Bliss

by Daniel Lawley

  As the hours crept on he drank no more. Preferring to keep himself a clear head while performing his duties. He stood watching the city. Its people caught in the eternal cycle of their overly busy lives. They worked, they fought and reared their children. They raised their animals and prayed for a bountiful harvest. They thieved and stole, bought and sold and unbeknownst to them all there lurked the shadowed hand of piracy beneath it all. Judged as the unwashed, the unworthy, to be captured and hanged by the neck until dead. Choking and kicking on the rope of a gallows pole. He'd seen it of course, many a time. As part of his education he'd been taken to hangings. Not to teach him what happened to those who engaged in the life he led. But to show him what happened to those who found themselves caught doing so. He'd seen men and women dropped, he'd seen them suspended, he'd seen them kicking in the air choking and he'd seen necks snapped clean and life ended in an instant. It was a strange justice, this brutality. So cruel in the guise of righteousness. And the people lived their lives as if they were none the wiser. Cheering at executions and spitting in the faces of the condemned. People they had bought black market goods from at a pinch of the price just days before. Two very different sides to the same doubloon, yet each necessary to form the whole. That much was true.

  Anxiety set upon him now, gripping the pit of his stomach like a ripe fruit only waiting to be juiced. Before he'd been thrown overboard the false priest had assured them of his honesty, that the mercy they showed in his ending was enough, yet if he'd lied they would be lost and Jak would find himself at the wrong end of Orochi’s mercy. A man he'd never known to be lenient. Perhaps it had been a mistake to kill him so soon. There were things that could be done, things that made that curse look as if it were the life of luxury kings and princes desired. The kind of life nations went to war over. Yet men of honour dictate that honour be just that. Being a man of honour above all else the captain had ordered him dispatched quickly. Perhaps it had been all too soon for his liking. Yet the beast needed feeding, as it always did. He only hoped the truth had been told.

  It was a strange thing to creep through the illuminated burning of busy city streets. Innocence sometimes rested sometimes in the heart of the conspicuous. So he blended, as one of them. Hidden in plain sight a thorn among the roses. He traversed the roads, stopping along the way to make a few small purchases. Nothing of value nor necessity other than to help paint his blending to be that of a truer nature. His presence cast small mischief among them. Eventually coming on the place, quite by accident, although purposefully. A serendipity in his step leading him there by all counts. An accidental happenstance of the orchestrated kind. From the outside it appeared as any other building in the city, grey brickwork worn through time. The stories the walls could tell swelled around them, whispering in the light of the evening. History seeped through the place as if it were some great museum. Outside the main entrance were posted two guards, bored. Their work affording them entirely less excitement than they had expected in the boyish days of their signing up. Now out of shape and slightly past their prime bitterness escaped their face. A life of violence and adventure run dry to domestic guard posts. Lives fallen short of greatness, short of expectation.

  “Hello.” Jak approached them when the street had quietened enough that there remained only himself and the guards in plain view.

  “Piss off!” Replied a guard. The fatter and uglier of the two. The one who felt most let down by life, for bitter men rarely exude handsome features.

  “Now gentlemen,” he ventured, “there is no need to speak in such a manner. I merely wish to converse with men of honour such as yourselves.” His voice wore charm like a mummer wore a mask.

  “What, you thinking of joining up or something?” Asked the second. “Recruitment office is at the barracks, for all the good it will do you” he laughed.

  “No, good sirs,” he spoke, forlorn, “my maw would never allow it, brother was in for a bit. Kidnapped by pirate filth and killed for little more than his musket and uniform.” This piqued their interest, whether from boredom or suspicion he could not say, but he had them now.

  “Oh?” Asked the first. “That's a bad business, tell me about him, might‘ve known him.” He paused “If you want to that is”. The ugliness in his tone replaced with an unexpected tenderness.

  “Well,” replied Jak, fumbling in his pocket for his smokes and offering one to each of them before taking one himself. “Match gents?” He asked, gesturing to the cigarillo now hanging from his mouth. He pulled a box from his pocket and struck the flame ablaze. He held it first to the closer of the two, then slowly to the second, burning up the wood as it travelled at the end of his fingers. The man took the flame on the end of the cigarillo before the flame reached his fingers. He dropped the match to the floor, it burned out before it hit the cobblestones below. “That was my last one” he spoke sadly.

  “Ah that's bum luck,” spoke the first, “Here use mine to light from it” he offered taking a deep inhale, then a second, greedily puffing up the smoke from his cigarillo.

  “Thanks” Jak offered, clumsily dropping his own onto the floor with the match.

  “Hey boy, you stupid?” Started the first guard before stopping suddenly, unable to catch his breath and dropping to the ground.

  “No, are you?” He answered the incapacitated man. Laced smokes had been an expensive investment yet one well worth their weight in coin. He couldn't imagine himself, small and roguish as he was, effectively taking on two fully armed and armored guards. It had been a risk and yet in a city of only light what else was he to do but take his chances and pray to whatever inhabited the afterworld? Fate twisting action beyond repair. Threads woven, ill fitting, into the tapestry of his existence. These were men and men who had families, wives, children, mothers. Those who would mourn their passing, their slip behind the veil of mortality. The smallest of mercies, they would never have known. This wasn't the first time he'd killed. It wouldn't be the last. More corpses to stain his soul. What was one more when one was more than enough? Moving over them he worked swiftly, searching them, finally taking what he needed, the keys. Swiftly he dragged each behind the door and locked it shut behind him, he took a moment to frisk and pickpocket any valuables.

  The main chamber was a shambles. Odds and ends he'd never be able to identify strewn around as if they were so much nothing. A layer of dust covering some, indicating they had not seen motion in some spectacular amount of time. This would not do, he'd hoped it would be easily identifiable. Then he could make haste towards the small boat moored in port. It was not to be frowned upon, an orderly workshop one could easily steal from what one required. Now it would be a search. Moving gingerly across the hardstone floor he trod up the stairs, light of foot as could be. Empty or nay there was no use making unneeded noise. Suddenly from below, a creak of door hinge. To the shadows he availed himself. Patiently awaiting.

  ~Qesa, First City~

  ~Thirteenth of the smith, song of joy~

  A thief, a creep.

  To haunt in the night.

  The brightness and the dark.

  - Children‘s nonsense song

  The bodies betrayed the fact she was not the first here. Creeping in the darkness she almost fell atop them. Their peaceful corpses sleeping in the doorway as permanently peaceful as angels. The heavens in their eyes as the Three had escorted souls from mortal vessels. Her heart beat against her rib cage like a hammer on anvil. Adrenaline surged in the black of the artificer’s storefront. Around her piles of debris arose from the floor in small towers. Stalagmites of ancient knowledge, piled without care, yet intently. As if there were a method in the insanity. In her mind she told herself she was the predator, yet she knew she too was hunted by her prey. A symbiosis of need and mission. Of discovery and personal value.

  Drawing her short dagger she raised her arm. Intent to maim and murder burning in her eyes. Fear snapped at her heels like a rabid dog, yet oh so cool and collected she pad-footed through the maze of
what she found in the artificer’s workshop. Before her hung robes, dusty and decrepit. Books ancient and impressive looking perched upon tables and benches haphazardly, yet this was a store front, there would likely be nothing of real value, nothing of power among the array of goods, just parlor tricks and weaponry having seen better days. Nothing under the eyes of the Order, or the watchful gaze of the Three, that would hold significant value, nor risk significant harm. Silently she shifted along the wooden floor. Aware of every breath she took as she found herself listening, listening ever so quietly, aware outside the shutters the light of the suns burned bright. The artificer himself would be finished for the day. Likely unaware that within his shop, at this moment, two unwelcome, unwanted visitors crept.

  Taking her time she snuck silently along to the stairs. Her breath chill, it hung in the air like a frost. Climbing now she remained careful to not make a sound as she elevated herself upon the platforms. Climbing one foot before the other in the faux serenity she perpetuated. Panic! She saw a shadow dart above, ahead of her its form cascading like a tumbling tower. She raised her dagger before her face, the sharp edge outwards, ready to strike whomever came at her from out of the shadows. Stifling a gasp she ducked, blade out, an extension to herself. Striking nothing. Ahead of her a wooden shutter swung in the easterly wind, casting its shadow across the floor toward her. It swung again and again, creaking under the weight of its movement. Relief covered her, crossed with anticipation. The momentary sweat brought on by the threat of impending violence turning cold as it ran the length of her spine. The danger had passed and yet the overall menace remained. Somebody was in the artificer’s workshop with her. Hiding, watching, biding their time in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  She trod gingerly forward, ever aware of her surroundings. The fair hairs on her slender arms stood to attention. Guarded vigilant against the worst. Turning left she saw it. The stolen map. Everything brother Tenebris had betrayed the Order for now hers for the taking, all she needed was to reach forward and take it. A silent prayer of apology ran through her mind. The Three might look kindly on the greater good and on those serving its interest, but stealing back stolen property was still a form of thievery in itself. Moral code or no, this was her mission.

  Feeling the blade move through the air before she glimpsed it she ducked. Before she had a chance to reach for the hilt of her own a second blow was en-route causing her to bring her dagger up to meet it in self defence. Sparks burst forth from the force of steel on steel as blade pushed against blade. Forced into defence she somersaulted back, drawing her sword and sheathing the dagger. Her attacker moved more cautiously now, weary of the extended blade she now bore. His form remained a darkened silhouette in the weak, fragile light of the artificer’s upstairs workshop. The wind outside howled past, tearing the shutter open. Sunlight burst forth like flames through a library. The first thing Armatrine noticed was the state of the workshop. As much of a mess as the downstairs she noted many of the treasures stored here were of greater value, and more dangerous than those down at the storefront. Still not enough to warrant Order intervention but dangerous enough that if knocked in the heat of battle any one could burst or explode killing both of them in a multitude of ways.

  The second thing she noticed was her attacker. She would prefer to take him in alive, perhaps as part of the mystery surrounding the whereabouts of the map in its absence from order control. A means to an end and a worthy addition to the mission. Then she saw him, not his form, or a shadow holding a blade, but truly saw. His beauty beguiled her as he trod slowly across the boards in her direction. His cropped red hair covering just above his ears enthralled her. She'd not encountered many with the same colouring as her own. Swiftly he struck, slashing tidily at her neck. No novice then, she brought her sword to meet the curved edge of his. His emerald eyes burned with intensity, gritting her teeth she pushed back her blade against the force he exuded upon her. Quickly she ducked, bringing the blade with her as his own passed over her chest, missing by inches. Following through she swung toward his legs, incapacitation her aim. Jumping backwards he reset the point in her direction. An expression of pure anger and distaste upon his face made his feelings known yet within her arose something else, something unknown yet familiar. Want. He advanced, his steps perfectly in sync with the passion of the moment. Her own mirrored his perfectly, a dance of lust and deadly intent entwined together. Strike, riposte strike, riposte. Want. Advance and retreat, ground given and taken in both directions. Evenly matched opponents. His own slender form, catlike in the dim light of the artificer’s workshop, moved with grace against her own. Enthralled, all she could do to fight back was defend. Her own ambition rung out in her head like a bell. Unable to fight and win, incapable of allowing herself to lose, she refocused herself on the mission. Desposing of this wastrel was not a prerequisite of completion, neither was capturing him. The map was all that mattered. Shifting her footwork she parried a blow. Her blade coming up against his own with ferocity. Sparks flew as she dove across the room before he'd a chance to react. Rolling across the wooden floorboards she stood to perfect balance. Her training had led her directly to this moment. If this was her showing then she was showing herself to be beyond reproach, with pride she carried herself. Sword en garde, ready to beat back any volley of blows she may meet. But the want. The aching, needing burning inside herself. She pushed it painfully to the back of her mind. Denying its existence momentarily to refocus her mind. She reached the map. Grasping it in her hand. The old parchment felt leathery, worn. As though it may flake away to nothing at any moment. With care she rolled it against the table into a more agreeable shape. Taking his chance, while her attention remained divided, he jumped forth, with her unable to react in time he was able to reach for the map and tug against her. Unable to stop him her reaction, to tug back, proved disastrous. The sound of tearing parchment filled the air, quiet yet the most audible thing to her as between them they broke the very thing they had been sent to collect. Returning with half was not enough for her. Half the potential for disaster was still too much potential. For him the opposite, returning with half, while not ideal, was half more than he'd began with. A foot in the door to greater success. Seeing his chance he sprung. Sheathing the blade he'd handled oh so deftly he ran. First through the upstairs. Dust bouncing upward with each hammering of his booted feet upon the boards. Then through the shuttered window he dropped.

  Armatrine gave chase. Half a showing was no showing at all. At least where the high priestess was concerned. She would accept nothing less than perfection and so neither would Armatrine. She bundled what she held into her pouch. Keeping it such a way was unorthodox, she imagined the slights and jeers from some of the higher ranking members of the Order, asserting they had always been right about her. That she was not ready. Yet necessity and ideal, she found, were rarely if ever perfectly aligned. She would accept the consequences later, the map was already ruined.

  She landed softly upon a ledge between the first and second floors, the boy must have scouted it before when looking for potential escape routes. Bending her knees to soften the shock, she searched left and right catching a glimpse of him already a hundred yards ahead. Swiftly she turned, following. Mustering all her strength and forcing it to her legs she pushed forward, bile rising up in her threat as she did so. He moved forward along the row, no intention of stopping and never once looking behind. At the end of the row he turned deftly right following the wall at the end of the building. She turned the corner. Above her he climbed, footholds inset to the wall told her his path. She followed, from above he could escape to anywhere, especially if he held the correct tools required to make a safe descent to the ground below. She required haste. As she pushed herself over the ledge she spied him, his pace slowed somewhat by the effort of the climb. Still forward she pushed. The roof tiles here were slippery. The surface gliding under the hardened finish of her boot heel. She found with each step she took more care to right h
erself lest she slip. He pushed ahead.

  “In the name of the Order of the Pearl, I demand you stop!” She realised how stupid she sounded the moment the words passed forth her lips. He was not going to stop on her authority. In commanding him she'd only shown her naivety. She quickened her pace as best she could along the smooth tile. Above, one sun set and the other rose at the opposite side of the horizon bathing Neta in the golden glow of warmth and light. Armatrine would usually have rejoiced, thanking the Three for the blessing of a new day, yet up among the rooftops, with difficult footing, giving chase for an artefact of upmost import, against a pirate who had drawn his sword on her only moments before, she did not. Instead she found herself cursing. One false move, one piece of less than perfect footwork and she'd come tumbling to the ground below. To a broken body and her doom.