by Chris Moss
Harpalus waited for the General of the Exsilium forces to move away before he placed his eye at the slim gap. “They will be in supporting roles.” The Spymaster looked across from his vantage point in an old storehouse to the building a block or so away. The sun had slipped below the horizon, casting the jumble of houses around the Old Docks into a single dark mass.
Turning from the scene, he nodded to an agent to stand watch at the window. He turned to the map of Caelbor laid out on the table before him. “Rowan’s forces are going to strike at both the Citadel and the Old Docks.” He pointed out the two largest blocks on the map. “They know there will be heavy defenses at the Citadel building but will expect an easy victory over this watch house, leaving them free to defend the port against reinforcements from the Outer Coast.”
“Rowan is right,” said the General. The line of fading sunlight streaming in from the window highlighted his deep, bronzed face. “But it’s not just the Prioress at stake here. If Rowan razes a single building on the Citadel grounds, it will be all the example his supporters on the continent will need to follow suit.”
“But if you can spare the men to block the main avenues between the Regal Estate and the Citadel, it will force the rebels to take back streets through the tanning district—” Harpalus pointed. “—here, and through the Artisan’s Enclave, here.”
“The Artisan’s Enclave is predominantly Exsilium.” Marcus fingered the notch in his beard, acquired from an old sword stroke. “The tension between the Exiles and the native-born is already at a breaking point.”
“Correct. My agents can easily muster support there, and I have other men in the tanning district. Rowan’s forces aren’t used to this sort of fighting, they’ll panic—”
“Bringing them back onto the main avenues controlled by Praetoria,” finished Marcus.
The agent at the window cleared his throat. “Sir, the signal is coming through.”
Harpalus allowed himself a tight smile and rose to peer through the shutters.
“Are you sure this’ll work?” said the General, staring hard at the map.
“Of course.” The Spymaster watched the tiny speck of light from the rooftops flicker on and off. “I can’t risk challenging Rowan’s forces yet, but this building has been acting as the League’s central messaging post in the Old Docks for weeks. Poisoning his carrier pigeons will make it far harder for Rowan to effectively muster his men. Besides, you know how superstitious soldiers are.”
“And when they realize their birds have been poisoned?”
Harpalus shrugged. “Then they will risk sending a message by foot. I estimate it will be two hours.”
“Do you want me to capture him then?” Marcus rolled up the map and summoned a nearby Exsilium soldier with a wave.
“No need,” said Harpalus, walking toward the door. “My agents will see to it. Until then, I have another appointment to keep.”
“Another of your agents? Or an ally against the League?”
“Neither.” The Spymaster laughed, slinking into a tunnel.
With the moon rising from the hills, Julia and Gyges were escorted into the home of Baroness Wulwyn. Her gaze wandered over the dark shapes of the gardens, brooding on her former student.
Have I moved too quickly? Will he see me as a threat?
Too bad, she thought to herself. I’m tired of paying for a mistake ten years past. I’m back, and Pye will just have to deal with it.
Setting her face like stone, Julia turned her gaze to the mansion ahead and marshaled her knowledge of the noblewoman. The Wulwyns had long ruled the farmlands of the southern Outer Coast, providing Caelbor and Exsilium with grain, wine, and livestock. The family had never been at ease amongst the Caelbor nobility. The Baroness’s father had imported artists and sculptors from the Exsilium refugees, and, to the disgust of his peers, had married an Exsilium woman.
The Baroness Wulwyn hailed from a striking mix of ancestries, short and round like her father but with the dark, gentle curls and olive skin of her mother. She cultivated a wide and happy countenance, but her enemies were more often than not found beheaded, hence her unofficial title: “Lady Mantis.”
Julia took a careful look around the room Wellerd and Wellyn had escorted her into, the pair taking up positions near the door, opposite a silent Gyges.
“Come out onto the balcony dear, it’s lovely,” said a friendly voice from outside.
Julia wandered toward the balcony.
Baroness Wulwyn stepped into view, dressed in a low-cut, purple gown that traced the contours of the woman’s generous frame. “So, you are the Citadel’s envoy?” She raised a slender glass of wine to her lips, eyeing Julia.
“Yes, Lady Wulwyn.” Julia opened her consciousness to the Aeris, watching the room’s emptiness become overlain with shifting silver currents. The use of Aeris to sense untruths was uncertain at best, but Julia needed it.
“Well, what can I do for you?” The Baroness smiled, looking out over the rolling fields beyond.
“My masters feel it’s time to do something about Lord Rowan.” Julia let her mind slide into the currents, using only the tiniest sliver of her power, lest it produce the tell-tale silvery glow of a cleric. Focusing on the wavering form of Lady Mantis, Julia traced the contours of the noblewoman’s mind. Baroness Wulwyn’s psyche roiled in a halo around the contours of her head, a cloud of thought that revealed how complex—and how devious—she could be.
The olive-skinned woman shrugged, her mind-form mimicking her movements. “Fine by me. I wish you every luck.”
“That’s surprising,” said Julia. “You’ve been profiting from Rowan’s preparations for rebellion by buying up all the coastal lands he’s vacated while he centers his power on Caelbor.”
“When his grab at power fails, I will buy up a goodly portion of the rest, too.”
Julia nodded, watching Lady Mantis’s mind quiver and shift.
“Then our desires coincide,” said Julia.
Lady Mantis smiled and took another sip of wine. “Then, what do you want?”
“Information—Rowan is not acting alone.”
“He has help? From outside the League of Nobles? Do tell, dear, don’t keep me in anticipation.”
Julia held her tongue for a moment, but there was no way around the admission. “We believe he has had help. Someone within the Citadel walls.”
“Of course.” The Baroness laughed. “There’s always someone on the take. How do you think I stay so well informed?”
She’s playing. Julia examined the noblewoman’s mind for flashes of fear or surprise. She knows exactly what’s going on. But does she know how highly placed the traitor is?
“This is not a game,” said the old cleric, letting a bit of steel enter her voice. “The traitor has covered his tracks too well. You have people placed inside the Regal Estate that we don’t. We both know the Citadel’s traitor has been meeting with Rowan, and I need to know where.”
“I have in fact come across reports of certain meetings involving the Regal Estate,” said the Baroness, ignoring Julia’s tone. “But what would it profit me to tell you?”
“All the lands belonging to Rowan when his rebellion is crushed, and he is executed.”
“I can get those anyway.”
“Not if the Citadel decides to confiscate them.”
The mind-form of Lady Mantis convulsed. “But the Arrius Agreement—”
“Is null and void the moment Rowan draws his sword against my masters,” said Julia.
The Baroness was silent, her mind spinning into a new configuration. As if in response, the currents flowing through the room took on a new urgency, washing over Julia’s extended psyche and leaving her struggling to maintain control.
The Baroness turned away and looked out over the fading light above the fields. “I can do more damage to Rowan without your interference. A public execution of the Citadel’s traitor would damage Rowan’s reputation considerably.”
“Absolutely not!” said Julia
horrified.
“But surely, it would serve as a warning to those within your ranks of the dangers of apostasy.”
“The traitor must be brought back to the Citadel for a trial.”
“A trial?” Lady Mantis raised an eyebrow. “The Prioress doesn’t try a mere defector. I’ve seen what Citadel spies do with traitors.”
Julia’s heart sank. She knows. What do I do now?
Harpalus waited in an isolated room of a tavern near the Citadel, one that overlooked the dark sprawl of gardens and libraries clustered around the main dome. His limbs still stiff, he lit a small lamp in the corner and fished around in the cupboard for two small cups. He produced a wine bottle from under his cloak, placed the items on the table and sank into a chair to wait. He was not idle long. A hooded figure lurched through the door and closed it with a thump.
“Have you been waiting for me?” Typhena pulled back her hood and fixed the Spymaster with a seductive smile.
Harpalus chuckled and motioned to the vacant chair. “Come and have a drink. Are you thirsty?”
The Vutai nodded and poured herself a cup, throwing back the wine in a single gulp. Harpalus only took a small sip before examining the dark liquid.
“Have you reconsidered my offer, Reynard?” Typhena pulled her chair close to the Spymaster and sat down. “It’s still not too late to escape this place.”
Harpalus smiled and reached out, taking Typhena’s hand. The silver haired woman’s skin felt soft and warm against his own. “You know, my name really isn’t Reynard,” he said looking deep into her eyes. Typhena leaned forward with an expectant expression, and the Spymaster noted traces of red against the white.
“Don’t avoid the question,” she said. “You barely bothered to hide yourself on the way here, so I’m guessing the Citadel bureaucrats have finally turned on you. I’m here for you—but I need a sign that I can trust you, that we can truly be together.”
“Really? I might have just wanted to see you.”
“We’re running out of time!” said the Vutai, her tone urgent.
“Oh no, my dear Typhena, I’m not running out of time—you are.”
Typhena’s beautiful face creased in confusion and she snatched her hand away. “What do you mean?” Her voice returned to the same hollow tone of their last meeting.
“Are you thirsty?” said the Spymaster refilling her cup. “You certainly seem so.”
Typhena didn’t reply, but her tired, angry face and defiant stance gave Harpalus all the answer he needed.
“You see, after our last meeting, I kept wondering why you were so tired,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I really do believe you are fed up with acting the whore—although I’m touched that you would show your true self to me that way. But then I remembered that I took your supply of Bloodwyne from the Caelbor Lady.”
The Vutai sat silent, looking down at the table.
“Are you having stomach cramps yet? I understand that Bloodwyne withdrawal is a horrible way to die but, of course, I’ll be sure to record your symptoms for posterity.”
Typhena shuddered and buried her face in her hands. “Do you know how hard it is to smuggle Bloodwyne onto this damn island? I need it, and you have the undiluted supply that was supposed to last months.”
“Correct. And before you ask, it’s locked up so securely, even an army couldn’t retrieve it.”
The silver haired woman’s breath came in short, jerky gasps. She grasped the Spymaster’s hands again. To Harpalus’s amazement, the tears streaking her perfect features looked genuine.
“I’ll die without it,” she whispered. “Please.”
“You should have asked me with your real face rather than try the act on me.” Harpalus didn’t hide his distain. “What was it? You need a sign to know you can trust me? You must really be losing control if you thought I wouldn’t see through that.”
“I could kill you where you stand.” Typhena bared her small, white teeth.
Harpalus shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “And then you’ll die soon after. Try again.”
“I’ll give you the name of your mysterious traitor, Prelate.”
“From anyone else, I would take that offer, but we both know you’d be lying.”
“What do you want?” said the Vutai, exhaustion plain in her voice.
Harpalus leaned forward and produced a small, leather flask from under his cloak. Typhena gasped and snatched at it, but he held it just out of her fumbling grasp.
“Just a few mouthfuls,” he said. “Enough to last you for a week or two.”
The silver haired woman yanked the flask away from the Spymaster, her body shuddering at the tiny sip she took.
“Oh, Goddess.” She breathed in relief, clenching her eyes shut as the Bloodwyne worked its way through her body. Once her breathing steadied, she focused her gaze on the Spymaster. “What do you really want?” Her voice lacked any pretense. “It would have been better for your precious Citadel if you had let me die.”
Harpalus grinned. “I want to beat you. And when I’ve unmasked the Prelate traitor and stopped the League’s rebellion, I want you to join me as my agent.”
Typhena’s mouth opened in confusion, but before she could frame a reply, the Spymaster reached out and touched her pale cheek. Drawing her in, he gave her lips a light kiss. Harpalus could taste the Bloodwyne. He held the kiss far longer than he had intended, the drug burning in his mouth.
Typhena broke away, her eyes bright, a crooked smile spreading across her lips. “Don’t think I’m going to make this easy on you. I’m still going to be the one who wins. And when you see how little the Citadel cares for your loyalty, you’ll leave here with me.”
“Then we’ll see how this plays out.” Harpalus raised his cup in toast. “Until next time?”
Typhena rose and turned toward the door, her figure once again a picture of effortless grace.
“What’s your real name?” she asked over her shoulder. “I’ll want to know what to call you when you come crawling back to me.”
Harpalus took a deep gulp of his wine. “Pye. What’s yours?”
“Tansy,” said the silver haired woman. She slipped out the door without another word.
Harpalus smiled and finished his wine in silence, thinking about the silver hair falling down the woman’s back, until a knock on the door interrupted him.
“Come,” he said, short on patience.
An agent entered, a heavyset, older man with the ragged and dirty look of a beggar, but with a bearing that belied a military background. “We’ve just received word. Rowan’s messenger is on the move. Would you like me to catch him for you, sir?”
“No, you’ll provide support.” The Spymaster headed for the stairs. “Watch, and you might learn how it is done.”
“He must be very important,” said Lady Mantis, fishing for a reaction. Julia offered her no further information.
The noblewoman placed her glass on a table. “A rumor has reached me that the traitor is very highly placed—possibly even belonging to the office of Prelates. The fact that you were desperate enough to beg for my help is all the confirmation I need. So, perhaps, I’ll just catch the defector myself and blackmail the turncoat into serving me instead of Rowan.”
The furious spin of the noblewoman’s mind-form focused into a shape Julia had come across often during her years as Spymistress—immediate, violent intent.
Sure enough, the olive-skinned woman reached into the long pleats of her gown and produced a long, silver knife. “Thank you, old woman. You’re of no further use to me.”
On cue, Wellerd and Wellyn sprang into action. The shorter brawler rounded on Gyges, while his tall companion pulled out a cudgel from his cloak and tried to circle around. Baroness Wulwyn held her blade high and ready, trying to back Julia into a corner.
Julia’s heart pounded, desperate to come up with a plan. She had no illusions about her ability to overmatch her younger and stronger opponent. Her control of the Aeris gave h
er a slight edge in anticipating the Baroness’s attacks, but the strain of maintaining her extended mind-form had already sapped her strength.
Just hold on. Help will come.
A hoarse cry behind her brought a grin to her face, the sound of Wellerd’s and Wellyn’s temples coming together in a satisfying crack.
“Damn you, Citadel worm.” The Baroness switched the grip on her knife and sliced open Julia’s arm.
The wound’s fiery pain still reached Julia’s exhausted mind. The Baroness squared up for the fatal blow but Gyges appeared. Looming from behind, he took hold of the noblewoman.
Baroness Wulwyn screamed in rage. “How dare you! When I’m done with you—”
“Silence!” Julia shifted the currents of the room to amplify her voice until the very room shook. Bathed in a silver light, the blood spurting from Julia’s arm slowed, the gaping wound closing.
The noblewoman’s eyes widened and then narrowed in suspicion. “A cleric.”
Julia looked at her prisoner, her old body glowing like a beacon and her mind humming from both the power of the Aeris and the victory she had plucked from the jaws of defeat.
Bending down and picking up the narrow-bladed knife, Julia held it against Lady Mantis’s throat. “Now we will see if you are of any use to me. Where does the traitor meet with Rowan? Remember. I am a truthseer, and the moment you lie…”
The Baroness snarled like an injured cat, her round frame wobbling in her unsuccessful struggle against Gyges’s grasp. Finally, she spoke. “There is a building just inside the walls of the Regal Estate. An abandoned inn. A passage has been built under the wall to the Chapel of Saint Anne on the exile’s side.”
Julia nodded, feeling the truth of it in Lady Mantis’s mind. “When will they meet next?”
“On the eve of Roldar’s Anniversary, just after the eighth hour. Now let me go—we both know I’m of more use to you alive.”
The former Spymistress weighed her options, enjoying the sensation of a dozen spider web strands of thought winding together to form a resolution. “You are too much of a threat at a sensitive time. And you know too much. I’m sorry.”