Stood atop the flat roof of the tower the wind caressed her cheeks, every breath a whisper upon her pale skin. Despite the strength of its blustering her gear kept her protected for the most part, the only chills upon the exposed flesh of her face. She wore knee high leather boots engraved with ornate patterns of the constellations in the night sky, tan trousers of the same material yet a plainer cut. Her cream cloak became lifted by the wind yet the straps of the leather satchel about her shoulders kept it in place with ease. At her hip a broadsword of the finest alchemical steel, unbreakable and unwavering. She held the pommel, engraved with the eye of the pearl. Comforting and biting in equal measure.
“Ok master, I'm here, what next?” She spoke aloud to nobody particular.
You know what comes next. His voice became present in her mind. As we spoke of at the temple, sharpen your instincts and rely on your senses Armatrine, allow them to guide you.
“I've never worked with this many before!” She explained her unease.
Relax, my apprentice. The high priestess herself recommended you for this. She would not do so unless she thought you were ready. Have faith in yourself and those around you.
“Or I do myself and those around me a disservice, I know.” She interrupted.
Exactly. Now focus your mind and dowse out the snake among the thickets. He reassured.
At his command Armatrine closed her eyes, allowing her consciousness to fall into the well of divine light she had been granted access to. Almost instantly she become connected with them all. Tenuously at the fore. Slowly her connection grew stronger as she spied upon those below the guard tower. Stood atop them all, their consciousness, their lives and their world. She saw what they saw, lived as they lived and gained the knowledge, belief and fear of all their minds. Living momentarily in the minds of her targets as a flea on a mammal. Even if only for a short while, this was truly a gift of the three. There were moments it had the potential to turn curse, if she were to tap into the criminally insane, or an addict, yet those moments aside this was when she was most free.
Below, thousands bustled in the busy market square. They reminded her of a herd of grazing cattle, mindlessly consuming and looking after themselves.
Swish, a haze and another perspective.
A store owner, angry. The red clad man had cheated him from profits and he’d get his, he'd see to it.
Swish.
A sour, jilted wife, jealous. Stood outside a noisy brothel, murderous intent welling inside her.
Swish.
A little girl running between the busy stalls and stomping feet of distracted strangers.
Swish.
A young woman in the throes of euphoria as the final dose took its hold on her.
Swish.
Finally something useful. The barman of a tavern an hour or so from the base of the tower on foot. The Ship’s Delight. Overworked and under-appreciated except for the fickle affections of local drunkards and wastrels. The hustle of the city, the life force of all he owned. The kind of man who would see attentively to the tastes of his clientele, no matter how unsavoury. This was not what she found to be of interest, a simple image burned in her mind, burned into the periphery of his vision. A figure, himself cloaked in cream and shadow, waiting patiently as he sipped on strong ale, calm, collected and most importantly, her mark.
Shedding herself of the spell, its effect a momentary dizziness before she came fully to herself, she sat upon the flat roof of the tower. Its height glorious in the dual sunrise and sunset of Neta’s dying twin suns. A golden glow showered over her body as she warmed herself.
Well?
“He's here in Qesa, waiting for his contact, we have a chance to catch both in the act of high heresy.”
Good, religious treason. While not against prince or state it must not remain unpunished, lest it run rampant and the three become abused and forgotten. The voice in her head paused momentarily as if catching his breath. Attend me young apprentice, we shall go together, you have done well. The disembodied words spoke with upward inflection, indicating his pleasure in her success.
“Yes master.”
As Armatrine stood, she sighed and stretched, allowing the last of the golden glow of dual suns to rinse over her, bathing her in their heat and light, recovering her senses. Not to imply, of course, that using the gift of the three would strip her of her senses, simply put, she found the touch of the rays upon her skin sensual. Warming her muscles and bones, another kindness of the three. Making her way to the rope ladder she threw it from the edge and began to descend upon the city, the populace below none the wiser that she had been among them, inside them. Not enough to influence, simply enough to know, for the slightest of moments their desires, their agonies and their innermost thoughts. In the temple as a girl she had been taught of what those might entail, and listened attentively at how to overcome the blushing warm feeling they brought about her. Reaching the bottom she placed one sure foot ahead of another. The stone paved streets noisy against the soles of her boots with each step she took.
“Master Arlandus” she spoke, getting the attention of the man ahead, his back turned as he stood in conversation with a beggar, imbuing blessings of the three upon her. He turned, his rotund belly protruding ahead of him as he did so.
“Ah my young apprentice,” he smiled with all the pride of the father he knew he wasn’t. “Well done!” Armatrine accepted his praise passively. It was not his style to cascade critique down upon her in a public space, the teaching moments would come later. “So you found our mark?”
“That I did sir.” She answered. “A few rays short of here.”
“Good, shall we make our way to him?” He asked rhetorically. Nodding she turned and waited as he conferred the last of his blessings upon the poor in the city. It would always be an unspoken rule, she sighed, that where there was currency there was trade. Where there was trade, there were those with more and those with less. Where there was currency there were the rich and there were the poor. Well-travelled, she knew poverty well. Not intimately, but well. The specter of its desperate face etched into her mind like a carving upon a copper plate. The way they clung to Arlandus, the hope his blessing would bring a change in luck, a change in circumstance. Anything. They did so less to her, it had become more so her experience that while she was in his presence the excitement grew within them at the sight of the dirty cream colour of her robes, only for them to seek out the master. Her own blessing cast aside. In a smaller crowd she would have broken bread, or reached into Her own thin coin purse to pay the cost of a meal for them. Yet a crowd this large, she would be mobbed and hope would turn to anger when the coin ran dry. For while the Order were of means, those means she understood not to be inexhaustible and so helping wisely was as important as helping at all. Finally he joined her as she pushed her way through the peasant crowd. Their hands outstretched in eager expectation yet receiving nothing.
“So where are we headed?” He asked, largely ignoring those who had consumed so much of his attention mere moments before.
“A tavern, the Ship’s Delight. Do you know it?” She asked as she walked by his side, her smaller steps a ratio of three to one of his giant strides.
“Not anymore, but a younger Arlandus knew of it. A disreputable dive back then and one he would never have been caught in” he answered honestly.
“So you were never caught?” She asked flippantly.
“Exactly.” He smiled. Arlandus had always been a fair master to her within the confines of the Order, and always as good of a human as she could ever hope to meet. Having never met her own parents he was the closest thing to a father she had if truth be told. Eager to teach and hard to please he'd brought forth the best in her over the eleven years she spent in his care, both in regard to her abilities and her personality. Now she stood equal to him in height and almost in morality. They both knew she’d much to learn yet was making great progress. The temple elders had their eyes upon her. Expectant of greatness and ea
ger in receiving word of her progress. They had marked her early in her days, as one of great potential.
As the pair passed from Qesa’s busy trade district to the shipping district she noted the stark contrast between the two, the trade was a hodgepodge of tents, stalls and ramshackle buildings in varying states of repair. The very best were built of mason stone and mortar, the worst nothing more than a ragged scrap of something best described as unsavoury set upon the top of a wooden frame. Shops to cater to every need and all types of people. The shipping district, by contrast, stood more ornate. Hewn from stone and wrought iron. A heavy tribute to the labours of men. All types who made their life in the capital city. In the distance she spied the pointed spire of the crystal column. The noble district. Where the rich came to live and the poor were unwelcome. No alms given, no compassion shown. Riches rubbed unkindly into the face of poverty. It was a wonder the population didn't riot. She’d never seen it herself, for the Order were not allowed into the district themselves, yet it was rumoured that to enter the noble district one must pass over a bridge of shimmering, glittering crystal. A symbol of ones status passing as one of little value to one who is worthy. They thought made her shudder. “What do you know of this place master?” She asked, turning her attention back upon their mission. “I only stayed in the bartender’s mind for a matter of moments before I found the mark, I had no time to get a real feeling for the city” she confessed.
“Well...” he began, pouring out a history of the inn,“it began life as a small tavern named the Ship’s Delight about four decades ago, back then it was a family affair, run by a husband and wife, by all accounts a lovely and loving couple in equal measure, from there they built their small tavern’s reputation as a tiny home away from home. A place one could rest their feet by the fire and listen to the tales of travelling bards, or the tender sounds of a lutist in full flow. It's even rumoured that among those days, there was once a man with a half harp and a voice that could only be blessed by the three itself. Yet the couple, as loving as they were, fell upon hard times. The husband grew sick with a fever and passed in the winter five years after the place first opened its doors. The wife then moved her brother in. A disreputable brigand and a rogue. The place changed they say, the nice quiet family diner replaced by a house of ill repute”. He blushed at the thought, “Downstairs they say, an illegal cards parlor, upstairs a place where a man could fulfil his needs for a few coppers, whatever they may have been. Of course, this could not last long and it was only a few months before he lost it in a card game to a man twice as villainous as he. He tried with desperation to hold onto her, yet it were no good. He found himself bleeding out in an alleyway not fifteen feet from the door and she became the Wench’s Garter. Well, if things had been bad before, now they became a whole lot worse, the quality of service fell drastically,” he smiled at his quip.
Unamused Armatrine gave him a pointed glance. “You forget master, I am a lady.” She chided.
“Oh I forget it not” he replied “I'm just trying to delay it.” He paused. “Anyway, shortly after that the whole place went up in flame and smoke and goodbye and good riddance said most, of course, she'd had an enormous insurance policy taken out on her a few weeks prior. Then she stood, derelict for decades, a shell of her former glory, a charred husk. Burned timber painting ash into the rain and onto the cobbled streets. Until along came her current owner who bought the land and the deeds outright. Said he was a sailor who had fond memories of the place from childhood. Although what a child would be doing anywhere near the Wench’s Garter I haven’t the slightest inkling of a clue. Anyway a young Master Arlandus would often sneak there in boyhood for a cheap beer and a meal”.
“Master, the three frown upon debauchery.”
“Aye that they do, but they don't deny mankind the home comfort of a warm pie and a frothy ale.”
She had no riposte. Razor wit denied by his stubbornness. They walked in silence passing stone forges and iron warehouses. Skyships and commerce. The floating islands of Neta, goods imported and exported between all. It was no wonder piracy plagued the economy. She wondered if deep down the people in charge wanted to find a solution, or if they were simply in cahoots with their sworn enemy and the only people who really suffered were the peasantry. The thoughts of far reaching treachery turned her mind to the treachery closer to home.
“Master?” She began, “Why do you suppose brother Tenebris did as he did?”
“Now that is something you will have to ask him when we arrive.” He took a deep intake of breath. “Yet one would surmise that he grew tired with the order or lost his faith in the three in some way. It's like as such he took the map in the hope of selling it on and making a tidy purse to live out his days on.”
She thought for a moment, pensive. “Would he not expect us though?”
“Desperation can lead a man down some strange roads and everybody believes that they are the exception to the rule, I suppose he believes he can slink away to be unheard of again”.
“But the three?” She asked, incredulous.
“Aye the three. But how do we know they are not in fact behind this and brother Tenebris knows something we don't?” He proposed.
“Do we?” She asked.
“We know nothing, this is a simple reconnaissance. You'd do well to hold your mind open, what you find may surprise you Army” She hated that. His pet name he used for her when she behaved lower than his expectations.
“Yes master,” she assured him.
“Don't look so downcast, we’re here.” He gestured toward a tiny building, almost a lean to between opposite sides of a small blacksmiths and a brewery.
“Perfectly placed,” she noted.
“Quite.” He replied as he pushed open the red painted wooden door into the dusty tavern. Stepping past she allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness to find several sets of eyes staring back at her.
“Don't get many of your kind here!” Welcomed the barman. His voice was broad and gruff yet homely “Take a seat and we’ll have you looked after”.
“We’re here to meet an old friend,” greeted Arlandus pushing past her while addressing the balding bartender. He turned toward their mark. “It's been a while, how are ya?” Not a tone of menace in his voice.
~Qesa, First City~
~First of the Smith, Song of Joy~
In the darkest of places
The hidden armada
The scroll taker, vagrant
The thief, the vagabond
- Seer Varush, Ancient Of Neta
As they made their presence in the tavern known Armatrine noted that the man’s expression turned first from one of relaxation to one of confusion. They approached now across the tavern floor, traversing their way through the maze of tables and chairs strewn between themselves and brother Tenebris. The hunter and the hunted. The predator, the prey. All in one enclosed space in the port of Qesa. They walked with urgency, they walked with purpose. Brusque and brutish. As he noted them the ragged man remained seated and made an effort to quickly finish the flagon of mead on the rickety wooden table before him. Drips spilling onto his long untidy beard from the corners of his greedy mouth as his hands shook with the panic of a man not yet ready for what was about to come.
Arlandus reached him first, Armatrine in tow. As quick as lightning he rose to meet them. Quicker still she unsheathed a steel dagger strapped to her leg. Hidden from plain view yet present. An unspoken promise of blood between the three of them.
“Don't try it.” She warned. An unexpected anger in her tone. The actions of this traitor had affected her perhaps more than she realised. Justified, she allowed momentary silence to reign. No more words needed between them.
“Ah my friends,” he greeted. His arms outstretched toward them, his voice as soft as velvet. “It is so wonderful to see you after so long, alas I would love to spend some time reminiscing of times long gone by, perhaps raising a tankard to those shared acquaintances now lost and departed, remembering
the good, commiserating the bad and talking of the old and of the new, yet I must be taking my leave.” He moved to circumvent Arlandus, who pushed him backward into the seat from which he'd arisen moments before.
“Be seated Mitrick!” Commanded Arlandus as Armatrine pulled them up a chair each opposite brother Tenebris. As she sat she made it apparent the dagger was still trained intently upon him. He gulped deeply, an expression of momentary regret upon his face as the reality of the situation made itself clear upon him. An unusually long moment of silence passed between them. Betrayer and betrayed. The gravity of the moment welling within each of them.
“Well, you have me here,” began the mark, “what is so desperate and urgent that you would pull me from my retirement to the stinking mire of order business?”
“You can leave the act behind Mitty” chided Arlandus, “we three all know why we are here.” Around them dockside drinkers returned to their quiet conversations. The distraction seemingly unexciting enough to warrant no more of their attention. “How? Why?” He spoke two words yet within them lay a thousand questions.
“The Three!” Broke in Armatrine, devout in her faith and incredulous in her disgust of the man before them.
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