Jesca came around to the other side of the table and glanced at Vralin’s bounty sheet. Tyrissa tapped a finger on the ‘Restricted Tier bounty’ designation. “What does this mean?”
“Means the target is extra dangerous. Usually reserved for Pactbound and Weapon Masters and the like and only published to guilds like ours and professional hunters. It keeps us from finding a trail of dead amateurs along the way.”
“Wouldn’t that make the mark easier to find?” She found it hard to look away from the sketch. It was dead on, the rough lines and fading from the re-printing process giving his face the proper haunting quality of a man that should be dead.
“I said the same thing,” Jesca said.
“He was one of the Thieves at Southwest’s party, Jesca. Snatched a necklace from Mrs. Guldres and leapt from the tables to the walkways above us as if it were nothing.”
“Must be hard up for cash to be working with the Thieves.”
“Or after something else,” Tyrissa muttered to herself. It was more than a simple theft. It was a message to the man who’s funding his bounty. I can cut the gemstone from your wife’s neck in the middle of a Prime’s guildhall. It would be easy enough to slide the knife a little deeper next time.
“Seems that way,” Jesca said. “Some of our bands on night watches have been attacked with similar elchemical tricks, only to have the thieves escape without taking anything.”
“What were they guarding?”
Jesca shrugged. “Vaults. Storage facilities. The kind of places where something valuable might be tucked away. It’s very strange and has been happening here and there for months now. The papers have it trumped up as a crime spree.”
Tyrissa made a mental note to look into those attacks. If they’re related to the incident at the party, they could lead back to Vralin.
She looked up from the sketch and saw that Jesca was clothed in her sparring leathers, her bare arms showing fresh welts. Loose strands of her hair clung to her face, and she smelled of sweat.
“Aren’t you a little underdressed?” The afternoon would be fading away and they had another job scheduled with Alvedo tonight. Otherwise Tyrissa would have been down in the yard instead of keeping herself rested and halfway presentable.
Jesca gave her a wicked grin. “I’m not, but you are. You’re going it alone tonight. Through a convergence of fate and business, the wealthy and influential Cordrin van Braun’s cannot accompany his lovely wife to the opening show of the theater season and Olivianna’s father offered his daughter’s company as a replacement to fill the seat. Joyce was not invited.”
“This sounds painful.”
“And there’s more! It’s at the Palace Theater where only the most discriminating are seen in their finest. So you get to look nice too. Caliss and I are going to make you pretty.” Jesca said it with such relish that Tyrissa could only feel dread. She had been told it would be a formal occasion but not to what degree.
“This day just got that much worse.”
“Oh, have an open mind. You might even like it.”
Olivianna Alvedo was unwell tonight.
She looked splendid, Tyrissa would grudgingly admit, wearing a sleek silver dress in the high-necked Khalan style, the fabric interwoven with threads that toyed with the light. Her hair hung in dark ringlets and she wore a matching jet black gemstone on a thin steel chain around her neck, the centerpiece held high and pressed to her throat. It all framed a pensive face, eyes downcast to her lap where her hands clutched and rolled the fabric of her dress, before smoothing it out and repeating. Her bracelets clicked together at the end of each cycle, the only sound in the narrow enclosed carriage beyond the roll of metal-bound wheels on the street below.
No, Alvedo must be unwell because she failed to make any of her customary snide comments towards Tyrissa. Jesca and Caliss had done an admirable job of dressing her up to look the part of a noble guardswoman. Her new, well-fitted guild coat was clean and pressed and her boots were polished to a shine. When it came to her hair, Tyrissa insisted on a Morg style, the braid encircling the top of her head like a laurel of gold, before joining in the back. She relented on the white and red ribbons interlaced in the braid, and allowed them to lacquer her fingernails a blood red. Rouge was out of the question. In the end, they had deemed her properly dressed and a fine walking advertisement for the Cadre.
And Olivianna didn’t even notice, saying barely a word since they picked her up from the guest house. She simply took her seat and stared at her hands, brow furrowed in worry for the entire ride. They were almost at the Palace Theater and Tyrissa couldn’t take it anymore.
“No catty comment, Miss Alvedo? No talk of futilely polishing a rock to make a gemstone?” That was weak, but would serve as an introduction.
Olivianna looked up and seemed to see her for the first time. “Oh,” she said. “You look very nice, Jorensen.”
Tyrissa replied with a stunned silence at her words, even if that compliment still bore traces of a sneer.
Now I’m worried. Before leaving the guild hall, Tyrissa had taken a moment to find out just who Alvedo was replacing and found that if Cordin van Braun was a focal point of Khalanheim’s financial world, his wife Irenea was a focus in the equally complex social scenes. Alvedo must be under the immense pressure of social frivolities. Tyrissa tried to summon some sympathy, but that well was quite dry.
The carriage slowed to a halt. Tyrissa leaned forward to the window. Ahead stood the Palace Theater, Khalanheim’s grandest venue for the whims of the rich and powerful. Set back from the surrounding streets by a broad lawn that was once a walled-in garden, the theater was an elegant bastion of pointed turrets and intricately carved stone window frames, all bound together by checkered bricks of black and red. Originally meant to be a second palace for the Khalanheim monarchy, the construction hadn’t been completed before the royal line was disposed by the trade guilds. Now, the heirs of those merchant princes came here to be entertained atop a grave of the old ways.
They had stopped due to traffic, the curving road that led to the theater’s main entryway clogged by the assembled coaches and carriages of Khalanheim’s upper crust and their accompaniment of animals, drivers, and guards. For every council member from a Prime or Major, there were five or more hired hands, all seeing to different tasks in a flurry of executing one grand entrance after another. Tyrissa heard their driver give a sigh before urging their suddenly modest team of two horses to get in line. She couldn’t help but smile to herself, knowing that Alvedo would be stewing in meaningless embarrassment at their downright humble entrance.
Many attendees disembarked their carriages and ascended the stairs at the front of the theater with a cluster of guards shadowing them, bright displays of finery and wealth ringed by as much security they could muster. Tyrissa saw many crests of the Talons and the Cadre in the steady stream of wealthy theater-goers, never mind the less obvious personal guards. A small army would be in attendance for this performance. There had been another pair of high profile kidnappings in the last week, keeping the wealthy paranoid and security services booked.
Tyrissa stepped out of their carriage as their turn arrived, circling around to open the opposite door for her client and scanning the organized chaos for potential threats. The air held a touch of chill as the light of an autumn day died away to the west
When she exited the carriage, Olivianna had donned her mask of convincing smiles and dark shining eyes, appearing every bit happy to be here and oblivious to any inkling that she had anything less than an equally grand entrance. Tyrissa fell in behind her as a second, leased shadow, accessory and security. As they ascended the wide stairs to the entrance, Olivianna nodded or gave faint waves to other attendees. Of the pensive, silent girl in the carriage there was no sign. It was a skill Tyrissa could only imagine, the effortless switching between personalities. Alvedo was more like Zeris of Many Masks than she thought.
According to A King Brought Low, the merchants disposed
of the Khalan royal family out of frustration with their extravagant spending and debts. As they crossed into the entry hall, Tyrissa questioned that version of events. Lavish paintings of fanciful lakeside scenes covered the walls, each with ornate, gilded frames. An array of crystalline chandeliers and gilded lamps hung from the ceiling, their combined lights sparkling in a constellation of excess. At either end of the hall, wide carpeted stairways curved up to the second floor, split in half by brass handrails that shone from polish.
Attendants split away from their employers as the stream of theater-goers reached a line of ushers dressed in black coats emblazoned with the crest of the Palace Theater, a wireframe outline of the building’s façade.
“You name, madam?”
“Olivianna Alvedo.”
“Alvedo… Alvedo… ah,” he flipped over to a second page, “You are a guest of Irenae van Braun. You’ve only one guard tonight?”
The brief tightening of her eyes spoke volumes. This man had not the time to be impressed or otherwise with Olivianna. Tyrissa kept a straight face. The night was going well.
“Yes.”
He motioned to a clearly overworked usher and said, “Box Two.”
As they crossed the lavish foyer, Tyrissa caught sight of promotional posters for tonight show. ‘A long term winter engagement,’ they said, ‘The Master Bard from the Evelands: Giroon the Great.’ Tyrissa recognized the name from the introduction to Tales from Across the North, and had seen it mentioned here and there since.
“Miss Alvedo, you should be excited. Giroon the Great is just as great as his name implies, a living legend of storytelling.” If she was going to play the retainer and status symbol, she was going to get under Alvedo’s skin a little bit more and have some fun with it. “I’m quite jealous.”
Alvedo replied with a look that would have melted all those golden chandeliers in the entrance.
Two guards flanked the door to their assigned balcony box, dressed in identical polished steel chest plates over crimson shirts with long, red sleeves and broad, frilled cuffs. Each wore thin blades sheathed at the hip, the ornate hilts marking them as formal dress weapons. One smoothly opened the door when Olivianna approached. His package delivered, the usher vanished back to the entrance. Tyrissa took up a vigil opposite the door, sharing nods with the other two guards. Their faces were as identical as their uniforms, both clean-shaven with pointed chins and narrow noses, and Tyrissa’s eyes went between each, trying to find a difference. They must be twins, a sample of the excess of detail some of Khalanheim’s wealthy go through.
Within a few minutes a wave of applause sounded from the theater, followed by a deep and powerful voice launching into a tale. The show was on. Tyrissa strained to make out the words, but the walls muffled the bard’s voice to a thrumming bass, any snatches of clarity elusive. An accompaniment of stringed music followed the tales, silent or stirring as need be. Time passed, Tyrissa giving cursory glances up and down the hallway while listening to the rhythm of Giroon’s voice seeping through the walls. To be this close, yet get nothing out of it pained her. Alvedo probably didn’t even appreciate it, focused on worming her way into another advantageous friendship.
The shared sense of boredom must have gotten through the twin guards’ armor.
“You hear they’re planning a falconry trip soon?” said one to the other.
“I did. It should make Mistress van Braun less… acerbic for a time.”
“Acerbic? You’ve been spending too much time with that woman from the Concordium.”
“Not enough time, if you ask me.”
They continued on, chatting of shifting guard rotations, and increased security details due to the burst of Thieves activity.
Applause erupted in the theater after an hour, spiking in volume as the balcony door swung open and Irenea van Braun emerged from the box seats. She was dressed in a radiant gown made to appear as pale gold bands, each catching light at a different angle. It drew attention away from a face where ‘plain’ would be overly kind, as if any scrap of beauty was strip-mined away to be used in her dress. Tyrissa and the twins snapped to attention in unison.
“Guardswoman, Olivianna requests your presence.” She motioned for one of her twin guards to follow, and strode down the hall, as quickly as her air of elegance would allow.
Tyrissa stepped through the door, closing it quietly behind her. Below, the theater was an intimate venue, betraying its roots as a converted banquet hall. There were no more than a hundred seats on the main floor with a set of private balconies ringing the second floor. A small orchestra sat in a pit before the stage, the players lowering their instruments. An intermission, it would seem, though few among the audience had left their seats.
Giroon the Great stood alone on stage at the center of a broad pool of light. Dark-skinned and garbed in resplendent robes of red and black, he stood in contrast to the bright emptiness around him. He gave a slight bow as the applause died down, islets of perspiration crowning his bald head with points of light.
“One of my many talents,” the bard said, “Is an encyclopedic knowledge of heraldry. Men love little more than taking a symbol for themselves, and they feature heavily in all stories, a common thread regardless of origin. Thus, I ask the audience to challenge me. Name anything from the North or West, and I shall identify it.”
“Three white flames on black field,” came the first shout from the audience.
“That would be the sigil of Rizlin the Flameweaver, in fiction. Adopted by the ill-fated Felarin house of Telosez, though sadly it didn’t bestow Rizlin’s immunity to fire.” Scattered laughter sprinkled through the audience.
“You wished to see me, Miss Alvedo?”
“Jorensen. Yes.” Her voice was a remote whisper, quiet even for a theater. “I am failing.”
What a tragedy, her tale should be spun on stage. “Welcome to the rest of humanity, miss.”
“I merely need someone else nearby. If I was alone I may… lose my composure.” her words quivered in the air, like the final holdouts of the autumn leaves against the first winds of winter. Below, Giroon descended to the floor of the theater, fielding further challenges from the crowd. Most were answered quickly, some before the questioner had finished. Tyrissa knew half the answers as well, all familiar stories or noble lines from Rhonia or Felarill. The crowd would have to try harder.
“This woman is like trying to befriend a brick wall with half the personality.”
Tyrissa said nothing, preferring to watch the bard’s game below and let Olivianna stew for a touch longer.
“House Korith,” said a woman’s voice during a lull in questioning, as the audience racked their collective brains for a tougher query.
“They would be among our Rhonian neighbors to the east in Survantum. Their shield is two elephants, their trunks joined to evoke the city’s famed and useless bridge.”
“But she gives me nothing, like she doesn’t want to be here,” Alvedo continued. “You’d think she’d be grateful for the distraction, at the very least.”
“You simply have to stay focused and keep trying,” Tyrissa whispered, though she couldn’t explain why she would even try to help. “Push everything out of your mind except the goal at hand. Don’t worry about failure until you actually fail.”
“The simple advice of a northerner.”
“Sometimes simple is all you need. Do you want my help or is this making up for your silence on the ride here?”
“I’m sorry.”
Sorry? Tyrissa blinked in surprise. That was new. She’d thought the word exiled from Olivianna’s vocabulary.
“I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
Tyrissa placed a hand on Olivianna’s shoulder. She was faintly shaking, and Tyrissa then realized that Olivianna was in over her head, tasked with something she thought beyond her abilities. Against all odds, Tyrissa felt sympathetic. She thought back to the twin’s banter.
“What do you know about falconry?”
&n
bsp; “Almost nothing,” Alvedo said, her voice lightly seasoned with panic. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Her guards mentioned she has a fondness for it. Their household is planning an excursion soon.”
“Well, it’s something to go on,” a pause. “How the hell am I supposed to bring that up?”
“That’s your problem,” Tyrissa leaned in even closer to Alvedo’s ear and gave her shoulder a less-than-comforting squeeze. She whispered, “Remember, you’ve given me every reason to let you suffer and fail. You’re welcome.”
“It will have to do.” It would seem ‘thank you’ would remain exiled for now.
Their attention returned to the show. Another would-be challenger shouted out, “A woman slicing her tongue in two with a knife.”
This one Giroon thought on for a few heartbeats.
“The sigil of Marie Boneshatter, the Doom of Crestas, Harridan of Blood. An obscure tale in these parts. Well done sir, find me on an off night at the tavern within the Grand Inn and we’ll hoist a drink to her fortunate demise. I wish to know how you heard of the tale.”
A silver shield formed of quadrants, Tyrissa wanted to shout, winged by five feathers on each side.
A slash of light announced the Irenea’s return. Tyrissa gave Olivianna a reassuring smile and returned to her position in the hallway, closing door behind her. The remainder of the show passed easily as Tyrissa’s mind raced through planning a surprise visit to the Great Bard.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Grand Inn made a fine companion to the Palace Theater, built with the same eye towards conspicuous opulence and located on the same broad street where Khalanheim’s wealthy caroused between theaters and private clubs. When Tyrissa tried the simplest route first and asked the receptionist for Giroon’s room number, the woman gave it to her with little more than a sigh and a dirty look. Tyrissa couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Sneaking in would have been more fun.
Thick carpet woven with diamond patterns of gold and azure softened her footfalls and rich cherry wood panels lined the generous space between rooms. Sparse clean-burning elchemical lamps laid a second pattern of alternating light and shadow upon the carpet. Room 310 stood at the end of the hall, next to a window of checkered panes of colored glass that obscured the view and deadened the noise from the bustling entertainment district outside. An upholstered bench sat below the window, useless given the lack of a view at this dead-end of the hallway. She knocked on the door and received no answer. She must have beaten him here despite crossing the center of the city three times in her whirlwind rush of returning Alvedo, hurrying home to trade in her staff and new guild coat for a less official, mundane coat, and returning to a spot only a few hundred yards from where she began. This was the first time she’d been still in over an hour.
Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1) Page 23