Sorala's shouts go unanswered, her voice ringing off the unseen walls of the room. Above she can hear more footfalls and the curses and shouts of occupants of the boardinghouse. Outside the chaos of the street brawl must be getting worse because the screams and yowls are growing louder.
To her question Eitleán remarks, "Twice, but never flying."
With the rimeblade Pointed ahead of her like a ship's prow, Sorala aims toward her quarry and launches herself upward. For a spilt second she is is hanging in utter blackness, air flowing past her face, whipping her air. It is as if she is still and the rest of the universe is moving past her-
Then she smashes through the ceiling. Eitleán cuts through the cheap wood without much trouble but still leaves a lot of work for Sorala's head and shoulders. Around her the world of color flashes back into sight, even as she crashes into the room above. Dust and splinters shower her invisible form as the White Squire flies through another cheap room. This one has a cowering halfling in a corner, doing his best to avoid what must seem like a nightmare as his floor buckles and explodes without obvious cause. Sorala flies past, blinking back both the return of her vision and wall debris.
It is like flying through a whirling tornado of destruction, with herself being the heart of the storm. Eitleán unyielding edge leads her through another wall, part of a sway-backed staircase and a final wall until they burst into a wide hallway on the third floor. Sorala pauses in mid-air, invisible but surrounded by a halo of plaster, grime and bits of wooden trim. As the dust slowly settles the White Squire gets a good look around.
Ahead of her is the hooded and cloaked figure, standing just outside of a closed door. Ida Kela's door, Sorala realizes after a moment to get her bearings after her destructive flight. The figure is frozen in place, knuckles just about to rap on the door. Slowly the hood turns and Sorala catches a glimpse of the handsome, tanned face of Maxvale Janis.
Well, handsome is a relative term. From the little she can see the man looks exhausted, hungry and terrified. While he still can't see Sorala, obviously he guesses someone (or something) is standing in the hallway. His hand shakes a bit but then Janis, to Sorala's utter bewilderment, raises a finger to his lips in a shushing motion.
The sudden weird silence is broken by a rasping, grating snore from behind the closed door.
Sorala blinks, a smile spreading across her invisible face, one doubting and delirious all at once. "Well how was it, Eitleán? It was my first wall, flying or no."
Shaking some hair from Eitleán - the locals apparently mix it into their wall mortar and lathe - Sorala lets the illusion of the old slave woman drop. If she were to kill Janis, it was best he see who did it. But, perhaps there was no need to fight today? Sorala floats closer, plaster and trim falling to the floor beneath her.
"Maxvale Janis," Sorala says, her voice soft, curiosity getting the better of her sense of duty. She would see where this goes, but put herself in a position to end Janis quickly if need be. Still, soft as her voice is, it carries a tinge of menace to it. The taste of copper floods the Squire's mouth.
"You have fled your mistress. I am here to bring you back. Preferably alive, but that is my decision, not an order. However, perhaps things can be made more... accommodating for you this next visit?"
Silent but for her hushed voice, Sorala drifts closer and closer, shedding more dust as she goes. A twinge of pity pinches the Squire's features as Sorala sees just how tired Janis looks. Even pirate lords could be broken under the delicate heel of a Jadwiga.
"You know this is outrageously foolish and dangerous, right?" Eitleán remarks conversationally as Sorala decides to talk with Janis instead of simply killing him. "If you have to kill something, you don't sit down and talk with it. Quite apart from it killing you first....you just might change your mind."
To his credit the man does not jump or flinch when Sorala's cold whisper reaches him. Instead, Janis visibly relaxes somewhat, his drawn face easing ever so slightly. Still, the White Squire noticed he kept his hand near the door, threatening to knock. A dead man's switch?
"We really don't want to wake her." The would-be Pirate Lord says, voice a dry rasp. "Ida is famously, um, surly, if roused against her wishes." Slowly, using one hand, the man pulls back his hood.
A mess of brown hair spills out, tangled and messy. Still, Sorala could appreciate that normally, the man is probably quite attractive. Not here, not now. His eyes are sharp, almost feverish with dark bags under them. The cheeks are hollow, with sharp cheekbones. A small tic near an eye is almost a twitch.
He looks at the empty space where Sorala's voice is appearing from, "Let me make one thing clear. I am not going back." A gallant attempt at a smile, "I doubt your mistress can endure another night with me." The bravado is as empty as a drum, and Sorala can hear the man's fear behind it, rattling like an dice cup.
After a moment Janis masters himself and says,"But perhaps some arrangement can be made? Something that can let both of us get something we want? A rising tide lifts all boats, after all." The taste of dust hangs in the air, settling on their clothes and the hallway floor. Outside the sounds of the street brawl resound.
Janis seems to notice saying, "Not distracted?" A pause and then a quick glance at the Sorala-sized hole in the hallway floor. "No, I think you are a determined...person. Whoever you are."
A dry cough, speaking of a few rough nights, "Well, I am no pushover myself. Maybe we have something in common?" Another cough and a gesture toward the closed door, "Without things getting even more messy? If we wake her up, our options will rapidly thin."
"I've been feeling... strange," Sorala admits, her mindvoice tinged with a curious mix of aloofness and confusion. "I don't know, this heat. This land. It is like trying to balance on an ice jam broken loose. The ground shakes under me."
Not that she was currently on the ground. Sorala floated closer, slowly but indomitably, and wished that she could know what the pirate lord thought of her; a disembodied voice attached to a barely discernable figure, inexorably creeping closer, shedding dust, mortar, and hair. She must be terrifying, Sorala muses and grips Eitleán tight, a brief vision of plunging the rimeblade into Janis's chest floating through her mind's eye. Is this what it felt like to be a Jadwiga?
"We've met," Sorala says, her voice hushed and flat. "You are a pirate lord, an important man, and the lover of Fairwind. I wonder, are more people jealous of you? Or Fairwind? But you've fallen far, Maxvale Janis. You are far from home, unable to leave this island, and no longer have a ship. Whether you knock on that door or not, you only have two options. Die, or come with me. You still have things you can offer us. We can get you another ship, another crew. In return for your service."
"Or, you say you have an arrangement to offer? What is it? I'm listening."
Eitleán is thoughtfully silent for a moment and then says, "Yes. In Irrisen things are the way they are. This place is much more...rootless."
Rootless. Not a bad turn of phrase. Irrisen felt like an old oak tree, frozen during winter. Stable, unchanging, unchangeable. Port Peril felt more riding a log rolling down a hill side. Out of control, dangerous, changing every second....and exhilarating.
When Sorala mentions they have met, she watches Janis painfully try to place her voice, to recognize her. Anything would be better then trying to bargain with an unseen ghost. He fails though but tries to shrug it off.
"So, you have heard of me." he says, trying to rally when she mentions his previous life. "So, that should help sell my arrangement then." Sorala gets the feeling this is the not the first time for this man, to be trapped and talk his way out of danger. He is rattled, stressed and cracked but not yet fully gone. This is someone used to acting under pressure.
"I have gold, if you want it. Not on me, but in this city. Riches, my unseen friend. And the best kind of gold, the kind you don't have to share." A dry tongue on chapped lips. "Or maybe you do, whichever you prefer."
"I have friends too, as you have mentioned. Favors, allies. Useful things. Things you won't have if you kill me. The reverse, you'd be making enemies. There would be people upset at the one that finished me off, if only because they didn't get the chance to.." The joke trails off into silence. A board creaks under Janis's weight. From behind the door, Ida Kela rips another painful sounding snore.
"You don't have to tell your bosses you let me go, after all. Corpses can be found, illusions faked. You can have the glory and the loot. I can just....vanish. I'll sail so far away, you'll need Besmara's Own Charts to find me. "
A long pause and then, with an air of a salesmen trying to finish a deal, "So there it is. You can either try and kill me and create an unwelcome mess for yourself, or you can let me reward you with money, friends and glory, all at no risk. Seems obvious to me."
Sorala's drifting flight slows as she draws near to Janis. A frown crosses her face, deepening as the pirate lord spins his offer. Money, at the heart of it. Not interesting to the White Squire, who had enough for her needs, and when she needed more, it was usually given, if it could be justified to her masters. The promise of favors, useful things - that was more interesting.
Regardless, it was an impossible deal. Valacus's words echoed in Sorala's thoughts: The eyes of the House will be on you. A vision of Janis passes through Sorala's mind; years later, the pirate lord aboard a new ship, gazing west towards a setting sun, an inscrutable smile on his lips as he bobs gently with the ship. For that to be, Sorala would either need more time, to figure out just what kind of eyes Sorala had on her. Or, she needed to be dead.
One thing the pirate lord said merited attention: killing him would make enemies. Under her cloak of invisibility, Sorala's form shifts again, taking on the guise of a stern, chiseled Chelish woman with raven hair, dressed in an officer's uniform. If Janis somehow escaped - or there were witness for what would come - it would be best if Sorala did not look herself. Eitleán changes appearance as well: his notable blade dulls to look like mere steel, while electricity flickers across his blade, like sheet lightning crackling over a stormcloud.
In an instant, the world blurs as Sorala charges through the air, rimeblade extended towards Janis's heart. The taste of copper floods Sorala's mouth. The White Squire swallows and squeezes Eitleán's hilt, bracing for the strike.
AC 20 (charge)
Shield
2 mirror images
Disguised as a Chelish sailor
Sorala shoves the blade forward into Janis's chest. For a spilt second Eitleán remains invisible and Janis's flesh slices open as if by magic. Then Sorala, disguised, flashes into view, the blade stabbing into the man. For a solid silent second Janis seems more confused then anything else, eyes flicking from the wound to Sorala and back.
Then he starts to scream. Very loudly actually, a shrieking cry that combines shock and frustration with raw pain. The Pirate Lord starts to topple over, knees giving way under Sorala's relentless pressure. His hand bangs on the boardinghouse door as he falls, slamming against it. Maxvale Janis hits the floor hard, spurts of blood staining the dust strewn floor.
Janis's scream starts to descend into foul-mouthed cursing as Sorala essentially pins him to the floor with several feet of honed steel. The snoring behind the door stops. Curious, Sorala perks an ear toward it, trying to ignore the groaning, cursing, bleeding man below her.
A mumbled word? A sleepy sigh?
Then.
"Shut up!" A female voice shouts from inside the room, words distorted and muffled. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Sorala just has time to reflect the words make her think of a petulant child when the door slams open with enough force to smash into the wall shatter a hinge. In the doorway stands a very....unusual woman.
She is a short and stocky woman with dark brown skin that reminds Sorala of weathered hardwood, full of knots and heavy grain. Middle-aged, Idea Kela has more then her fair share of wrinkles, liver spots and visible veins. Her hair is a rat's nest of iron-gray locks, jumbled and mixed with dust and grease.
Around her round mouth is a green-yellow crust that Sorala hopes vainly is not dried vomit. Blood-shot eyes squint against the dim light of the hallway, slipping in and out of focus. A tall brown bottle is clutched in one hand with the same attention a drowning man gives a lifeline.
Oh, and she is shirtless. Her pants are torn and tattered, stained with everything from oil to mud to what ominously looks like blood. But Sorala is busy staring at her chest. Not her nakedness but the swirling intricate series of jet-black tattoos that cover her entire body. Amazingly, they are moving, like living things. Sets of geometric patterns march down her arms, rolling rings around her neck, and the image of a sailing vessel pitches in inky waves.
On the floor Janis recovers first and says, voice quick and harsh, "Ida, I'm calling in that favor-"
The woman bellows in a cracked harsh voice like old leather rubbed the wrong way. "I am trying to sleep!"
She looks down at Janis and then, without ceremony, kicks him hard. "I don't owe you maggot's a+##*~#, Janis. You called that favor in six years ago and it wasn't much anyway. The cleric would have drowned himself." Another kick, almost thoughtfully.
Then the hungover woman turns her blearily, swollen eyes on Sorala. "I don't know who the hell you are, or how many you are..." She says slurs wildly, gesturing with her bottle, "But get the hell out of my house! I am trying to sleep! G## d#*n Chelish..." She totters like a tree in a windstorm, or making a ship's mast in a gale.
"Gods, my head feels like it is going to fall off." She grabs her forehead with one palm. "Gods, I wish it would!"
Then, without warning, the woman spasms her hand and mutters some arcane word. For a horrible moment Sorala freezes, cursing her slow reactions. Had this woman just attacked her? Gods knew she looked capable....
But there is no fireball, no lighting strike, no spectral wolf forming out of the ether. Just a drunk woman holding her temples and a whimpering, bleeding man on the floor (blade still stuck into his shoulder). Maybe Janis had been exaggerating Ida Kela's prowess? or perhaps the woman had drunk away her power? Such things happened-
Suddenly the room around Sorala started to shift. It was subtle at first. Shadows started to bend oddly, slipping out of sight. The chunks of wood on the floor, the piles of sawdust, the plaster started to elongate and twist. Then the walls and floor started to pitch and slide, branching out in a mind-bending kaleidoscope of shifting duplicates and colors. It was like being trapped inside a broken mirror, the entire hallway shifting in impossible shapes and angles.
Sorala's stomach starts to slowly roll over as her inner ear screams in abject terror at the tottering, shifting world around them.
"A potent sorcerer indeed." Eitleán comments and oddly, there is no sarcasm in his remark.
"That's better..." Ida says quietly, to herself.
Sorala pulls Eitleán free, Janis's blood falling out of his wound like water from a tipped over glass, and Sorala's hand slips from his throat, grasping at the pirate lord's cloak as the world turns topsy-turvy. She kept her voice quiet; the words came in a discomfited hiss.
"My apologies, Ms. Kela. Things will be quiet very soon. And I'll make it right with you, I promise!"
The room spins, as Sorala were as drunk as the sorcerous apparently was, and the hallway shifts in and out of itself, as if it were a living thing, almost like a breathing painting by the great Korvosan artist Salvador Scream, who's work Sorala had admired - reproduced of course - in an expansive tome she'd found in Aelick's study. It was better to admire his works from afar, it turned out, than to be battling within them. Sorala barked an arcane command, sharp, like an icecicle falling to a cobblestone street, and frost traveled from her hand up Eitleán 's blade. Bile rose in the White Squire's throat; she closed her eyes to stop the room spinning and stabbed twice with the rimeblade, her strikes at once feeble and wild.
Ida Kela ignores Sorala's calming words, the woman closing her eyes and gently massaging her forehead. She groans slightly and then lifts the bottle to her lips for a long, smooth pull of something sickly sweet.
Sorala turns back to her work, finishing up the would-be Pirate Lord. Her first magic infused stab slices into his other shoulder, opening a bright red rent in both his ratty clothes and his skin. Along with the sharp steel, there is a crackle and flash of energy as Eitleán arcs a bright spark of pure power. The man feebly curses again, eyes closed and body racked with pain.
A frosting coating of ice spills out from the injury, both staunching the blood, as well as bonding Janis to the floor.
Her second stab actually hits the ice instead and slides off harmlessly, the rimeblade taking a knick out of the wooden floor. What would Alastia say? Her prized student missing an unarmed prone man?
Janis tries his best to crawl away, but that isn't so easy inside the manic funhouse Kela has created.
Either the pain or his prone position helps, for he doesn't seem nearly as effected as Sorala, and tries to make a slow escape.
"Gah!" Ida Kela suddenly bursts out, "Are you Chelish people deaf? I said be !" The swirling unholy room tilts even more crazily, and Sorala's breakfast gurgles dangerously up her throat.
Then the tattooed woman snaps her fingers, there is a flash of light and....
Sorala finds herself rooted to the floor. No, not just that. She was frozen in place, a woman made statute, Eitleán glittering in her fist. She couldn't move at all, not a muscle, not to blink or nod. Only her lungs seems to still be working, air floating past her marble-still lips.
The spell is obviously Hold Person, and a rather powerful one. You are locked in place, unable to move or speak until you manage to break free, which isn't easy.
"Well, that's not good."Eitleán reflects.
"No one is killing anyone in my house." Ida Kela says gruffly, "At least not so loudly." She squints at Sorala and wipes some of the dried crust onto the back of her hand, snorting back some snot at the same time. "Damn Chelish."
She turns back to Janis, voice still a harsh rasp, "I don't care what is going on, Maxvale, I just want you out of here. Go bleed someplace else." Janis says nothing except a bit of feeble whimpering and, of course, bleeding.
"Damn pirates." Kela sighs painfully.
Still looking at Janis she takes a step and kicks with a dirty bare foot, long yellowed toenails visible even in the weird lighting. She holds her toes against his face for a moment.
"Get out of here, Janis." Kela growls. Janis nods once and then vanishes out of sight.
Sorala can tell by the gesture and the color of the flash. The signs of Dimension Door. Transfer a willing subject anywhere within 400 feet. Gods only knew where the wounded, and possible dying, Pirate Lord was now. Downstairs? Next building? Vennik could still catch them....
"I'm going to let you go now." Ida Kela says, looking back at Sorala. Instantly Sorala's muscles relax, back under her control. She totters a bit as her knees buckle. The room is still bewildering strange however, the floor and ceiling moving in unnatural shimmies and slides.
"What did Janis do?" The woman asks roughly, raising her bottle again, apparently unconcerned with the fact Sorala is heavily armed and only a few feet away. "Steal some money? Sleep with your wife?"
"Damn pirates."
Her sword arm frozen in midair, Eitleán dangling mere inches from the disoriented, sick, and slowly scrambling pirate lord, Sorala watches helplessly as Ida Kela puts a shaky foot on the man and banishes him somewhere else. A scream tumbles into Sorala's mind, an avalanche of fury. A scream of pure rage, not unlike that of her Jadwiga masters, in those moments where they loose their inhibitions and succumb - often, Sorala suspected, with pleasure - to the deepest depths of their worst natures.
But there was no pleasure in this. Sorala's wordless scream tailed off into a sobbing, almost plaintive curse, pitched high with worry. No! Lamashtu's sagging c@!~, no you daft drunk, you've killed me! It wouldn't matter that she'd failed by mere inches, she'd be as dead as poor, dearly missed Halgred by dawn. If daft, drunk Ida Kela didn't do her in sooner.
Sorala had known it would happen eventually, that she'd die in service to her liege, or die at her liege's hand, and she'd always taken the thought with the weary fatalism demanded of servants of her stature. But now that her end was so soon, on the horizon so to speak, panic beat in the White Squire's chest, as sure as her breath still passed through her lips, no matter how constrained.
And then as easily as she'd been frozen, Ida lets her free, and Sorala dropped to the ground, a keening, wordless cry escaping - softly - from her lips. She thinks for a second of running Eitleán through Ida's throat, but gathers herself, and stands, wobbling, as the room tumbles around her in impossible ways. Perhaps there was still time to catch the pirate lord. And truthfully, Sorala accepted a simple fact: she would not win a fight against Ida Kela.
Sorala's voice cracks, but gains composure as she speaks. Perhaps, if she lived through the day, Kela could even be of use. "Nothing so intentional. He made my master a fool. I'll return to make things right with you, as I promised."
That was all the time she could spare for Ida Kela, daft drunk, misfortune incarnate, and perhaps the unwitting architect of Sorala's undoing. The White Squire lifted into the air, and shot, like a wobbly, broken arrow, down the tumbling hallway.
Ida Kela has no time to reply as Sorala lifts off the ground and zooms toward the far wall. Flying straight through the cascading, shifting planes is impossible so the White Squire simply points herself at a far wall and closes her eyes.
Again, for a moment, the world is just her breathing and the air flowing past her face. The strange magic is gone, her stomach calms and the only sound is her heartbeat. Well that and the suffocating mix of rage, fear and desperation that is welling up in her chest. If she failed, Elysia would kill her.
No, not kill her. Probably slowly torture her first and then kill her. Would she be turned over to Valacus? Sorala is a strong woman, with hard nerves and an iron will but the thought of being turned over to the soft spoken cleric of The Midnight Lord fills her with an icy dread.
Meanwhile Eitleán remarks casually, apparently unconcerned with Sorala's inner crisis, "What an interesting woman. I wonder what god she worships. I don't think she is from Port Peril. I've never seen tattoos like that." Sorala hadn't noticed an accent but had been busy trying (and failing!) to kill a man.
Then she hits the outside wall. Luckily there is a small window which eases things, but clearly the outer walls are built more solid then interior ones, and Sorala's shoulders slam into the wood harder then she'd have liked.
Then she is free, burst from the cheap boardinghouse like a bird from an egg. She swoops through the bright tropical air like a local bird, trailing a ragged corona of dust and splinters for a few yards. Actually three coronas for, to an outside observer the flying Chelish woman is still one of a trio.
Outside the sky is a blinding dazzling blue, so bright it hurts her inner eye almost as her actual eyes. How could something so pure, so perfect exist above such a sordid world? No time for that now.
Sorala holds still above the boardinghouse, floating in mid-air. Feeling like a hawk hunting for prey, her eyes sweep the landscape around her searching for Janis, desperately hoping against hope she might still succeed and not face the Jadwiga's wrath.
Her eye is first caught by the giant brawl outside the boardinghouse, of course. A whole street was full of wrestling and struggling people. The chaos did seem to be dying down however as the most dedicated fighters either tired out or were knocked out. To her relief she saw Vennik had managed to pull most of his troops out of the fray and create a strongpoint around an overturned wagon. The Irriseni bandits looked like a castle under siege....if in miniature. Still, they seemed safe enough, even if a few sported broken arms or were using makeshift crutches.
Sorala's gaze turned to the neighborhood. It was a fairly seedy place close to the docks, a few blocks of flophouses, grog shops and cheap brothels sprinkled with a couple of warehouses and storage sheds. A few people are moving about but the streets are still quiet due to both the irriseni patrols and the riot. No sign of Janis, but that isn't surprsiing.
The man is probably hunkered down in a random building below, teleported there by Ida. He wouldn't want to break cover yet. Also, to be fair, he might not be able to get up and run. Sorala severely injured him and the Pirate Lord might even now be dying in his own blood. Still, that didn't help her...
Part of her mind though, now slowing and feeling refreshed by clear tropical air reminded her that she wasn't dead....yet. Valacus had not insisted on a time table for Janis's recapture. Granted, it was always better to succeed faster but Sorala has no worse off then this morning. In fact she was better off since she had injured Janis and had him on the run, right under her nose.
If only she could find him....
Perching again atop the boardinghouse, Sorala takes stock of her situation. Janis banished somewhere nearby, hopefully too wounded to make a run for safer surroundings. Even if she were so lucky, she still wouldn't have much time before he'd be on the move. She had surprise on her side: perhaps Janis thought - and he certainly hoped - that Ida Kela had finished his assailant off. She had a small band of Irrisenian mercenaries, a bit of force, that could be deployed in the immediate area, quickly. They could also be sent for reinforcements. But that would mean Sorala needed to clear the area in front of the guesthouse of rioters.
The last asset that Sorala could have, perhaps, was the rioters themselves. The White Squire figured that the melee was a ruse, and those that started it would certainly have been working with Janis. Perhaps, if one of the instigators was still alive, preferably wounded and laying in the street, they would be of use. From her perch, Sorala surveyed the rioters, looking for the woman who had screamed of Garrick and the one that had answered back. As she looked for those two, the White Squire drew forth a rolled parchment page from her pack. Unfurling the scroll, she invoked the arcane scribblings, sigils that seemed to fade from view the harder one stared at them. Finishing the incantation, the words faded from the page for good, while a veritable army appeared behind Sorala. Thirty Chelish archers, men and women with pale skin and dark hair, dressed in the livery of the marines aboard the Geryon. Each marine squinted down the flight groove of a heavy crossbow, each crossbow pointed in the direction of the rioters.
It was a figment, a minor illusion without the ability to move or react or make sound, but from a distance Sorala hoped it wouldn't matter. They would appear to be disciplined crossbowmen, holding their position until ordered to fire, and their position atop the guesthouse roof would make observations about lack of movement or sound harder to make.
Lifting Eitleán above her head, Sorala dropped from the roof and landed in front of the overturned wagon, between the rioters and the Irriseni mercenaries, the impact of her landing sending the remaining dust from her glamered "Chelish uniform."
Keeping her arm raised, Sorala bellowed, making her best impression of a Chelish accent.
"This ends now! You have until I finish counting to scatter! Once I lower my sword, the thirty archers on the roof will fire. And you'll die in a dusty Port Peril street! One.. two..."
Sorala doesn't say what number exactly she is counting to. Instead, she slowly begins lowering Eitleán, while her mind flips through options if the crowd does not disperse.
Getting the attention of a brawling street riot is notoriously difficult, for good reason. People busy punching, stabbing, bleeding and screaming tend to have a less then solid understanding of the world around them.
But apparently all one needed was thirty armed and trained crossbowmen. It takes a minute or so for someone to notice the platoon of Chelish archers but once they do, the knowledge spreads quickly. Sorala is just reaching "four" in her count when the Port Perilers break for cover en masse. It reminds Sorala of a game drive, where beaters flushed out animals who swarmed in panic.
Below her, sailors, pirates and locals rushed in everyway for cover or protection. Some jumped into nearby buildings, others into alleyways, a few just under whatever debris cluttered the dirty street. Most though simply bolted away as fast as they could. The injured are generally carried although a few are left to limp or crawl away on their own.
Sorala sees no dead bodies to her surprise.
To her annoyance, Vennik's men do the same. Either they hadn't heard her over the tumult, they didn't beleive her or simply the sight of armed Chelishw as too much. In any case, the bandit's stick together as a group but run around a corner and vanish out of sight, Vennik trailing and cursing them.
Curious. The melee dissipates in a flash, leaving Sorala alone on the now entirely empty street. Turning slowly in place, Sorala takes stock of the nearby area. Where would Ida Kela shunt a dying pirate lord off to, within 400 feet?
Kels was first and foremost an alcoholic, and while she likely knew the area's public nooks and crannies, a drunken, intemperous mage of significant power would likely be avoided by most of the residents of the area. So, sending Janis into a private home seemed unlikely. On the other hand, Kels probably knew the saloons and festhalls nearby as well as her own flat, as well as the alleys and the docks.
Sighing, Sorala decides that if Janis were in an alleyway or other public area, he would try to get somewhere more hidden (or just flee the area entirely, if he thought all of the Irriseni were tied up in the melee). So, she would have to start close to the guesthouse, navigating the alleys and more hidden thoroughfares, and then wend the docks, making sure to check any direlects or other watercraft that seemed to be permanently moored in place, for they would make a fine place for a drunken spellweaver to spend an evening (or a hundred evenings).
If she could not turn anything up, she would next check the grog houses and other buildings where alcohol was easily found and drunken behavior was expected. Surely Ida had a favorite nearby haunt she could stumble home from.
Tapping Eitleán against her bare foot, Sorala thinks, "Keep your senses sharp. If we don't find this man, you'll soon have a new Squire to bond with. That's a lot of time sitting dormant."
Pausing, a seductive, fleeting thought crosses Sorala's mind. She blinks, and blinks again, pushing the vision from her mind's eye. "Tell me something, Eitleán, if you would be so kind as to indulge me. Do you report to the Jadwiga in any way? Especially about me? My thoughts? My actions? My location?"
In her mind she gets a sudden silence from Eitleán, something that freezes her heart as solid as any Irrisen winter. Had she revealed something? Had she gone too far? Then.
The sword laughs, an oddly weird metallic sound. Like a chuckle overlaid with a smith's hammer work.
"Report?" The rimeblade says in the vaults of her mind, "What am I, a servant? Sorala, weren't you listening before? I'm not a creation of Irrisen or the Jadwiga, despite the legends they try to pass off. Think of me more as a....independent contractor." A pause to consider this, "But your secrets, whatever they are, are safe with me."
A very long pause and then, quietly, "You are more free then you dare hope."
For the rest of the hot, sweaty, frustrating day Sorala doesn't feel free. The White Squire combs the area looking for Janis. What makes it difficult is, besides the oppressive tropical heat, she has so little information. Even her quarry is a question mark. How badly was the man injured? Was she looking for an able-boded fugitive, or a bleeding victim? A corpse? Sorala also had no idea where Ida might have sent him.
A safehouse? A known location? A random spot on the map? Was he hiding in a cupboard somewhere, bleeding to death or spiriting to the hills?
But there is nothing else to do but search, so Sorala does. She tramps through sodden, smelly alleyways ankle-deep in scum. She surveys dusty backrooms, sneezing and coughing. She checks out public houses ripe with both stale beer and noxious body odors. A few time she even sneaks on rickety old sailboats floating at anchor.
Still, there are places left to search. There are some private apartments, and the taverns have private rooms she had not inspect easily. How determined of a search does she want? Will she bribe? Or use brute force?
"Thank you," Sorala's mindvoice almost bleats, for all the world ringing in the White Squire's mind like she's once again a scared girl not quite a decade old, strapped over the horseback of one of Baba Yaga's riders. "This day may be the beginning of my death. It is good to know you won't enable it."
As for the rimeblade's comments of being free... well, that seemed unlikely to Sorala, for the Jadwiga's reach was long. Again, however, that seductive image passes through the Squire's mind, and this time she dwells upon it a bit. What would she need? What did she have? Thoughts start to tumble in Sorala's mind, plans hatch, like a clutch of eagle's eggs high atop a frost-blasted cliffside nest. Frail, wriggling thoughts, that needed to be nurtured, lest they get dashed upon sharp rocks below.
Mostly though, Sorala needed that damned pirate lord, and on that count, the day proved wasted. Still in her Chelish disguise, the White Squire sits upon the bow of one sailboat, flecked with half-peeled white paint, the words Direlection of Duty scrawled in faded paint across its hull. She looks upon the dockside of Irrisier, glittering in the afternoon light, and let's the thoughts tumble and click, grow to be more fully formed. Eventually, Sorala stands, the small boat rocking ever so slightly under her. She had by her count at most six more days to find Janis. Less, if he managed to get the magics removed.
The first thing she would need to do would be to secure Ida Kell's house, and then to up patrols in the district. Next, she would need to once again visit Ida, this time with gifts. A long day would turn into a longer night, for this was what was demanded of her. Hopping off the sailboat and onto a rickety pier, Sorala strode towards the quickly approaching night.
Her first task is, of course, to find Vennik and his men. So, she sniffs the warm evening air. Not for blood and death, or even for body odor. But booze. The bandit hadn't run far, she assumed but wherever they holed up would be some sort of inn, tavern or public house.
Following her nose, like a hunting animal, Sorala soon finds the Terror of the Harwood, or at least his band stoutly defending a ramshackle grog shop. At her approach they quickly stand up, wiping mouths and offering salutes. Well, at least those that could stand up. Some seem to have taken the guarding of the shop's ale barrels quite seriously. To his credit, when Vennik emerges onto the grimy street, he seems un-intoxicated.
"Sorry, ma'am." he offers to her. "My men simply aren't used to magic and all that. Point a crossbow at them and they expect to die. I suppose we'll have to work on that, if we plan to work together more." Sorala isn't quite sure what to make of the red-bearded man's casual assumption their relationship will be a long one.
Still, the man assents to her orders and begins hustling the still mobile bandits about. Several squads go to secure Ida kela's boarding house, although with strict orders to not disturb the sorcerer. Others are sent on roving patrols, to be as visible as possible. The idea was to scare Janis, either into freezing in place or to spook him into the open. Either or would suit Sorala's purposes. Before she leaves, the White Squire helps herself to whatever rotgut is still left inside the grog shop.
Not much, Vennik's men have been through and most of it was in barrels anyway. Still, a, earthenware bottle of grog isn't a bad start to her hoped for collection.
It is growing truly dark when Sorala finds herself on the doorstep of the boardinghouse again. The White Squire is sweaty, dirty and footsore. Still, it had gone well. She had gathered yet more patrols for this district, increasing the Irrisen presence twice-over. She had also kept the other location patrols in place for now, just in case Janis gave them the slip here at the docks. Sorala had the troops, why not use them?
Justa s important, she had a heavy canvas bag full of liquor, 'liberated' from both Irrisen captured stores, assorted plundered ruins and even a few from enterprising shops she passed on the way. The bottles clinked, gurgled and shifted under her arms, as she stared up at the door to Ida Kela's boardinghouse. All seemed quiet enough and the bandit guards reported nothing unusual.
There is little use in upbraiding Vennik over actions that - from his perspective - were perfectly reasonable. Sorala instead merely nods and takes a bottle from Vennik's hand, and lifting it to her lips, a tentative sip. Sorala clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, face scrunching into a squint, and hands the bottle back. The liquor tasted rough, like the people that drank it. A taste the White Squire realized she'd need to appreciate by this evening.
"You were surrounded and outnumbered and - you thought - were caught between archers and the mob. You saw a chance and you took it. Your men were right to run. You were right. There is a time and place for all things."
And there may be a time and place for Vennik and his men soon. "Tell me, Vennik..." Sorala trails off, and buys some time with another drink of the sour, hot liquor from Vennik's bottle. This was a delicate moment. "If you had the time and place to make your way in the world, unfettered and free, would you take it?"
She pauses to hear his answer, and then hands the bottle back. "Regardless, I shall need you and your men soon. At most, a week, if my plans work out. There is an opportunity coming to enrich yourselves greatly. Perhaps more even than the bakery. Are you interested?"
----
Grunting, Sorala lifts the bag of liquor over her shoulder and enters the ground floor of the sorceress's building. Gently placing the liquor by the hole in the wall Janis created, Sorala turns slowly, surveying the room. There was always the possibility that Kels teleported Janis somewhere in the building - an empty room in the basement, or a derelict apartment, a place that Kels would use herself if she needed a quick safe room. Sorala would start here, and work her way up, towards Ida's flat. And, if need be, she'd knock on that door, as Janis had this morning, and hope the heavy bag of liquor was enough to avert her wrath.
Vennik looks confused and wrong-footed, eyes narrowing. This is now how Irriseni elites act. Casual about failure and discussing the future over a bottle of foreign rum. The harsh hierarchal divide does not allow for such things. Maybe the bandit did not expect Sorala to whip him and his men (although some Jadwiga would have done far worse) but clearly he had expected something...bad.
Her final question about freedom completely throws the man. The bandit is as close to a free agent as Irrisen posses. A hired sword, used to living in the wild on the fringe of society, sometimes a criminal destined for the bonfire or scaffold, other times useful as hired thugs. And yet even he, a rather exceptional and unusual Irriseni native, simply can't grasp her question. It is like asking a fish how it would enjoy living in a tree, or asking a pig for directions.
"I...I don't follow." Vennik says carefully, dimly sensing some treason in the words. "I mean, this place isn't so bad. Good food and drink, and the weather isn't awful. Maybe a bit too hot. I don't follow you."
When she asks about future work he nods, back on known ground. "Of course, Squire. We await your command. "
Later, Sorala starts searching the boardinghouse, starting in the basement.
Which isn't much. Unlike in her homeland, where underground root cellars are common, clearly Port Peril natives, don't go in for basements. She finds a dark earthern floor room stacked with junk, probably from pervious tenants all mixed with a cold slime on the floor. The water table is very high here and it smells like a swamp.
However, Sorala leaves no stone unturned and, before a rotting armoire she finds something very interesting. A door, sealed shut and caked with dust. It must have been unopened for years but that dos not deter her. After all, her quarry had not walked here. Trying it, the door seemed totally wedged shut, probably barred and locked from the inside. Yet....
Out comes Eitleán, his mind flashing into hers as usual. "A crowbar again? If you chip me.." Not that it was likely. Other swordsmen had to spend hours sharpening, grinding, cleaning their blades but not Sorala. Eitleán was just as honed and sharp as he had been when presented to her. Not a speck of rust or the smallest knick. She had a feeling she could hack at raw iron and not hurt the blade.
"Let's not test it?" The blade comments.
A nearly unbreakable shaft of cold steel makes an excellent pry bar, whatever this feelings. Still, it takes awhile for Sorala to force the heavy door open, and she is quite sweaty and grimy when it finally grinds open. Inside.....
is a room. A small bedroom, complete with bed, cupboard and dressers. Everything is covered in a thin layer of dust, the bed unused. However in the center of the small floor the dust has been churned and scattered, and mixed with blood. The trail leads away from the bed and...into a small dark tunnel leading off underground. It is fresh. It could only be Janis. Ida had transported him here, perhaps a private safe room (or a place to sleep it off) and then the injured man had crawled away down a tunnel. Did he know where it went? Sorala had no idea but it seemed rather extensive.
Sorala keeps her face placid, her tone neutral. Vennik was perhaps as he appeared, a fish gazing up at a tree. Or, he was being coy. Sorala studied the man, taking in his discomfort.
And eventually deciding to let the question go. "Yes, the food is quite good here, isn't it? As for the drink... that bottle is all yours."
---
In the room, self-loathing washes over Sorala, chilling her like a cold winter wind. If only she'd thought Ida may send him somewhere inside her building earlier! How many hours had she wasted, scouring the nearby dockside, while Janis made his way through the city's underground?
Of course, he could have laid here for awhile, drifting in and out of consciousness, before he even realized that there was a tunnel. And he wasn't a native of the city; it was possible he knew very little of the secrets its the streets. And, it wasn't clear to Sorala that he had a means to see in the dark. Alone, wounded, blind... perhaps Janis hadn't made it that far?
It was also possible that he'd run afoul of something worse than he. Bad things lived under cities; this was a truth the world over, whether in ice blasted Irrisen or sun-drenched Irrisier. Janis - dead and digesting in an otyugh, or having met a similar fate - that was the worst outcome possible. Sorala needed the man, alive if possible, or at least his corpse if not.
"Lamashtu's sagging c*&!," the White Squire whispered, and ducked into the tunnel.
Traveling the tunnel was....unpleasant. For one thing it was cramped, the low ceiling forcing Sorala to hunch like a slave-miner. Almost instantly her back started to cramp. Worse the air inside was humid and damp, like the basement behind her. Already sweaty, she was soon wiping stinging salt out of her eyes every other step. Under foot the floor is tacky dirt verging on mud, whose only upside is it leaves a clear trail (she had to get some boots). Not that she really needs one in a tunnel, it isn't like Janis could suddenly go some other way. Still, it is a comfort to look down and see the slick signs of his crawling escape. Maybe she could still catch him....
The tunnel goes long enough that Sorala starts to examine it closely. Despite her first thought it is not a sewer or bandit smuggle hole. The shape is too uniform and regular, perfectly round, perfectly straight. Magically created by Ida Kela perhaps, as a way to move without detection? Spellcasters had ways of moving vast amounts of earth...but no. It wasn't that either. While very regular and smooth, the tunnel wasn't perfect enough for that either. Something dug this naturally but very, very well. Some kind of fey perhaps?
In her mind Eitleán comments, "We need to work on your cursing. Diversity is the key. Maybe we can pick something up from the locals? I once had a master that could swear in ten languages, if you count Troll."A pause, "Not that it helped him when that troll ripped in two..."
Pleasant thoughts.
Then Sorala sees something ahead. Raising the glowing rimeblade she sees the a black pit in the floor ahead, a perfectly round hole just like the rest. It plunges straight downward into pure darkness, no ladder or steps. Across it 'her' tunnel runs on, straight as ever. Peering across the gap, she can just make out signs of Janis's trail. Clearly he got to the other side, somehow. It is only a few feet across after all. Maybe the dying man had summoned up enough strength to make it.
Sorala was just doing the same when she heard something. No... felt something. The ground under her feet was trembling-
Suddenly behind her the wall of the tunnel collapsed inward, as if falling away. For a second a perfectly black hole appeared but was quickly replaced by a bronze shaped creature that slithered out into the tunnel. It was as if someone had taken a metal sculpture of a snake and given it life. The metal 'muscle' moving sinuously like flesh, sliding across the ground with ease. The snake-like head was crowned with strangle antlers but most horrifying was the mouth. It was round and large, filled with grinding teeth all coated in sizzling acid.
What was this thing?!
It slithered toward her, bubbling and hissing.
Sorala runs her hand along the ceiling of the tunnel, wondering for a second if the tunnel was made by a spellcaster. They had means of moving vast amounts of earth after all. An idea sparks in her mind, a smile graces her lips communicating nothing in the darkness. That's it. That's the solution.
But there was much to do still to get there. And first things first, finding Janis.
Regardless, this tunnel wasn't made by a mage. Sorala wipes the stinging sweat from her eyes and curses. Lamashtu's--
Abadar's bleached a$$@%!!, Sorala thinks, wondering briefly is she's impressed the rimeblade, who just moments earlier was idly bantering about the panopoly of curses in the world. Eh, a pit. Sorala peers into the darkness, and then backs up to make a crouching jump over to the other side.
And then, the tunnel behind her collapses. A metal snake - created by a spellcaster? Maybe Ida? No, she'd not send Janis so idly to his death. Whatever it was, it needed to die quickly. Sorala stood to put herself into a dueling pose, and winced as her head cracked into the ceiling above her. Dust billowed forward from the collapsed tunnel. Sorala spat an arcane syllable, the sound of a grinding ice dam, and chopped emphatically with her hand. Eitleán gleamed, magic coursing through its blade. Crouching, she pointed Eitleán and scuttled towards the snake-thing, intent to end it its existence before she could find out the pain those acid-dripping fangs could bring.
Sorala doesn't like long fights, she never did. Some fighters relish the give and take of combat, the elegant dance of defense and offense. The interplay of certain styles, the thrill of danger. It was an art, to some, a quickening of the spirit and of purpose.
The White Squire had been taught otherwise. Alastia had always stressed 'hit fast, hit hard'. Not only was it good sense in general, long fights were often stupid, it played to the rimeblade's magical power. Overwhelming force, applied quickly, could usually end a ight before it even started. In the real world, no one gave away points for flashy or 'well won' victories. If you walked away, you won. All the better if you did it in a hurry.
So it was with no hesitation Sorala threw herself into combat, the glittering rimeblade leading the way. At such close range, she can hardly miss, her only concern was if Eitlean could slice through the bronze-like rings of the creature. She need not have worried.
The rimeblade's razor edge punches right into the snake-like creature's head. Bright emerald blood gushes out from the sudden wound, which Sorala slashes downward. The thing writhes in pain so strongly Sorala takes a step back, hoping perhaps she had killed it?
No such luck. After a moment of pain, the creature masters itself and coils up like a cobra. But instead of launching itself, it spits a shower of hissing acid down the tunnel right at her!
The White Squire has just enough time to press herself against the tunnel wall, so only gets partially splashed. Still, it eats right through her clothes and sizzles on her skin. Hot, stinging pain.
Panic rises in Sorala, adrenaline surges, the Squire's sword-arm shakes slightly in her hand. Dangerous she thinks, thankful there was enough room in the tunnel that she could avoid most of the creature's acid spittle. Alastia's stern voice rings through the chambers of her mind. Be careful, girl. A face-full of acid would ruin years of Master Tikhon's training in an instant.
Sorala took a quick inventory. Most of her magic spent earlier in the day during her first failed gambit at securing the pirate lord. Now, she had merely one spell left, - which, if she was correct in her assumptions - would be of reduced effectiveness against this metal snake.
Sorala drew her arm back and raked it along the tunnel wall, dull pain throbbing near her elbow. Fighting in such cramped quarters was closer to a brawl than a duel, and it suited her monstrous opponent. Space. Need space. Sorala plunged the rimeblade towards the beast, as much a parry to buy her time as an attack, and stepped backwards, barking the familiar arcane syllable, an icicle cracking free of is moorings, and twisted her free hand into a grasping claw.
Ice once again rimed Eitleán's blade, and Sorala waited the beast's advance.
Sorala's blade once again opens the harden carapace of the snake with relative ease although without the flash and flare of magic it does less damage. Still, more bright green blood gushes onto the floor, forming steamy stinking puddles. A smell of hot metal fills Sorala's nose, almost strong enough to hide the scent of her own burning flesh.
The antlered creature shake's it's head and whole body, obviously weary and injured. Sorala hope it would retreat or, even better, just die. Instead though, the creature summons up some last reserve of strength, rings churning with desperate strength. launches itself forward but not to bite, instead to slam her backwards.
The heavy metallic snake hits Sorala like a full laden cart, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Stars wink into her blurry vision as she is thrown back five, ten...fifteen and over the pit. The White Squire catches a final glimpse of the heavily wounded beast as she topples into blackness.
Sorala is falling into blackness. The only light is Eitleán's ghostly blue glow, tumbling through shadows. The pit is deep and the White Squire is free falling, but such things were part of her training. More then once Alastia had pushed her off a high place, to see how her apprentice reacted. So, despite her inner ear swirling, Sorala knew what to do.
Reaching inward she summoned a spell, Feather Fal. Instantly her plummet transform to a gentle sinking, no more speed then jumping off a table. She is still twirling crazily though, head over heels. It is only by luck that when she hits the base, she is full on her back. So instead of breaking her neck, she merely lands with a loud, wet slam.
All is silent as the White Squire lays in the sticky mud at the bottom of the tunnel, lit by a ghostly blue glow. Above, like a vast mineshaft, the tunnel rises upward a pure column of blackness. Turning her neck slightly, she can see tunnels leading in several directions from here.
Well, at least she wasn't dead.
"That's the spirit." The rimeblade said in her mind.
"Indeed," Sorala thinks, as she scrambles to her feet, noting another pair of clothes ruined - at least until she could memorize prestidigitation, and clean them. That would mean a day of rest, however, and she didn't foresee that in her immediate future. "Any day alive is better than the alternative. Even at the bottom of a pit. I assume you don't want to spend your days down here as much as I don't want to moulder here. Let's kill this creature, shall we? Then, after we see where Janis has been off to, we can return and hope that one of these tunnels leads somewhere aboveground."
Her magic was nearly spent, but she still could move slowly through the air for a few minutes. Sorala's feet lift off the ground, and she slowly starts drifting up the tunnel, using her free hand to push off walls as she goes, Eitleán held above her head, his blade still ensorceled with magical frost, icy glow lighting the way.
"Aren't you a tenacious one." Eitleán says, the words not wholly complimentary. "I think most people, after finding themselves lying in mud, half-coated in acid, with no boots, would question their life choices. But not you! Up and at 'em!"
Together they float upward, Sorala much more enjoying the steady and stable climb then the free fall down had been. At least now her sodden, stained hair stays out of her face. The rank air ripples past her, giving her a slight chill despite the humid dank.
They reach the top of the shaft and find...nothing. The snake beast is gone, a trail of vivid green blood vanishing into a solid seeming wall. Apparently the beast can create tunnels or not, as it sees fit.
"Another noble victory," Eitleán comments, a bit sarcastically.
Beyond, Janis's trail is still obvious.
With nothing else to do, Sorala lightly lands on the far side and takes up the trail. It runs on, farther and farther. The tunnel is straight and smooth but seemingly endless. Her feet hurt, her neck has a crick that won't stop throbbing. How far was it? It seemed like miles...
She only pauses once, when she sees a glint in the dark. A abandoned potion bottle, presumably left by Janis. His trail after this is slightly less bloody and less messy. he probably staggered, rather then crawled.
The White Squire follows, follows, follows until-
The tunnel ends in a blank wall. But not one of dirt or stone, not just more earth. But wood paneling, rough and unpolished. Janis's trail seems to travel right through it. Curious. Sorala sees no hidden handle or secret lever. The wood is cheap paneling however and she could probably smash through it, or, taking more time, pry her way in more quietly.
"Hardly," Sorala thinks, her mindvoice distracted, the White Squire focused on the world outside her head. "I know when to cut and run, and normally I would. But, my future hinges on finding this damnable pirate lord, who seems to hold more luck than Desna's left foot."
When Eitleán offers his thoughts on the now-vanished snake thing, Sorala merely ignores him. He was right, but he had enough of an ego. Instead, she silently followed the trail in the only the direction she could: onward.
Until she's at a literal wall. Sorala's frown deepens in the dim, ice-blue light. "Now, this is foolhardy," she thinks, running a hand around the edges of the wood paneling. "It seems we've been made fools of. I was wondering why the snake beast didn't attack our quarry. My paltry fortune," - Sorala kneels uses Eitleán to test for gaps between the wood and tunnel, a spot to get some leverage - "Says that Ida created the snake, and this is some sort of contingency. The snake thing, it let Janis through on the orders of Ida."
"Which means that this is incredibly dumb, to force our way through a door into a spot set up by a mage and/or a pirate lord, without knowledge of what lies beyond."
Sorala slips Eitleán into a gap and wiggles his blade a little. "Dumb as a litter of seal pups. But, as I said, that dammned Janis is my future. Don't worry, I'll be careful. "
Twisting Eitleán, Sorala tries to pop the board from the tunnel wall.
Prying open the wooden board paneling is nothing like forcing the sealed door to the secret room, far behind her. Indeed the board pops free so easily Sorala stumbles forward and smashes through the cheap veneer. Like a cow breaking a fence, the White Squire tumbles forward in a shower of splinters into....
A rather nicely appointed, if small, library. The floor is a dark plum carpet, worn but clean. A cheery fireplace crackles in a stone fireplace in a corner, done in a rather nice geometric design. Several rows of wooden bookshelves surround her, stacked with all types of books, mostly heavy looking leather ones. All are firmly chained to the furniture with dark chains. A few battered (but clean) desks and mismatched cushioned chairs round out the space. The scent of dry parchment fills the air.
Sorala barely has time to take this in however when an unseen female voice shouts, "No! Not again!"
From around a bookshelf a middle-aged women with dark skin, frizzy hair and wearing simple blue robes appears. A heavy book is clutched in one hand, finger holding a page. Eyes flashing she points at Sorala with a her free finger, saying "This is a PRIVATE library, not some public temple. I don't care who you are, I am not having people smashing in here day and night. Do you understand me?! This is a library!"
She pauses, crosses her arms and gives Sorala a burning glare. "At least you seem well enough to talk. Not like the last one." A snort of derision. "Are you going to explain your trespassing at all, or just going to lie there, grinding dirt into my carpet?"
Sorala blinks, and blinks again, confusion playing across her currently Chelish features. "Well, I'm fortunate I don't have much of a fortune. Ha."
The smell was not unlike Aelick's study, and Sorala closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, savoring it. A strong bittersweet need for her own library, sitting collecting dust in her tidy room back room, follows, and Sorala opens her eyes to focus on the task at hand, finding a stern and very angry librarian glaring at her.
Sorala Stood, letting a pleasureable groan escape her as her back straightens towards the sky, no tunnel ceiling impeding her. She glares back at the Librarian. "The man who trespassed earlier! He's a wanted fugitive and very dangerous. Where is he?"
Sorala's heated works flow off the librarian like water off a duck. She sniffs audibly, "He didn't look dangerous to me. He couldn't even walk or speak. Just kicked the wall until we found him. The Masters took him upstairs. Looked like someone had stabbed him or something. Blood all over the carpet!" She points at the seemingly clean floor.
"And left a big hole, right in the wall!" Sorala glances back to see the board she broke was merely an ugly, temporary patch over an otherwise nice paneled wall. "Did they tell me why there was a tunnel? No! Of course no. No one tells me anything! Just ordered me to patch it up and get back to work!"
"As if I could get back to work with a parade of dirty trespassers smashing in every five minutes!" Another sniff, "Besides, how do I know you are not a fugitive yourself? Gods only know you seem like one."
Sorala has to admit, even with his disguise she is probably not cutting a very trustworthy figure. Covered in slime, blood, acid and having just smashed through a wall. The magic hides most of the real spectacle (the missing boots, the dusty hair, ) but even so, she isn't exactly at her best.
Still, Eitleán gleams in her fist, sharp as ever.
The librarian glances at the weapon, shrugs and says, "I suppose you want the Masters then. Allow me, that's all I'm good for apparently. A servant!" Still grumbling, she vanishes around a bookshelf. In a moment Sorala hears a gentle bell-like tone from somewhere above, muffled and distant.
The librarian reappears, arms still crossed. "There, I called them. Someone will be down in a moment." She glances again at the dirty and somewhat torn carpet at Sorala's feet. "I suppose you can't fix that?" She taps her foot, like a parent waiting for a slow child to understand something. "Just going to leave it like that? Wait for some servant to clean it up?"
Sorala sheathes Eitleán and gives the librarian an apologetic shrug. It seemed that Janis was somewhere on the premises of this private library, and given Sorala's current state, it was looking increasingly unlikely she'd be able to fight her way through whatever building the library was in, if it came to that. Besides, the librarian was - per own admission - merely a servant to whatever people owned this building. At least she was one seemingly comfortable in her position; only the most trusted servants could be so free with their words, in Sorala's experience.
Servants also often knew the secrets of loose-lipped masters who saw their help as little more than decoration. It could pay dividends to be kind to this woman. "I am sorry for your wall, and your library," Sorala says, gazing at the chain-bound tomes lining the shelves. "I should warn you - not only is there a tunnel beyond the wall, but there is a beast back there, a snakelike, metallic creature that spits acid and tunnels through the ground as easily as a noblewoman's dinner knife cuts a soft roll. I wounded it, but it got away. You should have this wall sealed more thoroughly as soon as possible, for your patron's safety - and your own, of course."
"Ygritte Guiding Star," Sorala says, giving the woman a short bow. "And you are? What library is this? I should very much like to visit on a calmer day, if it is allowed." Taking a look around the room, Sorala gives the woman an approving nod. "It is a cozy space, inviting. It smells like one of my favorite childhood studies."
The librarian considers Sorala's attempts at diplomacy with some grace. She stops sniffing and stops staring daggers, but she does keep her arms folded in a defensive stance Alastia would have been proud of.
"My name is Elessandra." She finally allows, "Librarian here. You really don't know where you are?" The woman glance at the dark hole again and shrugs, "This is the Arcane Reading Room under the Mystic Redoubt." She narrowed her eyes, "Port Peril, if you need that. Material Plane? Ringing a bell? The year is 4722 AR, if that helps." A dismissive shrug.
When Sorala mentions visiting the woman chuckles and glances at her disheveled appearance, "I doubt you could pay the entrance fee. It is a thousand gold coins just to step through the doors. Not that you, apparently, both with such things." She waves her book at the impromptu entrance behind Sorala.
Then something in her face shifts, as if remembering something. Elessandra takes a long look at Sorala's disguised uniform. "Oh wait...is this something to with the fighting? One of the porters said something about an invasion or something. I don't bother with going-ons in the city but-" Her voice cuts off as a new sound fills the air.
Thunk
A dull thump of wood. To Sorala's surprise it conjures up an old memory. Huntsman Jarrick had once been bit by a wild creature, Sorala could not remember what, that had resisted magical healing. For a month the man had been forced to use crude crutches and his ill-tempered stumping about the castle had been a terror. The mere sound of his shambling sent servants running.
Thunk.
Was someone here injured? Dear gods, was it Janis?
Thunk
But what appears from around a bookshelf is not a wounded or injured person, yet not altogether different.
It is a man sitting in a very unusual wooden chair. The top half is a normal, if rather comfortable looking bit of furniture, cloth covered and stuffed. But from the bottom sprout six wooden legs, delicate and narrow, reminding her of some graceful insect. They move smoothly and easily, the wood warping slightly with each step, flat ends thumping on the carpeted floor.
Sitting in the chair is a middle-aged man, with wavy brown hair. A matching short beard and goatee, along with a strong jaw, actually make him rather attractive, and there is a roguish twinkle to his eyes. A holy symbol of Nethys, god of magic, hangs around his neck.
He is a slender man, narrow shouldered and thin necked with that pale look of someone who gets very little sun or exercise. The bottom half of his robes hangs loosely, quickly revealing withered, useless legs. Probably the purpose of the chair? Sorala has very little experience with disabled people. They did not last long in Irrisen.
Out of the corner of her eye she notices Elessandra's temper flickers out like a candle in a storm. Her eyes turn to the floor, head tilted just so. Sorala is unsure of this place but one thing is very plain. The in the chair is the authority here, as unquestioned as any Jadwiga.
"Welcome to the Mystic Redoubt. My name is Olnes Mekel, First Doyen here." The man says with a strong vibrant voice quite at odds with his rather shrunken appearance. Despite the smooth cultured tones, Sorala can detect a trace of an older, rougher accent. "I would guess you have found your way here in connection with the unfortunate man upstairs?"
A moment and he adds mildly, "Librarian, please excuse us?" Elessandra hesitates and even ventures, "But sir, she might-"
"Elessandra." The man says more sharply, but still not raising his voice. The Librarian flees, sparing Sorala one last cutting glare, as if to promise retribution if the White Squire caused more trouble.
When they are alone Olnes sighs and relaxes slightly, easing into his chair with a mixture of pain and relief. "Forgive her. She is a good librarian but somewhat overzealous of her charges." he waves a pale, thin hand at the assorted tomes around them. For Port Peril this is a priceless collection."[/b] It would be for Irrisen as well.
The man waves toward a chair, "Please sit down. No need to stand on my account." A flicker of a smile at an old joke."[/b] he gives Sorala a lingering look then and says, another ghost of a smile. "And please, I would consider it a courtesy if you'd reveal your true shape? I find illusions to be so...unhelpful among those of good intent. I would wager you are no more Chelish then I am."
Sorala lets the illusion drop, like a candle's flame being snuffed, and in an instant she is herself - traveling clothes scalded with acid and caked with still-wet mud, barefoot, dirt-streaked through her white-blond hair. Still, the White Squire knows how to cut an imposing appearance when in the presence of those that demand such things. She stands tall and imperious, her chin raised, the library's firelight glinting off her flat grey eyes, and off her mithral shirt, spotless and shiny under her torn traveler's shirt. One hand rests upon Eitleán's leather-wrapped ivory hilt.
And then she offers the First Doyen a deep curtsy and takes a seat, casually crossing one leg over another, a near-perfect reflection of how her mistress sits upon her throne, easily reproduced via years of observation.
"It is my honor to meet you, First Doyen Mekel. I am Sorala Riina Ironeyes, White Squire to the Jadwiga Rinna Morgannan, seventh of her name, Lady and ruler of House Morgannan, the Winter Duchess. I am deeply sorry for the intrusion today, and offer my sincere apologies for my appearance. It... has been a day. We shall send some craftsmen over to fix your library wall. There is a beast beyond, a metal snake with antlers, though I suspect you know this."
It made sense that Ida Kels, herself a powerful magician, would have a connection to the Mystic Redoubt - or perhaps had one once. What was it?, Sorala mused. Professor? Once-honored student?
"As I told your able Librarian, this room gives me fond memories from my childhood. I left my own library - not nearly as grand as this, of course - at home, and miss it dearly. I should like to be able to visit some day and see the priceless works here, when time is less pressing. And when I have the proper fee with me, of course."
"As it is today... or perhaps it is night? I have been underground for a bit. The man under your care has dishonored my liege's first-born daughter. We seek his return. He is, I'm sure, of little consequence and interest to you. Tell, how can I arrange his transfer to my custody?"
The First Doyen inclines his head respectfully back, obviously submitting he has no real power over Sorala. A curious position they are in, both of them testing deeper waters. Still a lifetime of such dangers has made Sorala immune to such stress. She took greater risks with Elysia everyday.
"Ah, the Irriseni." Olnes says, nodding. "I have heard some news about the invasion. Strange times and strange tides." A pause and then, "I also noted the increased patrols around our grounds over the last day. I appreciate you did not decide to garrison the Redoubt itself. I must confess, I feared the worst when I heard an outside invader had come to the island. Study and research is our calling, no violence. As you can see, I am particularly poorly suited to defend our walls." A casual wave at his atrophied legs, but Sorala is not fooled. A spellcaster is quite a danger, regardless of the body.
"As for the agrawgh..." The Doyen says with some interest peering at the yawning gap in the library wall. "I had assumed Ida had dismissed it after it had done her work. Apparently not. A potent danger lurks behind us." He shakes his head, "Ida used to visit me, via that tunnel. She is a woman of...potent views and it provided much entertainment to debate." A flash of old memeories cross his pale eyes, "Perhaps 'bicker' is a better word. But it has been many years."
Sorala notes that the chair is not still, not fixed. It moves slightly, rocking gently as if it were a living thing, a docile beast of burden. The academic shakes his head, as if shaking away cobwebs.
"Your appreciation for this place is noted, Sorala Ironeyes. The Mystic Redoubt is the finest arcane institute in the Shackles although." A pale smile, "There is little competition. Academics is not the Shackles strength. Still, I feel we provide a good balance between Avistan precision and Garund intuition. We have students from all over Golarion and, in times past, provided many useful services to Port Peril." The insinuation is clear. Olnes was powerful, had connections and could be a useful ally. Or a dangerous foe.
"I am sorry you went through such pains to arrive here." The disabled man goes on, watching Sorala closely. The fire crackles loudly in the corner, logs shifting as they are eaten away. "I confess two such visitors in one day is a first, even for our school. We like the quiet, contemplative life. But needs must when the devil drives." A casual, dismissive roll of the shoulders.
"As for the man 'under my care'. Normally we would be entering a prickly thicket of past precedents, thorny discussions of temporary asylum and sanctuary. Shallow shoals of trespassing and jurisdiction but luckily, at least for you, that is all quite moot."
A pause and then in a quiet solemn voice, "The man is dead. His spirit left this Plane about an hour ago."
"I see," Sorala says, her face blank. For a second, the world tunnels, waves crash in her ears. If Olnes says anything, Sorala doesn't hear it. She was so close! If only she'd thought earlier to check the basement, instead of turning over every log just outside that damnable guesthouse's walls! Emotions clash against each other, as if they were dueling epees, sparring with each other inside her spinning mind.
One one hand, Sorala was safe. Six days of life had broadened and expanded the moment Janis went to sit at Pharasma's judgement. Her life now stretched, indeterminate into the unknown.
But for how long? It wouldn't be a failure this time that secured her fate, but it would be one in the future. Either a slip-up in service to her liege, or a slip-up while serving her liege; each fickle whim of her masters brought that day closer. The Morgannans were circumspect when it came to discussion of Sorala's predecessors, but Sorala suspected the average lifespan of a White Squire was measured in years, not decades, once their training was complete.
Once again, the image that Sorala had thrice now allowed herself to entertain for the briefest of moments comes unbidden into the Squire's mind. It was the same one that she had first conjured up back in Dellman's Deadlight: Sorala, adorned in Fleta's tricorn hat, at the wheel of a three-masted schooner, sails flapping in the wind behind her. The sun is bright, the breeze gently ruffling her white hair, and a spark - perhaps the reflection of gold or a shiny bronze figurehead at the prow of her ship - glinting in the White Squire's eye.
Still, Janis's death need not be the end of that dream. In a way, Sorala muses, plans once again tumbling together in her mind's eye, possibilities and pitfalls, all to be ordered and sorted out - in a way, this was a good thing. If she could keep hold of Janis's body. And come up with a few hundred gold. To start.
Sorala blinks, refocusing on the Doyen. "Well then, it is unfortunate that he passed in the Redoubt, and I'm very sorry for the eventful evening. I'll need the body of course, to prove to the Lady Elysia that her honor was avenged."
Sorala pauses, waiting for acknowledgement. "And I apologize for the garrison outside. We suspected he would try to make his way here, and the force will no longer be needed once I have removed the corpse from the premises. I personally ordered the garrison to not interfere with your business. I trust they did not? If they did, let me know. We would need to remedy that."
"I am afraid, regardless, that the city is... unsettled at the moment. Is there anything that I can do for you, or for the Mystic Redoubt? Any way that I can be of service, during these changing times?"
Turning her face to the fire, a brief smile crosses Sorala's face, she drags a hand distractedly along her chair's arm. The crackling fire, the study the smelled of parchment; despite her skin, still tingling from the burns, this was the closest she'd felt to the best parts of home in days. It was almost relaxing. Sighing, Sorala turns back to Olnes. "I am a competent spellcaster. Nothing like you, of course; my training was -" Sorala pats the hilt of the rimeblade, casting a quick glance down, "- more martial in nature. In another life, I would have made a fine mage, I think."
"But, I have enough facility with and appreciation for the mystic arts that I'd like to join your school. I understand the fee is a thousand gold. Are there other requirements? Do you sell magical items to members? To non-members?"
There was but one more thing to ask the First Doyen, and it was an indelicate thing. "I apologize to ask, First Doyen Mekel, but I hope that the question is interesting enough that it excuses my ill manners."
Undoing the tie on a pouch on her bandoleer, Sorala pulls forth the worn ebony elephant that once belonged to Sooraj Divedi. Holding it towards Mekel, the elephant's ebony skin sparkles in the firelight, it's ruby eyes glint as if alive with mischief.
"It belonged to a rakshasa slaver, who took great pains to secret it in his bolthole. It seemed to be of great significance to him. Do you know of such statues? Why such a thing would be so well hidden?"
The First Doyen inclines his head, "Of course the body will be available. Even without the...political ramifications, we have no need for such a corpse." The disabled man shakes his head, brown hair shaking with the gesture when Sorala mentions the patrols.
"No, they have been quite circumspect. Which is wise, considering the rather formidable defenses put in place by my predecessors. Long tradition has not always been enough to keep out those who seek our knowledge without proper payment." A pause, "Although I am told they look quite thirsty and unhappy, if that concerns you. I would guess the tropical climate does not suit them."
When Sorala mentions magical items and the school a strange look passes over the man's face. A fixed pained smile, a frequently used diplomatic mask. It reminds Sorala of a seamen asked 'how is the weather' or 'what kind of knot is this?'
Still, his voice is gentle when Olnes speaks, "We are an academic place of study, Sorala Ironeyes. A retreat from the world, a place of contemplation and investigation. We are not a tradesmen shop. If you desire to purchase things, the Merchant Marina is better suited." A hint of steel enters the quiet, reserved voice, "Our collections, while extensive, are not for sale."
He winces somewhat painfully, as if even if that display cost the man something. The chair legs thump quietly on the carpet, rocking like a ship at sea. Settling back into his cushions the First Doyen goes on, "As for membership, generally we only accept full-time students. Those willing to apprentice themselves for a time and live here. The fee is mostly to weed out the casual, and it has been waived at times in the past. Particularly for promising or interesting students." A wan smile, "Are you interested in the scholastic life, Sorala? I have to admit, it seems you have a plethora of other duties to attend to."
Olnes Mekel's fixed smile returns when Sorala offers the worn ebony elephant. "As a favor to Lady Elysia, of course." Smooth hands take the elephant. The academic looks at it closely, holds it up to the light and mutters some words over it. The man takes his time, looking carefully and thoroughly, examining it with care. Finally he looks up and shrugs, "It is a fine example of late Khayaravala Dynasty artwork. Note the distinctive carbon-black glaze. " Seeing Sorala face adds with a smile, "Vudran, very old."
The man shrugs and hands the elephant back, "But is has no magical qualities and, as far as I can tell, never has. I am sorry if that is a disappointment, but even slavers have sentiments. Perhaps it had some personal value? A family heirloom?" The man sinks into his chair but then adds, "Regarding your earlier interest, it is still valuable. I would imagine to the right collector it would be worth several hundred Absalom Measures."
"Such things have a lively market in Port Peril due to the...rather regular influx of art items. The Redoubt itself often engages in such traffic, to supplement our own collections. I could give you some reputable names, if you wish."
Sorala nods, her voice calm, though inwardly, her mindvoice sighs. Irriseni logistics.
"Thank you, First Doyen. I will make sure that is remedied. And we will be out of your way as soon as I have the body in my care."
It was obvious that Sorala had offended the man, but there were times that questions needed to be asked, despite their fumbling nature and insensitivity. When else would Sorala have the opportunity to take them?
Sorala straightens herself, a gentle cue that she should be on her way. "I apologize if I've caused any offense, First Doyen Mekel. I admit to a great ignorance of how magic colleges work here in the south. I am thankful for your grace, and for your time in answering my questions. I hope that next time we meet, I am not so unlearned in your ways and norms."
The White Squire slides the ebony elephant back into her bandoleer and secures the pouch. "And I would be very grateful for some reputable names of people in the local art market."
The academic inclines his head, "No offense taken. Asking questions is often the first step on the path to knowledge and, eventually wisdom. Come, I will take you upstairs, to where the body is being kept."
With Sorala in tow, the chair leads the way. They pass through the library, past an empty desk Sorala assumes is Elessandra's. A fairly narrow set of stairs leads upwards. Sorala watches as the chair easily changes orientation, climbing up the flight with no problems, although the wood thunks loudly on the old stone. Olnes seems quite used to it however, even as his chair pitches back sharply to accommodate the long, spindly legs.
Shortly they emerge in a large, round and fairly complex room of well-laid stone. Sorala realizes she is at the heart if a fairly large building complex. Several doors radiate in all directions, some open and some closed. To her left an open archway leads outside, doors standing wide open to tempt in a sea-tinged breeze. Through it, Sorala can see Crescent Harbor, building little mottled blotches. Another open door leads to what appears to be a well tended garden and orchard.
Along one wall a staircase ascends into the ceiling. The First Doyen gestures to one open door, "The Anatomy Wing." Sorala follows carefully, keeping her eyes and ears open. She has never been in such a place of learning before and, while staying on her guards, soaks it up.
Passing into the Anatomy Wing, they enter a short passageway. On either side doors stand open, revealing small classrooms and the like. Most are empty, but two are currently holding lectures. Unknown and strange words float through the air. Clade, phylogenetic, taxonomy. Sorala wonders what Aelick would have made of this place.
Probably move into the basement and live among the books.
Finally they enter the room at the far end of the wing. A large spacious room with a shining polished floor and white-washed walls. The air smells stringent and antiseptic. Skeletons of all types hang from the ceiling and walls. Bats, birds, fish and even some magical ones. In a corner, resting on a well made articulated manikin is a human skeleton, bleached white and wired together.
On a scrubbed wooden table in the center of the room is a body, while a man in blue robes stands beside it. The man looks up, eyes flicking from Sorala to the First Doyen and back.
"Doyen Rampar." Olnes says, waving a hand. "Our Master of Anatomy."
Rampar steps back, shaking his head.
Sorala steps up and looks at the corpse on the table. Janis's face looks back up at her, pale and sallow looking. The spark of life is long gone, and it seems little more then an empty, cooling husk. His clothes have been partially removed, exposing the injuries she (and Eitleán ) dealt. Cracked dried blood surrounds them, red shading to sickly brown. Some is pooled on the table, an unpleasant puddle.
Their is a moment of solemn, quiet silence until the First Doyen says gently, "How will you transport the body? Will you need a hand cart? I believe one could be procured for you." His chair legs are quiet on the polished floor.
"A cart would be welcome, or laborers if you have them? Once he is outside your walls, I shall have some of our men carry him." Sorala leans in, stares at the corpse of the man she had hounded throughout the day, his words from this morning rebounding in her memory. "Corpses can be found, illusions faked."
The White Squire passes a hand along his face, closing his eyes, and then runs it down along his nose and mouth to under his neck, where she feels the vein she has been taught so often to sever, the one that pumps blood from the heart to the head. Her fingers linger there, giving the men an apologetic smile as she waits. "Due diligence, I'm sure you of all people understand..."
Sorala then runs her hand down the injuries she'd dealt him, probing at the wounds, pulling the edges of her sword's incisions, as she thinks back on the morning. Were the wounds in the right place?
Satisfied, Sorala nods to the two men. "We shall not be a bother to you any more."
Sorala examines the corpse carefully, running her hands along the cold, clammy flesh. It is still soft but slowly hardening in rigor mortis. The injuries seem to be correct, but an illusion would appear accurate...wouldn't it? It is not something Sorala knows about. Not for the first time she silently curses her lack ofmagical training. She knows the oversight was on purpose of course, to keep the White Squires off balance. A deliberate weakness put in place by the Jadwiga.
What could she know, if she came to a school like this, even for a few months? What latent abilities could she untap? Another time, another life.
For now, it seems like Janis.
When she nods, The First Doyen shifts his gaze to Rampar. "A cart please, Doyen?" A small smile to Sorala, "Consider it a gift for your Master."
Rampar leaves silently, having never said a word. In his wake their is a somewhat awkward silence between the academic and the Irriseni woman, only heighted by the corpse on the table. For the first time, Onles seems agitated, doubtful. He seems to be on the edge of asking something, a thought on the tip of his tongue. Slowly he visibly wrestles with it until the moment passes and the man shrugs, settling deeper into his cushions.
Rampar shortly returns with a two-handled wooden cart. With care they wrap the body in rough canvas sacking and load it. In short order Sorala is wheeling it through the Redoubt, out the door and into the late afternoon sunshine. The sky overhead is a bright blue with only the very first stirrings of sunset in the west. The days in Port Peril were long. Back home it would be night already.
At the door the First Doyen stops, the chair coming to a rest just inside the archway. 'I have hopes, Sorala Ironeyes." The man says of Sorala's farewell, "But I do think we will meet again." A bowing of the head, "Give your Master our greetings, in whatever manner she would feel most appropriate."
The cart is easy to pull and soon Sorala is outside the small manicured grounds of the Mystic Redoubt and at the start of a rough track leading through some ill-placed farms and the outskirts of the city. She spots a patrol of her troops, watching her carefully and respectfully. No Irriseni would question or approach her without orders.
Sorala stands outside, blinking, the late afternoon and stirrings of the sunset disorienting after so many hours in the dark. She pauses for a moment, letting her eyes adjust by admiring the sheer open expanse of blue, something so rare to see in cloudy, snowy Irrisen (and on those rare days that it did happen, the sunlight reflecting off of the perpetual winter snow was uncomfortably blinding). Blinking again, she gives the First Doyen, still sitting just inside the archway, a deep curtsy. "I am afriad so, First Doyen. That we will likely meet again."
Bringing one hand to rest upon Janis's corpse, Sorala casts another lingering glance over the man. "As for your greetings, this -" Sorala taps Janis's arm, casually, "- is most appropriate. Your generosity will not be forgotten, and I will make sure to let the Lady know it was you personally who were so kind to us."
Raising her eyes from the corpse, Sorala fixes Olnes with a steely, even stare. "One more question, if you'll indulge me, First Doyen. Why have you shown no curiosity as to who this man was in life?"
Sorala's body might be standing under a tropical sun, sweating in humid heat but her mind is far away, in a cold basement. Another lesson, another day under Master Tihkon's cool gaze. Today the conman is chained to the floor, an on again, off again way of trying to contain him.
As usual he ignores it boring down on the young Sorala.
Sorala's mind races, "Um, porridge?" Out of reflex she blinks slightly, knowing how badly she has delivered the line.
"No, wrong." The skinny man says, "You did it again. What did you have for breakfast yesterday?"
"Fruit!" Sorala sings out.
"You lied. Again." Thikon says blandly, sighing slightly. Another day of the lying game and, as usual, Sorala was doing poorly. Under strain she snaps, 'Why does it matter? Just teach him to catch other people!"
Thikon frowns at this and displays some emotion, a rarity for him. "Child! How can you understand a thing you can not do? Do you learn swordfighting by only learning defense? or cooking by only eating! No, you learn by doing it. Again! What did you have for breakfast!"
How many lessons? How many days?
How often had it saved her?
Olnes Mekel seemed a clever man, an intelligent man, one used to hiding his feelings. Capable of control and discipline. But now, just now, he flinched. The academic hid it well, but a flash of worry runs across his face, as clear as a church bell.
Still, he masters himself quickly and is one again cool and detached, just an administer. "I have been First Doyen here for ten years, Sorala Ironeyes. A job often defined by not acting. Port Peril is, or I suppose was, not always the most friendly of patrons. It could be wild and dangerous, violent and unruly. The Redoubt has only survived by not getting involved. You called this man a criminal, a danger. And thus, I wash my hands. We study magic here, we are not judges or clerics. It is not for me to say right or wrong. "
Somewhere a exotic bird calls, filling the evening air with liquid music. It slowly fades, lost among the greenery. Then, in something almost a whisper the disabled man says voice barely audible, "Have I not given you want you wanted? Offered you your prize without resistance, without complaint? Indeed, helped you? Is it not enough to take it and enjoy it? To accept victory when it lies at your feet?" A sour chuckle, "Or sits in your wagon?"
"Aren't you curious, though?" Sorala needles, and then waves her hand, not giving the First Doyen time to answer. "I would be, and were I you, I would fish for whatever information I could. As ones who love knowledge, I think I understand you."
"So, I shall sate that curiosity, since we are helping each other today." Sorala pauses now, standing to her full height, looming over the man and his walking chair, menace rolling off her like rough surf crashing against the sand. "In life, he was Pirate Lord Maxvale Janus, bedmate of Fairwind, who as I understand it, has retreated to Quent. The age of Pirate Lords in Port Peril is well and truly over."
Again, she pauses, letting a few seconds tick by as another tropical bird twills from a tree somewhere on the Redoubt's manicured grounds.
"Janus was cooperating with us. I imagine you have heard the rumors. I assure you they are true, though I cannot say if he was coerced. I can imagine it hardly matters in the grand scheme of things; Maxvale Janus helped us gain control of the city. Things went badly, as they sometimes do in life, and he fled, as I previously mentioned, to the great personal embarrassment to my liege's daughter."
"It bears repeating, in case it means little to you - in which case I take no offence, for our home was far away and there must be things to learn that seemed, until recently, of more immediate importance - my liege is the Lady Riina Morgannan, seventh of her name. Our house is one of the great Jadwiga clans of Dear Grandmother's Land of Eternal Winter. No less than four of our scions have held the title of Winter Queen. Truly, the Great Crone has blessed our House, and we live to serve her."
Breaking her gaze, Sorala stares at the grounds of the Redoubt, its compound, a small, genuine smile gracing her face.
"In a different life, I would have made a good student here. Alas, my lot was to be different; on the Conqueror's board, I was destined to be a mere knight. Well, more precisely, merely a knight. I am, to be blunt, a special servant of the Lady Riina; a problem solver first and foremost. And so, when Maxvale Janis made his decision to leave our court, I was called upon to find him. And I should say, it has been a curious few days. You see, he had an enchantment placed upon him by our Overtyrant, one that forebade the Pirate Lord from crossing water. There were only a handful of places on this island that he would go. Two places in particular were most promising."
"It was I, that sent the garrison here, with orders to camp outside your gates. I sent other garrisons across the city to other possible bastions of spellcasting. But I left one hole in the net: Ida Kells. And, as I suspected, eventually Janis made his way there. I followed him into the guesthouse Kells stays in, and wounded the man gravely; unfortunately, before I could fulfil my liege's wishes, Kells intervened, and using no small feat of magic - a dimension door - she sent him somewhere nearby. As I said, a curious day. It took me longer than I'd liked to find out where she sent him, but I did. I followed Janis's trail from Kells' basement saferoom until I encountered the... what did you call it? The Agrawgh. It attacked me, but for some reason, had let the Pirate Lord pass unmolested, down the same tunnel. Again, curious. And again I fought, and again my foe, this time the agrawgh, slipped away from me. Undaunted, I continued on, only to find myself, for the third time today, in a most curious place; your school. What could the odds be, that Janis would find himself, twice in one day, in a place that could help him in the one way that he needed help?"
"You explained this deftly enough; an old tunnel between old friends, with a beast that should have been put down years ago between. But here again is a curious thing. You spoke of Ida Kels as if I had known her. I had yet to mention her name. It is possible that you surmised I knew of her; I used her creature's tunnels after all to get here."
"You know the rest, of course. It certainly seems as if, despite these curiosities, that Maxvale Janis was exceedingly lucky - until he wasn't."
Sorala sighs, and fixes the Doyen with another intent stare. "But there is another possibility that explains everything that happened today. One that is troubling to me. I assume that your curiosity is piqued, First Doyen Mekel..."
"You see, First Doyen, before I plunged my sword into Janis Maxevale he offered me a deal. He offered gold, friends, "useful things." "Corpses can be found, illusions faked," he said."
Sorala lowers her eyes, takes another lingering look at the corpse by her side. "He was lucid when he escaped me, if severely injured. Perhaps, he made a similar offer to you? It is curious that he did not, given his desperation. Curious indeed."
Sorala runs her hands along the corpse's jaw, inwardly marveling. If this was a fake, how? Truly amazing magic.
"For what it is worth, I don't think that is what happened. You are not a man moved by gold and favors."
"Before Ida Kela banished him, Janis wanted to "call in that favor." As he put it. Kela sent him away, making it sound as if she wanted nothing to do with the Pirate Lord or our dispute, but in hindsight..."
"Perhaps Maxevale Janis lies here dead as my father. Or... perhaps Ida took him up on his favor, and sent him to her basement bolthole. While I searched the surrounding area, she met with the agrawgh. Oh, I should say, one of the reasons I would have made a great wizard? I have an eidetic memory, First Doyen. I have no knowledge of these creatures but what you have told me. You said of Kela and the beast, "I had assumed Ida had dismissed it after it had done her work." This wording - you are a man of precise words, I have no doubt - implies some sort of agreement between Kela and the agrawgh. Cooperation. Communication., First Doyen Mekel. It digs holes as easily as you and I can cut through water. Easier, even. I can imagine an agrawgh is a useful creature, if you can talk to it."
"And so, perhaps, while I searched the area for Janis, Kela met with the agrawgh, and it dug a tunnel from her bolthole to your library. Perhaps, that tunnel has already been covered up? If we went back to your library, would we find it?"
"While the agrawgh dug, perhaps Kela then visited you? You say you were old friends, or perhaps you still are friends? Perhaps you still meet regularly to bicker? You are a man little moved by money, but friendship... Perhaps Kela made a request, and you honored it. And that, despite the pain it causes me, is an honorable thing, First Doyen. It is something I can respect."
Sorala's hand moves to the hilt of her rimeblade, a casual gesture, but one surely not lost on the Doyen. "There is one more curious thing I have neglected to mention. In the agrawgh's tunnel, I found a potion flask. The trail - Janis's trail - picked up at that point, became much less, for lack of a better word, scrambly. Perhaps he had the potion on him. Or perhaps Kela visited him in the tunnel and gave him the curative then. Regardless, when he reached the Redoubt's library, he was very much alive. Curious that he should die just hours later."
Sorala's hand closes over Eitleán's hilt, she shifts slightly, slowly, presenting her side, an almost languid presentation of her profile. "So despite the evidence in front of my own eyes, my mind tells me the most obvious explanation is that Maxevale Janis lives, and this body in front of me is an imposter."
"You may be weighing whether to kill me here. I'd suggest you don't. For one, we are being watched, I assure you. The whole point of garrisoning the troops here was to see who comes and goes. Kill me, and the entire Irriseni army will descend on this place. Don't throw away all your hard work, the last ten years of your life, your student's lives, your family's, if you have one, for Maxevale Janis, the traitor Pirate Lord."
"You shall see me again, First Doyen, and you will be happy it was me that visited you today, and not anyone else from my house, I promise you that. So, tell me, is your curiosity piqued?"
As a reply the First Doyen's chair lurches forward, wooden legs tapping the stones oddly quietly. For a single crazy moment Sorala thinks the academic is going to flee, make his escape over the grassy fields and away. In a chair? It was absurd.
The chair pauses on the few stairs leading out of the door, just far enough to place Olnes Mekel in the warm, orange-tinged sun. He looks strangely drained there, worn and bare. Loose but not relaxed. More...spent. A man dropping a heavy load. He closes his sharp eyes, tilting his face toward the sun.
"Before I was First Doyen," he says, his voice strong and even, "I was the Master of Logic. Do you know what is logic is, Sorala Ironeyes? Definitions vary but Sandor the Tall labeled it 'the study of correct reasoning or good arguments.'" A pause and then, "I agree with you on one thing. You'd have made a good student, I think. Your mind is observant and your arguments incisive. Still, they are not without flaw or possible improvement."
"You call yourself a mere knight, which I think is a disservice but maybe reflects a lack of formal education?" An eye opens then flutters shut. "Have you heard of Orcham's Razor?"
Sorala had actually. The White Squire had across it in one of Aelick's endless books. The concept was simple yet intriguing. When given two possibilities, one should favor the simpler. Despite its seemingly modest simplicity, Sorala had found it a powerful and useful tool in her life.
She must have given some sign for the academic grunts, "Good. Then you can see how it applies. You have proposed two different hypotheses, and laid them out. A simple purvey would reveal which is simpler. In the first a dying fugitive manages to use a connection between old friends, unwittingly following an old road long laid out. Despite his 'luck' in finding a refuge, it is no refuge at all. He dies of his injuries and is turned over at once to his pursuer."
"the second involves several unknown and secret meetings between all manner of people, supposing connections and feelings not directly witnessed by you. Actions, motives, timing is all suggested with no real basis in your own observation or other evidence. A flimsy thread of suppositions and theory, even if well presented."
The man sighs and shifts in his chair, opening his eyes and giving Sorala a long look. "But there is another tool of my old career I'd like to provide. I would assume you have never heard of the work of Oskar Morgenstern, the Taldan philosopher? No? A shame, his work on game theory is both enlightening and trenchant. More importantly relevant."
"He postulates among the nature of logical choices, zero-sum games, the nature of victory and probabilities." Much of this is all Azlanti to Sorala but she remains quiet. Let the man string out his own rope. "In any case, I think some of his work would apply here, Sorala Ironeyes. Let us set aside evidence and truth, those ineffable and worthy goals. We are both intelligent thinking beings in a world of cause and effect. Let us consider those."
"In the first case, in which we accept the chain of effects I offered you. Maxevale Janis arrived here and died. In this, you are successful in your mission. The fugitive is dead, your Mistress's honor avenged. Glory and victory are yours. In addition you have made the acquaintence, and possible friendship of a new ally for both yourself and your rulers. A boon indeed."
"Let us examine the second case, where I lied to you. In this, things are not so good. Janis has escaped your clutches and is presumably somewhat healthy and mobile. His location is unknown and perhaps unknowable. You have only found new enemies of several stripes. The Redoubt, Ida Kela. Your only resort would be force and vengeance. You have already mentioned it. An entire army here to lay waste. More value lost and no closer to your goal. Indeed, perhaps farther."
A short pause and then, "Which theory do you prefer, Sorala Ironeyes? Which scenario seems the logical one? Given equal weight, do wish victory or defeat? Friendship or yet more bloodshed? The choice is, of course, yours. In this game, you have the move."
Again, Sorala's curious, flat smile, the one she often shows in social situations, a smile that says, I am amused, but this is not funny. This after all was not a game.
"My job, my duties, First Doyen - they involve arriving at the correct conclusion, not merely the most probable. But you are correct that my evidence is flimsy. Thankfully for us all, the correct conclusion is what brings glory to my house, and my liege. The honor of my liege's daughter is of course a consideration, but it is not the paramount one."
Sorala's hand drops from Eitleán, twitches once, and then hangs limply at the White Squire's side, as if unsure of what to do without the rimeblade in it. "Could we walk a moment? The Redoubt's grounds are small, but truly lovely."
She takes her time, walking silently until they stop by large, brilliantly red flowering bush, which has been shaped to form almost an alcove around the little granite bench. Sitting, Sorala sees the farms laid out below them in a rare peekaboo view. To her left, a messy, green, and hilly expanse. And of course the always glittering sea.
"I should tell you what happens when I return with the corpse. I will have to give a report, of course. The evidence being what it is, I will have reached the simple conclusion you laid out - despite my own reservations, which for my reasons, I will keep to myself."
"Janis's body will be paraded through the streets of Crescent Harbor, criers declaring the end of the age of the Pirate Lord. Delmonia is also dead - you should know this, if you do not already. Of course, the Lady Elysia will know of your assistance, and we will begin to form our friendship."
"But, there remains the possibility that Janis is alive, somewhere. I imagine, if that possibility is true, that not only was the geas removed, but the man was apported somewhere else. And it would be a shame if this were true, because his promises - the same words he gave me when bargaining for his life, that he would vanish, sail so far away that only Besmara's charts could find him - those words mean little when they fall from a traitor's mouth. And if in the future Janis broke his word, and showed in Quent or somewhere else, great dishonor would fall on my house. I'd likely not survive it. Once once Lady Elysia's punishment to me was meted, she'd turn to those that helped Janis escape. I'm afraid that no one would be able to partake in this lovely bench, this beautiful view."
"If the unlikely possibility is the correct understanding of what happened here today... There is still a chance to salvage things, while I am on these grounds. One could merely divulge where Janis was sent. As I mentioned earlier, I understand the duty that friendship brings, and it is a noble thing. Nothing would happen to this school, its students, you. Your role in this would be a closely guarded secret."
"And of course, if that is not the case, if the simplest explanation is the correct one, then you have nothing to worry about and I'll be on my way."
Sorala rises, absently brushing at her dirty and damaged pants, and focuses her full attention on the First Doyen, waiting for a response.
"Regardless, I am eager to start building our friendship. There are some things which can be arranged, to show your... interest in our relationship."
"One, I have much to learn. About the region, about the history of Port Peril, about the people that live here. I would like access to your library. It will be just myself that has these privileges, and I shall be respectful to you, your school, and your library, I promise you. I would like privileges as well to copy spells from the Mystic Redoubt's spellbooks - the collegial practice that wizards partake from time to time - I wish to have this. And in return, I will answer one question of your choosing each time that I visit."
"Two, I have some projects in the planning stages. I need a few things, I trifle really, it will be barely noticeable to your treasurer, a snowflake in a blizzard. I need a wand of Expeditious Excavation and a potion of water breathing. I imagine crafting these things could be an excellent project for one of your students."
Sorala casts one last look towards the peekaboo farms, the sea beyond, shimmering as if jewels tumbled across its surface.
"There is one more thing I need, that I cannot speak to at this time. I promise it will be painless for you and the Redoubt. I merely seek a bit of knowledge, one that will take mere moments of your time, once I understand the question I need to ask."
"What do you think, First Doyen Olnes Mekel?"
Olnes Mekel's chair moves easily over the smoothed, cropped grass of the grounds. In fact it is barely audible, only the slightest creaking of wood, like a fishing ship resting at a good anchor. The disabled man listens to Sorala carefully, although his eyes seem focused on something Sorala can't see. Something past the orchard, past the fields, even past the rippling glittering sea. A memory? A future? A life?
"Do you know why we have these grounds?" The man finally says when Sorala grows quiet. The First Doyen reaches out a smooth, uncallused hand to caress the bushy fronds of the plant beside them. "It isn't because of their beauty but because of their use. The orchards and gardens all grow plants useful for alchemical and magical purposes. Some are mundane of course, roses, foxglove, hibiscus. Others however are much harder to procure. This plan here, behind us for example. A Sheltershrub. Native only to a very small area of temperate Qadira. The berries, if properly prepared, have very unusual properties."
The man sighs, smiling slightly, "It was not easy to acquire. The Mystic Redoubt does have one advantage however. We are located in the center of one of the great shipping hubs of Golarion. vessels always coming and going. Arranging trips even to Qadria, or beyond, is often only a matter of money." The academic scholar gesture to the vague, ill-defined outline of Port Peril in the distance . "As we speak, there are captains there we are planning trips to Garund, Vudra, even distant Tian Xia. A bag of gold, a handshake is all that divide something from such places here. To go and, perhaps, never to return. Even if one wished otherwise, at times."
Silence, then he the man says more loudly, "But of course, it is unlikely you care about such things. Forgive me, it is in my nature to digress. The habits of a lifetime of study and lecture."
He turns to Sorala, sitting upright. "What I think....This is what I think. If your success and our friendship rely on the former Pirate Lord being gone forever, then we stand on good ground."
"As for your other requests, they are of course accepted. Our library is, of course, meant to be used by those associated with the Redoubt. I shall put our Librarian at your disposal upon your request. As for the items, I think your idea has merit. Our artifice and creation departments have been quite somnolent lately. Something like that is exactly what may be needed."
The man offers a slim hand to her, casting a long, dark shadow over the green grass.
One eyebrow quirks, just so slightly in surprise, as Olnes makes - perhaps - an admission that the Pirate Lord Janis is still alive, likely waiting to board one of the very ships currently waiting for the travel lockdown to be lifted. Perhaps. Sorala sighed, breathing out the day, and did something entirely foreign to her; she let it go. The First Doyen was correct in his assessment after all; continuing to push her luck here was unnecessary. Whether or not Janis was actually dead, for all intents and purposes, this was a good outcome; for Elysia, for House Morgannan, and for Sorala personally. The alternative, well, it would weaken everyone involved.
Sorala grasps the Doyen's hand. The gesture was not done in Irrisen, where an outstretched hand could easily contain a poison needle or be a distraction for garotte coming from the shadows. The experience - another's hand resting in hers, one that was neither a confidant nor a lover - was offputting.
"Well then, I believe I have everything needed to complete my investigation, First Doyen Mekel. I shall remove Janis from the Redbout now. House Morgannan thanks you for your cooperation."
Letting go of Meckel's hand, Sorala walked with the First Doyen in silence, and when back by the cart containing the corpse, motioned to the soldiers beyond the school's finely wrought iron gates; black, spiraling, and spear-tipped, quietly and confidently imposing.