit the way. He was only slightly surprised when they rounded a corner to find Neever, still in the coach driver’s uniform, waiting for them. The monk bowed in greeting, turning to lead the way. They fell in step wordlessly. It quickly became apparent the outward structure of the building belied its true depth. They’d already gone down their second flight of stairs before they came to the door Neever rapped on. The monk entered without awaiting an invitation. The inside was some kind of office and was far from empty.
A priestess – judging by her garb if not her youthful appearance – sat behind a desk. Her hands were tucked in her lap, as if she were afraid of disturbing anything on the polished surface. Another closed door led from the office. The person currently commanding all his attention was the man blocking it. Even without the armor and sword hilt peeking from beneath dust-toned robes, the man could pass for nothing but a soldier. Crossed arms and watchful eyes warned against any sudden moves.
Neever stepped forward. “Lady, this is Yoriana.” The young priestess bounced upright in response. “She will be taking over as ‘Lady Valda’.” The young priestess smiled a greeting. Neever didn’t introduce the soldier.
“A driver has also been arranged for you,” Neever continued. “Your carriage is waiting to take you home.” The monk bowed low. “Lady, words cannot express the depth of our gratitude.”
“Enough of that,” the lady huffed dismissively, “let us make haste.”
“Of course,” Neever agreed. The monk moved to the desk and the priestess, Yoriana, handed over a folded bundle of cloth, which Neever tossed at him. He caught it in both hands. The topmost bit tumbled to the ground: a pair of breeches.
He glowered. There were no room dividers here. He flashed an awkward glance at the priestess and the lady.
The latter raised that challenging eyebrow at him. “No time to be shy now,” she reprimanded.
Wasn’t going to get very far in this getup anyway...
Growling, he started with the veil. Her ladyship moved to help him with the buttons down his back. The priestess made to help as well but his glare stopped her in her tracks. Even with all the practice he’d gotten lately, it was still no easy task to remove the construction of skirts and petticoats. When he’d finally managed to climb out of it, he almost expected to see it stand to attention on its own.
Dress draped over her arms, the lady gathered up the priestess with a glance and led the way out of the office. The young woman, decidedly red-tinged, followed with eyes downcast. Presumably they went to find some private nook where they could stuff her into that frilly monstrosity.
Stripped to his underwear, he shook himself, bending to unstrap the knives from his thighs and feeling the soldier’s eyes on him all the while. He eagerly jumped into the breeches. Dragging the laced woolen shirt over his head, he was pleased to find a pair of soft slipper-shoes as well.
“Can someone,” he said, pulling them on, “finally tell me what’s going on?” He looked to Neever as he shoved his knives through his new belt.
“In a moment,” the monk stalled.
“You’ve run out of moments, Neever.”
The soldier did not move but he could feel the man’s redoubled attention. He did not care. His nerves were jangling – the itch between his shoulders clawing up his back for his attention. He shrugged uncomfortably.
I should already be out the door.
It would mean abandoning his pick set and sundry possessions, presumably only Neever knew where those had been packed away. But he’d rather start all over than end here.
The door opened to readmit her ladyship before Neever could answer. The young priestess, veil and all, looked like a most tantalizing pastry. S
eeing the ensemble from this side of the gauze, perhaps he could forgive Lord Wramlinn. By a very, very small measure.
The lady came right up to him to offer her hand. “Young man,” she said, foregoing the alias she knew to be fake in favor of something more accurate, “it has been a pleasure. I certainly hope to see you again.”
Despite everything, he smiled. She’d never shown him how to play the part of the gentleman. He did his best, taking her hand lightly and bowing over it as he’d seen it done.
“Likewise, lady,” he surprised himself by meaning it. He touched his lips briefly to the back of her hand. As he straightened, she placed a palm against his chest and there was no formality in her words as she spoke next.
“Take a care,” she bid him seriously.
“And everything else I can carry,” he promised, flashing his most impudent grin. She chuckled fondly and mock-slapped his cheek. In a rustle of skirts, she was out the door, collecting the priestess in her wake.
The tension that had momentarily ebbed returned in full force. Steeling himself he turned to meet Neever’s eyes.
“Now what?”
The monk dug a long, thick strip of dark cloth from a pocket and flicked it at him. It writhed in the air like an adder. Making no move to snatch it, he watched the intended blindfold crumple at his feet.
“It’s a little hot for a scarf,” he commented after a moment.
Neever’s head ducked in apology. “And I have to ask you to disarm as well.”
He rocked back on his heels.
“And what,” he queried, fighting hard to remain calm, “in our brief time together made you think I’d go along with that?”
Neever nodded as if he’d expected this response. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”
“Well then,” he backed toward the door, “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.” He kept the both of them in view as he retreated. “Good luck finding some other suicidal rube.”
The soldier stepped forward, intentions clear by the hand that settled on the sword hilt.
His knives flashed into his hands.
“Wait!” Neever barked desperately, halting the soldier with one a pacifying hand, the other stretched towards him in a silent plea.
Not about to let the monk lull him, he shifted forward on the balls of his feet. One quick, explosive burst. A knife was not the equal of a sword in reach or heft but that assumed you could get your damned sword drawn first. And even if that only took half an instant, he was prepared to put that half-instant to good use. He found himself wondering how dangerous Neever was without the oaken staff.
“Peace,” the monk placated. “On my life and the ascension of my soul into Grace, I give you my solemn vow, no harm shall befall you whilst you are here.” The man seemed to consider. “Unless you attempt harm upon anyone else.”
“And your quiet friend here? Does he make the same promise?”
“My word binds him as well.”
He noted the soldier’s flat regard. “Does he know that?”
“Olu, please,” the monk pleaded.
He eyed the blindfold at his feet. He hadn’t survived this long by placing himself in harm’s way when he could possibly avoid it. And right now he could avoid it.
“No harm in my leaving then.”
Neever tried again. “Just hear us out,” the monk wheedled, “and if you don’t like what we have to say, you go your own way.”
The problem with the leap of faith, Nan had once said, is you only have to miss once.
Live today so you could live again tomorrow. An easy philosophy that had stood him in good stead when many of his peers had gone to salt the sand.
The monk’s face fell as his next backstep took him through the door.
“I think I’ll go my own way right–”
His next step brought the cold kiss of steel flush against his neck.
“Crap.”
With unthreatening slowness, he allowed his fingers to peel away from his knives until they lolled in his grip, useless as kittens. The soldier stepped up to relieve him of them as well as the ones at his belt.
Turning his head in careful increments revealed another soldier behind him.
“You move real quiet for someone in armor,” he complimented.
Face painted in a mask of commiseration and regret, Neever scooped up the blindfold and offered it to him again.
He wound it around his head. “I should have left you in my wake that first night,” he told the now invisible monk.
“This isn’t what you think,” the man assured him.
“I’m not being held against my will?”
“You’ll see in a moment.”
“Not blindfolded I won’t.”
Fingers, presumably Neever’s, tugged at the thick cloth, ensuring he couldn’t see. Satisfied, the man moved to his side and placed a guiding hand on his shoulder. There was the clink of keys and the second door squealed open.
“Trust me,” Neever whispered into his ear as he steered them forward.
After this?
A moment of closeness told him they’d passed through the doorway and the echo of his steps belied a large room. After another ten paces gentle pressure halted him and faced him another way.
“Welcome.” A man’s voice greeted, wheezy with that peculiar rounding that came of old age. There was the scrape of furniture close by and something brushed the backs of his knees. “Please,” the voice invited, “sit.”
He sat but he would not be cowed. Letting his natural arrogance overtake him, he sprawled in the chair, claiming an armrest and kicking his legs out before him.
“Well?” he demanded of the unseen speaker when nothing else seemed forthcoming. “If you’ve brought me here to stare, I’ll consider posing for a portrait. Otherwise I’m leaving.”
A moment of silence.
“Humph,” the speaker laughed, “now you have me considering where to hang you.”
He swallowed hard.
“How will I steal for you if you hang me?”
“It does not seem,” the speaker opined wryly, “that you are willing to steal for me at all.”
“Because,”he stalled, “we have not yet discussed price.”
“You would consider revising your decision for the right price?”
He nodded, blind.
“How about your life? Would that be payment enough?”
“It would be,” he gritted his teeth, “an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
Like a bladder finally filled to bursting, his host was suddenly rasping and cackling through a fit of laughter, interspersed with the odd cough.
“I’m sorry,” the speaker wheezed eventually, mirth evident in every word, “I’ve amused myself at your expense with all this melodrama. I hope you can forgive me – I don’t often get to play the villain. Rest assured, you are in no danger here. At worst, if we fail to come to an agreement, I’ll have you escorted to the city limits. With a polite request not to return and to keep secret all you’ve seen and heard.”
He wasn’t sure whether he believed that. After all, the promise that no violence would be done to him was an admission that such violence was being considered. And that was a threat in and of itself. And people often hid their threats in jest.
“Alright then,” he played along. “Let’s discuss business. What would I be stealing?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” the speaker apologized. “At least, not until after you’ve committed to doing so.”
“Then,” he tried, “where would I be stealing it from?”
“I can’t tell you that yet, either,” his host informed him.
He chewed that over.
“So,” he summarized, “you want me to decide on whether or not to steal something for you – but you can’t tell me what I’ll be stealing of where from?” He struggled to keep a note of anger from his voice. “You could be sending me into the jaws of death to steal its back molar!” With a massive effort, he quashed his fru
stration. “What can you tell me?”
“I can tell you,” the speaker spoke softly, seriously, “that if you succeed I’ll make you a very, very rich man.”
The quiet promise of that was… alluring.
“And,” his host added as an afterthought, “that stealing death’s dentures would be easy by comparison.”
Cat scat on a skewer…
“The mark,” he probed carefully, “it is that valuable?”
“To me… to us, certainly.”
Us? The modernists.
“And this is something you would use to win your holy war?”
“Something we would use to prevent it,” the speaker corrected in clipped tones.
By the moon and her courting stars – this is a very bad idea!
But the challenge, oh, the challenge! Harder than stealing from death? His breath sped. Forget Oaragh, forget Purlia, he could be the best thief on the continent! In the world even!
His better judgment was trying desperately to assert itself. “It’s not enough,” he attempted to convince himself as much as his host. “I won’t go into this blind,” he said, referring to the caper and the blindfold both.
“I quite understand,” the speaker agreed. “Something more is needed. But know this: if I tell you some, I tell you all. You are bound to us then. Such trust, it requires a concession on your part first.”
“From me?” he gushed. “I’m captive and blindfolded! What concession?!”
“Your true name, perhaps?” the speaker wheedled.
He sat back in his chair as though he’d been slapped. There was power in names. And not only when it came to writs of arrest and execution. With your true name and a single strand of hair, a desert witchdoctor could curse you into passing your own bowels. There was no telling what these temple types could do with it.
“Neever calls me Olu,” he supplied.
“I’m sure he does.”
The expectant hush did not abate.
He ground his teeth. He would just have to keep careful track of all his hair and other bits besides…
“Jiminy,” he finally admitted.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
“Please to meet you, Master Jiminy,” the speaker welcomed.