by Ari Marmell
Katherine lurched awkwardly to her feet, stumbling as her boots skidded across the snow-slick cobbles. Hunched, head down, she sprinted for the nearest cover: a thick bole, leafless for the season, standing in the median between two nearby side streets. Again she dived, tumbling unevenly behind the trunk as another pair of bolts plowed through the slush just behind her feet.
Panting painfully in the chill, she fetched up against the tree, back first, reached for her battleblade . . .
Only to discover, after a few futile tugs, that the heavy leather of her scabbard, chilled and dampened for the past few hours, had no intention of surrendering her sword.
Well, obviously. How else could this day possibly have turned out? Katherine couldn’t even find it in her to curse.
One of her attackers crept into view around the bole. Heavy coat and trousers made him look like any other citizen; only the sack, complete with ragged eyeholes, yanked over his head, and the miniature crossbow in his fist, marked him as something more.
“I don’t suppose you’d allow me to call for a brief pause, would you?” she asked.
Then, as the crossbow rose, the bolt somehow gleaming evilly despite the dearth of any direct light for it to reflect, Katherine hurled a handful of snow into the masked face.
It bought her only seconds, but that was all she needed. Pushing against the trunk with her left hand, she lunged, boot-knife extended. The crossbow wasn’t quite in line to fire when her foe’s throat parted beneath her blade. Blood spattered musically, steaming and freezing in rapid succession.
The swift crunch of footsteps provided brief warning. Katherine spun from the still twitching body, letting yet another bolt hiss past. She dropped into a ready stance, knife held underhand along the length of her arm . . .
To face no fewer than three more opponents, all hefting weapons rather more intimidating than a fighting knife. Even discounting the crossbows, which none of them seemed inclined to reload, they’d all produced narrow-bladed swords with close to four times the reach of Katherine’s dagger.
Before they could close the distance, the Storm Knight transferred the knife to her left hand, slashed open one of the leather ties, then yanked her sword, scabbard and all, from the belt. It might not cut but, sheathed or not, the battleblade was more than heavy enough to break bone. Hell, with Morrow’s blessing, maybe the enemy’s blades might shake the damn scabbard loose.
Right. Also, I would like to discover Arius, my lance, and my armor tucked away in my coat pockets.
The first of the enemy drew almost near enough to strike . . .
Something flashed from behind the wrought iron fence surrounding a nearby property. A wicked blade tumbled end over end, seemingly untouched by wind or precipitation, to sink into the ribs of the rearmost masked man.
He staggered, grunted, but remained upright. It wasn’t a deep wound, not through his heavy coat, painful and distracting at worst.
Or would have been, had the knife-thrower not followed it up.
Katherine scarcely even saw her—and it was a “her,” at least judging by the braid of tawny hair unfurled behind her like a banner of war. Even before her throwing knife had landed, she’d vaulted the iron fencing and sprinted across the muck, seemingly unslowed. Her target straightened, reaching to pull the blade from his side . . .
The newcomer spun in a vicious kick. Foot slammed into pommel, blade all but vanished into clothing and flesh, and the man was a corpse before his knees even buckled.
The second of the trio leapt at this new threat while the first charged Katherine. The knight retreated a step, then completely lost sight of her (apparent) ally in the rapid clash of blades. A brutal offensive weapon, the battleblade wasn’t at its best when parrying under optimal circumstances, let alone weighted down by a stubborn sheath. Another step back, and another still; her opponent would not let up, her fighting style one of swift strikes from every angle, constant twisting and sidling side to side. Katherine, a Storm Knight with years of battlefield experience, knew she had only seconds before her attacker’s lighter sword would invariably slip past her heavier, less agile blade.
From the smile on the assailant’s face, made visible by a subtle distending of the makeshift mask, Katherine could tell that he knew the inevitable end was near as well.
Good.
The slender sword arced in from low and to the left. No way the battleblade, though already in motion, could possibly deflect the strike.
The sleeve of Katherine’s coat opened, spilling fur and fibers, as she caught the attack on the hidden bracer. Her arm went briefly numb, and she knew she’d sport a painful bruise for days, but the attack did no real harm.
She wished she could have seen the look on her enemy’s face during the split second between the unanticipated parry and the full weight of the Storm Knight’s sheathed weapon cracking him across the side of the head.
The figure dropped, limp as a plague-ridden earthworm. The mask slid in the fall, just enough to reveal that the coat-swaddled attacker was actually a woman, not a man as Katherine had assumed. She saw a narrow-featured axe blade of a face, the expression hard and calculating even in unconsciousness, and hair as dark as the inside of a rifle breach. Blood smeared her left cheek, and had already begun to soak through the burlap.
Katherine ran to aid the stranger who’d come to her assistance, and found it unnecessary. The woman stood casually over the body of the final ambusher, a snub-nosed holdout pistol disappearing back up her left sleeve.
Tired, aching, confused, and frustrated, the first words out of Katherine’s mouth were, “So why didn’t I hear a shot?”
“Spring-fired projectiles in a modified pistol,” the other woman said. “No penetrating power past a few yards, but you get a dull clunk instead of a bang. Since we’re trading questions, any particular reason you let yours go?”
The knight spun, jaw opening in protest—where it stayed, hanging. A bloody imprint in the heavily churned snow was the only trace of her opponent.
“That blow should have scrambled anyone’s brains,” she whispered in disbelief. “Hell, I wasn’t sure she’d survive it!”
“Brilliant.” The strange woman approached, pausing to retrieve her throwing knife. “Just what we needed.”
Katherine kept shaking her head. She hadn’t fought more than three or four people in her life with the training to roll with a strike like that. She flinched at the sudden pressure on her arm, but it was just her companion nudging her to start walking toward one of several dark side streets.
“At least,” the woman said, “we’ve thinned them out a bit, and I don’t believe our escapee got a good look at me. And, hey, we aren’t stuck with disposing of the bodies. They’ll take care of it for us; don’t want anyone knowing they’re here any more than we do.”
“They?” Katherine was starting to realize that she’d lost whatever iota of control she might once have held over the situation.
“Khadoran intelligence. Section Three.”
After a brief choke, “You’re not joking, are you?”
“Oh, of course. I’m entirely having you on. There’s no Section Three, no war, and the people who just seemed to be trying to kill you were actually hired mimes. I appreciate you finishing them off; saves me having to pay them.”
“No need to be snotty about it.”
“It’s not about need so much, really, as inclination.”
Katherine took a deep breath. “How about we start over? I’m Lieutenant Katherine Laddermore, Storm Knights. And you . . . I’ve seen you around the Surros manor, haven’t I?”
“Yes. Call me Garland, at least in the field.”
“Garland? And what’s that when it’s at home?”
The woman sized Katherine up with a series of sidelong glances. “Dignity,” she said, “when in the manor or around civilians. Lieutenant, technically, but let’s avoid that for now, yeah? And I don’t give both names to just anyone, so keep them straight, would you? I’d really r
ather you not slip up and call me by the wrong name in front of the wrong people.”
“I’m not an idiot—” Katherine made an exaggerated point of peering around for observers. “—Garland,” she finished.
“I know that. But you’re also not trained for this work. Why in Morrow’s name did CRS send you?”
“Commander Adept Nemo sent me. I was the closest person he felt sure he could trust. You can relax; I’m only a temporary fix. There’s a CRS team en route as we speak.”
“Ah. Better.”
Long moments, then, of gusting breezes; crunching steps; the occasional pop and sizzle of a street lamp, or the ghosts of distant conversations. They exchanged no word between them, save the occasional grunt of a direction in which to turn.
Until . . .
“Why did you wait so long?”
Garland blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Before contacting me,” Katherine clarified. “We spent two days in the same house, and I’m pretty sure we could have found a few moments for a private chat.”
“Oh, that. I needed to draw out the Khadorans.”
The knight halted in her tracks; the spy traveled a few more steps before realizing she did so alone. “What?” she asked Katherine.
“I was bait?”
“Well, yes. I knew Section Three had operatives in Leryn, but I couldn’t come up with any way to draw them out without exposing myself. But once you appeared, I figured they’d be following you, hoping you’d lead them to me.”
“I could have been killed.”
Garland’s shrug was all the more disturbing for its blatant nonchalance. “As you could any other day on the job, I should think.” She started on her way, halted when Katherine gripped her arm.
“And the man in the gray cloak, who approached me? I was told you were working alone.”
“First, kindly let go. And second, yes, I was. He was some fellow I hired off the street for a few silver keeps. I believe he thought he was brokering some criminal transaction between us.”
For several breaths, Katherine literally couldn’t force her mouth to form intelligible words.
“Wouldn’t have done me any good to draw out Section Three and then let them shoot me in the back, would it?” Garland asked. “If it makes you feel at all better, he had no wife or children depending on him.”
“You . . . He . . . Leaving aside everything else, you gave a foreign civilian a CRS countersign! Suppose the Khadorans hadn’t killed him?”
Garland’s lack not only of response, but of expression, was answer enough.
“You really would have, wouldn’t you?” the knight whispered.
“I would. I wouldn’t have been happy about it, but I’d have done it.”
“That’s . . . That’s . . .”
“The kind of thing that’s necessary, sometimes.” Garland actually smiled, a look of genuine sympathy—and for that moment alone, the knight thought she saw a glimmer of remorse in the woman’s face as well, though it had come and gone to swiftly for her to be certain. “You really weren’t prepared for this particular side of warfare, were you, Lieutenant?”
Katherine clenched her teeth and drew herself rigid. “Maybe you’d better tell me exactly what we’re into, Garland. I was only given a very general briefing.”
The other woman nodded, and resumed her walk back to Surros Manor, stopping every now and again to make absolutely certain they weren’t followed.
Katherine strode beside her the entire way; sat before her in a private room, once they’d returned, and listened to her speak about formulae and betrayals and one bastard by the name of Idran di Meryse.
But through it all, she couldn’t quite shake a shivering chill—a chill with nothing at all to do with the miserable winter outside.
“Hasn’t his Lordship already seen the show five times?”
“This is a special performance.” Dignity wandered the cramped dimensions of the knight’s chamber, occasionally drumming against the wall in what might have simply been a sporadic fidget—or, for all Katherine knew, a search for hidden passages. “Invitation only. Very exclusive.”
“By which you mean expensive.”
“If they’re stuck in Leryn anyway, they might as well make a profit, right?”
Katherine grunted something noncommittal.
“Besides,” Dignity continued, “they’re not performing An Orgoth tonight. I understand they’ve promised a showing of The Storm King.”
“Just how many of Muir’s plays do they know, anyway?”
“Rough guess? All of them.”
“All right, all right.” Katherine stood from her mattress with a groan and flicked a lock of hair away from her eyes. “When?”
“I believe the baron plans to leave by seven. I assume you can be ready?”
“We’ll manage. Sadler will join us, I think. Pruscott needs a break.”
“Fine. Oh, he wants you both in full armor and regalia.”
“What?” She’d squeaked. Katherine hated how she sounded when she squeaked. And it’s not as though she were unaccustomed to standing around for hours on end, clad in steel. Still . . . “For a bloody play? What, has he irritated Claeddon’s troupe that much?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he had, but no, I think he just wants to look impressive. You, my good lieutenant, are a fashion accessory.”
“Lovely. Just what I trained for.” The knight dipped a hand in the brass basin atop the dresser and splashed a bit of clean—and dear Morrow, cold!—water on her face. “And you?”
“I’m still in the baron’s disfavor. I’m to remain here and continue my chores while the bulk of the staff is at the theatre. Not entirely certain that really qualifies as punishment, but . . .”
“And what will you actually be doing? More Red-hunting?” It was a jibe, albeit a mild one. She knew that Dignity’s fortunes in locating the enemy, after her one success using Laddermore as the lure, had again dropped to zero.
“In a manner of speaking.”
Katherine’s thin smile faded as the other woman’s grew. “I see. Bait again, am I?”
“Until Section Three identify me as their enemy, their best bet is still keeping eyes on you and the baron. With a bit of luck, I’ll spot them first.”
“And how will you be getting in, if Halcourt expects you to remain here?”
Wordlessly, Dignity handed over an engraved invitation: golden lettering on thick, ivory paper.
“Lady Cyndra Gaynor-Rozetta?” Katherine felt the blood drain from her face. “You didn’t . . . !”
“Oh, calm yourself, Laddermore! Of course not! The real Lady Gaynor-Rozetta will awaken tomorrow with a headache and fuzzy memories of a vintage that really shouldn’t have put her out as hard as it did. No harm done, unless you count missing The Storm King. Honestly, what do you take me for?”
“I don’t believe you want me to answer that,” Katherine grumbled, returning the invitation.
“Perhaps not. I’ll send someone up to assist you with your armor. Oh . . .” She paused, hand on the doorknob. “Do remember not to actually look for me tonight. Might seem just a tad suspicious, yeah?”
She was gone before Katherine could furnish a suitable response.
***
An elegant evening gown in pearls and silvers, topped with a stole of fox fur; braiding and piling so ornate her hair was less “style” than “knotwork”; enough makeup that an observer could have spotted her in the dark; all were tools in the completion of Dignity’s transformation into a lady of Leryn’s high society.
She almost needn’t have bothered. The flamboyant throng awaiting entry to the Artys III Memorial Theatre included enough servants, outfitted a tad less formally than their masters, that she could have passed with far less effort. Adding insult to injury, the brightly clad and wigged doormen scarcely glanced her way at all, being far more concerned with ensuring that her invitation was genuine.
Carried by an inexorable wave of perfumed humanity (and the
occasional dwarf), Dignity climbed a shallow ramp, carpeted in majestic crimson, into a lobby almost large enough to have its own weather system. Sweeping arches and octagonal pillars supported a vast ceiling garnished in bright but fading frescoes. Crystal and brass chandeliers, heavy enough to double as siege weaponry, dangled parallel to an array of circling balconies. Stairs swept around two sides of the room, providing access to those balconies—and to the theatre itself, beyond.
So packed was it with aristocrats, their entourages, and servers carrying trays of wines and finger foods, that even the manmade cavern felt positively claustrophobic.
As no amount of searching or eavesdropping was possible in these conditions, Dignity didn’t bother to mingle, but instead pushed through to the theatre proper.
The winding rows of chairs were largely empty, thus far, but enough other patrons had taken their seats early that she didn’t stand out too terribly. Dignity chose a spot in the general audience, far enough back that she should remain well shadowed once the house lamps were extinguished and the stage lights kindled. From here, she could observe not only the bulk of the audience, but many of the private boxes above, with only a moderate amount of neck-craning. That would be Baron Surros’s box there, on the left, so . . .
Having oriented herself, Dignity settled in to wait, watching the velvet stage curtain rustle in the great chamber’s occasional drafts. Odds were that she wouldn’t see anything from here, that she’d have to excuse herself for a more careful search of the grounds, but better to hold off until everyone was well and truly distracted by the performance.
The gallery slowly filled, not unlike a gigantic basin—or chamber pot, the less charitable voices of her soul couldn’t help but add—until the crowd and the noise were just as oppressive as they’d been in the lobby. They were no longer a collection of individuals; they were an audience, a unified and thriving organism.
Another upward glance revealed movement in Surros’s box. She couldn’t spot Baron Halcourt personally, but the occasional glint of steel was enough to tell her that Katherine, at least, was where she was supposed to be.
