"Sometimes it pays to befriend the Archives."
The thought of Father Schroder hurt. She had not heard from Forvant since she'd sent him home to rescue the man. It was a futile act and she knew it, but it was one she had made nonetheless. Dorian moved to place a hand on her shoulder. His palm was warm through her cape and she bit her lip to keep from falling into him.
"What did it cost you?" He asked quietly.
"Nothing," Elsie sighed and looked up at him. "Your contracts were removed out of friendship, Dorian. The Archive asked nothing in return."
"Then why are you mourning him?"
She glanced at where his hand rested on her shoulder and quelled a spurt of irritation. Her Magic was acting out against her, whispering things to him that he would otherwise not be able to know. Shrugging him off she stepped away and her back met with the door.
"Reonne found the Bedim Sanctuary. She tried to learn who my allies were by having him contact me." Elsie lifted her chin and met his gaze. "You are free now, Dorian. No one will hunt you anymore. Go and live your life."
***
She opened the door at the same moment that his father had reached it. They gave each other equal looks of startlement before she dipped into a smooth curtsy and fled the room. Dorian watched her go, aware of the fact that his father was glancing between her retreating back and his face and knowing that the old man would catch on to things. His father always caught things like that. Still, he did not look away until she had exited the corridor and left his view.
His hand still tingled from where he had touched her. With a frown he glanced at it, flexing his fist as he did so. She believed the Archive was dead, rightly so, if the Vicaress and the Dellidus had been through the Sanctuary. Not even the Bedim stood much of a chance against a Dellidus.
"Would that be your Skirt?" Rorant asked as he stepped further into the room.
"She's not a Skirt," Dorian said absently and moved back to the table.
"So you say," Rorant sat on the bench, swishing his red cape over his knee.
"Come to congratulate me, did you?" He tucked in his shirt and reached for his jacket.
"Indeed, Son. And to interrogate you."
"Such a wonderful father-son tradition."
"Yes, well, you can't expect me not to. Not when you've managed to scare the Talent out of many of the nobles."
"Why would they be frightened?" He pulled the jacket on, his fingers finding the buttons without looking.
Rorant was looking his age today. Pale eyes followed his every movement with the utmost of scrutiny, creased around the edges from years of laughter and care. His mouth pursed into a thin line, and Dorian knew the man was uncertain of something. He was also fairly certain he knew what this was about. That last moment in the arena when he'd dashed at Clenci there had been a surge of magic in him, more than he could ever remember feeling.
"You know damned well why they're frightened Saldorian Feverrette. Do not attempt to bypass it." Rorant eyed him with serious censure. "Now I'm not entirely certain what is going on here, and from what I can interpret from you it has something to do with this Skirt of yours."
"She is not a Skirt."
"Well you haven't given me a name to go on," his father said with a tinge of exasperation.
"You can call her Nessa."
"Very well, this Nessa is the pinnacle of the situation and she is most obviously not what she appears to be given the state of your Talent." Rorant struck his cane against the ground twice. "With that in mind, I am not fool enough to insert myself where I have not been invited. Just know that I am here and I am watching. The moment you have need of me I will be there."
"You always have been, Father."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The night before the final rounds of Winter Tournament found Elsie making her dutiful appearance at the grand dinner in Fortress Lorant. While she would have preferred not to go, she also knew that she needed to be seen there for at least a little while. If the arms deal went badly then there would be witnesses testifying to her participation in the dinner. Lady Leona smiled at her from across the table, and Elsie noticed that her cheeks were tinged a bit from too much wine. Reciprocating the smile Elsie took the moment to glance up at the clock stationed directly behind the raised dais.
It was a majestic clock of cream and gold with large numbers done in an extravagant cursive. The mechanics of the device were slightly mind-boggling to her. As aloof and snobbish as the Witch-Born could be, they still managed to take advantage of the finer points of the Untalented. Mechanics and engineering were not the high-points of noble study and even if they were, Elsie doubted many nobles could understand. Theirs was a world full of unexplainable things, while the Untalented had a beautiful "cause and effect" way of living.
Winslow had stolen Dorian from their table early in the evening. The two were laughing, stuck in a gaggle of admirers who had been following the tournament with extreme interest. This was just as well since Elsie knew she would not have been able to depart for the meeting without Dorian noticing. So long as Winslow kept the man on the other side of the room she would have a better chance at her escape. With a long sigh, Elsie checked where Gremor was stationed near the west wall of the grand banquet hall. She'd noticed that the servant was located directly where he could keep an eye on both her and Dorian.
The chime of glass pierced through the racket of the crowd, calling everyone's attention to the front of the room. Lord Ivan Lorant stood there, as regal as Magic himself, a dainty crystal glass aloft in one hand. For a moment she had to suppress her natural irritation at seeing the man again. As impeccably dressed as he might have been, he was still the loathsome, ambitious man she'd met at seventeen years old. His cravat was fluffed in a grandiose way, ruffles of white billowing around his throat and his jacket was an appealing burnished-red color that directly set off the mass of dark hair atop his head. The smile he gave the crowd was borderline snobbish but Elsie imagined she was the only one to notice that.
"We are coming to the final days of Winter Tournament," Lord Lorant stated and gestured to the heraldry on display behind him. "It's been an exciting year, to say the least. The rounds have been full of surprises and close-calls, but now it is time to announce our finalists." He rose his glass toward the Delgora table first, "For the Hemic Circuit, we have Hemic Knight Bryva Gelgova against Sir Callen Beroe of Broska."
The crowd applauded as both stood up to take a bow. Elsie smiled and winked at her sister, who changed colors at a rapid rate. After congratulations were given, she and Callen both took their seats again. Attention turned back to Lord Lorant, who had managed to gather Dorian, Winslow, Alois, and Gaetan onto the dais for the next announcement.
The two teams stood apart, Alois and Gaetan both unwilling to look Dorian's direction.
"And for the Noble Tournament we will watch Alois Orzebet and Gaetan Feverrette battle Winslow Agoston and Saldorian Feverrette," Lorant put so much enthusiasm into the announcement that Elsie saw Dorian's eye twitch just a tick.
Elsie took the moment to excuse herself from the table. Gremor appeared focused on the stage and Dorian would be occupied for the formal announcement. The crowd continued to give their approval on the soon-to-be match as she wove her way to the nearest exit. She knew Bryva wouldn't have near as much trouble escaping the room so she didn't bother waiting for her. The dancing would begin just after the announcements were finished, and Elsie had no illusions that Dorian would be unoccupied during that time. The man had grown a following of women as his popularity at Tournament rose.
This bothered her just a little, but she didn't have time to dwell on why.
After a few moments of discreet walking Elsie made her way to the storeroom that was serving as their first rendezvous point. Bryva had planted two bags with their equipment in the room two days ago, hidden well behind four large crates of Hemic armor. On the other side of the room, stashed away in the rafters, was her sword. Due to Bryva's station as a Hemi
c Knight she was allowed to carry one so there was no reason for her to hide her own.
Elsie ran through the plan in her mind as she donned her Bedim garb. Bryva would conduct the arms deal with the prices they had both set out. Elsie would remain in the shadows as cover because they both knew the Seller was going to betray them. Normally, arms deals could be conducted via messages, protecting the buyer and the seller's identities. That meant that the man was either playing them into the authorities or he simply wanted blackmail material.
She was already dressed and strapping on her sword by the time Bryva entered the storeroom. They gave each other a wordless glance, and Elsie moved to watch the entrance as Bryva readied herself.
"It's not too late to call it off," Bryva's ivy-green gown made a soft rustle as it rumpled to the floor. The seamstress in Elsie lamented the havoc being wrought on the sateen fabric, but managed to focus when her sister pulled on a gambeson instead.
"If we call it off then we have no weapons for the army and we're sitting ducks on Ascension Day."
"But we know it's some kind of trap."
"The weapons will still be there, even if the authorities try to arrest us we'll at least know where we can steal them later." Elsie watched a guard cross to the gatehouse and paused to look at her, "If it is the authorities, do you recall what to do?"
"Aye," Bryva strapped her sword into place and came to her side. "Three steps to the left and you'll take care of it. Are you certain you can perform a transportation spell? I've never seen you do one before."
"That's because I haven't done one before." Elsie grinned up at her, "Successfully anyway. I always end up a few meager feet away. But those few feet could be the blessing we need to get away."
Bryva held back her laughter to keep quiet and smacked her arm. "You're a brazen hussy, you know that?"
"And you're a pent-up prude," Elsie winked and opened the door.
They separated, Bryva moving along the alleyways while Elsie climbed the wall. The weathered stone under her hands was easy to negotiate, and she reached the top without issue. Careful to check for guards, Elsie scanned the shadowy landscape before moving. There were more streetlights in Lorant than Delgora, all of them set an equal distance apart and curling through the main roads of the town. From a distance they looked like the icy swirls on a frosted window, patterned and delicate, with the ever-present blanket of snow around them.
Satisfied that she hadn't been seen, Elsie pushed herself from her perch, and took three steps to the other side of the wall. She was in the open for two heartbeats at best, and then she flung herself over the wall. Her feet connected with the rooftop of the nearest house and she had to crouch as her body made the predicted slide over the slanted, icy surface. Every night she had practiced this route, made note of each Warder's station, which Houses had members that liked to stay up late. There was an iron-wrought drain that ran perpendicular against the lip of the house that she used to stop her descent. Then, when she was satisfied again that no one had seen her, she hooked her body over the drain and let herself fall to the street below.
A snow bank muffled the sound of her landing. Elsie leaned tight against the wall of the house and let the shadows swallow her form, just as Artimus had taught her to do. She scowled at the memory and began to follow the shadowed corners and alleys, heading for the balcony she had chosen as her watchtower. It belonged to House Clenci, who had the sparsest staff of any within the noble circuit. The place overlooked two of the main streets as well as the little alley where the deal was to be made.
Once she'd reached it, Elsie scrambled up the side building and balanced on the picketed railing. She lowered the goggles over her eyes, the thick, tinted lenses changing the already dark world into many shades of green. They had made it to the rendezvous early enough to watch as the dealer brought his carriage into the street and began to set up. Three crates were brought forward, samples, no doubt.
Elsie frowned, hoping Bryva caught on to the problem as well. Somewhere on the street level her sister would be making her way into position. Fear itched at the back of her neck, premonitions warning her that something wasn't right. They were here for a purchase, not a sample.
She began to survey the surrounding area, searching for Warders.
***
"Hello, Saldorian," a voice purred from his left.
Dorian turned to greet it and nearly cringed. Missy Broska, flirt extraordinaire, smiled at him from beneath her mountain of yellow curls. She'd completely bypassed speaking to Winslow - which he would undoubtedly hear about later - and come to stand almost on top of his left side. Her voluptuous curves screamed for his attention in such a way that Dorian was immediately wary of a trap. The shameless manner in which Missy was known for flirting and dabbling with men had kept her from marriage for the last few years, and it didn't appear like she was planning on reforming anytime soon.
"Hello, Lady Broska," he took a long drink of his wine.
"Call me Missy."
"I would not assume such familiarity."
The fact that she had assumed familiarity did not seem to faze her. "All this stuffy noble nonsense," she said. "Surely you must have enjoyed not being in the center of the ton for the last few years."
"I assure you, Madame," he tried to inch closer to Winslow, "I was bereft of my friends and often starving in the cold. There was no enjoyment for me."
"It sounds like quite the adventure," she tilted her body just-so, giving him a face full of decolletage and Dorian felt his mind go off kilter.
His baser instincts were doing their damndest to aid Missy in her quest to lure him. In his younger days he might have taken her up on the offer she was displaying and then teased Winslow about being the one she had chosen. But years on the run, hunting men or being hunted himself, had altered him. He looked away from her and toward the Delgora table.
"Adventure is too romantic of a word for it," Dorian replied and immediately knew the mistake he had made.
"And you would know all about romance, would you?"
Elsie wasn't at the table and he frowned. He made a slow search through the crowd for her, knowing it was a futile act since there were so many dark-headed women burbling their way through the banquet hall. He did manage to spot Gremor, who seemed to guess his mind because he shrugged back. Obviously Elsie had taken the opportunity to escape.
Grinding his teeth in an effort to keep from swearing, Dorian searched the room one more time. Elsie hadn't given him a chance to speak since their confrontation in the dressing room and somehow he'd managed to forget the warning he'd meant to give her. His father and the Warders were on her trail. Given what he knew of Elsie, she was long gone with no trace for him to follow. But he might be able to find his father, maybe distract him long enough for Elsie to commit her crime.
The thought made him cringe, and he suddenly remembered Missy's presence. He took a step back, gripping Winslow's elbow until the man turned to look at them. "Have you met Lord Agoston?"
"I have," Missy said with a small pout. "And I never imagined you were a coward, Lord Feverrette."
The undertone of the conversation was gone with the assessing look she gave him. Dorian responded with a barely civil smile, "Cowardice has nothing to do with it, Madame."
"Then why avoid me?"
"Disinterest, Lady Broska."
Her mouth opened in surprise, and her face became sanguine with anger or embarrassment. He assumed it was both. Dorian turned to Winslow, who had was barely containing his mirth, his shoulders shaking in suppressed laughter. Winslow tried to battle his face into a polite and unrevealing expression and only succeeded in looking more amused. Dorian grimaced, not appreciating the fact that he was the source of his friend's amusement and bowed, preparing to remove himself from the conversation. A hand gripped his shoulder and he turned instead to find his father.
"Saldorian," Rorant's face was grim and alarms began to sound in Dorian's head. "Would you come with me, please?"
"Of course, Sir."
"Lord Agoston," Rorant nodded to Winslow, "You should accompany us as well."
"Happy to oblige, Sir," Winslow said.
They all gave Missy Broska polite bows just before his father led them out of the banquet hall. Winslow sent him a confused, questioning look that Dorian could only shrug at. Just outside of the fortress gates Rorant stopped long enough to relay orders to a group of Warders. There was a snappish sort of movement to the men that told Dorian something big was about to happen. All shoulders were tense in apprehension, including his fathers.
"Fates, Elsie," he whispered to himself.
Winslow must have been close enough to hear him because he answered, just as quiet, "It's that bad, eh?"
Rorant returned and tossed them both a hooded cape each. "We'll be in the air for a bit, gentlemen. Best you put those on."
They obeyed without question and followed Lord Orzebet onto Tourney Street. His pace quickened, and Dorian's stomach began to knot. When they were a safe distance away from the fortress his father began to speak.
"These last years have been absolute torture for me, Saldorian."
Dorian hurried behind his father, "I am sorry for the pains I caused you, Sir."
Rorant grunted. "Never knowing if you were alive or dead, no correspondence save what you sent your sister and that was always a month behind."
"Correspondence could have gotten me killed, Sather."
"I know," he snapped over his shoulder. "It's the only reason I could forgive you for that."
They walked in silence for a while before Rorant stopped, rounding to face him so quickly that Dorian's foot slipped a bit on the ice before he could cease walking . His father was furious and torn, that much Dorian could see on his face. His nose was tinged pink with the cold and his mouth was drawn in a tight, severe line that Dorian immediately recognized from childhood.
"I have given you space since your return, Son. I did not want to pressure you into trusting me again. After so long away, unable to rely on anyone else, I knew that it would be difficult for you to come to me for aid again. So I waited. I waited and I watched."
Witch-born Page 22
