Sorala nods, understated perhaps, but for the White Squire a veritable gushing of emotion. Isseier was a fine name, though instruction of the natives on its meaning would be necessary. Not that Sorala expected much of that, nor did she expect that the locals would embrace the name with any enthusiasm.
When silence envelopes the makeshift throne room, Sorala smirks. It was an understanding defense mechanism in Irriseni courts; to not offer advice if no clear path was clear. But it lead to a spiral of yes-women and advisors prone to group think.
Sorala had an idea, but it would be unwise to state it too loudly. Instead, she offered one hesitant foot forward. "M'Lady, may I approach?"
Approaching Elysia's throne, Sorala knelt at the Lady's feet, ducking her head and closing her eyes, before standing. Her voice was hushed, barely a whisper.
"I have seen what Mynom speaks of with my own eyes. I have a suggestion, but do not dare shout it, lest the wrong ears are listening. Attach the mercenaries to our armies as each company's vanguards. Only our warlords will know that they are to be the vanguards before the fact. The mercenaries may continue to steal tribute as they find it, but it will eventually be ours as they die at the tip of our "spear." And they will be of use in the interim to our occupation, saving the lives of our more loyal soldiers at their expense."
Sorala raised her eyes to see what Elysia thought. The idea had a wiff of cruelty and betrayal to it that would appeal to a Jadwiga, and keeping it secret meant that Elysia could claim it as her own, if she desired.
Elysia's face was an unreadable mask of make-up and magical glamor, the first layer of a Jadwiga's defense. Smooth skin, red lips, hair that was just ever so slightly curled. Blue eyes that seem to spark like the sharp edge of an icicle in midwinter, cold and hard.
Then, she said, voice also a whisper, "You are as cruel and cunning as a shrike." A shrike, the butcher-bird that impaled its prey on bushes and twigs. Peasant lore held that the birds used such twitching captives as bait for other creatures.
Then, sitting straight she says louder, "The matter is considered finished. Leave it." There is confusion at the abrupt dismissal of the topic. Mynnom is so startled he almost opens his mouth to disagree before remembering himself and firmly closing it.
"Enough of these boring details, M'Lady."" Threzle Fullbeam said, the jeweler's voice as bored in affection of the common Jadwiga disdain. "You have won a great victory, we should celebrate! A feast worthy of your skills and beauty. What better way to launch your mastery of this new land? A time of songs and dancing, of food and drink!"
Such fetes were not uncommon among the noble classes of Irrisen, extravagant displays of wealth and plenty. Not only was it a way to show off their power, but it could be used as an active tool of punishment. How many times had Sorala seen a Jadwiga set up a table full of meat and cheese in public view, while the commoners toiled and starved? A Jadwiga would sip wine and recline while others were forbidden to even glance upon the plenty so flagrantly wasted. Unseen by all, Carvius rolls his eyes minutely.
"A feast?" Elysia says musingly, "Perhaps. Cook!" She says sharply, looking toward Coriine. The Head Cook's face doesn't change, doesn't reveal any reaction to being addressed in such a manner.
"Yes, m'lady?" is all she says, voice free of emotion.
"Prepare it. Food and drink, for a great feast. Tonight, to celebrate our great victory. Be sure to include strange fruits and meats from our new city. Isseier will learn to serve us." A faint mist from her ice chair wreathes her body, shifting and flowing.
Coriine inclined her head, "A table for court, m'lady?"
"No!" Elysia said suddenly, "A general feast. For all! Let all celebrate our glory and victory. I want music that will make these cowering chattel yearn to worship us, enough drink to float these ships, enough food to make the tables break! I want it all. Tonight!" Then, with barely a pause, she flipped her hand, "Enough of this. I wish to be alone." And with that the council is over, a flippant dismissal more suited to hired help then esteemed councilors.
When Elysia gives her compliment, Sorala dips her head and holds it, gazing at the ground, her voice as soft as Elysia's. "Thank you, M'Lady. I live to glory to you and our House."
Raising her head, Sorala steps back and takes in the rest of the court's proceedings, noting Carvius's rolling of the eyes. Perhaps the Chel was regretting getting so close to Elysia? Though no doubt, it was a role he was ordered to play as well. Like Sorala, he may have less freedom than he'd wish.
After the council's abrupt dismissal, Sorala notes that a few hangers-on linger, but not Coriine. The Head Cook had things to do after all. Sorala follows Corrine out of the throne "room," her long legs catching up to the shorter woman's brisk stride easily enough.
"If I may, Goodwoman Colbertsdottir," Sorala interrupts, after a quick consideration of formality, deciding in this case the more the better. Coriine and Sorala were hardly friends, though Sorala respected the woman, and suspected the feeling was mutual. Best to water that garden when possible. "I know you are busy - I'd like just a few minutes if you can spare them. How go things at home? Any word from Lady Riina about what her plans are here? Or... when we'll be going home?"
Sorala's face pinches, the White Squire painfully aware she's showing too much emotion. Homesickness, sure, but also something else. Trepidation, at the prospect of being bound once again so closely to Riina? Could she be longing for a moment back in the city, away from this court, even as dangerous as that momentary freedom could be?
Sorala planned her meeting well, overtaking the sturdy cook outside the view of the ever-curious noble court but before Coriine enters the full hustle and bustle of the iceberg. They are standing near the edge of the floating frozen floe, the shimmering blue water lapping far below against the white edge. Flecks of foam dance in the surf and Sorala thinks she spots some fish weaving among the small waves. What did they make of this sudden cold spot in their domain? Did fish get curious?
"Ah, White Squire Sorala." Coriine says properly, bowing her head slightly. In formal terms Sorala far outranks the head cook but in practical terms, the chef had been in the household far longer. Irrisen politics could be a difficult game and it never paid to assume the official rules meant anything.
'Busy?" The woman's gruff voice repeated. "You could say that again. A giant feast, ordered without warning in a city newly conquered, still burning. Yes, I think I shall be busy. But orders are orders." She adds, careful to not step over the line in critizing a Jadwiga's will.
"As far as plans..." The stout woman gives Sorala a long, searching look, starting with locking eyes and then traveling down to her booted feet. Then Colbertsdottir shrugged, rolling heavy shoulders, "I'm not sure. I'm just the Head Cook. " Another pause and then, "But let me put it this way. I'd look into getting some cooler clothes."
Sorala noted for the first time that Coriine was wearing little more then a simple linen smock and shirt, attire she usually reserved for only the hottest days in the Aligheart kitchens. Clearly she was adjusting faster then most to the new climate.
"I know the magic was complex," The Head Cook went on, eyes looking out over the blue water of the bay. Far away something jumped and splashed. She rubbed her chin with a burned and callused hand. "But not unique. There very well may be comings and goings, some onlooked for. We are not as far from home as some may think...or hope."
Then she said, "That said, I'm going to assume our food is our own and make due with what we have. These southern folks do have a very different diet then what we are used to. I haven't had a chance to look around much yet." Coriine stopped and then voice practical, "So, you choose to meet with me, among the assembled worthies. Curious."
"What did you think of our esteemed council of advisors?" The Head Cook asked. Sorala noted the woman was careful to not ask Sorala's opinion of Elyisa herself. Such questions were death sentences, unescapable traps but discussing rival factionalists was permitted....within reason.
Sorala frowns, not an unusual gesture for her, and thinks mildly that she needs that bakery, for an increasing number of reasons. Firstly, so that she could stow her furs and not lose them here to a random thief or desperate soldier. And second...
"Perhaps I can help you a bit with the food for tonight's feast. Perhaps I shall have something for you soon." The Squire is vague beyond that sentiment - it was best not to make promises that she wasn't sure she could keep. Instead she just shrugged, non-committal, and stared out at the fish leaping the distant water, her eyes squinting in the bright light of this insufferably warm day.
Coriine knew more than she was letting on of Riina's plans, Sorala was sure. And she could probably force it out of the cook, but it would be best to keep her friendly. Instead, Sorala nods, a simple thanks. "You have my gratitude for the information. I shall get some clothes to better deal with this insufferable heat. Is it hotter here then your kitchen back home? And anything else you hear as you work - it would be welcome if you shared that as well. I can do the same, of course, in return."
Turning her face back to Coriine, Sorala shades her eyes, thankful at least she can look down to the cook, and away from the sun. "It surprises you that I should want to meet with you? We are... outsiders here, in many ways, and especially to Elysia's court. And to answer your last question... we were brought here for a reason; Elysia's advisors do not have our skills to do what needs to be done. The Taldans have a saying," Sorala pauses, her mind searching back for the exact translation she read in one of Aelick's old tomes, "An army marches on its stomach. Or something to that effect. Someone will need to acquire food from the local populace on a consistent basis, and they will need to marshal Elysia's household to ensure that food reaches the soldiers. You may be the single-most important person here, and I for one don't envy the position you're in. Let me know if I may be of service to you, Coriine Colbertsdottir."
"Tell, me, what do you think of Elysia's esteemed advisors?"
Coriine answers the last question first, voice still hard to read. "They are hardly of the caliber the Jadwiga needs." What a careful yet cutting statement. The Head Cook makes his displeasure with the clique of 'advisors' very clear, yet phrases it in a way to not only leave Elysia out of it, it actually enhances the Mistress's standing, implying she could do better. Clearly Goodwoman Colbertsdottir knows her way around a court, not that it is any surprise. She has been dealing with Jadwiga when Sorala was still in diapers.
She pauses as a troll lumbers past, dragging a sledge full of broken lumber, boards and wooden detritus. Such a load of possible fuel would be worth a fortune in wood starved Irrisen, where fire was a tool of survival, but here seemed to be little more then an after thought. Port Peril, sorry Isseier, was seemingly awash in the stuff however. From the wooden houses, the extensive docks and especially the floating hulks of ships, wood was everywhere.
"You comported yourself well, White Squire, a credit to both yourself and your training. if you are wise in your choice of allies, you have a bright future ahead. Providing, of course, you remain loyal and true to our Mistress."
With a wave of a heavy hand, she dismisses Sorala's other point.
"Importance." She snorted, "How much is that worth, White Squire? Do not confuse importance with power, child. But your concerns are welcome. The task does seem...large." That last word carries a good deal of weight as they both stand in the now full morning sun. "Well, we should get to our labors. We both have plates to spin, I think. As for your help in the future, I will keep my eyes open for it."
A final pause and then, "I do not think you should become too enamored with foreign dishes, Sorala Ironeyes. At least so quickly. An exotic flavor may seem exciting for a time, but it may soon pale and fade, vanishing from the menu." And with that enigmatic remark, Head Cook Coriine Colbertsdottir strides off, back into the iceflow's busy currents.
Sorala watches the Head Cook go, her mind spinning, the White Squire standing lost in thought. What did she Coriine mean by that last comment? Was she aware of the bakery? Was it merely coincidence? Certainly, there were other veiled statements - threats? - in their exchange just now. Was it possible that Coriine had two purposes in her work here; one, to manage the meal logistics for the army, and two, to keep an eye on Sorala? Or the rimeblade? It would make sense; Sorala was after all a very expensive and not easily replaceable weapon, let alone Eitleán, who was simply irreplaceable. What if Lady Riina was afraid that Sorala, adrift in a strange city, just decided to... run?
Sorala wipes her brow and it comes away slick, and she realizes she's shaking and clammy, despite the oppressive heat. She breathes deeply, recentering herself. On that ominous note, she might as well acquire some of those exotic flavors Colbertsdottir was so wary of for the feast tonight. Turning, Sorala made her way towards the House guards, to find the woman she had encountered the previous evening.
Sorala finds the House Guard and her troop near the bridge to the ice floe. Like many of Irrisen's forces, her troop seemed to be adrift, with little in the way of senior command. The woman instinctively lowered her eyes as Sorala approached, and Sorala found herself standing silently, waiting for the woman to raise them.
"What is your name?" Sorala asked, her voice emotionless. "Would you and your men like the opportunity to pay back the mercenaries from last night?"
Finding the as-yet unnamed woman wasn't hard, which worried Sorala. The city was only newly taken, fires were still burning and probably people still fighting. The Irriseni hold on this new conquest was a fragile as morning mist, and so many of their soldiers were standing idle. What plots were being hatched? What locals were, even now, banding together and swearing vengeance? Elyisa might fool herself and say the battle for...'Isseier ' was over, but Sorala had a feeling taking Port Peril had just started.
"Alina, Mistress." The woman said, voice far more respectful in the full light of day within a few hundred yards of the royal court. Clearly the thrill of looting and combat had faded. Now, she and a few others that formed a few squads, were simply waiting for orders. A long wait, if past practice was anything to judge by.
A few had even fashioned crude fishing poles, lines sunk into the water off the ice flow. They seemed ill practiced, which was not surprising. Most water courses in Irrisen were noble controlled, and even casual fishing was considered poaching, punished by cruel treatment. Only lakes were considered open to all, and those were rare. Judging by the lack of catches, the new hobby seemed slow to catch on.
'Catch on.' Eitleán muttered, dim and distant. 'Ha.'
Akina raised an eyebrow, "We only live to serve, White Squire." But then she smiled, "But I admit he rubbed me the wrong way last night. Jumped up man with more spunk then sense."A short paused and then she saluted as the woman realized she may have said too much, too informally. "Yes, we are able and willing. Lead us!" She added, almost in a parody of acquiescence.
Sorala nods, letting a small show of pleasure cross her face. "Alina. A strong name. Befitting a soldier."
The White Squire glances towards the fishing rods, taking in the lack of any catch. "However, not the name for a fisher. I was one, in my youth. I can teach you all later. In the meantime, if the fish here are like ours back home: they will bite most at sunrise and at dusk. Try to fish at these times if you can. I will find out what the locals use as bait. I suspect that the fish here are not so ravenous as ours. They likely have it easier, and may be used to certain foods within a large bounty. All fish like some things, few fish like all things. Once you know what the fish like, try different locations, different depths for your line. If a, uh," Sorala pauses, unable to come up with the name for a southern fish, "Cod, I guess, likes a minnow but only lives at a score of feet below the waterline, it won't come to the surface to eat it. There is more to it, of course; a good fisher is like a dancer, leading a partner into the steps she wants them to take. I should like to fish with you, when there is time."
Letting Alina's familiarity slide off her like, well, water off a fish's fin, Sorala's tone turns, quiet, more thoughtful. "But, that is not today. After lunch, take your soldiers to where we met last night."
Hardness creeps into Sorala's voice, her face grows stony, her grey eyes particularly flat, like the Irrisenian sky in winter. "Wait there for the day and into the night. I will lead those jumped up men to you. I don't know yet if we will kill them, but be prepared for the possibility. Either way, whether they live or die, they will learn to respect you. By fear or blade."
Turning on her heel, Sorala goes next to find Vennik the Wild, and lead him, like a cod chasing a minnow, to his fate.
Alina's eyes widen slightly at Sorala's harsh tone, but not overly. It is customary in how a leader speaks to subordinates in Irrisen. The miltia leader gives a sharp nod, tight bun of blonde hair flashing in the tropical sun. "Of course. We will be ready." A brief salute and she is off. Sorala respected the woman's efficiency and professionalism , a rare commodity in the Irrisen armed forces, which tended more towards 'bully' then solider. If only that meant she had a career ahead of her. Honestly, it probably meant the reverse.
Finding Vennik was not hard, he and his men were still were they were when she left them. True they were no longer eating a leisurely breakfast and most had their weapons, but otherwise it was an dissolute lot. Most were playing cards or dice, gambling new bits of loot. Vennik himself was hunched with a few others, holding a rattling cup of dice. In front of him laid a small pile of gold and silver coins, a few small vials and a jeweled dagger with a naked woman as the hilt.
He didn't look up when Sorala approached, too intent on impending victory.
Sorala stands and waits to see what happens, if Vennik is as good a warrior as his loot pile appears he is. Once the game is concluded, the White Squire taps her foot with her rimeblade, her expression flat. "Good to see you're enjoying yourselves. It is time, and I have good news. We will still raid the bakery today, and you and your men can have all the goods you can fit in your pockets and packs. The slaves are mine, as we discussed. Half the bread will go to our army tonight. And in return, you will get something better -- the gratitude of the Morgannan's head cook, an important person to know when marching on your stomach. I'll introduce you personally."
Sorala taps her foot again, mentally apologizing to Eitleán for using the blade as a prop. "So, gather your goods, and let's get to it. We need to be back by sunset to provide the bread for the feast."
Sorala's eyes pass over the dagger, and her eyes open the slightest. "And, humor me while we walk. Where did you find such an exquisite dagger?"
Sorala watches the game unfold, Eitleán in her grip. As usual the rimeblade seems bored with proceedings and is silent. The game is one Sorala actually knows, Hangman's Grace. It is a game of pushing one's luck and knowing when to stop. The Squire watches as Vennick takes his turn, throwing the dice with vigor. Then again. And again. Twice Sorala winces at times he should have stopped but failed to.
It ends as it must, the reckless man loses his winnings and curses as he loses everything except the fancy dagger.
The gamblers look up at Sorala with slightly guilty faces, like children caught in the kitchens after dark. As the men and women gather up their gear, Vennick grins, "You don't want to try your hand?" he rattles the dice cup, sighs and then puts it away. "All business then, right."
Around them the little bandit turned mercenary group readies themselves. In short order they are all leaving the floe, heading deep into the narrow twisting and turnings of Port Peril, no Isseier's streets. The Irrisen presence is pronounced near the ice bridge with soldiers of all types, piles of loot and hastily commandeered houses. Sorala wonders if there is any rhyme or reason for the requisitions apart from the officers nabbing the nicer homes.
The day is hot and punishingly humid, like standing in an active sauna. It was almost enough to send Sorala back to bed and she heard a few of Vennick's troops grumble about sweat.
Farther away things are quieter, the streets still mostly empty. Not entirely. Here and there Sorala spots locals about their business, perhaps carrying a sack or two. Some are poking through burned rubble while others have even opened small stands selling castoffs. There are no markets yet, but clearly things are slowly re-opening.
One pedestrian is a young woman carrying a backpack of some kind. She does her best to avoid making eye contact with Vennick's band, crossing on the far side of the muddy street, speeding up. Nonetheless, a few of the bandits break ranks with grins and greedy faces. Sorala assumes she'll have to intrude but to her surprise Vennick barks and order, and the would-be plunderers fall back in line. The woman sprints off down a side alley.
"We have a schedule to keep." Vennick grunts.
Soon Sorala recognizes the buildings and they are only a block or two away from the slave bakery.
It was fitting that the mercenary played Hangman's Luck with abandon, Sorala thought, eyebrow peaking in interest to see how things played out. Which, when they did, were not surprising. The White Squire waived off Vennik's entreaties to play, a simple shrug and flat "I cannot afford to gamble," having to suffice as an explanation.
---
The day was punishing already, sweat soaked through Sorala's pants and shirt, the simple ones she took from the woman the previous evening. Pausing for a second, Sorala forces the others to stop with her, and looks the grumbling soldiers up and down. A dehydrated and weakened soldier would be of no use to her.
"Do not press yourselves. We're unused to this hellish weather and we have a fight in front of us. You'll test your endurance soon enough. In the meantime, drink some water and we'll move at a slower pace."
Perhaps, after the bakery was secured, she'd push them a bit, just to make sure they were at every disadvantage for Alina and her soldiers.
---
As they come across the woman crossing the street, Sorala rolls her eyes and gives the woman a waive of her hand, towards the horizon. Scoot. She quirks another eye at Vennik, this time surprised as he shows more restraint than she'd figured. "Good. You've got discipline, Vennik. Charisma, discipline. You'd make a fine soldier. Why did you take to the life of a woodland brigand instead?"
Turning to the others, she surveys the mercenaries. "The bakery is ahead. Keep your weapons sheathed. We'll invite ourselves in. The leader is expecting us; we should be let in with little trouble."
Drawing closer, Sorala casts a quick glance at the roofline where Norintha should be, trying to note if anything is amiss. Then, she knocks three times, loudly, on the bakery's side door.
Thinking on the weather and the impact on the fighters reminds Sorala of something. All this sweat and heat would probably be a breeding ground for fungus and rot unknown in Irrisen. The Shackles seemed a very virulent place and gods only knew what was breeding in wet, dark spots. When was the last time she had taken off her boots?
Vennik visibly swells under her pride but then scowls when she calls him a woodland brigand. "We aren't robbers." The bearded man says stiffly, "You think we are dirty thieves, hiding in the woods from the Jadwiga's troops?" Sorala knows the man is lying but it is hard to blame him. While the Jadwiga generally don't care about such rabble, they are frequently made an example of. Hated by all, bandits are even easier targets then peasants. She cannot blame the man for denying it. It is a shame because the White Squire is not lying. There was probably enough good steel, under the rust and grime, to turn the bearded man into a useful solider. It said something about the Irrisen system that it took such a man and turned him into a backwoods bandit, crouching in caves.
"All right, stay sharp." Vennick says at Sorala command, and the assorted fighters quiet down and form a somewhat orderly line behind the other two.
As they do so Sorala glances up and spots Norintha along the roof of the building across the street. She would be impossible to discern among the ruined outline unless one knew what to look for. Sorala sees no sign or indication of trouble and hopes that means she is good to go.
Sorala knocks loudly on the door, knuckles rapping off hardened seasoned wood. It sounds loud in the street, enough to startle some rather colorful birds from a nearby building. They take off with a rustling rush, dragging great plumes of colored feathers.
A tiny sliding panel Sorala did not notice before (or newly installed) slides open and a set of eyes appear. They widen at the sight of all the armed troops and slams shut again.
"We are closed." A gruff voice says quickly. There is a pause and then, "Wait a moment." There is a great deal of banging, cursing and grumbling. Vennick looks over at Sorala with raised eyebrows.
More stomping, the slamming of a door and a few more hushed curses. The slide re-opens, and the greasy voice of Sooraj Dvivedi comes out. " Sorala Ironeyes? You bring a great many soldiers to my door."
"Coward."[/b] Eitleán comment but then adds fairly, [i]"Which is probably wise, considering your plan."
Sorala shrugs to Vennik, her face placid as they wait. "You never told me how you ended up with your moniker." Sorala looks over the door, trying to judge its strength, wondering if it had been reinforced since her last visit. "Vennik the Wild, the not-robber. You're skillful at evading questions, and so consider my curiosity piqued. I--"
And then an interruption, the greasy voice of Sooraj. Annoyance creeps into Sorala's voice. "Of course I bring soldiers. Do you think I'd walk these streets alone? My mistress wishes to meet you, and speak to how you can be of service to us. We are having a feast tonight. I've been sent to fetch you. I suggest you bring some of your lovely bread as a gift. Let us in, please Sooraj Dvivedi. Your fear makes me question my judgement."
Even through the door, Sorala can hear the wheels in the rhakasas's mind whirling. On one hand, the man was a coward, through and through. His natural inclination was to hide behind walls and doors, to ride out the storm. On the other hand, Sorala had promised him that greatest of prizes...influence. A chance to meet and greet with the new powers in the land. No self respecting schemer would pass up the chance. His greed and fear fought each other.
There was one other consideration, of course. If Sorala wanted, no door would keep her out. As far as Sooraj knew, the White Squire had an army at her back.
Finally the little slot closed and, after more muffled talking, Sorala could hear a bar rattle in its gratings. The heavy door swung outward, silent on recently oiled hinges. Had Divedi been working on his defenses lately?
The smell of smoke, unwashed bodies, exotic spices and most tempting of all, fresh bread flow out of the shadowy interior. Sooraj Divedi, goat-head and all, is standing in the entryway, wringing his hands together.
"A gift, yes. I have made some for your master, but I could put some final touches if you could tell me what she likes. Yes, yes." The baker is as jumpy as a fish in a net. Behind him are his bully boys and thugs, probably half a dozen armed with clubs and small axes. Quite under-armed compared to Sorala's full troop. Further back, nearly lost in the ruddy shadows, are the dim outlines of dusty slaves, chained to the floor.
'Does she prefer sweets, your mistress?" The goat-man waves a hand at a table covered with bread covered in powered sugar, looking like the white snow-clad hills of Sorala's home.
"Or perhaps savory?" Another gesture toward a table groaning under loaves of bread that have cheese twisted inside, seams of yellow.
Sorala pushes into the room, taking a moment to appraise the rakshasa's strengths, and peering into the dim light of the back room, looking for threats hidden among the shackled slaves. Her eyes narrow, taking in the overburdened tables.
Waving her men forward, Sorala gives Sooraj a short bow. "Elysia likes it all, Sooraj Divedi, and will take it all. I am sure that she will be appreciative of the work that you and your slaves have undertaken."
Pausing Sorala watches to see the reactions of Sooraj and of Vennik and his men as they filter into bakery. Easy now...
To buy a moment, Sorala asks, her voice lilting at the end. "Would you like to attend our feast, Sooraj Divedi?"
Squeak
Sorala's boots creak on the flour-dusted floor of the bakery. The bandits stir a bit of a fragrant dust, whirling up to her nose. And the transport her in time and space....
It had been a hard winter, even by Irrisen standards. The storms had been brutal and seemingly unending, weeks of snow and ice. Even the hardy plants of Sorala's homeland had been battered by the elements and the usual fishing holes had even frozen over. Imported food was hopelessly expensive and thus, outside the confines of the Jadwiga's world that Sorala live in, famine stalked and death was the only reaper.
Huntsman Jarrik had taken her on a long patrol of the outer game-lands, hoping to find something to grace Lady Riina's table, to offer her variety because the winter extremes were cutting into her food stocks. They had had no luck however, as everything larger then a squirrel had either left, starved or been killed by hungry peasants desperate enough to poach.
They had been heading back, sweaty, frost-nipped and frustrated when Sorala had seen floating white shapes ahead, through the bare trees. Still a young teenager and not too far removed from housewives tales of ghosts and goblins, she jumped back in fear, a billow of white breath around her.
Jarrik's face had darkened , but he merely grunted and waved her on. As they approached Sorala realized the white shapes were not floating ghosts but instead three human bodies hanging from ropes, slung to the trees. They were white because they were dusted in flour. The bodies were a light blue, long frozen solid by the harsh weather. Around each neck hung a crude sign saying, "I stole from the village storehouse".
Jarrik glanced at them once, sighed and said very quietly, "This is how they live out here, Sorala. Never forget it. Out here, in the real world, every day is a struggle for survival and a mouthful of bread. Look at those faces and, when times are hard, remember what men are capable of. These 'thieves' were someone's husbands, brothers, fathers. And they strung them up over a palmful of flour."
[b]"Attend?" Sooraj Divedi greasy accented voice brings Sorala back from the frozen northwoods.
The goat-headed man smiles softly and bows, "It would be a great honor, of course. I would feel obligated to present myself before our new and surely glorious ruler." If he ever had a chance, this one would go far in Irrisen society. The rhakasa had already mastered the art of unconscious and constant flattery.
"It will take time to prepare myself however. I will follow after, shortly?" he offers as Sorala's men take the bread and stuff it into sacks provided for by the bakery. It is a king's ransom of valuable foodstuffs and Sorala can virtually guarantee none of Vennik's men has ever held a sack full of bread so heavy they could not lift it. That was a rare sight only suited for the largest Jadwiga granaries.
Sorala has a feeling the baker is nervous and well aware of his danger, but the pull of getting this close, this fast, to the centers of power in the changed city is upsetting his judgement. Greed was a more sure bait then any worm, Sorala had learned long ago.
In a short moment Vennik walks over, a bulging sack on his shoulder and a few (very suspicious) crumbs around his mouth. "All loaded up, Ma'am. We got 'em separated by type."
Copper. Back when she'd play Conqueror with Tikhon, Sorala would absently chew on a ring, a bauble given to her in a fit of kindness from Lady Riina herself. She would chew and look over the board, trying as Tikhon suggested, to think so many moves ahead that the lying teacher would be left off-balance, disorientated, open. Of course, Sorala rarely won in those early days, but on the occasion when she managed to take an important piece, it was a glorious thing, always accompanied by the taste of that ring; the girl would pull the ring into her mouth, absently, and let it rest on her tongue as she moved her piece, and eventually, her body began to associate that metallic taste with victory.
Of course, eventually the ring was put away - it was a tell after all, and Tikhon's job was to teach her to navigate court without any - but the sense memory was powerful, and the metallic phantom taste often came to Sorala in the moments before she'd make an important move.
And so, copper flooded her mouth now, bright and metallic, and Sorala gripped Eitleán, like a wolf's paws grip the ground before it springs into an ambush.
Swallowing, Sorala spat forth an arcane syllable, an ancient enspelling word, hard and echoing, like a shout in cave. Eitleán arced through the air, Sorala's intent to land him so far into Sooraj that the rakshasa crumpled to the ground before he could act. If not, then perhaps Sorala's magic would impede the slaver long enough that she could finish him in the next few seconds, while her men sprung into action and killed the rest.
That was the plan at least. Like a game of Conqueror, moves rarely resulted in a perfect plan when it was all done.
.
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Many things happened at once, in a blink of an eye.
With a motion she has used a thousand times (and a thousands times more after that under Alastia's watchful eye) the White Squire slashes with the blade. A full body action, energy from her legs, hips, shoulders and arms turn the ice-coated blade into a whirring, blurred strip of steel. It catches the goat-man on the shoulder, the razor edge slicing through clothing, skin, flesh and bone with equal ease. There is a flash of arcane power and a net of binding, crackling ice explodes from the impact as well.
The rakshasa's arm hits the ground first with a heavy thud on the flour-strewn floor. It is followed shortly after by the writhing, screaming baker, trapped under a net of freezing ice so cold, it condenses the air around him into a frigid mist.
Around Sorala, a whirlwind of violence breaks out as Vennik's men drop the bags of bread and reach for weapons. They only have a second faster reactions then the bully boys, but it is enough. Most of Sooraj 's men die before even managing to get a hand on a weapon. A few put up a longer fight, but in the tight confines of the bakery, there is no room for much maneuvering. A few are taken alive, falling to the ground in thrashing heaps of curses.
Behind the slaves swarm in panic, doing their best to get out of the way despite being literally chained to the floor. Tables are upturned, bread goes flying, the fire flare at the sudden onrush of wind.
Sooraj Divedi writhes loudly at her feet for a moment and then, in an eyeblink, vanishes. The racket of the fight, the slaves and the roaring fires goes on around her. All that is left is an oozing, frost-bitten arm.
The slaver vanished, just as Sorala had raised Eitleán to finish him, ice-rimed blade soaked in blood. Sorala blinked, rage blushing her cheeks, as she stared at the empty spot where Sooraj Divedi had been. The White Squire pushed a sharp gust of breath through her teeth, an effort to quell her roiling insides.
"Have you felt the blood of a rakshasa before?" Sorala's mindvoice asked, lilting up in interest to hear the rimeblade's experience.
The hideout was useless as long as Divedi lived, for certainly he would come back, and she would be in danger here. A small, flat smile crossed Sorala's lips, as she realized that there was a tumbledown effect: Vennik and his bandits would live to see another day; there was no sense in killing them to protect a location that was compromised. Which, truth be told, Sorala did not entirely mind; she had grown rather fond of Vennik, and his men had comported themselves well.
Picking up Sooraj's arm, Sorala looked it over for jewelry, markings, or anything else of interest, and nodded to the brigands. "Well done. You're warriors to bone. Vennik the Wild, Terror of the Hoarwood, what do you call your band? You shall be thanked tonight. Gather your spoils from the dead slavers. As I said, the slaves are mine. Leave them be but take whatever else you want from this room; we'll search the basement together when you are ready - there may still be slavers below."
Opening the door, Sorala squints into the sunlight, up towards the roofline across the way. Raising the severed arm over her head, the Squire says, "It is safe. Come down and get your people, Norintha."
Sorala leaves the door ajar, the hot tropical sun and humid air flooding into the bakery, and pulling herself into a tall-backed stool facing the counter, places Sooraj's arm atop the counter. Sighing as she pulls her boots off, Sorala glances over her feet, and leaning in, sniffs.
"You would do well to let your feet have breath," she says to the brigands. "This tropical air will rot your feet in your boots in a manner of days, like a potato left sunken in a jug of water."
"I try not to linger on the taste." Eitleán said blandly but then, with some curiosity,"I had imaging it would taste something like goat though, but it does not." Sorala's mental surprise must be tangible because Eitleán chuckles and mentally adds, "One of your predecessors considered it a day wasted if he did not lop off the heads of several livestock. A strange man."[/i] But then the rimeblade pauses and says, mental voice cold, "Do not waste much time. He is still here. Close."
The bloody arm in Sorala's grip is not very heavy. Rakshasa must have light bones. It is a tanned human arm covered in perhaps more hair then usual, and coated with a fine scented oil. A few glittering bangles and wristlets jangle in the sun as Sorala holds it up, a strangely melodic sound quite at odds with the gory appearance. One or two might have minor magical properties but it was hard to tell while covered in blood.
Some of Sorala's new found respect for the bandits wears off as they begin looting the bakery. Slaves are kicked, cuffed and shoved out of the way as the Irriseni men and women take everything not nailed down. Bread, flour, sugar and a small cache of butter is all despoiled quickly.
Vennik watches with a sharp eye. [b]"We'll have to come back for the tables and such. Do you think it'll have a good price?" He glances at the cowering slaves, still shackled to the guttering ovens. "I think you got the better end of the deal. There are over a dozen slaves here! So many for making bread..." he rubs his chin.
Sorala actually isn't sure if he is right, either by old or new values. In Irrisen a dozen slaves would have been a mighty prize but should would an entire building full of food. As for Port Peril, who can say? Sorala guesses market values would be crazily unstable for awhile.
Sorala looks outside into the bright tropical sun. Already flies are crossing the threshold, attracted by the blood within. They look like jeweled bits of art, glittering in the bright sun. But they have the same dull drone as flies back home. Some things, did not change.
From above, Norintha waves back and begins to descend.
Sorala slaps the still oozing arm onto the counter with as much care as a butcher with the day's cut. The inside of her boot smells horrible, and far more...alive then she would wish. Vennik watches with interest but frowns, "What? You'll have us bathing next."
He waves toward the few living slavers, "Are they ours too?" he toes one with his boot then, when the slaver grunts, kicks him hard. "The stronger ones might fetch a price." The bandit sniffs, "Not much of a fight. Let's go clear out the basement."
"Leave the slaves alone," Sorala says, her voice tinged with menace. "They belong to my guide. She will be here shortly, and none of the short ones are to be touched, including my guide. As to the slavers... they are yours and your mens' to do with what you want."
Slipping off the tall-back stool, Sorala slides the bangles and wringlets from Divedi's arm and drops them into her bandoleer for inspection later. Leaving her boots atop the counter, Sorala utters another arcane syllable and walks slowly towards the back of the room, the careful steps of one ready for an attack, body presented in profile, Eitleán pointed down and in front, ready to be lifted to parry.
"Yes, you should bathe, Vennik the Wild. This tropical air breeds parasites that are at home in dark and damp places, and left unwashed, can lead to loss of fingers, toes... or worse. I assume you want children some day?"
In Sorala's experience, the threat of a loss of manhood was enough to spur most men into actions they'd prefer not take. Of more immediate concern, however, was the dark shadows of the bakery. Somewhere nearby was a door or a stairwell, leading to the basement below.
"How do you know he is nearby?" Sorala's mindvoice asks Eitleán, lilting and curious. They had been bonded for years now, and yet the rimeblade was still constantly surprising.
Sorala's word seem unheeded except when Vennik strides over and clods one of the bandits hard enough to knock him to the dusty, fragrant floor floor.
"That's the Squire's property, you son of an orc!" The red-bearded man roars. 'You touch it again, and you'll find my knife in your guts! And then I'll ask her when to try next! Now get off the floor, you are embarrassing me." He aims a savage kick at the man's head and only narrowly misses.
"Sorry about that." He grunts to Sorala, apologetic.
She is ignoring the bandit for the moment however, busy both searching for the way down and her internal conversation with Eitleán.
"The blood, it creates a short bond." The weapon says, voice oddly empty. "It is not often a long-lived experience. Few struck by a rimeblade live very long, and it fades over time either way. But in the short term, it can be useful. Sometimes."
Meanwhile Sorala's eyes are sweeping the flour strewn floor. She is also looking with magic, sensing that strange arcane world that hides just behind this one. It was a shadowy realm that the White Squire was only a passable apprentice, and she knew it. Real wizards and sorcerers knew tricks that, well, frightened her, so she went slow. Caution was the main tool against such things and she ignored the sweat running down her back and the warm blood that was still on her fingers. Time for comfort later. First, she needed to make sure she wasn't going to trigger a fireball explosion.
Happily she found no traps, magical or otherwise and does find a simple heavy wooden trap door. It is closed but, after caution, she taps it with her foot, it seems unlocked. Well, that had been easy. Far too easy but it was a place to start. Sorala was looking for perhaps a second hidden route when Norintha appeared at the front door.
She gave Vennik a wary look but then glanced at the huddled slaves. Without concern for the multiple bodies, blood puddles or heaped loot, the halfling rushes to their aid. She leans over the manacles and, in a few moments, has them clanking loudly to the wooden floor. She had, apparently, not needed a key. Clearly Norintha had hidden talents.
Shortly all the slaves are unshackled and being led out into the bright sunlight outdoors by a gentle yet firm Norintha. She assembles them in some nearby shade and starts badgering Vennik's men for water and food. Bewildered and, recalling Vennik's cuff, slowly offer the water but draw the line at bread. Old habits die hard and in Irrisen a loaf of bread was worth killing.
Sorala quirks an eyebrow as Vennik beats his brigand, but otherwise shows no emotion. The White Squire was used to her station negating the need for force. Vennik's brigand was either ignorant of her station or extremely foolhardy, or likely, both. Either way, Vennik saved his man from a worse fate.
"You need not apologize," Sorala says, voice flat, noncommittal. "I appreciate your stepping in. Sorala's voice rises, Soral projecting it to the beaten brigand. "And your man should thank you, when he catches his breath. You saved his life today."
Squatting at the top of the trap door, Sorala takes a breath and swings the door open, peering into the darkness. Pulling one of Sooraj's bangles from her bandoleer, Sorala casts a glimmer upon it, watching as light flares from the metal, and then she drops it down the hatch into the darkness below.
Turning to the commotion outside, Sorala yells, "Norintha, I'm sorry, but the bread comes with us. It has been promised, and as you now know, I keep my promises. Leave it for my men."
Taking a deep breath, Sorala descends into what waits below.
The trapdoor leads into inky blackness, with a steep wooden ladder vanishing into it. Taking one of cheaper bits of jewelry, Sorala makes it glow brightly and tosses it down. The brass metal clangs off a few rungs and lands onto an unseen floor below. It illuminates a simple stone floor below, perhaps six feet down. No traps or magical alarms go off. Either there are none or, equally likely, nothing has been set up. Sooraj had been safely home, after all. Even the most paranoid man dislikes deadly traps activated in his own house.
Norintha makes a face, "These slaves are dead on their feet. We'll need to feed them sooner rather then later. Try not to get killed."
With those encouraging words, Sorala drops down to the floor eschewing the steep rungs. She lands cat-like on the stone below, knee bending. With the bangle still the only light source, the White Squire peers around the space, crouching slightly in the small space. There is not much to see.
The floor is grimy stones built into whatever foundation the building has. The air dank and damp, smelling of flour gone to rot and a greasy-sweet smell Sorala can't quite place. In one wall there is a heavy wooden door set into the stones, much grimed with use. It is firmly shut, with a wooden beam across it. The wood seems to be...seeping somewhat, glimmering faintly in the light as if damp.
Nothing else is visible to casual inspection.
Until the White Squire freezes still, slows her breathing and listens. At first nothing but deafening silence, and the muted thumps of the bandits upstairs. And then...yes. Sobbing. Muffled but very real. From the other wall, across from the wooden door.
Staring closely, now knowing what to look for, she finds the tell-tale scraps and marks of a hidden door. The sobbing and crying are coming from behind it, louder when she presses her ear to the seeming stone. A person in pain, a masculine voice. Sooraj's bolthole, perhaps?
Sorala slides the lighted bangle over her wrist and moves slowly through the room as if a wolf stalking prey through a silent, snowy forest. She stops at the door and crouches, running her hand along the seam, noting there's no easy way to enter from the outside. A stealthy assassination is not an option. Terror then. Standing, the White Squire slides Eitleán into the door's seam, letting the blade scrape audibly along the stone.
"The thing about cruelty, Sooraj Divedi, is that it is always revisted on its perpetrators, with vengeance. I am not a moral person, I have seen it in my life, and I expect one day it will be visited upon me. But not today: today is your day, Sooraj Divedi, and today you answer for your crimes. Slaver, preyer upon the weak, lustful of money, and power, and bangles."
Sorala wriggles her bandoleer, the jangling of Sooraj's jewelry cutting through the air.
"Meet your fate with honor, Sooraj Divedi, and with a bravery you did not show in your life. It is time."
Pushing on Eitleán's hilt, Sorala grunts and slides the rimeblade deeper into the crack, Sorala intent to pull the baker from his bolthole like a fisherman plucks a crab from a trap.
As Sorala gives her little speech, the noise from inside the secrets room intensifies. The moaning grows louder and there is a loud shuffling crash. The slamming of a cupboard or drawer perhaps? No matter.
In short order Sorala has Eitleán well-placed. "Another day as a crowbar." He says with long suffering. Still, he is good steel and against it, (and Sorala's strength) the hidden door has no chance. There is a dry sounding crack as Sorala levers on the door, a squeal of pulled nails and suddenly the door is wrenched open.
Golden light spills and Sorala has to blink twice before getting a good look into the rakshasa's hidden hideaway. It is a larger space then she anticipated. The White Squire had expected a small closet perhaps, a tiny crawlspace at most but clearly she had underestimated the comfort Sooraj Divedi was accustomed to. In front of Sorala is a vision of opulence.
Hidden away behind the door was an entire, if small, room, complete with furniture. The walls and and roof are covered with plush carpets of vibrant colors in strange patterns. In the far corner was a small bed, draped with golden hangings and covered with soft pillows. A long divan takes up much of a wall, also swathed in silken softness, with a gold-leafed table alongside it. Bowls of fruit and cream grace the polished surface. In one corner a dark wooden desk stands, crowded with papers and seals. A tiny brass balance sits there, one bowl filled with golden coins. A scent of sweet perfume and incense fills the space, mixed with the rather discordant notes of blood and sweat.
In the middle of this splendor, lying on the floor is Sooraj Divedi. The goat-man is still clutching at his bleeding stump, crying and hissing in pain. Blood is staining the rich carpet, dark red washing out the delicate blues and greens. Curiously, in his good hand, the creature is holding what seems to be...a sea shell.
As Sorala smashes down the door, the goat-headed man turns to her and starts cursing in some liquid foreign language, spitting and ranting. Sweat stands out on his skin, both from anger and stress. His feet spasming in little kicks of fury and pain, wrinkling the carpet. One thrust kicks over a glittering table, and a bowl of apples goes rolling.
"Well, you are literally unbreakable," Sorala thinks, brushing aside Eitleán's annoyance. "Certainly there were times where my predecessors thought you would make a good tool?"
With a crack Sorala's in the room, blinking, a frown crossing her face as she adjusts to the... treasure? For such a spartan operation above, Sooraj's dwelling was indeed luxurious. How many bodies bought the things in this room? Surprisingly to the Squire, rage wells up in Sorala, her face flushes red. What is happening to me?
Sorala steps over the rolling apples, hefting the rimeblade as she draws near. Pithy thoughts cross her mind, but the spitting, cursing language assaults her ears, the sea shell was concerning. Words had magic in this world, in this life, and the rahshasa could be calling upon some fell patron, or a curse, or casting a spell. Best to end him quickly. Eitleán rises, the tip of its blade pointed at Divedi's throat, and then Eitleán falls.
"Not quite unbreakable." Eitleán comments quietly, "Just....very hard to snap. Let's not put it to the test too often."
Later, Sooraj Divedi looks up at her, eyes red-rimmed with tears and pain. When he speaks, red spittle leaks from his wheezing lungs. Even as Sorala raises the frozen rimeblade, his words change from his native tongue to accented Common, as if sheer terror lent him eloquence.
"You twice-born daughter of a poxed goat!" The rakhasas spits, "You drooling offspring of misshapen cattle. Death awaits you! Do you have any idea who I-"
The rest of his words are cut off when Sorala shoves a foot of chilled steel through his throat and then into his brain. The goat-man's entire body spasms once in a final deadly convulsion, boots knocking against the carpeted floor in a death dance. Blood and gore erupts from the wound, spraying Sorala's boots. His hand's clench and the sea shell shatters.
There is a long moment of silence when Sooraj's body grows still.
Then, "By the The Demon Queen's Seven T!~+!" Vennik has obviously followed her down into the basement and spotted the heaped luxury of the rakshasa's hideaway. "It's a fortune!" Then the greed fades slightly from his face and he locks eyes with Sorala. Carefully, casually, his hand rests on the hilt of his own sword.
"This is ours, as you promised. You only wanted the slaves and the bread." He gestures with his chin, not breaking eye contact. "The carpets and all that. It's ours." The iron scent of blood mingles with the perfumed incense, both thick in the stifling room.
Sorala holds her hand up, silencing Vennick, an irritated scowl crossing her face. "Did I not make you a promise? Quiet now, we need to make sure things are safe!"
Another barked arcane syllable, and Sorala scans the room, looking for magic auras. She focused intently, especially on the sea shell, hoping to find any lingering aura, if in fact there was something there. It was worrisome, very worrisome that in the moments before his death, Divedi focused on that now broken bauble...
Reading of the room done, Sorala turns back to Vennik. "Yes, everything is yours, as I promised. It may be the way of our masters to break their oaths, but it is not my way. But, know this -" Sorala says, menace tinging her voice, her eyes traveling to the hilt of Vennik's sword. "Threaten me again, and you will not live through the minute. That is a promise too."
Brushing past the man, Sorala exits the door, her blood-splattered bare feet padding softly towards the seeping doorway. "Come on. We have more work to do. You'll earn your fortune today, Vennik the Wild."
Her displeasure stated, Sorala grips Eitleán in one hand and with the other, slides the bar from the seeping door.
Vennik looks surprised when Sorala gives up the assorted riches of the basement room without a single moment of hesitation. For a long second he just stares at her, jaw working mindlessly until he finally blinks and says, "Of course." His glance follows her line of sight to his own sword. The bandit chuckles awkwardly and says, "Sorry, old habits die hard, Squire. We, of course, live to serve the House. I am used to working with wolves." He actually does a bit sad about it, as if ashamed he had assumed the worst.
Meanwhile, Sorala is leaning over the rakshasa corpse. She peers at the crushed shell, wondering what it had been. A weapon? An escape route? It as definitely magical, as the White Squire can detect a lingering aura of evocation among the rose colored shards. Whatever it was, it no longer seems active as the arcane power dissipates before her eyes. She also detects magic about the goat-man's boots. Conjuration of some kind, probably linked to how he escaped her icy net above.
She finds nothing of note at the moment, but she doesn't bother turning his pockets, at least not yet. Because Sorala still has danger at her back, and she doesn't mean the bearded bandit.
As she strides toward the other door, Vennick throws it a nervous glance and says hopefully, "Maybe we should ask some of the other-" He trails off as Sorala grabs the metal bar and slides it free with a soft, greasy sound. Rimeblade in hand she quickly checks for traps, finds none and swings it open.
No light this time, and she is faced with inky blackness. Instead a wave of sweet yet musky scent flows out and, to her surprise, throws Sorala back into memory.
High summer, or at least what passed for it in Irrisen. A rare cloudless day, shimmering off the melting icicles and snowbanks. Algidheart in Sorala's twenty first year, part of a sweep of the cities back allies. They were searching for criminals, loot, and trouble, and not in that order. The Morgannan patrol had found little so far and tensions were high. Hans Bazievsky, the brutish and corrupt captain of the district Patrol had taken to snapping at everyone. Sorala was not under his command but had been attached to the Patrol to gain experience, so she was the only one free of his griping.
Then they had found the small shack at the end of the alley. Dirty and unkempt, yet it had a clear trail beaten to it through dirty snow and city garbage. A single sniff and Hans smiled.
"This is it, boys. Don't be gentle now. Take them!" The Patrol rushed the shack and kicked in the door. Inside they found a complicated network of barrels and tubing, pipes and low fires. A rich smell of yeast and grain filled the air, sickly sweet with rot and sugar. An illegal still, using black market grain and being re-sold at outrageous margins. The bootleggers ran for it, the Patrol didn't care about them. They could be caught later. Instead they descended on the small barrels of moonshine, quite intent on.... destroying the contraband.
Internally.
Sorala had only tried a sip and the harsh, acidic taste rises in her throat now as she gazes into the dark basement, for the smell was the same. Rich and damp, the smell of yeast long gone bad. Sweet and sick at the same time.
But this was no still. As Sorala's eyes adjusted, she is so shocked only a lifetime of training (and of horrors) keeps her in place. Vennik though nearly falls over, making a sign to ward off the evil eye.
"The Midnight Lord protect us. It's full of bodies!"
And indeed it was. A small dark room was behind the seeping door, and it was half-filled with corpses. Human, halfling and dwarf, stacked in haphazard piles. They had been stripped of all clothing and only the dank gloom gave them modesty. On every surface fine golden fungus was growing, thick as the fur on a Irrisen dog. It wafted in the new found breeze and Sorala had a horrible realization.
The yeast. This was where Sooraj Divedi grew the yeast for his bread upstairs. On these corpses. The bread in the bags, that she and the bandits had been so eager for....made of death. She was still reflecting on this when Eitleán's voice sounded in her mind, whipcrack hard.
"Sorala!" Out of instinct she raised the blade and stepped, even as a dark shape loomed out of the corpse room. It lurched out of the dark and toward her. A three-foot-tall crawling blob of blood-red protoplasm that trailed a sweet yeasty sticky slime. The rakshasa's secret ingredient? The ooze burbled and rolled toward her.
The entire ooze reared up and thrust out at her, turning its whole body into a blunt weapon.
She has just enough room to dodge the blow, which slams off the stone floor with enough force to knock flour dust onto her head. Vennick is screaming on the ground, trying to crawl away, stand up and draw his sword all at the same time. The sweet smell of yeast fills the chamber even thicker, almost making Sorala cough and retch. Behind the attacking ooze, the bodies lie quietly. An omen?
Sorala had never seen an ooze in person, and they moved faster than she'd suspected; she barely dodges the roiling mass and bile fills her mouth as flour kicks into the air, disorienting for a moment, causing the Squire to think for a second she's back home, among a finely falling snowstorm.
Alas, no. Her mind spins, pages upon pages of books read in her younger years, the only reference she has to draw on being her eidetic memory.
Sadly, like varietals of grape, there are many oozes; brown, black, pudding, ameoba, glimmerhollow... What was this one's distinguishing characteristics?
Nothing clicks into place, panic rises with the bile, and Sorala considers scampering up the ladder, leaving Vennik to the terror in the bakery's basement.
And then in an instant it comes, an image of a worn tome pulled from one of Aelick's shelves, its pages foxed and stained brown and black - ironically perhaps - with the remains of a mold bloom, long since rendered dormant in Irrisen's cold climate, even rooms as relatively warm as her tutor's cozy study.
"Ah, yes," the loremaster said, voice almost twinkling. "Blood Pudding. Nasty stuff. If you ever encounter one, don't let it grapple you. And if it does, head for the nearest vinegar or ale. Luckily for you," the gnome smiles, voice like sunshine on a windowsill, "It doesn't react well to cold."
---
"Vennik! Fight! NOW!" Sorala yells, as the creature backs her into the ladder. For a moment the panicked Squire thinks of simply floating to the top, but she pushes the instinct aside, her training taking over. She was a leader after all, and leaders didn't run until their charges were safe. And, for all his faults, at least until she betrayed him, Vennik was her charge.
She'd press the attack against the creature, but first, Sorala needed to fortify herself. Adopting a defensive posture, the fingers on her free hand fork into different directions, and Sorala begins a string of syllabi that would conjure replicas of herself into being, greatly increasing her chance of surviving this fight.
The beast lunges again as she's conjuring the words, and Sorala's mind goes blank, the spell withering in her throat. Sorala's face drains of color and scrunches, her limbs tingle with fear.
Fumbling, Sorala pulls a wand from her bandoleer, the pitted iron rod that can summon magical, protective force.
Sorala's sharp order seems to startle some sense into the fallen bandit, because he locks eyes with her and nods. Stopping his screaming, he scrambles to his feet, finally drawing his blade. He is not right next to Sorala, having fallen toward the luxury bolthole. The bandit does give a glance toward the ladder but instead turns to face the slithering ooze. Without a pause he stabs with his bright blade, hitting the pudding.
The bearded man could hardly miss, and his stab leaves a dark puncture wound in the slimy, glistening surface. A trickle of red-tinged plasma boils out, sputtering and bubbling. The ooze pauses in it's lurching toward Sorala, clearly noticing this sudden attack. A short pause and then, without warning or needing to turn, the creature throws itself at Vennik. Dozens of tiny tendrils emerge from the lumpen creature, dripping with slime.
But, to his credit, Vennik does not lose his head. Turning slightly, he manages to use an arm and shoulder to block the blow, then slices it away with his blade. The blood pudding falls to the ground with a slurping slam, oozing more sweet scented plasma.
Ideally, Sorala would have set up her defense before the attack, but now, with Vennik joining the fight, was the time to press with everything she had.
"Good, Vennik!" Sorala shouts, "Hold it!" As she speaks, Eitleán's soft glow intensifies, and ice crawls across its blade. The air around Sorala grows frosty; Sorala's breath escapes in a cloud.
Sorala drops her wand, her free hand slipping into a gesture that looks like falling snow folding into a fist. The White Squire barks an arcane command, a reverberation vaguely like a glacier calving. Sorcery, always complicated in a fight and difficult to summon; Sorala again struggles with her spell, but this time she feels it surge from her into the rimeblade. And then she slices Eitleán forward and back again, each swipe punctuated with a grunt of strained effort.
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The air of the small basement corridor grows visibly colder, traceries of frost crawling along the ceiling above her. Sorala's heavy breath forms a thick cloud in front of her face, churning with her exertions. The White Squire ignores that as she puts the full force of her entire body into Eitleán 's swing.
The blade fairly sings as it cuts through the suddenly chilly air and into the gelatinous blood pudding. Razor steel makes short work of it, slicing through as easily as a butcher trimming the fat. Even as the rimeblade rends a huge slash through the creature, the bloody plasma crackles and freezes. The return stroke is even more savage, nearly slicing the entire pudding into two quivering, frost-burned halves.
When Sorala takes up a protective stance, a moment of silence fills the little chamber. From above she can hear shouts and the thudding of boots. Clearly Vennik's screams and her bellows of command have attracted attention. Still, she ignores it for now and focuses on the blood pudding, still judging it to be the main threat.
She need not worried.
With a wet sigh, the pudding deflates like a punctured bladder, spreading weakly across the floor. A final sheet of sickly sweet liquid rolls out, shimmering wetly in the dim light. It laps at Sorala's boots, sticky and slimy at the same time.
Vennik falls against the wall and shakes his head, "Hen's teeth, woman." he says, obviously shaken by Sorala's potent display of both arcane and martial power. "Remind me not to get in your way." The bandit shudders and averts his eyes from the ice-clad rimeblade.
[i]"Not bad."[/b] Eitleán remarks, voice bored again.
"I know you've seen a lot in your existence," Sorala huffs, her mindvoice tinged with annoyance, "but I'm pretty impressed with us." Her inner monologue then softens. "And thank you. For the warning shout when the pudding attacked."
Turning her face to look up the ladder, Sorala holds her hand up to the first of Vennik's soldiers to look down. "Stay. Yell if anyone approaches. We're in control down here."
Nodding to Vennik, Sorala looks to the room with Divedi's corpse. "Let's talk."
Without waiting for an answer, Sorala walks back into the room, and crouching by the rakshasa's corpse, pulls the boots from Divedi's feet. "These are magical. Probably what allowed the slaver to appear here. I don't know how they work; possibly a command word, but I didn't hear it. Maybe a gesture or thought. If you can figure that out, you've got a nice contingency there, in case things go bad in a fight."
Sorala reaches and hesitating for a moment, picks up the broken shell. She turns the fragments over in her hand, looking for writing or anything that can provide a clue as to what the slaver was up to in his last moments. "This was also magic, but it is broken now. Divedi was using it to do... something, I'm not sure what. I'd like to keep this to do some research, and try and figure out what his intentions were, and if they were successful. But it is yours, and yours to keep by rights, if you like."
Pausing, Sorala realizes there may be more on corpse. So she begins a thorough pat-down of the slaver, putting aside anything she finds and checking it for auras. Then, Sorala begins a detailed search of the rest of Divedi's quarters, talking as she goes.
"You are right. There is a fortune here. What do you think will happen to you and your men if you show up with it at our camp? It will be taken as tribute, and you'll perhaps be killed. Do you see the dilemma of owning great wealth? Gluttony begets gluttony; those with the biggest stomachs always want more. And there are those with bigger stomachs in our camp than you and your band. Your fortune... it is virtually unspendable."
Sorala turns, looking to Vennik, trying to read his thoughts, before she continues...
"Just think of how long it would take to train someone new."Eitleán says.
Still eyeing Sorala warily, Vennik nods and follows her back into the opulent bolthole. The bandit takes a cautious seat on the divan, wiping his bloody feet on the plush carpet, while Sorala carefully examines the body and the room.
She finds little on the corpse itself. A bit of looking carefully and she realizes these are Boots of Escape, which are triggered when the wearer becomes entangled or entrapped, spirting them away through an instant teleportation effect. A clever little item for sure.
Vennik waves to her about the shell, which Sorala carefully examines.
She doesn't discover much, it just isn't something she knows about. There is no writing, no hidden device inside the shattered fragments. Not that she had much experience even with mundane seashells. Maybe a more experienced eye would discover more?
Else, she finds a small bag of money on his belt, a bottle of oiled perfume, a silk handkerchief, and a small silver dagger. The dagger has an elaborate sliver hilt, inlaid with polished ivory and studded with small red rubies. It has an exotic, sea-faring design, and a tiny emblem is engraved at the bottom. A grinning skull with crossed shackles along with some scribbles that may be letters, but in an unknown language.
Sorala then searches the rest of the room, slowly going over the little hideaway. There is not much unusual to be found. The bed is elegant but mundane, although the silk sheets would have been worth a fortune in her homeland. The desk was covered with papers that mostly seemed to relate to the bakery's finances, money lent, funds borrowed. Mundane and typical although perhaps more sizable then Sorala would have expected.
Then she spots it. Along the wall, just above the desk is a fake wall. Not a trick bit of wood or other crude device. But a Illusory Wall, a magical bit of arcane trickery. Even now it hid its contents from Sorala's view but at least she knew it was there. A quick glance confirmed Vennik had no idea it was there.
Meanwhile, the red-bearded bandit replies to Sorala's words. To her surprise the man laughs and relaxes, settling back into the soft couch, the air of a man on suddenly known territory.
"Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs." he says easily, moving to unlace his boots. "As I said before, I lived in the Hoarwood, hunting bandits." Hunting bandits. Sure.
"You pick up a few tricks." The former bandit goes on, tugging at his blood caked footwear. "Fences and all that. me and my lads will be careful. Besides, everything is in confusion right now. You saw how much stuff was being looted. Things will settle down, but we can take care of this." The boot finally came off and the man grinned at Sorala, "Your concern is duly noted however."
Dropping the broken sea shell in her bandoleer, Sorala rolls her eyes as far back in her head as she can, holding Eitleán up towards the ceiling. To Vennik, it certainly would look like some strange magical trick, or perhaps a seizure, but Eitleán would at least get the meaning with her face in full "view" of his blade. "Well, I'd hate to inconvenience you with my death. Make sure your senses are as keen as your blade so that doesn't happen, eh?"
Sorala takes in just the slightest breath when she spies the illusion, a quick inhalation and pause, before she continues looking about the room. Whatever was behind it could valuable, either to herself or her house. And Vennik's bandits were certainly richer than they'd imagined they'd be. But would she be breaking a promise if she hid the wall from them? Sorala reaches back into her memory, hoping she'd offered them anything they found. No. I'd offered anything in the shop. A small wave of disappointment is quickly allayed. The shop. Anything in the shop. Would one consider the flat above a storefront, even if occupied by its owner, the storefront itself? Of course not. By the terms of her promise, Sorala was being generous to give anything in Sooraj's home to Vennik and his men.
Presenting the dagger to Vennik, Sorala holds onto it just a moment too long. "This is nice. Valuable. Technically, I promised you everything in the shop, not anything below it, so it is mine by rights." Sorala lets the dagger go, her fingers lingering in the air. "But, I appreciate your help with the blood pudding. Congratulations. With this and your boots, you might be the richest bandit hunter in our army."
Moving to the desk, Sorala places the bakery's papers in a neat pile on the floor. "If you don't want the bakery's finances, I'd like to take a look at them."
Drawing the sea shell again from her bandoleer, Sorala places them on the now visible surface of the desk, and using Eitleán once again as a tool, drags it across the desk's surface, cutting a circle around the shell. She then wiggles her fingers again, drawing upon her magic to cast her aura detecting sorcery, and then, again, to cast a simple incantation that allows her to move things from a distance. She twists her wrist this way and that, and drags the shell fragments together, more of less putting the shell back into place, murmuring as she does so. "Oh... Eh... Not..."
Clearing her throat, she looks up to Vennik. "I'm glad you have a plan for your fortune. And, I'd like to meet your fences, if you'd care to make an introduction." In truth, Sorala doubted the man had any connections so far from home, but who knows? A way to get her hands on a few things without Elysia knowing could be helpful. "Perhaps there's more opportunity for us to make some coin?"
Now, to give the Terror of the Hoarwood some urgency.
"I'm afraid you'll need your mysterious ways. This is a summoning fetish. I don't know if it calls someone here - or something, more likely, given Divedi's origin - like a torch in a midwinter's night, or if it is a message sent. Either way, something is coming, and we should not stay here for long. I don't think it is safe to leave your fortune here long."
Sorala stands and lets go a long sigh, as if the day's events are finally catching up to her. "Do you wish to find if there's more fortunes buried with the bodies in the yeasting room?"
When Sorala discusses the possibility of betraying her generous words earlier, she watches the bandit closely. A gamut of expressions flicker across his pocked and scarred face, pitted with old signs of frostbite. Confusion, anger, fear and...disappointment? They all vanish in a hurry, replaced with the more usual guarded wariness that dominates irrisen relations.
The man watches Sorala's 'investigation' of the sea shell with obvious interest and ignorance. Vennik clearly knows as much about magic as he probably understands Taldane love ballets or Planar metaphysics. Still when she lies about its powers, he becomes very focused.
"Summoning fetish," he says nervously, standing up suddenly, holding one boot. "You think so, huh?" Vennik's dark eyes start sweeping around the room, as if expected demons to start rising up through the plush carpeting at any moment. "Well, I think you are right. No use hanging around. Witch's breath, I don't want to meet goat man's idea of a welcoming party."
When Sorala mentions the corpse room, he makes a face. "Whatever you find in there, you can keep. I'll call my lads, we'll do a quick strip of this place and get out of here. I can send someone 'round later to see if the coast is clear, and we can finish up."
While he yells up to the other bandits, Sorala casually stands in front of the illusion-hidden box.
In short order the other bandits have tromped down the steep ladder. A few gag at the sights and smells of the yeasting room, but all are amazed at the riches on display in the bolthole. At Vennik's slightly panicked urging, they get to work stripping the place. Sorala guesses they have long practice because she is quickly impressed with their speed, ruthlessness and thoroughness.
Without sparing Sooraj Divedi's body a second glance, they tear up his little hideaway. The bed hangings are torn down, the mattress bundled up the stairs. Chairs, stools, the entire writing desk are next (they hand the papers over to Sorala). The entire divan is manhandled up the steep ladder with considerable effort, pillows and cushions scattered (and quickly retrieved). The carpet is roughly torn free, nails tearing the fine fabric in several places. Even the fruit is grabbed, the apples stuffed in pockets.
Soon Sorala is left with a bare room, only the broken bed frame, a few scraps of fabric hanging from the ceiling, a corpse and the fading scent of incense. She has no idea why Vennik would want to return. What is left to take, the floorboards?
The red bearded man is the last out, after a last greedy look. He glances at the yeast room, swallows and says, "Well, that's that I suppose. We'll take the bread back for the feast, say it was from you. As for meeting up again, well, I am sure we will run into each other. It's been a profitable time, Sorala." The bandit hesitates but then offers a hand to shake, forearm to forearm, as is custom in the rougher parts of Irrisen.
Sorala grabs the man's forearm and gives it a strong shake. The Squire's frame was wiry, often deceptively strong, give it was usually hidden under furs and layers. She made sure to put as much force into the gesture as she could. Strength was admired in the rougher parts of Irrisen, and any signs of dominance Sorala could show now may stave off problems later.
"You and your band did well today, Vennik the Wild, Terror of the Hoarwood. I'm going to stay and look into the seeping room. There may be something yet to learn there."
Letting go, Sorala casts a last eye up towards Venniks men, retreating up the trapdoor laden with goods. "And, please heed my advice and be careful with your fortune. These are dangerous times, and those of us work with, but outside of Elsyia's court... we are both protected and, when needed to be, disposable. If you need something in the future, look for me. Perhaps we can profit together again."
Leaning in the frame to the secret doorway, Sorala watches Vennik go and then letting loose a tension-filled sigh, slips into the rakshasa's now emptied room, shutting the door broken secret door behind her as much as possible. The door sags and squeaks as it slowly swings back open. Barring finding a carpenter to fix it, this was as secret as the room would be.
Casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure that neither Norintha nor any of the Hoarwood bandits lingered, Sorala then plunges her hand through the illusion's wall, to see what, if anything, lay beyond.
Sorala is soon alone in the basement chamber, well unless one counts the slowly stiffening corpse of Sooraj Divedi. The dead rakshasa doesn't object when Sorala turns her attention to his, presumably, ill-gotten gains.
As Sorala's hand passes through, the illusion flickers and dies, the arcane magics broken by her rude entry. The space behind the illusion is not big, a dark hole only slightly larger then the crusty loaves of bread upstairs. Inside is a small wooden box, dark wood polished almost to a glow. There are no magical auras or traps in the shelf, which makes sense. Only Sooraj was accessing this on a regular basis, and getting a face full of lighting did not seem his style. Any foe that reached this point was probably beyond stopping. As Sorala herself witnessed.
The White Squire drew out the box and found, to her surprise, it was not locked, merely closed with an elaborate ivory latch. She flipped it open, not sure what to expect inside. What secrets did a Port Peril baker hold so close? Sorala takes a step, to best use the dim light from above to survey the little hidden hoard.
There is not much, by weight, but enough to intrigue the magus.
First, and most straight forward is a Wand of Cure Moderate Wounds. Valuable enough in its self.
Second is a small ebony statue of a rearing elephant, with real ivory tusks and blood red rubies for eyes, along with gold toenails. It looked very old, scuffed and worn from long use. It had an exotic look to it that made Sorala think of distant shores and far off mountains. How far had this little elephant come and why did the slaver value it so?
Last, but not least, was a small black ledger book. It was sealed tightly with a clasping lock and here, for the first time, Sorala detected a magical aura. Abjuration. Interestingly it seems to be aimed inward, and Sorala realizes it must be designed to self-destruct if someone tried to force it open. It had a keyhole but there was no key in the box, and none upon the corpse. Curious.
There was nothing else.
Slipping the potion into her bandoleer, Sorala stands facing the now visible whole in the wall, the box with the ivory clasp flipped open. Next, she gently removes the elephant, turns it over in her hand, and sets it on the ledge of the wall-hole. It was curious thing to see hidden; undeniably valuable, though Sorala could only guess at how much. But, was it more valuable than, say, Divedi's bejeweled dagger? It was likely something that gave the rakshasa great joy, or a vivid memory; a gift from a paramour, perhaps, or something that once belonged to a family member, or even, perhaps, just something that reminded the dead Divedi of his homeland. She would need to have an expert look into this. "Perhaps," Sorala muses to her rimeblade, "There is a dealer in antiquities in this humid hells-hole?" Sorala slips the elephant into another pouch in her bandoleer.
The ledger was equally intriguing. Likely the true accounting of his bakery, and the stack of papers next sitting on the floor next to her merely window dressing. "Does Port Peril er... Issier, even have a police force that would be concerned with the happenings here?" Somehow, Sorala doubted that. Which meant that the ledger was perhaps very valuable, in a different way than the elephant. Regardless, it was not safe to open now. Sorala thinks back to the ransacking of the room just a few minutes previously, her brow furrowed, her hand pinched at the bridge of her nose. Was there a key uncovered? Could Vennik or his men have the answer in their possession? Sighing, the White Squire places the ledger on top of her pile of papers and slips back into the hall.
The seeping room, door still ajar, faced her, dim light from the trapdoor above casting a sickly, greyish tone upon the corpses closest to the yawning doorway. Sorala moved forward, Eitleán held in front of her, and stopped at the doorway's threshold, conjuring her aura detecting magic again. Standing silently, she spent a half-minute peering into the darkness, waiting to see if anything registered with her magical sight, before casting a light cantrip upon one of Divedi's bangles and then floating it into the room, sweeping over the corpses, looking for anything of interest within the macabre scene laid out before her.
Her breath came in short, jagged breaths, Sorala's face buried in the crook of the elbow of her free arm to ward of the sickly sweet stench of the seeping room's vile purpose.
It was not a pleasant room to survey, made even worse by a single floating source of illumination, which created a stark unwholesome interplay of shifting shadows.
The room was a muted landscape of distended and rotting corpse, all in various levels of decay. Arm and legs are knotted in unnaturally tangles, obviously heaped in without much concern. Sorala notes the farther one goes back, the less recognizable they are, and more....reduced. Clearly the older bodies were stacked in the back and recent arrivals only tossed in later. Sorala can't blame them. Who would want to tromp through such a mess?
The fine yeast fungus covers everything in an even, grayish layer that flutters slightly, sighing in unfelt currents of air. Between that and the shifting light, it gave the entire room a strange feeling of unease, of the restless dead. Which was, of course, not merely a poetic device. Sorala knew all to well that such poor treatment of the dead lead to the undead. But for now, the White Squire spotted no such specters.
She saw nothing else of interest or value, which makes sense. Who would store things in such an abattoir?
A shiver creeps up Sorala's spine, as if she were a cat; her hair stands on end, her skin tingles with the brush of something truly as horrific as anything a Jadwiga could dream up. The White Squire grips her rimeblade and stands as still as the corpses inside the room, taking in the horror for as long as she can stand to work her magics. "Elysia would have appreciated Divedi, I think. We shant tell her anything."
Search done, she swings the door closed and locks it again, sliding the bar into the brace with a final, solid thump.
Running a hand through her hair and with a deep, cleansing exhalation, Sorala returns to Divedi's room and pulls the stack of papers and the ledger from the floor, realizing she didn't bother to bring a backpack with her those two days ago. Everything had happened so quickly - there was barely time to think of needs as she gathered some things in a rush, in order to meet Lady Riina's surprising to order to depart to Port Peril. Annoyance with her liege claws at Sorala, surprising the Squire with its intensity. Why was she here? Why was she given no notice? What games were the Jadwiga playing, and what was the cost of those games going to be to her?
Sighing, Sorala looks up at the ladder. No backpack, no free arms. Closing her eyes, Sorala lifts off the ground, slowly rising alongside the ladder, and steps onto the ground floor of the bakery, blinking as she adjusts to the light spilling through the bakery's front door. Where was Norintha?
It is a relief to exchange the sickly-sweet smell of rot and blood for freshly baked bread. When Sorala opens her eyes, she notices that the smell is the only thing left of the once thriving bakery. Vennik's men did their work well. The place was a stripped, empty shell. Not only was allt he bread gone, but so were the pans, the wooden paddles, and the bags of ingredients. Even the slave chains had been taken, wrenched directly out of the walls, leaving ugly gaps. Only the big heavy tables remained, obviously too heavy and awkward to take without wagons or at least carts.
The fire burned low, casting a dim red light in the suddenly cavernous space.
"You can't climb a ladder without magic?" Norintha says and Sorala turns to face the short, tanned woman. She is standing near the doorway, the slaves still around her. The chains have been removed, and they seemingly have been watered. Still, they have a certain listless, dazed quality about them, as if they were still having trouble adjusting to freedom. Most bear the signs of hard labor and cruel treatment with blistered wounds and thin limbs. None seem on the verge of death however.
"Well, thank you." Norintha finally adds, "You upheld your end of the deal. That's a rare thing. I'll remember it." She waves to the group sitting in the warming tropical sun. "A few of the bolder ones, or those with places to go already left. I wish them well. These are the remains. I assume you don't need them for anything?" She gives them a long, speculative look. "The occupation will have turned things upside down, but I should be able to find safe places for most of them."
Sorala places her stack of papers and the ledger atop a nearby table, everything in a neat stack, and unconsciously sets to making it even neater as she turns her attention to Norintha, pushing the rare out of sorts paper closer to the others, until the stack stands papers nearly perfectly in alignment with each other. As they talk, one corner of Sorala's mind notes that the Hoarwood bandits seemed to have absconded with her boots, which she had left atop the counter before heading below.
"I know your people need food, but... they would not want to eat that bread." Sorala's voice lowers, as if afraid to speak of the horror below. "The slavers used corpses to grow the yeast that they baked into the bread. There's a score of bodies below, maybe more. It is... a dark place, the kind of place that could give rise to restless dead if it is not cleansed. Is there a priest that can do so? Does the blind Desnan - what was his name? Barnaby? Would he know someone?"
Sorala sighs, and stretches, the plain strangeness of the last hour catching up to her, her adrenaline just starting to ebb. "Divedi lies dead below. He'll trouble your people no more."
Turning to the doorway, Sorala regards the once-enslaved sitting outside in the sun. "They would not last long among my people. Perhaps again the old man Barnaby can help them? If you wish to wait, I can perhaps secure them some food. There's going to be a feast tonight..."
An idea flits through Sorala's mind, preposterous in the extreme, and perhaps it is the tiredness setting in, or the juxtaposition of the empty, cavernous room sitting atop the horror below, but Sorala voices it anyway. "Back home, I had a pack. It looked like a worn leather backpack, but when you reached inside it, it held more than seemed possible. I..." Sorala's face pinches, and she silently curses herself, a deep sense of longing surging through her for the familiar; her modest room, its - by Irriseni standards - impressive library, her bedfurs, the haversack, she hoped still sitting atop her writing desk, where she had placed it the day before she left. "I left my home in a hurry, and forgot it."
"Do you have something similar? If so, you could attend the feast as my guide, and we could pilfer some food for your people? While they wait, they could hide in the vacant apartment across the way until you return with their food."
Sorala sighs once again, and taps the ledger next to her. "A stupid idea, I'm sure. At any rate, I also need to find someone that can open this ledger, and I need to store these papers and the ledger somewhere where they won't be bothered. Do you think the vacant apartment next door would suffice, for the time being?"
Norintha doesn't look shocked at Sorala's news, but instead merely grows grim. "I guessed." the halfling says simply, her eyes finding the dark trapdoor in the floor. "Most places pay to have slaves buried, even if to just keep the corpses out of the streets. I keep an eye on such things, and Sooraj rarely did it. I suspected he had use for his property, even after death." Her voice is as cold as any Irriseni storm. "One less blight on the world."
"Barnabas." Norintha corrects automatically, "That might work. Shouldn't been too hard though, no one wants undead wandering the streets. Unless..." She glances up at Sorala, her brown eyes locking on Sorala's icy blue. "We need someone discreet? You have plans for this place?"
The empty bakery looms around them, seemingly oddly large without all the furniture. The baking fires crackle dully, slowly sputtering out. When Sorala mentions the slaves not lasting long Norintha merely raises an eyebrow, "You would be surprised. They lasted here and I doubt even your masters could teach Sooraj Divedi much cruelty."
"I don't have a magical bag like that," Norintha says with a slight smile, "I am not a rich woman or warrior like you. Just a simple tailor, trying to make her way in a world that doesn't care much for her. But there are stores to buy such things, on the mainland." She sweeps an arm toward the eastern wall of the bakery, "Across the bay."
When Sorala mentions the ledger, the little halfling grins, "Now, breaking into things, that is more Crescent Harbor's style." The older woman looks pensive then, "How much are you willing to pay? And how much danger are you willing to take? There are plenty on this island quick with a lock, but not all of them can be trusted to not stab you over it."