by Ari Marmell
A sequence of bells chimed in quick succession; house lights dimmed with the hiss of narrowing valves; a hush rippled over the audience; and the curtain rose on the poetic chorus that opened Oswinne Muir’s classic The Storm King.
For half an hour Dignity waited, oblivious to both her neighbors and the events unfolding on stage—though she did briefly take note when the simulated cannon fired, during the scene in which the Queen of Rain’s cloud was shot down over the mysterious Isle of Ais.
All right, enough dallying. Best get to work. She allowed herself one more moment, for her eyes to recover from the flash, took one last look around as she prepared to rise . . .
And froze. Come on! You cannot be serious!
Roughly halfway around the cavernous hall from the Surros family box, a pair of opera glasses glinted as they occasionally caught flickers of the stage lightning. No surprise there; roughly half the nobles in attendance used them, or similar gadgets.
This particular pair of opera glasses, though, were turned away from the stage. And Dignity hardly needed to check—though she did anyway, just to be certain—to know they were aimed instead at Halcourt’s retinue.
It could be some theatre-goer, bored with the play, stealing a glance at the fully armored Storm Knights. Dignity watched for several long minutes, however, and the glasses never once wavered back to the stage.
It was sloppy. Obvious. Amateur. Nobody would survive the first year of Section Three training making mistakes like that.
Which meant either she was supposed to notice, and it was some manner of ruse, or else Halcourt had someone besides Section Three observing him.
Either way—trap or not, playing into their hands or not—it wasn’t something Dignity could ignore. But she didn’t have to be stupid about it, either.
With a fusillade of whispered apologies, she shuffled out from the aisle, stepping on only a few feet in the process, and made once more for the lobby.
Other members of the audience milled about, not only in that lobby but on the various stairs and in the winding hallways of the many-tiered gallery. Some had stolen out for a bit of conversation; others for a few puffs of a pipe, or to stretch their legs, or to visit the jakes. (Although, presumably, the latter sort weren’t lingering in the halls.) Dignity paid them no heed, save the occasional polite nod when one of them happened to meet her gaze, and they showed her precisely the same diffident courtesy.
Up stairs and shallow winding ramps, beneath glittering chandeliers and alongside banisters of polished brass, until she reached the uppermost level. Here, intricate carvings of various repeating motifs—including the crown-and-stars of the Llaelese flag—swarmed across two score hardwood doors. Through these, she knew, lay the luxurious booths and private boxes of the wealthiest or most aristocratic of Leryn’s wealthy aristocrats.
All right, the Surros box is number seven, and the other was almost exactly halfway opposite, so . . .
Up here, she passed fewer rogue spectators and far more servants in the nearly blindingly bright livery of the theatre. Dignity wasn’t certain whether the purpose of those gaudy affairs was to make the guests look better by comparison, or to make the staff easier to locate in the dim illumination, but they’d accomplished both with, so to speak, flying colors.
Ludicrous or not, however, they could cause her problems. The men and women hefting trays of bottles weren’t the issue; the larger, beefier specimens assigned to check guest chits, to assure that their most valued patrons weren’t disturbed by lesser folk who had no businesses being here, were something else again.
Head held high, her pace determined and even aggressive, Dignity strode past the first pair of wandering bouncers. She wasn’t attempting to enter a booth, so neither chose to stop her. But then she passed a second pair wandering the gallery, and a third, and she was running out of room. Not only would she shortly pass by her intended destination, but she must eventually reach the end of the hall; should that happen, and she start back without having entered “her” box . . . Well, even the dullest doorman would have to realize something was amiss.
She had just begun to wonder if any of the bouncers were bribable, or if she could somehow take down a pair without causing any real harm or attracting the attentions of everyone else in the hall, when fortune finally smiled at her. At just the right moment, as she approached her target door, the previous pair of servants had vanished around the passageway’s gentle curve, and no others had yet appeared in their wake.
Dignity slipped inside before her luck could flip once more. She caught a glimpse of heavily cushioned chairs, several small tables with a variety of aperitifs and snacks, and a rack containing theatre programs and recent broadsheets.
For the most part, however, she remained focused on the young man in well-kept but somewhat outdated formalwear. He spun from his seat at her entrance, opera glasses falling from his open fist, his expanding chest nearly popping a button as he drew breath to shout.
From beneath her sleeve—flowing and loose, in defiance of the current fashion and in contrast to the rest of her gown—Dignity’s dagger dropped into her waiting hand. Shifting its weight, calculating how best to manage the awkward throw, nearly cost her too much time. Just before the man could voice his cry, however, the weapon thumped against his throat . . .
Pommel first, rather than edge.
The breath rushed from him in a hoarse croak as he clutched at his neck, trying to catch his wind. Dignity landed at his side, having vaulted the intervening chairs, smacked his hands away, and wrapped an arm beneath his chin.
A few more seconds of thrashing was all he managed before he fell limp. He wouldn’t be comfortable when he woke up, and he might speak funny for a few days, but he ought to be fine.
Dignity had paid for his silence, though: Questioning him now seemed an unlikely proposition. Instead, she laid him out across two seats and rooted through his coat pockets and pouch.
A few coins, which she left; a scribbled note that probably wasn’t relevant, as it said something about picking up smoked venison and oregano, though it could conceivably have been a code of some sort; and . . .
Ah.
Not one but two private box admission chits. One, as a guest, for this particular booth; the other, a servant’s chit for box twelve.
Another instant to return the dagger to its spring-loaded sheath and to palm the chit, and then Dignity returned to the hall, carefully shutting the door behind her.
This time, as she neared her new objective, a pair of the doormen did stop her, politely but firmly. They scarcely glanced at the chit once she’d produced it, however, and dismissed her to go on her way. An easy enough proposition, that . . . Until she reached the door itself.
So what now, genius?
She had no idea whatsoever who—or what—to expect behind this door. One person? Half a dozen? Khadoran operatives waiting to spring a trap, or some local political rival of Baron Surros spying on the man’s foreign guest? Violence? Deception? Some kooky misunderstanding that Oswinne Muir couldn’t have written into even his lightest comedies?
“Oh, do come in already, m’lady.”
Dignity didn’t even need to feel her muscles tense; she actually heard it happen. She’d no idea how he’d known she was here. She certainly didn’t see, even for all her training, any sort of spyhole, tripwire, or other warning system.
Nor, really, did it matter, because she did recognize the oily pitch, the precise intonation of every syllable. Just as it no longer mattered if this was, indeed, a trap, or if she was risking exposing herself as Cygnaran Reconnaissance.
Exerting iron control just to keep from launching her blade or her spring-pistol into her hand, Dignity pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The box was accoutered very much like the previous one; similar array of chairs, small tables, expensive vintages, and so forth. The differences were, of course, in the occupants.
One sat in the back corner, as far from the door as space would
permit. Distant from both the stage lights beyond the gallery and the small lamp on the central table, it sat in shadows, obscured and unidentifiable—an effect that Dignity figured was quite intentional.
The other, who had called for Dignity to enter, was the traitorous Idran di Meryse himself.
The alchemist spoke through the slightly sagging features of a man who never passed up an opportunity to indulge his appetites, yet remained relatively slender thanks solely to the gifts of a fortunate breeding. His thinning hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven, his garb the height of style save for his choice of subtler, more muted hues. A crystal goblet, half-filled with something of an almost golden sheen, hung between his thumb and forefinger.
“Won’t you have a seat? I was beginning to worry that you’d missed my invitation. Should have had more faith, obviously.”
Dignity edged around the box, drawing nearer di Meryse without turning her back on the shadowed figure across from him. “Is there any particular reason I shouldn’t kill you here and now?”
He frowned theatrically. “Aren’t you going to ask how I knew you’d be here?”
“No. Are you going to answer my question?”
“We’ll get to that. I think you already have a pretty good idea, though, or you’d have done it already.” He waved at an empty seat.
After a quick check of the chair, which the alchemist pretended not to notice, Dignity sat.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a drink? The Umbrey ’29 is astonishing. I promise you’ve never had its like.”
She glared. He poured himself another glass.
“Have you ever actually seen the entirety of The Storm King?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“A time or two.”
Di Meryse smiled. “I think Domateos’s speech at the bottom of Act II is still one of the most inspiring addresses ever written. ‘Let us, then, comport ourselves so that our forefathers, gazing down upon us from on high, might proudly say It is for this alone we lived and died, that such men might stand in this place, on this day. This alone was our meaning, and we are grateful.’
“I still shiver to hear it. I understand it’s even more stirring in the original Ordic, but I never had any facility for that tongue.”
“And what of your forefathers?” Dignity asked sweetly. “Do they look upon your acts with pride? Have you offered them meaning?”
The alchemist’s smile slipped, if but a little. “I prefer to think of myself as one of those forefathers, doing my part to pave the way for generations to follow.”
Dignity couldn’t help but scoff aloud, and realized she wasn’t the only one.
“Oh! My manners; I’m so sorry. Though I do believe you two may have met before, at least in passing. You share so many professional circles.
“This,” he said, raising his drink to Dignity, “is Garland, of the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service. Garland, meet Vorona. Section Three.”
The shadowed figure leaned forward, but Dignity knew who to expect even before the flickering illumination fell over her features. And yes, there they were. The raven-black hair; the narrow face; the empty eyes.
And the hideous mottled and abraded bruise blackening her left temple.
“We have met,” Vorona said, not currently bothering to suppress a Khadoran accent as thick as borscht. “Though we had no opportunity for introductions. I believe I got to know your friend—Laddermore, yes?—-somewhat better.”
“You certainly seemed to hit it off,” Dignity said blandly. Vorona raised her own glass, acknowledging the point.
“Oh, good!” Di Meryse actually seemed about to applaud, until he discovered he still held a goblet in one hand. “I’m so glad that we’re all able to avoid being uncivil.”
“The night is young,” the Khadoran pointed out. “There is still time.”
“Ah . . . Yes, quite. Well, then, before the night grows decrepit, shall we to business?”
With no objection forthcoming from either party, he turned his chair around to face them and leaned back, lacing his fingers together in his lap.
“I am quite aware that you have both attempted to follow me, at various times, whenever I’ve appeared in public. And it has, of course, done you no good at all, because I have gone nowhere near where I’ve concealed the formula you’re both so eager to possess. Nor do I intend to do so in the future. Nor will anyone I speak with be going near the formula. Nor will anyone they speak with, and so on and so forth. I have enough people working for me, and I work though sufficient channels, to make any attempt at backtracking quite impossible.
“Killing me will not only not earn you the formula, but will ensure your enemy acquires it. And yes, my people have fairly sophisticated means of determining which of you might have caused any ‘unfortunate accidents.’”
The two spies exchanged a look that clearly said He might not want to bet on that, but neither interrupted his obviously prepared, and quite possibly rehearsed, monologue.
“Now, as it happens, neither of your governments was prepared to meet my initial asking price. I suppose I knew I was being too greedy, but I’d thought, just maybe . . .
“Well, neither of you preempted the other, so let me tell you how this is going to play out. I’m giving you exactly two weeks to make whatever arrangements you need with your superiors back home. On the eighth of Casteus, in the evening, the two of you will meet me at a designated location.”
“Where—?” Dignity began.
“Oh, do be serious. I’m not giving you two weeks to set up surveillance or booby traps. I’ll let you know where to meet.” He reached into his coat, removed two folded papers sealed with wax, and passed one to each woman. “Each of these contains an address. Go there on the seventh, and I’ll have someone waiting to tell you where the meeting is to be held. Don’t bother questioning them, or following them; they’ll both be hired messengers with no knowledge about any of this.”
Dignity dug fingernails into her palm, irritated but unsurprised at di Meryse’s intricate precautions. “Speaking to CRS could prove difficult,” she said instead. “Seeing as how Khador’s cut most of the lines of communication between Llael and Cygnar.”
Vorona smiled and once again raised her glass in toast.
“You’re clever, Garland,” the alchemist said. “I’m sure you have means.
“This will be a closed bid,” he went on, before she could protest. “You will not have an opportunity to hear your rival’s bid. Each of you will arrive with the highest price your government is willing to pay. I expect said payment in easily portable form. Gemstones are fine, as are banknotes guaranteed by governmental seal and exchangeable at any holding company that does business with your home nation. Once I decide which bid to accept, I will depart. The formula will be delivered to you at the same address indicated on those papers you just received.”
Vorona’s forward lean was very nearly an abortive lunge, shaking the chair beneath her. “If you believe that we would permit you to depart with payment and then simply trust you to deliver the formula—”
“You have no choice,” di Meryse said blandly. “I intend neither to have the formula on my person, nor to risk falling into your hands once you have it—or have lost the bidding. Believe me, however, I also have no intention of cheating whoever wins. I gain nothing that way save the enmity of an entire nation.”
You’ve already got that, you bastard, Dignity sneered internally.
Vorona growled something unintelligible.
“I hope,” he concluded, “that the non-victorious party has the grace to walk away, but honestly, I don’t expect so. As I plan to be well away by that point, however, you’re certainly welcome to try to kill each other if it makes you happy. Have either of you any questions? Is any of this at all unclear?”
It took everything Dignity had not to break the man’s neck, stab him with something, or throw him over the balcony—possibly all three—and though her Khadoran counterpart’s face remained ice, the t
ension in Vorona’s shoulders suggested that the other woman felt the same.
Both restrained themselves, as di Meryse had known they must.
“Excellent!” Di Meryse finished his goblet in one final swallow and stood. “I hate to miss the rest of the performance—especially Domateos’s speech—but I think it best if I take my leave. Do feel free to remain and enjoy the amenities; the box is paid for.”
Two swift bows, one for each of them, and then he was gone. The door swung shut, leaving two of the deadliest women in Leryn sitting across the table. For some time they studied each other, Dignity openly, Vorona over the rim of her goblet, the only sounds the various lines of dialogue projected from the stage below.
“Impressive work last year in Port Vladovar,” the Khadoran said finally.
“I’m sure I’d thank you,” Dignity replied, “if I had the slightest idea of what you were talking about, or if CRS had any active operations in your nation, which of course we don’t.”
“Yes, of course. How foolish of me.”
“And how many Voronas have there been in Section Three? I recall reading of ‘your’ exploits from as far back as the First Thornwood War. I’m fairly certain it’s not due to makeup that you appear younger than a hundred-and-twenty.”
“I am the third so honored with that particular designation.”
Dignity tapped two fingers against her temple. “I wonder who would have been the fourth?”
The raven-haired spy raised a hand, gingerly ran her fingertips over the mottled bruise disfiguring almost half her face. “Your Lieutenant Laddermore is quite good,” she admitted without overt rancor. “And fast. I should have avoided that blow from almost anyone else.”
“I’ll tell her you said so. She was astonished you’d dodged as much of it as you did.”
Vorona bowed from the neck in false modesty. “I do as I was trained. I look forward to the opportunity for a rematch.”
“Katherine’s sort of rematch, or yours?” Then, when the Khadoran’s lips merely twitched in reply, “I see. I’ll tell her to watch her back, then.”