As the halfling prattles on, the choice becomes obvious for Riveh. For all of his talk of surrender, of retreat and concession of defeat....Filibert has not made a single move toward the possible exit. If he really intended to leave, if he really had such little stake in this fight, he'd be gone by now. But instead he lingered, chattering endlessly. As for the rope idea...laughable. Who would tie it? He could hardly trust Filibert to it, and if Riveh wanted to inspect he'd lose all of his advantages. No, there was one choice.
"I think my answer, is as follows." Riveh said, and shot the halfling with the crossbow.
The ifrit also took a step to the left, doing his best to keep the halfling off balance in case he charged.
Another grunt. Another sharp intake of air as another bolt punctured the halfling, this one digging deep beneath the collarbone. But strained composure did not make way for a smile this time. This time Filibert's knees nearly gave way.
"Y-you think yer clever, you uppity whoreson?!" he managed to spit, lips curling in hateful desperation. "Go ahead! Kill me! I've earned my reward. I Await the Night! I've earned it! But I won't go quietly! Yaaah!"
Eyes that had been so sly and contriving now bulged as the murderer-for-hire charged forward into the darkness, intent on ending, or at the very least maiming, his own killer. Although it was what had given him the necessary edge, what Riveh's supernaturally keen vision showed him now was less than pleasant: to look into the face of man answering his own death with spite could never be pleasant. Filibert's twisted features in this moment did not speak of death-defiance; this was death-vehemence, the vindictive need to strike back at one's own fate.
And on that subject, where had that knife come from? The halfling rushed past him in the dark with a dagger held aloft, ready to strike into an ifrit that never materialized. Hadn't he surrendered the weapon earlier? Riveh instinctually glanced back to the unlit unlit, next to which the bloodied knife should be resting. It wasn't there. When the heck had he...?
"Heh heh heh..." A mirthless frown chuckled. Acknowledging that he wasn't finding Riveh, the assailant now realized that he was a sitting duck. Though this didn't deter him from trying to wound the young nobleman. "She's dead, you know. Your swarthy employer. I wasn't the only one of my brethren at the gala. She managed to send me here when I tried offin' her, yeah, but by now my brothers and sisters have killed her. Cuts back on the poor bastard nobleson's prospects, I imagine. 'Course, that'll be the case with all of you silk-stocking pricks with the collapse of yer whole corrupt nation! Whereas I... I'm about to collect my just reward. Go on! Kill me, you misbegotten ponce! I Await the Night! I Await the Night!"
Oh dear. That wasn't just desperation bulging the halfling's eyes and frenzy twisting his face, was it? It was fanaticism.
Riveh watched the raving halfling with growing concern. Just what was going on here? This was no petty palace coup, like the type Taldor loved to assign to Quadira, of poltical power plays sealed in blood. No, Filibert's rantings seemed to indicated something deeper, something far more visceral. He dismissed the claims about Martella and everything else, the halfling would say anything to dig the knife into Riveh at this point. Still....
"Then may the Night find you." Riveh says simply, and sends the fatal bolt directly between the halfling's eyes. He had neither the skill or time to interrogate the mad man.
Even as Filibert hit the floor, head a bloody paste, Riveh ran to Trant. Was the tough noblewoman still alive? There was so much blood....
From humble servant to professional killer to raving madman, Riveh had to conclude that the halfling he'd sent expiring to the floor really was a total unknown to him. But that mystery would have to wait; there was another soul fast departing that demanded his attention. Rushing to the prone form of the Dame, he nearly skidded in the alarmingly large pool of blood that had formed beneath her. Unfurling a scroll with one hand and placing his other on the deathly pale woman, he hoped his interpretation of the old parchment had been correct and set to channeling its magic.
Immediately he felt it. This was powerful stuff, magic much stronger than any he was familiar with. It passed through the paper into himself and from there to Trant where it burst into radiant energy. A great gasp went through the noblewoman as her maimed body convulsed with the pure power that was life was made out of. Light glowed through the accumulated cuts and scrapes, most prominently the gaping wound Filibert had left, only fading when these stitched themselves together and healed. It only lasted a few seconds, but at the end of them Malphene Trant appeared as hale and hearty as ever, if bloody, disheveled and severely shocked.
"Gem-Geminus... What... What just... I can't see. What..." she sputtered in righting herself, grabbing hold of the ifrit in trying to orient herself in the dark. It was only in lighting his cantrip again that the Dame, pushing dirtied blonde locks out of her face, saw the nearby corpse, three bolts pointing out of it. Recognition flashed across her features. "Did the halfling stab me?!"
The question carried every measure of outrage and indignation. How dared the staff betray them, and a half-man at that? The irrational anger, helped along by the disorientation, soon made way for confusion, however. "What's going on, Geminus? Why did he... Who was he?"
"Deep breaths, Trant." Riveh says, rather sternly. The woman is obviously overwrought, both by magic and the stress of possibly dying. While shouting at her to calm down may not work, it was the best the ifrit could come up with.
"Yes, he stabbed you." Riveh said by way to explanation. "He tried to kill me too, actually. Just missed and I got the drop on him." Riveh felt that Trant didn't really need to know just how he had defeated the halfling. His darkvision was a useful secret and besides, the noblewoman would probably not be understanding of mixed race parentage.
Riveh glanced back at Filibert and said, "Does the phrase, 'Await the Night' mean anything to you? He shouted while he died from his wounds. I was hoping it would be a clue as to who sent him, but I'm at a loss."
The ifrit stood up, giving the woman space. He raised his hand, casting more light through the room. "I think we will need to get the others, and then get out of here." he frowns at the corpse, "I suppose we will leave the body. Normally I'd bring it to the surface but I doubt now is the proper time to politely inform the guard about a murder attempt."
The ifrit walks over to the dead body and starts to drag it off to the side. No need for that cleric to add another fright to his fragile mind. The would-be assassin is quickly hid in an alcove and Riveh takes a moment to search the body for anything useful.
Now looking merely pensive, Trant shook her head at Riveh's queries. "Await the Night? No, I don't think so. Was he just plain mad then? What about the... coup?"
It was as fair a question as any given the momentous evening. Surely the halfling killer had to relate somehow to the assailants above. But then what did this imply about them? Determined to derive at least some answers from the corpse, the ifrit set to searching its pockets. As it turned out, the servant's uniform had plenty to yield. Almost immediately he came upon a senate aide badge stuffed into a pocket. This made enough sense. The halfling would have to possess one of these to get whisked away to these forgotten quarters in the first place. Riveh recalled how Filibert had said that Martella had gotten a hit in on him when attacking her. The facts fit.
Others items were less savory. It was difficult to navigate the clothing with three wooden shafts acting as pins, but soon enough two vials emerged. Both were labelled. The first, small and housing an off-yellow powder, was labeled 'arsenic' while the second touted itself as being a potion of 'poison cure (magic)'. The object hanging around the bloodied neck was more curious, however. "What is that?" Malphene asked, looking over Riveh's shoulder. While obviously curious the Dame wasn't coming any nearer than that; she actually seemed a bit uncomfortable with the corpse. But the object was a necklace threaded with simple leather. It was fashioned like a tiny dagger and apparently made of silver, although lacquered to be all black. The only break in the dark surface of it was a white circle engraved midway on the blade. A look to the noblewoman told Riveh that if this was a symbol of sorts, she didn't recognize it.
Also of note was Filibert's actual knife, clammy with the noblewoman's blood. It wasn't extravagant by any measure, but even a cursory examination revealed that it was of good make and finely balanced. That seemed to be all. Until the ifrit thought to look in the deceased's shoes. There he found a small folded piece of paper. Unfurling it, it read thusly:
Team Two,
Keep watch over Martella's stooges while we dispatch her Ladyship. Intelligence suggests they are mostly harmless, but our contract specifies eliminating Lotheed AND anyone she is working with. If they're particularly noteworthy - say a senator or noble - keep them alive and we’ll interrogate them along with Lotheed. Bring any such targets to the safehouse.
- The Fantabulous Killer of the Silent Circle
"Let me see." Trant snatched the parchment as soon as Riveh had finished with it. "What sort of nonsense word is 'fantabulous'?" she complained, likely just venting accumulated stress. The implications of the letter were significant, however, language liberties and all. They needed to get out of here, and he reaffirmed as much. Surprisingly the briefest look of hesitation and fear flashed across the Dame's face at this. But then he thought he already knew the source of any such apprehension, illogical as it was. She had let slip as much earlier. Likely she feared what they would find above, learning whether her father was dead or alive. Sometimes not knowing, very literally being kept in the dark as in this dungeon, could seem a mercy. Apparently intent not to be deterred by her own anxiety, however, Trant's hesitation made way for resolve. "Yes. Let's go."
This said the two made for the others, the three idle aristocrats and stricken priest blissfully unaware of everything that had transpired in their absence. And in reaching the lecture hall and remembering his vow to the inevitable, Riveh moved to pick up the inert orb still laying there. He had promised to bring the machine creature with him after all. But he was stopped by the Dame. "Oh please," she said dismissively, "spare yourself the embarrassment of trying to carry that thing around and me having to watch you. I'll take the globe if someone must. You just keep that light burning."
Despite the bombast, the towering woman seemed to struggle a bit in hefting the ungainly weight up onto one shoulder. Apparently Factor-12 was a fairly hefty construction. Insisting that she could manage, however, they resumed walking the facilities halls, scorched orb now with them. "Geminus," she suddenly said from behind the copper sphere. "I meant what I said earlier. You don't owe me anything. But if you ever did, you may consider any such debt repaid. Thank you for saving me."
Riveh could not see the Dame's face in her saying this. And perhaps that had been the intent.
Riveh watches his arcane light glow on the passing walls of the chamber. Unlike torch light, it is not flickering or wavering, but a steady wholesome white. And yet, in this grim place, covered with dust and spattered with blood, even that light seemed wan and unfaithful.
Riveh nods when Trant heaves Factor-12 onto her shoulder saying simply, "Thank you. He probably did save us during that fight with the construct. That lightning bolt did considerable damage." The ifrit says this absently, mind wrestling with his own thoughts.
What was going on? Was Filibert's note the reveal of the evil villain behind the murders upstairs? Was this this 'Silent Circle' behind the murder of so many? Or were they merely a small cog in a much larger machine, a collection of hired knives for some side work during the coup? One thing seemed clear, he had not been targeted personally, only as a unimportant side job in relation to Martella. This was both comforting and a little insulting.
His tumbling thoughts freeze solid when Trant's words reach him out of the gloom. After trying to stare through the shining brown hulk that was Factor-12, Riveh simply says, "We are square then, as the peasants say."
If silence truly implied tacit consent, then the two were in agreement as Riveh's companion did not reply. Instead the two walked the decrepit (though clean, thanks to the now defunct custodian) halls of the ancient facilities quietly, heading back to retrieve the trio of idle aristocrats plus stricken priest in preparation for leaving. If the ifrit ever saw this place again in his life, it'd be too soon. Finding them just where he'd left them, sitting about the small safe rooms, they were blissfully oblivious of any of the dangers Riveh had gone through. Unsociable Lady Urbaen, pugnacious Sir Plastion and wilted Lord Wilfen merely seemed happy to know that they could leave. There was even a vague air of impatience about them, as if the two younger folk had taken their sweet time in reporting back to their superiors, although nothing of this nature was said directly. The old lord at the very least showed some concern at the disheveled and bloodied state of Riveh and Trant. As for the Abadaran...
"Leave him. Leave the poor addled fool be!" Wilfen said. "No good will come of trying to bring him along. He can't be convinced to cease his prayer, and he'll scream his head off should we try to take him by force. No, just leave him. He's perfectly safe here. There hasn't been any trace of that murderous apparition since yourself and Dame Trant fought it back. Best to just leave him. We'll inform the senate guard once topside. Then he'll be their problem. They'll retrieve him."
The priest was indeed still deep in prayer, still rocking back and forth, still staring into a corner. Acquiescing to the others' urging, Riveh relented and so the exodus from the underground chambers began. It was slow going with the elderly Lord Wilfen's legs, but at no point did he ask for any pause; evidently he was every bit as eager to leave as everyone else. None of the aristocrats even bothered to ask about the scorched sphere carried by the towering noblewoman, although once they encountered the remains of the clockwork custodian, Plastion was quick to remark that he had faced many a mechanical menace before and could have been of great help in dispatching it. Such a pity that he had volunteered to stay behind in order to protect the women and the old. Oh, and the mad. No one seemed impressed.
Once they reached the walled-over entrance to the ancient facility, Riveh felt a strange tug at his shoulders upon which the piece of midnight serving as his robe fragmented into a hundred tufts of onyx, each with a blinking star at its center. These then faded into nothing. Apparently the magic behind the impossible cloth could no longer sustain itself. Hopefully he wouldn't have any more need of it. On a more positive note, Wilfen insisted that he now knew where they were.
"Why, I'd be very surprised if this isn't some basement chamber of the imperial archives," he said in looking through the hole made by the ifrit and Dame. A walled and wallpapered entrance to a forgotten facility within some dusty, rarely-if-ever frequented records hall of the senate archives? For a second Riveh contemplated just how old the senate building was, how often it had seen disaster and been rebuilt, and what else might lie buried beneath it.
It took a few minutes more to safely dismantle the walled entrance, an endeavor none of the three aristocrats were eager to aid in. Once inside the archive, a cluttered mess that surely would Factor-12 up in arms, they quickly found a door. Behind it were faint footfalls and voices, many of them, still distant but unmistakable. It was locked. Banging on it and calling for aid produced no results; evidently they were still too far away for an otherwise occupied listener to hear. "This dress is not exactly practical for kicking in doors..." Trant grumbled as she set aside the inevitable and hiked up her skirts. Lady Urbaen said nothing at this, as usual, but couldn't have scrunched up her face in disdain any more had someone held feces up to her thin nose.
The ifrit and Dame, with some minor help from Sir Plastion (the man turned out to have an atrocious sense of timing), managed to break open the door after a few solid blows. Behind it was a narrow marble hallway. The white marble was obviously the very same the senate building was primarily constructed from. Morale immediately soared. They'd done it. Following the hallway led to stairs, which in turn led to more numbered doors and another flight of stairs. They went up, following the voices growing clearer with every step. It sounded like somber men speaking to each other sporadically in terse and direct exchanges. Senate guards perhaps? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that this nightmare of an evening was drawing to a close. But it was only in finally barging into the ground floor of the imperial archives, back to the familiar senate building, that they understood: they were the fortunate ones.
Blood. Whatever survival instinct it was that demanded a mortal to pay attention at the sight of blood, it was working its magic now. Because Riveh wasn't seeing the commemorative busts or historical paintings, all lavish, that decorated the Imperial Archives. All he saw was the blood. Trailing into the records hall from the senate floor, the latter was hardly visible. Not the floor, that was. From here, he could see into the amphitheater, the nation's heart, where Taldor's finest had gathered to listen to their emperor just two hours ago, where he had stood. No abattoir floor could compare now. Intermingled to make a tumble of limbs, was a mass that used to be individual people. They carpeted nearly all of the senate floor. A hundred? Two hundred? It was impossible to tell. Lords had fallen on top of others, Ladies had been driven into corners for ease of butcher. They littered the marble chamber everywhere, the eye continually finding one person in the wreckage of another when trying to take it all in. 'Kaleidoscopic' was the word. This was death of kaleidoscopic dimensions, impossible for the eye to process. It was even somewhat colorful, with the best silks money could buy acting as their wearer's funeral shroud. No color dominated as red, however; Riveh wasn't sure he would ever be able to forget the sight of raw red blood on stark white marble. The senate guards carefully milling about this carnage, trying to identify and retrieve the dead, had an unenviable job.
Behind Riveh a loud peal rang out as Trant lost her grip on the copper globe she had been carrying. She said nothing, could say nothing, but he already knew what was at work within the noblewoman. He knew that the horrified eyes were, however unwillingly, searching the mass of corpses for her father. "Heavenly host..." Lord Wilfen muttered weakly. He looked despondent. Urbaen had already fainted. Plastion looked like a schoolboy faced with arithmetic, like his mind couldn't fathom what his eyes were seeing. But they all had something more immediate to deal with, as the scattered senate guard now took note of them.
"S-surrender yourselves immediately!" the nearest sentry called out, approaching these sudden intruders with his halberd grasped and ready. His fine uniform was heavily bloodstained, and it was clear that not all of it had come from himself. To call the man agitated would be an understatement. "Surrender now! Surrender now! On the ground, now!"
More guards were at his heels.
Riveh feels his gorge rise at the sight of the mangled bodies. The carnage was somehow worse in the cold light of day, after the fact. He had seen the blood and chaos during the fight but that had been an active, dynamic scene of color and motion. Easy to simply shrug off as a whirlwind of events but this...this was unavoidable, a monument to death.
The young ifrit was about to be sick all over the marble floor when the guards began speaking. He looked up at the agitated man and wondered where the palace guard stood. They had fought back during the coup, but that had been hours ago...how had things changed? Should they run? Surrender? Ask for help?
Running would mean he left alone, as the aged Wilfen probably couldn't run and Urbaen had fainted. Sighing with real exhaustion, Riveh replied, "Don't panic." He held up his hands, hoping to calm the jumpy men. 'There has been enough blood split today, don't add more. We are simply people who got lost int he basements during the...." His voice trailed off as he glanced over the bodies, stomach churning again.
"We just want to go home and get out of here. We are no one, just Senate aides and servants." He added, hoping the more noble-minded Trant would keep her mouth shut.
Mercifully, Riveh's plea did much to pacify the agitated senate guard, although there was a manic look in the man's eyes that never quite faded. The ifrit wasn't sure he could imagine what the sentries had gone through in the two hours he'd missed, but it had certainly left its mark: every one of them seemed frazzled and jumpy. Their own emperor had betrayed them. No doubt they didn't know whom to trust. Little wonder this one had been on the verge of skewing Riveh at his mere entrance.
But they said nothing. The senate guards, all of them mute and humorless, simply approached to apprehend. Some stood back with halberds and longswords at the ready while others moved in to disarm the group. Riveh wondered if perhaps they, just as shocked by events as himself in their own way, drew some comfort from the military maneuver. Routine had its own comfort. "Gentlemen, please..." Lord Wilfen said as his cane was taken from him. Filibert's dagger and the exotic gandasa were likewise confiscated from the ifrit, the guard taking them giving him a mean look at the bloodied state of both. Trant made no fuss whatsoever as her stiletto was taken; she was still staring at the dead with horror.
Any protest from the last Geminus was ignored, but with the new arrivals in custody there was a slight pause, as if none of the sentries quite knew where to go from here. They looked to one of the guards standing by, a gore spattered man no different in uniform although somewhat older than the rest, perhaps in his mid-thirties.
"Watchmaster, where do we..."
"The Lion Blades' orders were clear. Everyone is to be interrogated. Inform the watch. Send for a wagon and escort them to the nearest garrison." The reply was swift and confident, too much so - the reply of a man not just reassuring his subordinates that the situation was under control, but also himself.
"Sir, the city watch has not responded to our last requests. They are occupied calming the public..."
A slight lapse as the guard thought. "Lock them in separate offices. The senate offices are empty and secure. The Lion Blades can question them when they return."
The order was carried out promptly. Immediately Riveh's group was separated as they, three guard to every prisoners, were escorted away from the senate floor for the many, many offices littering the building. None of his companions put up much of a resistance, not even the mortified Dame who still hadn't said a word. Wilfen made some comment in being led away, heavy hands on his weak shoulders. "Now listen - do what you must, but listen: there's an underground facility we just came from. There's an addled man there, he was here as my guest. He'll need help, do you hear? You have to..." The guards showed no signs of listening. Unconscious Urbaen could say nothing, of course, but they at least showed some concern in lifting her. The ifrit too was taken by the arm and forced along. Their path took them past the massacre where, despite not wanting to watch, he could now make out more with his shocked mind slowly adjusting: there were dark-robed figures lying among the dead, many of them, with brightly uniformed guards also adding to the deceased. Most of the assailants had evidently not survived the attack. Small comfort.
Reaching a small office space, the Gennaris III Waiting Room as a helpful plaque explained, Riveh was unceremoniously showed inside, asked to empty his pockets, and then left alone. The solid wooden door was locked shut immediately afterward. The space looked practically identical to other such rooms he had seen during the gala, as in speaking in private with Baron Okerra. Lords above, had that been just a few hours ago? It seemed an eternity. Was Okerra even alive now? The room was tasteful, dark wood paneling covering all walls, with a comfy sofa and large desk being the only notable furnishings. Outside a gold-rimmed window (that didn't open) the night sky was as black as could be. Although this wasn't the case below it. Looking outside, several people with lights roamed Senate Hill, some disposing of corpses. Hell's below, Martella's missive had been true; the battle had spilled out onto the grounds. The verdant plain surrounding the senate building bore every sign of battle, even being scorched in places. Some bodies littered what had been an immaculate lawn; thankfully, most seemed to belong to assailants judging by the dark clothing. And at the bottom of the hill - there the night was far from silent.
The wrought iron fence separating Senate Hill from Oppara's streets was as artistic as it was solid, and right now it served to hold back not assailants but the common public. Despite it being the middle of the night the street was full of onlookers, people who had been out celebrating Exaltation Week only to bear witness to an out and out attack at the nation's heart. No wonder the city watch had their hands full. Riveh could see them from the window, senate guards and ordinary watchmen, even some soldiers on horseback, attempting to calm a public that demanded to know what was going on. Was the Grand Prince alright? What about the Princess? Who had done this? What happened now? All fair questions. All questions the ifrit himself would like answered.
He slumped onto the couch. This... hadn't been how he had envisioned this day to end. Looking up brought him face to face with a painting of Gennaris III, Grand Prince of yore. Gennaris had been an aggressive ruler, leading many military campaigns personally. The fierce bearded face looked the part. He had finally been assassinated by Qudira, Taldor's oldest enemy. His death had transformed the nation. What, Riveh wondered, would this day mean for the nation?
Alone.
Riveh was alone in the office and it was strange. How many hours had he struggled in the dark and the dust with others at his side? And before that, the swirling colors of the Senate, packed with people, dozens of eyes on him at any time. How odd it was, to be quiet and alone in this room. The eye of the storm that was surely radiating out of the Senate by now. The shockwaves of the massacre were surely going to tear the Empire apart...weren't they? And yet he stood here, at the very epicenter of the most cataclysmic event in modern Taldane history and all was still. Quiet. Little more then the sound of dripping blood.
Riveh did not remember falling onto the sofa, smearing it with blood, spiderwebs and grime. He did not recall pulling a rug over his suddenly chilled body, and he certainly did not remember deciding to fall into a deep, deep sleep.
His dreams were troubled. Kalbio was there, explaining how to make a tapestry but his lecture was constantly interrupted by spouting gouts of blood as the Grand Prince stabbed him, over and over. Martella was there, sitting on a chair with her feet dabbling in the rising tide of red. Even Trant was there, dress torn, hair a mess, crying over a spilled cup of blood. Everywhere, blood, blood, blood.
It was rising, over his chest, up his neck, the cloying thick red sea. Above him, as uncaring as the stars, wheeled the strange round cubes of the Dark Tapestry, making his mind swim. He began to drown in the blood, reaching out for the cubes, for anything to save him.....
Oh gods. They were speaking to him. The impossible shapes, the jagged spheres, the corners that met in too many places. They were... reverberating. The stone, the metal, the stuff insanity was made out of, it was moving, rebounding into itself and outward. Neither liquid nor solid, the shapes were echoing with their own destruction, melding and renewal. And in the inconceivable noise was a name. They were calling to him. Riveh. Riveh Geminus.
Except the realm of madness was actually a tasteful office. And the infinite void below him was actually an expensive couch. And the unspeakable something calling for him was actually a perfectly civil, very human, voice. Riveh woke up.
"Sir Geminus. Riveh Geminus, I'm unlocking the door and entering the room. Please stand back from the doorway."
Something had been knocking at the door for the last minute, the sleep-addled ifrit now realized. It was morning and someone on the other side wished to speak with him. Or was it morning? That was certainly daylight streaming through the gold-rimmed window. He didn't manage to consider much more than that before the door opened, and his caller entered.
Opening and closing the door behind him, the well-shaped man now standing before him surprised Riveh. This wasn't due to his appearance, exactly: nothing about the man, from his conventional clothing, to his conventionally cut dark brown hair, to his conventionally handsome features stood out. If anything he was the image of everything just north of socially acceptable, a mother-in-law's dream. No, what surprised Riveh was that he recognized the man. This was one half of the duo who had tried to arrest him under suspicion of agitating the bees against the Princess last night. This man was a Lion Blade, a member of Taldor's secret police. This was only part of what surprised the ifrit, however. Adding to the wonder was how much one night could change a man. The young agent looked like he'd aged several years in the scant hours since he'd last seen him. The green eyes, earlier so full of eager energy, the mark of a young soldier out to prove himself, were now those of a cynical veteran, ringed and tired. Riveh clearly wasn't the only one having a bad day.
"Sir, please, before you say anything," the Lion Blade mumbled, holding up one hand to silence the ifrit before he could speak, "let me explain what I need from you."
Reaching into a breast pocket, he retrieved a strange instrument: the gilded rod wasn't overly long, but much too oversized for what it appeared to be, which was a key. "I am an agent of the nation and I need you to answer some questions for me about the events of last night. All of them are routine; you are not under suspicion of any crime. Cooperate, and you may leave. This," he held up the wand, "will apply a spell onto you. The spell will render you unable to lie. I ask you not to resist its effect. Should you do so, I will know. Do you understand?"
Had the Lion Blade slept at all? Despite the straight back and military posture, he was obviously exhausted. His spiel ran from his lips so listlessly Riveh had to guess this wasn't the first time he'd said it today, and although he spoke in a low murmur, it nevertheless carried the precision of someone who knew they were burning their wick at both ends. The careful enunciation was a necessity; anything else would have the man begin unraveling.
"Sir Geminus, I would like your consent to proceed."
But with such worn-out weariness tended to come a lack of patience. What happened if the ifrit refused?
The haze of sleep fades away nearly as quickly as the troubling dreams, washed away both by shining sun and the presence of the Lion Blade. Riveh's eyes flicked from the gilded key to the man's haggard face, looking for answers and finding few.
And yet, that lack of information merely drove Riveh onward. He needed answers, he needed to know what was going on. Had the government fallen? Had the Grand Prince seized total power? Was there some deeper evil at work, some outside threat who had controlled the massacre? And where did the Lion Blades fall? This one at least had seemed close to the Princess, who surely was at odds with Stavian's bloody coup....right?
The ifrit squinted hard at the key, then said slowly, "I agree, but on the condition I may ask a few questions of my own. I will not pretend to have the power to insist you tell the truth, but I would like."
He sits up, face to face with the tired man, "Sit down at least, before you fall down. Then ask your questions."
The Lion Blade listened patiently to Riveh's stipulation, to which he gave a nod. "Of course. I will answer whatever I can." The ifrit had trouble reading the tired eyes staring his way, literally obscured in part by heavy lids as they were, but he couldn't detect any ill will there at his condition. The agent did not sit at his invitation, however. Perhaps he feared that he wasn't coming back up once off his feet.
"Please remain calm." Standing directly in front of Riveh, the Lion Blade lifted the gilded key to point it directly at him.
Immediately a bizarre sensation descended onto his mind. It was his thoughts, they felt... directed. The ifrit found his headspace totally altered, specifically in how it didn't allow for speculation. He could still theorize and reason, but any time his thoughts veered towards original conceptions they simply stopped dead. Words failed him. Ideas fell flat. He could imagine a stork. But in considering a stork his mind offered nothing but genus name, coloration, and such inane facts as storks having two legs, facts he thought to be true. Should a child ask him about how the stork delivered babies to people, his thoughts would run dead into a mental wall. The magic had rendered him, in a term, creatively bankrupt.
Awash as he was in this disorienting state, Riveh almost didn't notice the other major effect of the spell, this being a tiny band of light contorting itself directly in front of his forehead. It finally settled into an approximation of a shining key. And the agent opposite him nodded at this.
"This will only take a few seconds. Now: Is your name Riveh Geminus?"
"Did you have any foreknowledge of the attack on the Taldan senate on Calistril 28th, 4718?"
"Did you have any part in the planning of the attack on the Taldan senate on Calistril 28th, 4718?"
"Did you have any part in the execution of the attack on the Taldan senate on Calistril 28th, 4718?"
"Do you have any knowledge of the collaborators behind the attack on the Taldan senate on Calistril 28th, 4718?"
A slight hesitation. "... Are you loyal to Taldor?"
Riveh felt the spell wash over him, and decided (at the last moment) to not resist. What secrets could he reveal? Worse, if this agent could detect his lies, it might paint him as taking a side in a struggle the ifrit knew nothing about. He felt it was best to maintain a low profile.
What he did not like however, was what it did to his brain. Concepts and thoughts simply...slid out of reach, as slippery as an oiled orb. It was too much like the dumb horror that had touched his soul during his sojourn into the Dark Tapestry, the cold that came from the box...
The ifrit shook himself, gathering his wits and nerve. No, this was nothing compared to that magic, to that raw power. This was a low level spell in a stick, wielded by a man who looked run to ruin. He took a deep breath and answered the questions.
"Yes, I am Riveh Geminus, last of that name."
"None."
"No."
"No. Actually you might note I tried to fight the assassins." Not that he had done a very good job, before being whisked away by magic.
"No, I don't."
As for the last question, what loyalty did Riveh have? It was a question too large to grapple with right now, too much to swallow.
"I am no traitor." Riveh says shortly, "I am a member of the Taldane nobility, with all the patriotic feeling that entails."
Then he shrugged, letting the momentary irritation pass. He was sitting mere feet away from a gory mound of such nobles. Did he have the right to act pissy?
"Did I give the right answers?" Riveh says lightly, wondering if the Lion Blade was about to reach for a knife and remove a loose end. "Do you have a name?"
Tired though it may have been, the scrutinizing gaze bearing down on Riveh throughout the questioning was an intense one. Even with the spell in effect, the Lion Blade was clearly reading him for anything untoward and was adamant to carry out this brief interrogation as well as could be done, exhaustion be damned.
"Did I give the right answers?"
No reply. The stare merely lingered a moment, long enough for the ifrit to worry about his 'sudden-knife-to-the-gut' theory. He had some unfortunate experience with those now. Until - the magic weighing down his brain suddenly lifted, Riveh regaining his full mental faculties. Fading along with the cerebral chains was the Abadaran symbol floating before him, it fizzling out. The agent gave a sigh, tension releasing with the breath. Something in his professional demeanor seemed to ease a bit. He closed his eyes for a second. Was that relief or disappointment Riveh could read on his face? Whatever it was, it was replaced with an only vaguely strained little smile upon looking at him again.
"Thank you for your cooperation. And to the best of my knowledge you gave truthful answers, Sir Geminus. So yes. Yes, you did."
The voice was soft-spoken and civil.
"Do you have a name?"
"I am a Lion Blade, Sir. I have several." Was this what passed for humor among secret agents? The smile widened just a bit in saying this, showing a small glimpse of boyish handsomeness beneath the fatigue. "Treister. You may call me Treister. Now..."
The newly named agent's features sank beneath the grim weight of the oncoming subject matter. "You asked for answers earlier and you are entitled to them. I don't have much time, but will tell you what I can. From everything I have gathered about your conduct here, I think you deserve that much. So... Last evening a conglomerate consisting of at least twelve separate mercenary groups and assassination guilds, foreign and domestic, attacked the senate, killing roughly half of the nation's senators in addition to several dozen aides and assorted nobility. The final death tally is still being counted. This force was aided and directed by Grand Prince Stavian III."
Once again Riveh got the distinct impression that the man was repeating information he'd already explained more than a few times today. And yet what was conveyed was so staggering that by his expression he was only slowly coming to terms with it now himself.
"Taldor's defenders mobilized. Those assailants who survived the ensuing struggle have been rounded up and are incarcerated. The emperor... is not among those survivors. The Grand Prince is dead, High Strategos Maxillar Pythareus has declared himself his legal successor, Princess Eutropia disputes this claim and civil war is brewing. What would you like to know?"
Somehow Riveh expected that this day wasn't going to be any easier than the last.
Treister's word are not surprising but they still make Riveh's guts churn. The Grand Prince, who had ruled Taldor longer then Riveh has been alive was dead and under mysterious circumstances. The High Strategos claiming the throne and the Princess vying against him. A grand massacre of nobility. For the first time Riveh realizes, if his family still had their proper power and station, chances are they would have been killed yesterday. How odd that a scandal and fall from grace may have saved the family line....for now. How many other noble houses were snuffed out by the black-robed killers? And how many more if civil war did break out?
'Heavy tidings." Riveh says, the gravity formalizing his speech.
"Have the Lion Blades taken a side between the High Strategos and the Princess?" Riveh says delicately. There was no need to proclaim his own allegiance unless he knew what side this agent was on, if any.
When the man reveals nothing, Riveh pauses and sizes things up. How much should he reveal? There was so much to ask about the sweeping events but asking the wrong question was...unwise with tensions so high.
"Lady Martella Coufas. Do you know anything of her? She was my patron in the Senate, although I barely knew her. Did she survive? I at least owe her the courtesy of finding that out."
"And the others who were trapped in the bowels of the Senate with me, Madame Trant. Are they still here? Are you questioning them?"
Riveh then narrows his eyes, "Do I have freedom to go and collect my things? Am I at liberty after this interview is over?"
Mnetally Riveh also weighed telling them of Filibert and The Fantabulous Killer of the Silent Circle. Perhaps....
The agent gave a rueful smile at Riveh's query of where the secretive organization stood in the impending civil war. "An official stance? Sir Geminus, officially the Lion Blades don't even exist. We have protected Taldor and her interests for centuries. We will continue to do so."
An intentionally noncommittal answer from a group that could ill afford anything but neutrality? Or an evasive reply from a fledgling operator who frankly didn't know where his higher-ups stood? This Treister had appeared little more than a foot soldier in civilian clothing last night, after all; his words could be taken to mean a great many things. "My apologies if I seem dismissive of your question," he went on. "It is a good question. And it is one you should keep asking. Because it is what every other organized force in the nation is currently asking itself. The royal guard, the city watch - with Taldor's bureaucracy decimated, their chain of command is slowly falling apart. Who do I answer to? Who pays my salary? Who do I support today to not be deemed a traitor tomorrow? Doubt is seeping into the ranks, into everyone. It's a house of cards: the top has already fallen and the cascade is gradually working its way down."
The man let out a sigh that could end worlds. "I don't mean to alarm you. The situation isn't truly dire, not yet. The senate guard still recognize my authority, for example. And Oppara and its people are managing. Panic hasn't set in anywhere. In fact, the public is showing exemplary solidarity in light of the tragedy. Makes you proud to be Taldan. I'm merely warning you to be careful. Without a leader our nation is running on inertia. And it's only a question of time before it comes to a crashing halt. If possible, I recommend you leave the city."
'Heavy tidings' indeed. And Riveh had more questions still he needed answered.
"Coufas?" Treister repeated as the ifrit asked of his duplicitous patron. "I don't recognize that name. I reviewed the latest death report and I don't believe there was anyone of that name there. Of course, the dead are still being counted and identified, so I fear I must ask you to temper your expectations... "
"And the others who were trapped in the bowels of the Senate with me, Madame Trant. Are they still here? Are you questioning them?"
"I questioned all of them earlier this morning, yes. You were last on my list, as it were. Forgive me, but decorum demanded that I see to the Lords and Lady first. They, well... outrank you." Riveh received a little nod in apology along with the distinct impression that the Lion Blade didn't appreciate courtly propriety interfering with his work. "As for Dame Trant - her family caught wind that she was being held here and were quite insistent that she be released as soon as possible. I interrogated her and she left with a representative of her house a few hours ago. She asked about you." The ifrit wasn't sure he appreciated Treister's sharp look in saying this.
"But your interrogation being left for last is what rendered it little more than a formality. I've already heard enough corroborative accounts of your exploits below the senate. The others spoke highly of you. Very highly."
"Should you wish to see the Dame, her family's manor is in Aroden's View. And yes, absolutely," the Lion Blade said, suddenly heading for the door and briefly rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes, "you are free to leave. Guard." A senate guard immediately opened the door, revealing that he had been standing by all along.
"Sir."
"Retrieve Sir Geminus's possessions."
A quick nod and the sentry was gone. "It was... good meeting you again, Sir Geminus. Once again, please take care of yourself. Things are quiet for now. The people are mourning, the Imperial Palace has been locked down by the Ulfen Guard after they failed to protect their ward - they say they intend to defend the castle until Taldor's next ruler has been found - and the Princess and Strategos are both believed to have left the city; Pythareus to the south where his military alliances are strongest and Eutropia to the north. They are gathering their forces. This peace will not last."
A city bereft of leadership, a sudden vacuum of power at the very top. The Lion Blade might call the current peace 'inertia', but Riveh thought of a different analogy. That of a wild, savage beast, long chained but suddenly released. The mob did not yet know they were free but when they figured out the chain had been broken.....it would not go well.
Riveh shook his head at the thought and focused on the present.
"The name might also be Martella Lotheed." Riveh added, that dagger of betrayal turning in his gut again. She, a member of his most hated rivals, had used him for her own ends, whatever that had been. And yet, despite it, he still felt some sympathy for the noblewoman.
"I am glad the rest are fine, it was harrowing in the depths of the Senate. Still, perhaps when this all ends, some scholars can explore what we found." The ifrit says, already standing and finding his legs were strong under him. Sleep was exactly what he needed.
The new energy almost papered over the wound Treister opened by implying Riveh had no noble station. While perhaps technically true, Geminus blood ran in his veins, which was as rightful as any other. But now was not the time.
"Leave the city?" Riveh echoed thinking perhaps the Lion Blade was right. A civil war was no place for a disappointed noble scion. And yet, such chaos might provide opportunities usually undreamed. Is that not how the stories often went? Out of battle and blood, the true spirit was found?
At the very least he needed to get back to his inn, if it still stood, and gather his things. He nodded to Treister, and raised a hand to shake. "Thank you for the information. If we meet again, may it be under better circumstances. Keep yourself safe."
"Lotheed," Treister repeated. "That name I do recognize. No, no Lotheed among the dead. Not as of yet."
The agent's tired eyes narrowed in obvious suspicion. If he knew of the history between the Geminus and Lotheed families, then he was no doubt wondering why Riveh's patron should belong to the latter. Or was there something else afoot here? Did he know something Riveh didn't? If so, he chose to say nothing, as the Lion Blade merely reached out to shake the ifrit's proffered hand.
"Likewise, Sir Geminus. And once again, thank you for cooperating."
Riveh's departure from the senate was a swift one. Outside the office turned jail cell, the building, still resplendent with last night's banners and finery, was abuzz with strangely somber activity, like the world's busiest funeral home. In fact, that might have been exactly what it acted as while he slept, the ifrit reflected. He could see into the senate floor; it was now entirely free of bodies. At the scene of the massacre were instead splatters, streaks and smears of red, a multitude of massive maroon marks making a mesh onto the marble. Someone had been very busy tonight indeed, but they hadn't gotten so far as to clean up the viscera yet. Somehow the sight of it was almost worse than the heaped bodies, too evocative. Like ink blots on paper, it played on the imagination. A spray on the wall, a red hand print on the floor, a great big smear where someone had been dragged away - the images conjured up by these traces were almost worse than the actual aftermath Riveh had witnessed. Small wonder that everyone here seemed to be willfully ignoring them.
Those gathered did appear the disciplined sort, seemingly consisting largely of senate personnel, city officials, and a few military officers of middling rank, all very dour. And of the course the senate guards. These last crowded every doorway as if they suspected another attack any minute. Treister excused himself quickly, several people here obviously wanting a word with him as soon as they stepped outside the office, and with that the overworked agent was gone. Riveh had to conclude that it would be some time yet before the man would be allowed any rest. As for himself, a guard appeared carrying his items in short order, with an additional one hefting the still inactive Factor-12. The latter seemed vaguely annoyed. These two, while terse, were courteous enough and escorted him outside. There the morning sun was slowly working its way into noon, cruelly indifferent to the tragedy that had befallen the nation below it, and glittering off the gilded roofs of the nearby districts.
'Indifferent' was certainly not what the gathered crowd could be described as, however. As the ifrit and his escort walked down the 100 marble steps of Senate Hill, the throng circling the wrought iron fence separating the hill from the street was difficult to fathom. Hundreds? A thousand? More? Locals and tourists, young and old, men and women had practically besieged Senate Hill. Riveh had to stare at the horde below him. The escort made more sense now; it was doubtful he could even navigate the crowd without help. But more remarkable still was this: everyone seemed perfectly civil. Mob mentality, that most dangerous of social forces, had not sent Oppara's public into a rage or panic. Instead it had only amplified the patriotic fervor of a people already celebrating their nation. Those nearest the gate were not pushing & showing; they were mourning their leadership. The fence was thick with Taldan flags, flowers and candles. Neither was anyone shouting; at worst, some were singing. Groups of men were burring somber hymns and uplifting anthems. And the chatter didn't revolve around blame or fear; the public was shocked and awaiting directions. Those member of the city watch milling the crowd on horseback appeared entirely unnecessary. The commonly accepted notion of there being no people prouder than the Taldans, usually sneered in derision by foreigners, was now uniting what Riveh knew was a rapidly fracturing country.
Except it couldn't last. He knew it couldn't last as he neared the heavily guarded gate and noticed banners and other tributes to Grand Prince Stavian III. 'STAVIAN ENDURES'. 'MARTYRS NEVER DIE'. They didn't know. What remained of the government was yet to tell the public that their own emperor had betrayed them, the ifrit now realized. They were all standing here patiently awaiting instructions from their leaders on what happened now not knowing that Taldor had no more leadership. The Strategos and the Princess, the two persons who could take up the mantle had already departed and were gearing for war. Inspiring though it might be, this national fervor was just the calm before the storm.
"Bless you, sir!" someone yelled out as the ifrit reached the senate hill gate. The place had been turned into a way station of sorts, guards and makeshift barriers barricading oncoming and departing carriages of officials. Riveh, easily identified as a survivor of what had already come to be known as the Exaltation Massacre by his bloodied and torn finery, caused quite a stir among the masses. While he was hurried into a carriage at the urging of the guards, many nevertheless cheered at his appearance. "Taldor endures, milord!" A young aristocrat, weathering the most heinous attack on the nation in anyone's memory, bloodied but unbeaten! They loved him. Or rather, some did. Riveh had noted some curiously doubtful faces in the crowd. Treister had described the assailants as mostly foreign mercenaries, huh? The dusky skinned ifrit had to wonder whether the average Taldan's xenophobia, already prominent, was going to explode in the coming days, and what this might mean for himself.
The ride back to the inn was slow due to the packed streets, but thankfully uneventful. Cyricas' Rest was a middling establishment, despite its claim of a as of then uncoronated grand prince of yore once having slept there. Once back in his room, Riveh dumped the hefty weight of Factor-12 from his shoulder. The inevitable was still not operative, and likely wouldn't be so until sometime tonight if it - he? 'It' seemed so impersonal, and his unnatural voice was rather masculine - really required 24 hours to recover. What to do? Where to go?
For a long moment Riveh sat on the bed, as still as the inactive inevitable sitting on the writing desk next to him. One might almost think the young ifrit was a statue, sitting forward, head in his hands. Despite the outward calm, mentally his mind spun. Even looking at the simple white-washed walls of the inn room was enough to send his thoughts skittering.
How much had changed since he had last sat here, less then a day ago? The world of just twenty-four hours ago seemed lost forever, like an abyss of violence and blood had suddenly appeared in a familiar garden path. Centuries of courtly intrigue, of backroom scheming, of petty politics, gone in an instant.
And how had he changed? Was he still the lost scion of a house on a quest for glory and honor? It seemed so petty now, with what had happened. Not that his desire to earn his family name had faded (indeed, it had flared after seeing what the nobility had become), but his method of approach seemed foolish now, quaint. A slow careful climb with guided by whispered words and an impressive set of clothes. As if charming some crusty old noble was a great accomplishment.
No, that world was gone. The new one, drenched in noble blood, offered two stark choices.
One, he could give it up and go home. Slink back to his family estate and remain simply Riveh. Watch a civil war unfold around him and merely keep his head down, as untold thousands were preparing to do at this very moment. It was the smart move of course, the safe course of action.
The other was to seize the moment. Riveh had read once, in a forgotten book, 'Chaos was a ladder'. It had always struck the ifrit as a cold statement, to see chaos and destruction as an opportunity, but now it was staring him in the face. What better time for an extinct house to win favor without powerful backers? A civil war was when fortunes were made and names cemented in the firmament?
There were other motives, of course. To avenge the brutal murder of hundreds of Senators and what they stood for. Yes the Senate had been petty, cold, and corrupt, even Riveh knew that. And yet, they had been part of a system going back untold generations, a tradition of greatness and power. And the Grand prince had slaughtered them, put the entire edifice of Taldor to the sword. That could not go unanswered.
And of course, there was Kalibo.
And so a single tear leaked out of the statue, and created a tiny puddle in the thin dust of the tavern room, unheard by all.
Now, he would not fade away. He simply could not. Riveh could join this war, for his country, for his family and for himself. And for Kalbio.
But how to start? The city was in chaos, Riveh had no allies, no powerbase, barely any resources at all. Where should he even start? Where could he get his foot int he door? That was hard enough at the best of times but now, any faction leader would assume he was a spy or worse, worthless.
Well, except one noble. Riveh grit his teeth at the thought but he had few options. He gathered up his few items, picked up Factor-12 and set off for Aroden's View.
Oppara. The gilded city. Heart of the empire. Once the capital of the known world. For such an illustrious metropolis with a population of over 100,000 (swelled to twice that during the celebrations) to sport nothing more curious than a Riveh Geminus walking its well cobbled streets was a wonder. But he certainly did make for a strange sight lugging about the copper and bronze sphere that was Factor-12. To go from mingling with the uppest of the upper class just hours ago to being stared at by children was a bit of a whiplash.
That said, he knew he wasn't attracting as much attention as he could otherwise be. Everyone was preoccupied. The streets were packed with people, many of them obviously never having returned home from the night's festivities, still clad in the national colors and nursing a hangover. The chatter on their mouths all revolved around the Exaltation Massacre, naturally enough. "Did you see the senate last night?" "It was an attack!" "Who died?" "How many?!" "What about the Grand Prince?" "Who did this?" "The Princess, is she alright?" Anxiety and confusion was spreading quickly, and Riveh had to wonder if the situation was tenable for much longer. The public needed some direction. But then so did he. He needed an access point from which to accomplish anything. And it was with this in mind that he steadily trundled on to the district of Aroden's View.
Fortunately, it wasn't an overly long walk from his inn at the edge of Westport. The ifrit suspected that the inn had only made room for him at the busiest time of the year for the prestige, mistaking him for some young nobleman of renown, and was really rather disappointed with him. Keeping the room shouldn't prove any trouble now, however; while half of the dense foot traffic he navigated was headed for Senate Hill, the other half consisted of visitors in travelling clothes going towards the city gates. With Exaltation Week over, people were going home. Work called. That, and Riveh had to guess that some smelled the trouble brewing. Others apparently smelled opportunity: he could see many in the crowd wearing black armbands. The street vendors who were hawking flags and wooden swords just yesterday had evidently gone over to selling mourning ribbons. Some were even sporting black-painted replica senate badges. Was this industrious or just callous? The ifrit decided he had more pressing matters to contemplate, and merely made his way down the uncharacteristically cluttered cobblestone streets, streamers from yesternight's celebrations still littering them.
He knew he had reached Aroden's View when the well-laid cobblestones turned into grand mosaic tiles. Heavens above, it really was a beautiful place. While technically not its wealthiest, Aroden's View was commonly considered Oppara's most historical district. And in a city boasting a history going back millennia, this was no mean feat. Extravagant gardens filled with rare flora, tree-lined avenues perfect for promenading in the latest fashions, and massive villas carefully arranged to take advantage of the breathtaking views the district provided, it being situated at the highest hilltop of the capital - this was the milieu that defined Aroden's View. All of these features bore a distinctive Azlanti touch to their architecture too; the resident of this very exclusive neighborhood were proud to remind visitors and fellow citizens alike that this was the oldest of Oppara's districts, untouched by disasters that had befallen other parts of the city, requiring them to rebuild. This was Oppara at its best, its finest, in its original state.
Then again, this idea merely led credence to those voices who insisted that the empire was in decline.
What struck Riveh the most, however, were two things more immediate: one was the menial workers occupying many of the mansions' roofs. They seemed hard at work scraping away the gold leaf installed there for Exaltation Week. The other was the sheer number of guards. There weren't many people milling about here, but most of them seemed to be sentries, flanking doorways and arches. What's more, the overwhelming majority of these did not seem to belong to the city watch, instead bearing emblems of various noble houses. These were private guards. He had time to ruminate on the implications of this in searching the district for the Trant residence; with so many gorgeous houses here, it proved difficult to narrow down. But eventually he came upon it. The gate before him bore the Trant family emblem, a goblet held by a talon, and beyond it the massive garden afforded the enclosed villa some privacy. It appeared perfectly quiet, the only visible activity being from the workers up on its roof. Like every other he had come across, this gate was also flanked by two guards, currently sizing him up with suspicious eyes. They didn't seem impressed.
"May I help you, sir?" a mustachioed guardsman asked.
Riveh didn't like to think about it, but he really was a country bumpkin at heart. He had spent his entire life in the comfortable but rustic surroundings of a distant family villa, and his only point of reference was that home of the even humbler local villages. While that did give him some more insight into actual Taldane society then most (how many Senators had ever seen a building with a dirt floor, let alone set foot in one?), it did also leave him easily impressed.
Mosaic walkways? Gushing fountains? By Aroden, even the gleaming carriages parked in the crushed gravel driveways were extravagant by his standards. The raw wealth on display here was enough to make his jaw drop.Is this what his family could have had? Would he have grown up on this street in another life? Trant's neighbor? Noble play-dates between families, if that was a thing that happened? What might it have been like, his proper birth-right?
Riveh shook himself at the Trant compound (estate was too poor a word), and did his best to not look like a vagrant or passing peddler. The fact he was carrying a bizarre orb of bronze probably did not help so he laid Factor-12 on the ground with a faint clang before answering.
"Yes, you can." Riveh says easily, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand before he realized this probably made him look like a peasant. Coughing he stood up straighter and said, "I'm here to pay a call on Dame Malphene Trant."
"My name is Riveh Geminus, she will allow me in." I think he mentally adds. "I was with her in the Senate during the recent...unpleasantness. A fellow survivor."
Realzing how lame it sounded he added, rambling nervously under the guardman's stare, "I just wanted to check up on her, you know, make sure she was well after...all that."
"I see."
Did he see? The mustachioed guardsman and his colleague exchanged a slow look between themselves that Riveh had trouble reading. There was skepticism, certainly, but also recognition. Before he could say any more, however, the guard with the hirsute lip called for the gate to be opened. It did not do so. Not the main gate, mind you. No, instead it was the small wicket gate off to one side, intended for pedestrian traffic, that swung open at the hand of another sentry waiting on the other side.
"After you, sir." The words were less invitation and more direction. Once through the portal, the ifrit was treated to the sight of the immaculately tended lawn only spied behind the wall earlier. A few white gravel lanes were all breaking through the sea of green, the early signs of spring starting to show on the grass. The enormous lawn was impressive in its smooth uniformity, no doubt requiring significant upkeep, although perhaps a bit... stark. There were no signs of the space actually being used for anything, not even the light sport or games the idle rich were sometimes known to divert themselves with, nor any bushes playfully carved into lions or some such. Really, the only activity here was that of yet more guards circling the perimeter of the enclosure. An air of severity hung over the estate.
"Sir, if you'd leave here armaments here." No less severe was the mustachioed guard following Riveh. He pointed to a smart guardhouse, one of two, built into this side of the wall and hidden from outside view. This too was no request. "Given the... recent unpleasantness, as you say, sir." While he remained within a respectful distance of the guest as Riveh relieved himself of his weapons, seeing little other option, his eyes were as keen as any hawk's. This was followed by the requisite pat-down.
"Would you like to leave your... sphere?" This, on the other hand, was a genuine question. It was obvious that none of the sentries knew what to make of the copper globe. Security precautions over with, the ifrit was then escorted down the gravel path to the manor. It fit its surroundings, Riveh had to conclude. The three-story building was dignified and austere, all grey stone and dark windows, its only real show of ostentation (beyond its sheer size, of course) being the heraldic shield carved directly into the wall over the doorway. Or so it would have been normally. At the moment the work crew carefully stripping the gold leaf from its roof robbed it of some of that dignity.
The valet awaiting him and the guard in the expansive foyer, however, was the picture of poise. Had he come prepackaged with the house? He was certainly grey enough. The appraising look he gave Riveh was less than welcoming, more so coupled with the condemning gaze he then gave the mustachioed sentry. He seemed to want to chew out the guardsman for even allowing the ifrit to come this far.
"Would Sir consider returning at a later date?" he finally settled upon asking, coolly. "The household is in mourning. Decency demands you let your business wait."
Another disapproving look. "Decency also demands more appropriate dress."
Riveh gives up his weapons without much concern, considering he fought his way through an entire dungeon without them. Besides, if he isn't safe on a noble estate, where would he be safe? He does say, "Careful with the crossbow, though. It is a national treasure."
Leaving Factor-12 behind is a pure bonus. Lugging that thing across town had been hard-work, even for Riveh's not inconsiderable strength. Also, Trant had never cared for the insulting little orb, probably best to leave him behind.
Riveh eyed the gray valet with trepidation. His family had servants of course, some of them long-term ones, but his mother had been a very informal person and the 'help' had always seemed like members of the family then hired servants. Indeed, Riveh had been sure as a child that the huntsman was a distant and friendly uncle. This valet looked to be of a different cloth.
"I would like nothing more then to leave your master to their grief." Riveh says, and finds it is true, "But the times are pressing and business cannot always wait. Ask your mistress how she feels on the matter. if she wants you to run me off, I'll leave without protest." Riveh feels it would make things worse if he admitted this was his one suit of worthwhile clothing.
"Careful with the crossbow, though. It is a national treasure."
Oh dear. While professionalism and propriety was clearly in the square-jawed guards' job description, the ifrit's assertion did send something of a dubious double take through them. He received a careful nod from the one manning the guardhouse in assurance.
----------
Inside the manor, however, Riveh's words drew a curious response. Although not so much from the manservant. No, that grey gespenst reacted with predictable surliness at his insistence. How dared this boyish mediocrity intrude upon this fine house and family that he had no doubt tended for most of his life? But - he not being paid to refuse orders - did acquiesce, if with a sour frown. "Very well. If Sir will follow me to the drawing room. You may await the mistress there. Who may I say is calling?"
So far, so good. But the strange response came from Riveh's mustachioed escort. The armed man did a little jerk of the head and looked to him with slightly alarmed surprise, as if thrown off by his request. What now? The uncomfortable feeling of having walked into some misunderstanding sank onto the ifrit. He did not have much time to think on this, though, as the valet demanded his attention. Leading them a short way trough the villa, Riveh was shown to a sitting room. The space, not particularly big and made smaller still by the ornate wooden furniture, was no lavish parlor, but rather a comfortable area guests could wait on his lordship in case of appointments. "The mistress will be with you shortly," the servant said in departing. The door then closed on him, leaving him alone.
Riveh did not have long to appreciate his environment's luxury. Nor was there much to appreciate. Everything he had seen of the Trant residence so far had spoken to opulence tempered by traditional functionality. The drawing room with its reflective wooden floor, stark white walls with contrasting exposed ceiling beams lacquered black, and solid carved furniture was no exception. A heavy severity hung over the place. But within minutes the door was opened again, sparing the ifrit from having the dour atmosphere set in on him. A problem presented itself immediately, however. The woman entering was not Malphene Trant. Also, clad in mourning dress with requisite black face veil as she was, she could hardly be any more dour herself.
"Yes?" she spoke in a fragile voice, sounding vaguely confused at seeing Riveh. "I am Lady Trant. I don't believe we've met."
Ah. When the manservant had referred to his inadequate clothing, he may have had the coloration in mind more so than their actual quality, the ifrit now realized. 'Household in mourning' indeed. How to salvage this encounter with who he had to assume, despite her every feature being hidden from sight, could only be Malphene's mother?
Ah.
Riveh took a step back and bowed his head, sincerely upset at his actions. "Ah, Lady Trant. I am sorry. My name is Riveh Geminus. I am sorry to disturb you from your sorrows. May I tender my deepest condolences for your, and your houses's loss."
He coughed awkwardly and added, "I intended to ask about your daughter, Malphene , not yourself. I was with her yesterday during the...at the Senate. She saved my life, actually. I wanted to make sure she was alright, we were separated after escaping."
Suddenly Riveh's entire reason for coming here seems crass and stupid. This was not the nexus of some rebellion, this was a noble house thrown into shock and mourning. Dozens, hundreds of lives had been suddenly altered by the death of the patriarch. And he was here, circling like a vulture talking of the spoils of an impending war? Riveh's cheeks began to burn at the implication. Had only a day among the Senate turned him into a scheming opportunist?
Shaking his head he said, "Again, my apologies, Lady Trant. I can see that now is not the time. Please, forgive my intrusion and give my best to your daughter."
The black-draped lady of the house listened anxiously to Riveh, hands clasped at her waist, but spoke up as he motioned to leave. "P-please wait, Sir!"
The voice behind the veil was careful, but carried obvious concern. "I did not attend the gala myself and am gladdened to hear you survived t-that... awful, awful affair that claimed my dear husband, but... You say my daughter saved you? She has made no mention of you. And what do you mean by saying you were 'with her'?"
'With her'? Oh no. The ifrit, already intent on leaving the household, found all new reason to depart. Was the Lady drawing unfortunate and unintended conclusions from his carefully chosen words? He could practically feel the eyes behind the veil, baseless suspicion and conjecture as to the nature of his visit glowing from them. Coming here really had been a mistake. Before he could think on what to do, however, the door behind the newly minted widow flew open.
"Geminus!" The towering figure of Malphene Trant was not quite so towering today; yesternight's elaborately constructed hairstyle had made way for a tight, blonde bun, perhaps for the somber occasion, shaving a few inches off her total height. Like her mother, she was wearing an inky black dress, although she had foregone the face-veil. Instead her alarmed expression was on full display. The mustachioed guardsman was just visible behind her shoulder.
"Malphene?" her mother queried. The voice was still fragile, albeit now with that particular edge innate only to parents. "Do you know this man?"
Malphene appeared as wary as Riveh had only seen her in life & death combat. He noted that her eyes were slightly red. "This is... Sir Riveh Geminus. We met at the gala. He helped me."
"Then it's true? You were with him instead of your father during the attack?"
What little color there was in the Dame's face drained away. "Wh..."
"It is true. Malphene, how could you?" the widow sobbed. "Tell me the truth. Who is this man? Has he been calling upon you? Were you with him when your father needed you?"
"Wha... How dare you?!" The color was back. Trant's cheeks darkened in outrage. "You don't get to chide me for not being ladylike enough for years, mother, and then ask me to fight off a hundred assailants! I was with father! I tried to help him! I already told you this! What do you expect of me?"
"Don't yell at your mother!" the Lady lamented. "Not with your father lying in the parlor. Have some respect. Explain him then, this... this young stag of yours. Why would he be calling upon you now?"
"Mother, he saved my life!"
"... Is he here for a reward?" came the confused reply.
"Out!" The Dame pointed her mother to the doorway where the guard still stood, looking about as awkward at the display as Riveh felt. "Leave us. We have matters to discuss."
Lady Trant let out another great blubbery sob at this demand, shoulders slumped at the utter unreasonableness of her unruly daughter, but acquiesced. "Oh, if your father could see you now... He would never have allowed this..." She was still dabbing at her veiled eyes when the troubled guard closed the door behind her, leaving the ifrit and Dame alone. Trant immediately sank into a chair. Silence hung heavy in the air for a moment as she leaned forward to rest her head in her hands and said nothing.
"What are you doing here, Geminus?"
Muffled as it was, she speaking into her palms, Riveh couldn't detect anything accusive in the question. Trant merely sounded tired. And perhaps a bit sad.
If Riveh had felt awkward before, now he was devoutly wishing that Gozreh would let the ground swallow him up. He was an intruder here, trespassing on a private place. No outsider should have witnessed that argument between mother and daughter even at the best of times, let alone when the entire nation seemed pushed to the limit.
Trant's question was telling. Why was Riveh here?
Silently Riveh went to a small liquor cabinet set against the wall, obviously as a courtesy for visitors. The ifrit knew little about fancy drinks, so he simply grabbed what looked oldest and most expensive, pouring two small glasses half-full. Without a word he crossed the carpeted room to Malphene and handed it to her.
Still standing he said, feeling very odd, "To House Trant." and downed it.
After drinking he said, "I came to check on your for one thing. I didn't get a chance to say good bye after we were found by the troops." Riveh paused a moment, then went on, "What did you think of that Lion Blade?"
Riveh suppressed a gag. Hells below, what was this swill? It was like trying to swallow a burning ball of yarn, pins included. It was a testament to his determination not to embarrass himself any further that he managed to suppress any visible discomfort in downing the glass, or at least so he thought. Not that Trant was paying much attention. The young noblewoman only raised her head in accepting the drink. She gave a little huff of derision at Riveh's toast, but, after a little pause, joined him in swallowing the stuff whole. Her face scrunched up.
"Oh, that is foul."
Still, the liquor wasn't all bad. The absurdity of the situation did force a smirk to the Dame's lips. The ifrit noted that they weren't painted anymore. He supposed that wouldn't be appropriate. She looked to him with something approaching appreciation now. "I'm sorry you had to see that display just now. She'll be fine. I'll talk to her. And I apologize if she was rude to you; you don't deserve that."
Huh. It was an undeniably more somber, more civil Malphene Trant sitting before him now, Riveh reflected. Shame it took her father's passing to put her in such a state.
"I came to check on your for one thing. I didn't get a chance to say good bye after we were found by the troops."
"Is that all you're here for? To bid adieu?" Trant replied half mockingly, half amused. A poorly disguised frown descended onto her immediately afterwards, however. "I should say you've picked a poor time to finally learn some manners, but... Thank you."
But his query as to her thoughts of the Lion Blade saw her raise one blonde eyebrow in curiosity. "That agent Treister? Only that he looked ready to sleep in a lion pride. But then I understand he was there for... the massacre. And the aftermath. All those scrambling to fix the Grand Prince's mess now... I don't envy them. I think his partner died during the attack too. He let that slip when he questioned me. Why do you ask?"
The Dame grew quiet for a moment before raising a question of her own. "What happens now, Geminus?" Already Riveh could tell she wasn't so much looking for a definitive answer from him as much as simply airing her frustrations. "I've heard there's talk of civil war, but mother just ignores it. She's off in a world of her own already. She's set on mourning my father as tradition dictates, and has declared that no one is going to see her face again until her own dying day. She refuses to understand why the other houses haven't been by to pay their respects, as if they don't have their own dead to mourn... I think most are preparing to leave the city, heading for the country. And my brothers! My brothers, the useless oafs...!"
The ifrit could tell she was working herself up again, red eyes growing just a bit redder.
Riveh doesn't respond to Trant's apology about her mother. Evening waving dismissively seemed too personal so the ifrit just lets it past without comment. Grief was something Riveh knew well, but only at a distance. The raw power of it was nothing he wished to discuss.
'Well, not only to say farewell." Riveh says a bit stiffly when Trant dismissed when he considered a very nice gesture. "We went through a great deal together, it only seemed fair to meet-up again. Besides, what am I going to do, check in on Sir Plastion?' he snorts into the empty glass at the mere thought.
As the noblewoman's talk turns to civil war, Riveh sits down. The still burning liquor in his stomach makes it an easy choice.
"Sounds like you have lots of responabilty." Riveh says, before going on, "The Lion Blade said the Princess is vying for the throne against the Strategos. Hard to see it going any other way then with blades."
A long pause and then Ruveh ventures, carefully, "Will they approach House Trant? Both sides will be looking for allies and approaching the noble houses. They may demand alliance...or allegiance."
Riveh was unsure how hard to press. Being too open about such things might come across as crass to a family deep in mourning but ignoring it was folly, both for themselves and for the nation. Trant was his only window into this world of high-stakes diplomacy and war. Geminus was a name, but he had no power, no retainers, no commercial interests. No one was going to seek his aid...but House Trant may be formidable. Just how big was it anyway?
were one of the wealthiest Taldan noble houses. During the Even-Tongued Conquest, however, the house lost its primary base of operations in Galt and had to retreat, losing much of its fortune and working hard to maintain its foreign connections. 24 hours ago it was under the shrewd leadership of its patriarch Duke Quintus Trant, a man not afraid to use his senatorial seat to push for laws advancing his house's riches. Trant trade routes, while not as ubiquitous as they once were, stretch the length of Avistan.
"Besides, what am I going to do, check in on Sir Plastion?' he snorts into the empty glass at the mere thought.
The quip earned him another smile which, while sardonic, something within him found very rewarding, far more so than he knew was reasonable. When she looked to you with approval rather than utter contempt as was her wont, Maplhene Trant really could be quite attractive. Not enough so for him to forget that she was a bit of an ass. No, nothing so drastic. But it did help. Riveh was only a man.
The scowl came back in full force, however, as he broached the topic of what side her family might defer to in the upcoming war. "Geminus, I do not care," she said in rising just as the ifrit took his seat. "I don't even know who leads House Trant right now, not truly. Nor do my brothers, certainly. It is tradition for the widow to take power until a male heir can claim the position in cases like these, but mother is in no state to lead anyone right now. And what about the Princess's vote? Did that even go into power considering how the evening ended? If so, mother would be not just an interim leader, but a-a legal matriarch. Every one of my elder brothers would contest that."
It now struck Riveh that not only were a hundred other noble houses going through similar succession struggles at this very moment, but that last night's repeal, allowing women to inherit such political power seats, was likely confounding such efforts even further. "Call me selfish if you must, but I cannot spare a thought to the Princess or Strategos right now. All I want is my father back. And I shall."
She suddenly fixed him with a forceful glare. "Geminus, last night's attack wasn't made on a whim. It was the culmination of some months-long conspiracy. I know because... My brothers and I agreed that we should arrange for my father's resurrection. The money is no obstacle. But apparently magic like that requires a very particular gemstone, and when they contacted the jewelers... Geminus, they say there isn't a single diamond large enough left in the city! Someone has been hoarding them for however long waiting for this to happen! Now, with so many dead, the prices have skyrocketed. It's-it's completely mad!"
What? Was this possible? Had someone bought up every diamond in Oppara with the knowledge that surviving aristocrats in the wake of the most cataclysmic assassination in the nation's history would be scrambling for such gemstones as components to magic bringing back their loved ones? Who? Why? For profit? If so it was as outrageous a scheme as had ever been dreamt up, fully worthy of the outrage dominating Trant right now. "I refuse to believe there's no way to bring my father back. But my brothers have already given up, and are talking among themselves how to divide the family holdings! So..."
Anger was forcefully pushed down as the towering noblewoman's voice took on a pleading tone. Riveh hadn't seen her this vulnerable since... well, since she'd nearly died in front of him. "Geminus, I... I trust you. Please. Will you help me bring back my father, please? I... don't know who else to turn to."
Riveh thought to himself that Trant's desire to remain aloof might not withstand the coming conflagration. Both sides would be out hunting for allies, he was sure of it. How could they not? And House Trant had extensive commercial interests...money won wars. At first such requests might be polite, asking for aid and political alliance but over time....Trant should watch her brothers. One of them might be offered a deal they were unable to pass up, and offer Malphene's control (or head) as a down payment.
Still, this seemed hardly the time to say such things. There would be time.
Trat's final request hits the young ifrit like a hammerblow. Him? She was asking his help in resurrecting her father? Even setting the metaphysical and metaphorical aspects aside, how on Golarion could he help? He had no noble house behind him, no treasury, no connections. Nothing. That was why he was here after all, swapping stories with a bossy bully who berated up for fun.
And yet....
Riveh sat back in his seat, holding the empty glass between his hands.
"I...I" Riveh says, unsure of how to start, "I am one man, Trant. And not a very important one. But I have one idea, a very slender reed to lean on. My patron last night was a lady who told me she was Lady Martella Coufas, someone interested in helping me re-gain my family name and honor. A sort of charity project and getting a noble scion for cheap, or so I thought."
Riveh abruptly stands up and re-fills the glass with the horrible alcohol. The fact it tastes like hot textiles is a feature, not a problem.
"She lied to me. She is actually Martella Lotheed, a black sheep of the family, but still a member. It was that family which destroyed mine and condemned us to our current state." The ifrit tries to down the drink in dramatic fashion but gets about a third of it before the room starts to blur so he stops.
"Still, she seemed connected, ruthless and powerful. Exactly the sort of person we need, and at least she'll answer the door for me. She might know more of the war and perhaps about any diamonds."
He looks at Trant for her reaction before going on, "She was in communication with me last night, when we found ourselves trapped in the basements of the Senate. Her last message cut off, but she said she was heading for her safe house. All I heard was about it was 'Dignif'. Like the start of Dignified."
He sipped at the nasty liquor, feeling it coat his tongue. "Any ideas? I'm desperate for an ally right now."
"I...I" Riveh says, unsure of how to start, "I am one man, Trant. And not a very important one."
"I trust you. And that..." Trant sighed, awkward and exasperated with herself, clearly having some difficulty with the sentiment she was trying to voice. "And I think that is going to be very important going forward. Never more so than now. No one is going to be more important than those we trust."
When it became apparent that Riveh was indeed willing to help, the obvious relief that washed over the noblewoman was almost transformative. She very nearly grew in front him, shoulders rising from a perpetual slouch he hadn't noticed. In fact, said relief was likely twofold. It wasn't just a clear indication of the the young woman's desperation; the ifrit couldn't help but suspect that she was almost equally relieved he hadn't attached some condition to his aid, even made her beg. He thought back to when he first met the good Dame, how she had not just coerced and intimidated, even beaten, a political opponent, but taken obvious pleasure in doing so. No doubt she had found asking for help difficult. Which was probably also why she now eagerly moved past this unpleasant hurdle.
"Lotheed?" she repeated at Riveh's mention of Martella. "The stewards to the royal family?" She nodded, hesitantly but then more strongly. "Alright, yes. My father had many contacts, but none I trust to approach. This patron of yours sounds as good a lead as any. But this safe house of hers..."
The pink forehead wrinkled in thought. "It couldn't be Dignified Drive, could it? It's a small street only a few minutes walk from here, at the edge of the district."
Riveh turns over Trant's words in his head. Stewards of the royal family. He had not forgotten it of course, how could he? The Lotheeds were pretenders, usurpers of his own rightful place but he had overlooked the obvious connection between the diamonds and the royal treasury. Surely if anyone was well-placed to still have access in these times, it was the Lotheeds.
Unless they had been behind it? Had Martella known about the impending massacre? Riveh considered those panicked, breathless words magically sent to him and dismissed it. No, Martella at least had not expected it.
"Dignified Drive?" Riveh says, "The name is a little pretentious, isn't it?" The young man shakes his head, going on, "It very well might have been. A posh street seems as likely as any for a safe place. Martella called it a safe house, although I do not know if that simply means a secure refuge or a secret. Do you know of any Lotheed property there? Do you know anyone who might know such things?"
Already the young man was standing again, half glass forgotten. "Not only could it be our lead, Martella might be in some danger or hurt. I owe her, at least, to check on her."
"You really are a country yokel, you know that?" The Dame's tight, blonde bun threatened to come loose as she shook her head at Riveh's comment on the street name. "This is Oppara. Every Crownsgate hovel names itself a castle. Don't tell me this is your first time in the city?"
For a moment the familiar derision returned to the noblewoman's otherwise fine features before she caught herself; the uncouth upstart was her ally now, and not just an ally of convenience anymore either. With this in mind, she very generously opted not to badger the ifrit for his ignorance any further in favor of answering his question of nearby Lotheed property.
"I don't believe so, no. Certainly not a family villa or the like. They're based in Tandak and tend to oversee their concerns there. There, and... What's the name of that one county? Mynat?"
Meratt. Riveh was only too familiar with the county of Meratt. It was his birthright, what the Lotheeds had stolen from him. Nestled just south of mighty Verduran Forest, just north of the Tandak Plains, the heartland of Taldor as it were, it was a piece of pastoral paradise. And it, along with the rest of Tandak prefecture, required their fair bit of administration, keeping the Lotheeds from the capital. Titus Lotheed, the idle fool, who he had met during the gala was probably the exception, too young (and dim) to have any real responsibility within the family. Yes, Trant was likely right in believing that the Lotheeds didn't maintain a mansion in the city.
But some more surreptitious holding, some location they could operate from within the capital where all power flowed from? That seemed downright likely.
"Yes, well..." Trant went on, seemingly vaguely put off by the ifrit's assertion of heroism. "I suppose we could ask about any Lotheed holdings at the municipal center and go through their records. Or we could go to the drive and... see what we see?"
The Dame was obviously less than confident in this suggestion. Riveh had to assume she hadn't actually done anything akin to investigative work before, no matter her father's use for her as a bruiser.
Riveh was instantly shaking his head at Trant's ideas, dismissing them. Checking the records could be useful but it would take hours even if they could get into those offices during the current emergency. And as far as taking a carriage....the very idea made him snort.
"I appreciate the offer, but I think I am best going alone." he lifts a hand, "You are simply too well known, your family too recognizable to do a stealth mission."
Then the ifrit hesitates and wonders if he is assuming too much of his own investigative skills. Any safe house might be deliberately undetectable from the street, to the untrained eye. No, best not to rely on that.
"If you can, go tot he records office and poke around. Bribe a clerk or something, see if the Lotheeds own, or owned any property on Dignified Drive." A pause and then, "Try not to be too mean about it, the clerk is just trying to do his job."
"I'll go and have a look around, on foot. See if there is anything to see. I'll come back here with news."
"I appreciate the offer, but I think I am best going alone." he lifts a hand, "You are simply too well known, your family too recognizable to do a stealth mission."
For the briefest of moments, Trant looked ready to launch an incensed protest, only to once again reign herself in. Watching her try to be civil with him was sometimes like watching a bull trying to ignore a matador's cape. Instead she drew her mouth tight to quip, coolly: "Why, hello there, Sir Kettle. I am Dame Pot. Have we met?"
The Dame folded her arms. "As if you don't stand out like a crow among doves..." She huffed, once, though this time in resignation. "Fine, yes. I suppose you're right. We can get more done if we split up. I'll see if there's anything to be found at city hall."
Dreadful as the young noblewoman was at concealing how she felt, Riveh could see her frustration at having no more concrete way of helping her father plain as day.
"Then... I'll see you here. We should go immediately. I'll have to make arrangements." Striding towards the door, Trant wasted no time getting to work. Resurrective magic carried a certain time limit, after all. In grasping the handle, however, she turned back to him, a softer look on her face.
"Hey, Geminus... Thank you for doing this. I appreciate it, I really do. I won't forget this."
Behind the door the mustachioed guardsman still awaited, springing into a military posture as the Dame walked right past to find her mother again. No doubt that would entail another raucous debate. Right. It was time for the ifrit to get going.
Trant probably meant it as an insult but he remark about sticking out rings in Riveh's mind. His dusky skin marks him as out of place and an object of suspicion at the best of times and with things so unsettled....odds are plenty in the city were blaming Qadira for all of this.
He does smile at Trant's thank you and says, "I am helping both of us, at least I hope so."
On the way out Riveh ducks into a room, and changes into more common clothing. The idea is to stand out less, although the elite status of Dignifed Drive might make that plan backfire. Still, if became obvious wearing a normal tunic made him a beggar, he could come back and change.
"Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir." The waiting guardsman was immediately compliant as Riveh asked if he could please use the drawing room to change. His demeanor was really a good deal more deferential now, he noted after a quick wardrobe change; at no point had the mustachioed guard been disrespectful, of course, but his demeanor had certainly been marked by professionally-veiled mistrust. Now he even walked half a step behind the ifrit, not at his side, in escorting him back down the white gravel driveway. The others guards even picked up on this quickly, handing him back his arms with all due courtesy.
"Be safe, Sir, and..." one nodded in departure as he stepped back on the gorgeous mosaic streets of Aroden's View. "Taldor endures."
Ah. With Malphene vouching for him, they now apparently viewed him foremost as a survivor of the Exaltation Massacre, proven as some of the best the nation had to offer, a true patriot. Riveh once again had to wonder at the patriotic camaraderie that had surged, almost defiantly, in the average Taldan in the wake of the attack. And how long it could last.
----------
Armed with directions to his destination, the last Geminus encountered no obstacles in finding Dignified Drive. None beyond the suspicious stares of the sentries slowly milling the wide, tree-lined avenues of the district. He couldn't help but notice that they were far more bold in their chastising glares now than they had been earlier, perhaps as a direct result of his humbler dress. Still, none approached him. And so he arrived at his target within minutes of leaving the dour Trant residence.
There he found at least one one small reason to take heart in the face of the difficult challenge ahead: Dignified Drive really wasn't that big. Occupying only a single street easily covered in a brisk five minute walk, Riveh had to conclude that Malphene had been right: Opparan pride did not just stop at pretentious naming conventions, but apparently extended to architectural misnomers. A 'drive' this was not. Happily, this meant he had less ground to cover in his search. Unhappily, it was the most cramped road he had seen in the district so far. Dignified Drive bordered World Breaker Hill, another exclusive area of the city, and featured no expansive noble villas. Instead the wide brightly tiled street had a lush green park on one side, just large enough to run the entire length of it. The well maintained grass smelled sweet to the ifrit as he passed the main entrance, open to the public. A plaque shining in the noon sun read 'Muesello Park' - whether it had been named so in remembrance of someone, or in honor of a generous donor was unclear to him.
The other side of the street was instead defined by houses - large, attractive, three tiered, rowed townhouses of cream colored stone, all topped with elaborate, uniform cupolas. These likely represented the most affordable homes for anyone in Aroden's View, and yet Riveh had no doubt they were prohibitively expensive. In fact, these likely belonged to the merchant class of the district as the ground floor of most of the houses sported some boutique or another. He walked past several of these, all specialty stores, all blending small-scale charm with luxurious exclusivity, all clearly catering to those with money to spare. Looking through a window, the bookstore Ateneo appeared a cramped museum, sleek bookshelves fighting for space with busts of famed authors, and, notably, a magically animated painting; was that some scene from a play or another repeating itself within the frame? Something or other in Azlanti was written over the store's doorway. Not too far from it was a tobacconist. Here there were no windows, but the free-hanging sign spoke volumes, even featuring a classic heraldic shield complete with slogan, motto (again in Azlanti) and attendants supporting a coat of arms, a unicorn and wyrm. By appointment to his Majesty the Grand Prince, Suppliers of smokers' requisites, Brightman's Tobacco Lounge. The placard seemed a stamp of quality, one almost unnecessary standing immediately outside the place: a pleasant, almost caramel-like aroma tickled Riveh's nose, vaguely reminding him of roasted chestnuts. But if the tobacconist appealed to his nose, the delicatessen a bit further along was making brazen advances to his stomach. Balinger's, as it was called, looked a smorgasbord of fine meats and cheeses. Were those...? Yes, entire bouquets of roses fashioned out of thinly sliced prosciutto filled the display window, resting on a wide ice block. Apparently the store was having an especially festive sale for Exaltation Week.
All this and more made walking Dignified Drive a pleasure for the ifrit. But as for his mission, searching the place for anything that might point him to a supposed safe house of Martella's, he came up empty handed.
Riveh strolls up the street, trying to avoid making eye contact with the scowling locals, none of whom seem happy to see a dusky skinned man on their street. Bookstore, butcher shop, tobaccoist, any or none could be a safehouse. And the sight of the prosciutto just reminds the ifrit he missed out on breakfast this morning. Stomach grumbling and feeling annoyed (and more then a bit foolish) he retires to the park.
He finds a stone bench, under the shade of a tall plane tree, facing the street. Sitting down the ifrit eyes the road, looking more carefully. Was he wasting his time? Oppara was a huge city. If this lead didn't pay off, he could spend days...weeks looking for Martella and find nothing. Maybe Trant would find something-
Then Riveh noticed the Tobacco Lounge. It was the lack of windows that first caught his eye. Granted, not entirely unusual but surely you'd want windows in such a place, to let out the smoke and entice passerbys? And then the ifrit's eyes focused on the coat of arms. A unicorn and wyrm, the well-painted sign swinging slightly in the breeze.
Riveh stood up suddenly and nearly slaps his forehead like a two-bit theater comic. Of course! That was the same coat of arms.....The tobacconist! Was Martella inside right now?
Was it even open? The spatter of sunlight at his feet, what made it through the treetop above him, moved leisurely along the ground as midday passed into early afternoon and still Riveh saw no activity from Brightman's Tobacco Lounge. His vantage point from the park bench was a good one, affording the ifrit a good view as he spied on the shop opposite him. Unfortunately, that shop really only consisted of a single black-painted door from the outside. No windows allowed him to peek inside, no activity told him anything of note. The street was very quiet, as was most of Aroden's View, recent events having torn apart anything resembling daily routine. Few pedestrians passed him by, the exception being the regular sentries, and of those carriages ferrying people, none stopped at Dignified Drive.
Really, the most notable event was in one guardsman walking by to give him some not-so-friendly advice ("Dangerous times, sir. Perhaps it'd be best if we all just went back where we belong.") The guard had merely continued his patrol, however, giving the outsider the chance to see himself out. A chance that Riveh had promptly ignored. He was a man on a mission. But that mission was looking bleaker with every passing minute. Was he even on the right track? The tobacconist's heraldic shield wasn't exactly like Martella's, he'd realized by now. Where hers was dominated by the interlocked wyrm and unicorn, here these two mythical creatures merely propped up an entirely different coat of arms, and not one he recognized. And wasn't Martella's symbol inherently false anyway? After all, there was no House Coufas - that was merely her cover. The Lotheed heraldry was entirely different. If indeed she was a Lotheed. Couldn't this just be a coincidence?
Perhaps. But if so it was one heck of a coincidence. A sound suddenly tore Riveh away from his watch and pontification both. He looked down one end of the street. What in the world? A group of constables, eight of them, from the city watch were marching down the brightly tiled road at a brisk pace, clear purpose in their step. Their official blue 'n green uniforms stood out compared to the more somberly dressed private noble guards that the ifrit had had to endure in the district up til now. What were they here for? Had something happened?
He obviously wasn't the only curious soul here, for the next second he saw two daring guards walk up to the watchmen and halt their progress. Riveh couldn't hear everything said at this distance, but the officials were clearly not best pleased. Swiftly dispatching the private guardsmen with some authoritative barking, he understood that they were here with some very particular official business in mind, and that the guardsmen did not have the jurisdiction to ask a thing of them. One single word stood out to him clear as day, however, as well it should - it was already on his mind: "tobacconist". The watchmen were heading straight for the tobacco lounge.
Riveh watches the constables with unabashed interest. What was this? His concern and attention deepened when the group dismisses a local guardsman and makes their intent clear. The tobacconist. Any lingering doubts about this building having hidden depths vanishes. Something was going on here. But what should Riveh do? His mind ran through many options, dismissing them as quickly.
Finally, much to his frustration, the ifrit decided the best option was to watch and listen. It was simply too risky to entangle himself directly...but even so, he needed to be closer.
Leaving his seat, Riveh walked up the street and then doubled back, coming *down* the street toward the tobbaconist, pretending to be looking in the windows of the various shops, as if totally unaware of the impending police raid going on.
"Open this door!" Repeated blows from a metal-clad hand followed the command. The little regiment had passed the completely innocuous window shopper that was Riveh without sparing him a glance, second or first. Now they stood at the tobacconist's black painted entrance, the apparent leader of the pack hammering on the door. The ifrit had no doubt they'd get in one way or another; in approaching them for a better look, he'd recognized the bulky item one of the watchmen was carrying as a portable battering ram.
"Open this door!" the officer repeated, voice stern and practiced. "This is the Oppara Constabulary! In the name of the Grand Pr..." The words caught somewhere in his throat. For a moment he looked almost pained, his comrades awkward. Ah, so the truth of the emperor's betrayal was making its way through the ranks. Still, he made an admirable enough recovery. "In the name of the Primogen Crown, open this door!"
A few more blows thundered across the quiet street. But he might as well be knocking on a tombstone for all the good this did: the storefront remained still. "Right!" The man nodded to his battering ram toting comrade. What followed made for a perversely riveting watch. Riveh observed as, in the course of just a few minutes, the solid metal beam reduced the evidently very sturdy door to tinder, every impact leaving naked white splinters where there had been black-painted wood.
As soon as they had a portal to cross, the watchmen rushed in. The ifrit waited a moment to discretely move closer, wanting a better idea of what might transpire inside. He was disappointed, however. The door to Brightman's Tobacco Lounge did not lead to any ground floor establishment at all, but rather a wide well-appointed staircase leading down. It would seem the lounge lay beneath street level. From this vantage point he could hear the constables' heavy footfalls, presumably in the lounge. And their angry, albeit muffled, questioning. They had presumably found someone down there.
Riveh watches the watchmen dismantle the door in moments, and rush inside. While this was rather exciting to watch (and removed the problem of how to enter for the ifrit) it also meant any further action vanished inside. It would be possible to play a simple window-shopper if he followed indoors. And yet, Riveh felt drawn to that smashed entry-way. It was one thing to watch and wait, when faced with an unknown and possibly heavily armed building. It was quite another to ignore an active police raid.
trying to stay quiet, Riveh slipped in the smashed door of Brightman's Tobacconist and followed the watchman down the stairs.
The short flight of stairs curved down to meet hardwood floorboards, and it was from this corner that Riveh peered into what had to be a spacious refurbished cellar. And what an overhaul that must have been. Brightman's Tobacco Lounge was a softly lit exercise in sophistication and indulgence, shiny upholstered sofas and armchairs set up against ornate wooden walls, everything color coordinated in various shades of rich browns. It was clearly intended as a gentleman's getaway, somewhere the discerning smoker could leave behind the hustle & bustle of city life to read, perhaps chat with a like-minded peer, and of course sample a new blend of tobacco. A vast collection of carved pipes adorned one wall, while another was not a wall at all, the ifrit realized, but instead a collection of discreet drawers reaching all the way to the ceiling and spanning that entire side of the room. The drawers were all labeled, no doubt filled with various tobaccos. The whole saloon exuded comfort just as strongly as it did its aromas - while not a smoker, Riveh had to admit that the notes of toasted wood, spice, leather, even fruit and more he could not identify hanging about the air here were very pleasant.
A shame that a group of angry officials were stomping about the space.
"Once more: names - who are these people who use your place to meet?"
Only one single person occupied the room beyond the eight watchmen, a neatly dressed man, relatively young, sporting the trimmest little curled mustache Riveh had ever seen. He was sitting, or rather had been forced into, one of the assorted chairs with an increasingly frustrated guard standing over him. The questioning seemed to be going poorly. "I too must repeat: this a commercial lounge, my good man," the assumed proprietor answered. "Many people meet here and I do not know to whom you are referring."
"I'm warning you not to play games with us, Brightman, not now." The dour warning carried real agitation. "You know what happened last night. This is not the time. We received Lion Blade intel that people have been coming and going out of your establishment outside business hours, at all times of the night, along with orders to arrest you if necessary. Damn Lion Blades have suspected seditious activity from your shop for months, and if I find out it's true, if I find you've been playing host to whatever devils attacked the senate last night..."
He didn't need to finish the threat; the enmity glowing out of the constable's eyes said plenty. The ifrit could tell that the only thing separating the officers from any other Opparan right now was a thin film of professionalism. They were as affected by the attack on the city, their city, as anyone else, and the idea that they might have one of the foul collaborators on their hands was riling them up. The proprietor, however, obviously seemed in turn to go cold at the accusation.
Which was why it was all the more curious that he merely repeated himself. "I have no knowledge of what you're talking about."
This went on for another few minutes, the leading watchman's interrogation going nowhere while his comrades searched the quarters, pulling away furniture to examine every nook and cranny. Until... "We are within our right to simply drag you to the station and force the truth out of you, Brightman! So...! Grah!"
The constable had been silenced by a swift fist to the jaw. An almighty clatter broke out as every foot present broke out into a sudden sprint, the proprietor, seemingly without provocation, attacking the guard to make an attempt to flee only to immediately be followed by every other man there. He was tackled to the polished floor just before reaching the stairway, inches away from Riveh. "Put him in irons!" the recovered constable yelled. "Back to the station. We'll get the truth from the bastard there."
Riveh watched the strange events play out at the foot of the stairs, wondering what it all meant. 'Seditious activity'? Assuming the Lion Blades were right, did that mean Martella's safehouse was a known refuge for those involved with the plot? but no, there was no way Martella's words into the Senate badge had been act...could they? Was it then the other way around? Was someone using the guardsman to flush out rivals to those behind the massacre? Targeting Martella as a potential threat?
He needed to know more, he needed to search the building. Luckily it seemed Brightman's poorly conceived escape attempt would provide him the chance. With the tobbacoist carted off to the guardhouse, Riveh might have time to do a through search. Better yet, the police might even set a guard outside to anyone else out. With caution, he might have the building to himself for hours.
Riveh crept back up the stairs and tried to find a place to hide, hoping the guards (and Brightman) passed him without notice.
Quickly retreating and finding an alcove at the top of the stairs, Riveh wedged himself into it, asked his beating heart to be still, and waited for the officers at his heels to pass.
Success! The constables climbed the stairway never noticing his presence. "Dalsine! Drost! Remain here. Make sure no one enters." The order was followed by assenting grunts, and the ifrit could hear the bulk of the little regiment marching away, hauling their prisoner presumably to the local guard station. It had worked. He was now free to search the place. Now he could only hope there was something to find.
As a child, Riveh had always enjoyed the travelling bards and story-tellers, who made a living wandering from town to town and spinning tales for coin. His mother indulged him so despite being off the beaten path, more then a few such entertainers found their way to the Geminus estate year after year. Riveh's favorite had been a dumpy Varisian man with a floppy mustache, dyed a deep red. And his favorite story had been a set of tales about a famed thief who, after one too many run-ins with the law, turned private investigator rand solved crimes. Riveh had spent hours, spell bound, listening to the portly man pretend to find clues, catch clever criminals and, of course, save maidens from horrible (unspoken) fates. What had the fictional detective's name been? Caradoc? Burdock?
In any case, Riveh felt like that detective now.
Riveh decided to start downstairs, for a few reasons. One, that is where people tended to hide things (if stories were any guide). Second and more important, he would be less likely to alert the two standing guards if he mad noise. If he found nothing there, well, he could move.
The ifirt padded down the stairs, to the lounge where Brightman had been questioned and tackled. Riveh wasn't sure what he was looking for but anything out of place, and especially anything that looked like a secret room or place to hide. This was supposed to be a safehouse, right?
This was taking too long. Riveh had to admit that he wasn't quite the next great detective, fictional or otherwise, as his search passed the half-hour mark. A quick once-over of the lounge, now cluttered after the constables' own search, had turned up nothing. Nothing suspicious, anyway. And the home above had proven just as tragically innocent. Feeling the slightest tinge of panic setting in, the ifrit concluded that he could only keep looking, going from quick investigation to methodical hunt. He couldn't leave with the guards at the door, after all. What other option did he have? And yet - even with him returning to the lounge to pull down paintings, knocking on walls, even feeling the furniture for anything hidden in the leather, he still came away empty-handed. Really, the only thing he had found was a new appreciation for the heavy aromas that permeated the space. He was so frustrated he could go for a smoke.
He sighed and let himself fall into a brass-buttoned brown sofa. How long had he been here? Too long, certainly. The officers would be back at some point, and when they did they would assuredly have some pointed questions should they find him still here. His Burlock would be very disappointed. No, that wasn't the name either. But it was almost the name on one of the labelled drawers. 'Tinlock's - toasted, spicy'. Riveh eyed the wall of large darkwood drawers. Going by the labels most contained tobacco blends, some specific cigar brands. He hadn't looked these over yet and decided he might as well. Foregoing the little step-ladder needed to reach the top, he began at the bottom. While the ifrit wasn't sure anything would come off this, it certainly was an olfactory experience. Every case contained individually wrapped packages of smoking weed, and every one of them offered a new aroma. Sharp pepper, heady bread, earthy moss, leathery liquorice, sweet vanilla and more. He'd never known tobacco to come in so many flavors. It was enough to make an ascetic curious.
Although not as curious as the bottom drawer 'Newminster's - rum, nutty'. Because Riveh found a false bottom there. Eureka! The fake bottom wasn't with the drawer itself, however. No, it was in the wall, in the empty space one found if the drawer was pulled out. What was more, it didn't just conceal a plain hidey-hole: it led to a ladder. Riveh was staring into a dark hole leading further into the ground. Perhaps his childhood detective would have been proud when he didn't hesitate descending.
What was this now? Climbing down some fifteen feet, the ifrit stood in an small excavated cave, somewhere below Oppara's streets. The bare walls were embedded with building foundations and long lost cobblestones. Except for one: one was composed of stone slabs. And a brickwork door. It was a strange door, with exposed mechanism, and it took Riveh a moment to understand what he was looking at: this was actually a secret door - he was just seeing it from its unintended, exposed side. How interesting. Regardless, it opened easily enough, allowing him to enter what had to be, could only be, Martella's safehouse. Inside it did in fact look somewhat like a buried house. Riveh could make out two corridors, one ending in another hidden door, this one also obvious on his side. The other led to... was that a common room? Two tables, one with a dimly lit lantern, occupied the space. It was the only source of light here. Plain cupboards stood to the sides of the chamber, the remnant of meals hinting that they stored food. And beyond it... a rough stone passage ending somewhere beyond his supernatural sight. Everything was silent and still.