Court of Blades

Game Master Wandering Wastrel

Six Houses, each alike in dignity,
In fair Ilrien where we lay our scene...

The Bravo lacks restraint,
But in a duel she is the queen.

Key sits still on lonely stage,
With actors none nor scene to wage.
No blood yet shed and hands still clean,
But Strife will come. It is forseen.

Court of Blades – Episode Zero: one of our Eye spies is missing

31 Diziembre 793, Ilrien Reckoning

Invitations to the New Year Ball at the Palace cannot be purchased for mere fiore; to be in possession of one is to be courted and promised favour after favour. Not having an invite, after all, is proof positive of one’s social undesirability.

This year however, of all years, invitations have proven more than usually difficult to obtain and more than one rumour is of blades being drawn and blood being shed to claim ownership. It is no mystery why: after the escapades of the Summer and late Autumn, the uproar among the Baker’s Guild and the near-impossible, had-to-be-there-to-believe-it almost overnight collapse of House Elanda’s power, the rumour is (could it be? Really? I’ve heard it said before, you know) that, after almost two centuries of the status quo, a new House is to be elevated to the Esultare.

And yet, as the party whirls along and the hour tiptoes ever closer to tryst, the intensity of expectation is not met by much in the way of action. Indeed, with ten minutes to the bell and all present ushered into the throne room, it is plain for all to see that five chairs only stand on the dais.

And then – on the stroke of midnight – how the Princes love their drama! The great bell tolls for tryst and the new year, and the five Princes of the Esultare stand as one (did you *see* the look the First Prince gave to Prince Lorenzo?! I’m sure he fair jumped out of that seat), drawing blades and forming an honour guard as Constantin Bastien, flanked by his two children Cesare and Lucretia, slowly walks out of the crowd (were you there?! Did you see it?! Tell me EVERYTHING, spare no detail) and in perfect, hushed silence, sits with the other Princes. (Yes, suddenly there are six chairs. The Corvetto long ago mastered such trivial magics. Let’s focus on the important matters, shall we?)

In that moment of hush, when an earthquake has rolled over the city of Ilrien and shaken its very foundations to their core, the musicians file in and a dance is struck. Mechanically, as though shaken out of a daze, the assembly find their feet; and then, my how they dance. And talk.

Lady Calliope, who has been keeping firm grip of Luciana’s upper arm for most of the last five minutes (sharp nails, too!), finally relaxes, her rictus-like smile not faltering for a moment as she issues instructions to the five of you. “Go, dear ones. Dance. And smile! Tonight, our new Prince has accomplished the impossible. The least you can do is look as though you belong here.”

8 Gennaio, 794

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SASHA
=============

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the oily, bitter flavour of tagras root is instantly recognisable in a drink and cannot be masked; but it is equally true that because it’s absorbed through the tongue and roof of the mouth, by the time you taste it you have perhaps two or three seconds of useful consciousness remaining. Of course, to a Brava like Elisabetta, two or three seconds is enough time to accomplish a great deal – but in your case it gave you just enough time to realise that the game was up before sleep overtook you.

You wake, groggily, some hours later. Your hands are tied behind your back and – given that your knives are missing – you’ve been searched. But you’re not a Bravo who needs freedom of movement and a blade: you’re an Eye, your senses are your weapon; and you can sense much. From the ache in your wrists and ankles, you’ve been carried a fair way from where you were – twenty minutes, at least. The cellar you are in has a hatch to the street – beyond reach or hope of escape, but sound filters down – it’s still raining, and you hear people hurrying about their business, the call of street vendors, the rush of the wind.

As your head clears, you can stand – your feet aren’t tied. With an ear to the cellar door, you hear an urgent conversation between three people – a man, and two women.

“...bring her HERE for?!” The man, petulant, complaining.

“When the storm’s done, we’ll drop her in the harbour. It’ll look like she drowned.” A woman’s voice, older, sure of herself.

“No way, ma! I ain’t putting my head in a noose for a shipment of grain and a handful of fiore.” The other woman, younger, scornful, with a petulant tone like her sibling.

“She’s right, the Watch got nothing on us so far. She should be out for another couple hours, I’ll just drop her in the street – she’ll wake up with a sore head and no memories of any of this.”

(He’s not quite right about that – your memories are hazy to be sure, but some things about last night are coming into focus.)

“Enough! She’s going nowhere til ’im at home comes home. He’ll know what to do. For now, we just wait.”

There’s some grumbling, but general agreement. It would seem, for now, that you are safe. Relatively.

8 Gennaio, 794

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ELISABETTA
=============

By the pricking of my thumbs...

There’s a popular saying that trouble never sends a warning, and like many popular sayings, it’s not the whole truth. Much of your training as a Brava is with the blade, yes; but mastery of the blade requires mastery of the body, listening to the things it’s telling you that your brain will overlook if you aren’t careful. For some, it’s the pricking of the thumbs, for others it’s a tingle between the shoulder blades, but it means the same thing: something is off and danger is imminent. The last time you felt it, and ignored it, was the last time you saw your sister alive; so when it hits you now, you’re away, the dance forgotten, Blair’s protests lost behind you as you dash out of the ballroom. Sure, you promised him a dance, but he is one life’s hangers-on, for all his noble blood. If you weren’t in House Bastien, he wouldn’t look at you twice.

(Well, he’s a man; he’d definitely look at you twice, the same as he’d look at any attractive, athletic young woman. But the point stands.)

Even as you hurry, you’re thinking fast. Keys, Couth, Eye – all perfectly capable of getting into trouble. But Keys aren’t often caught off-guard, and a Couth in trouble can be heard the other side of Ilrien. No, the truth is that for real, Timmy’s-fallen-down-a-well sudden danger… it takes an Eye to get into that.

Sasha. Where has that infuriatingly sneaky Garnetyne got to? And more to the point, what has she got herself into?

8 Gennaio, 794

Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Elisabetta chanted over and over to herself as she quickly made her way to the entrance hall, the tapping of her boots on the parquet floor echoing off of the elegantly papered walls. The servant holding out her cloak and blade paled at her expression - a reminder that she still needed to work on masking her emotions.

Taking a moment to strap on her rapier, she checked the scarlet glove that was hanging off her belt - the badge of being a Brava - and slipped the cloak over her shoulders before pushing her way out the held door into the rain. The culottes she was wearing were practical as well as elegantly styled - no way in the hells was she wearing a dress - but the twinge behind her eyes was telling her that whatever she faced tonight was going to leave them in such a state that Annalise was going to have words with her when she returned them in the morning.

She paused in the midst of the rain when she realized that she didn't actually know where she was going. Her first thought was to pay a visit to the Flayed Falcon, the tavern where Sasha spent a fair amount of time. But then she cringed at the memory of what happened the last time she was there. It was a misunderstanding, of course. How was she supposed to know that the serving girl was in a relationship with one of Sasha's best informants. It's not like the girl rebuked Elisabetta's advances.

The Brava couldn't help but smile at the memory.

The jilted beau was stupid enough to challenge her to a duel. Elisabetta still felt that he should be thankful that she only broke his nose. Sasha, however, didn't see it that way. The only thing she cared about was that he'd raised his prices and refused to return to the Falcon if Elisabetta was going to be a regular patron. Stupid t@~@. If he'd kept his girl happy in the first place then his nose wouldn't have that new bend in it.

Elisabetta shook her head. No, she didn't need Sasha even more pissed at her, justified or not. So where else could she find out what the woman was up to and where she was at? After a moment of thought, she remembered that Sasha had mentioned a dive she'd visited for gossip on more than one occasion. It didn't even have a proper name, they just called it ... Samson's? No ... Samwell's! That was it. She nodded and strode off through the rain with purpose.

...

The place wasn't even respectable enough to hang a shingle or have a decent common area. It was just an unused storage room attached to a larger warehouse. Barrels placed around the room served as tiny tables for the games of Loggers they were playing with bone dice. Heads turned as she entered and more than one expression of surprise. Her garments fit for an elegant party were quite out of place here.

"Oi, Luv," one fellow drawled, his scruffy beard split with a scar across his jaw, "I bet you charge a pretty coin." Rude laughter followed until she shifted her cloak so her blade and the glove in her belt flashed in the lantern-light. The laughter died and the occupants quickly became much more interested in their games and drinks.

"I'm looking for an Eye by the name of Sasha Pyrope and I'm sure someone here has had business with her recently. Now who would that be?"

Other than something muttered under the breath, there was no response.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Elisabetta challenged. Her patience - never thick to begin with - was quickly wearing thin.

"I said," the bearded man with the scar said in a clear voice as he stood from his stool, "Go mount a lamp pole you monied c!~$."

Elisabetta's lip curled into a smile. Yes, Annalise was going to have words with her in the morning.

8 Gennaio, 794

No good deed goes unpunished. It is the first thought that Sasha’s mind whispers into her aching head. This is quickly followed by the all too predictable and obvious announcement that a dose of tagras root always leaves her with a splitting headache. It punctuates this obvious point by causing her stomach to do a tumbling routine fit for one of the Prince’s acrobatic troupes. As she scoots away from the mess that was remains of her meager lunch, the final bit of insight flitters its way through her muddled mind like a drunken bat. Had she been foolish enough to trigger her Charm before the gas had taken her. She really didn’t want to spoil the Elisabetta's evening at the ball. More importantly she didn’t really want to face her temper, not with this aching head. Unfortunately, the answer to garnetyne’s question would have to wait since the lingering tendrils of the targras reasserted its own authority over her system and moments later the warm embrace of unconsciousness wrapped it’s cloak about her mind once again.

She isn’t sure what wakes her the second time. The constant drone of the rain. The storms downpour pounding the boardwalk and flowing off the roof like a jungle waterfall. Or was it the incessant nasal voice of Petra trying to sell one of his wretched Slithering Pucks to any poor soul desperate enough to fork over a brass for a helping of stewed canal eel served over a hard biscuit and swimming in what can only be gratuitously called gravy. It was a meal that could make anyone with any sense of taste or self preservation run to the nearest guild bakery just to take in the cleansing scent of well baked bread and sweet rolls. Sasha was a regular. Petra?

Recognizing the voice of the old man sent a jolt through her system. Either Petra had moved his little stand in the Docks, which would have been a monumental event not witnessed by man, beast, or eel in fifty years, or she was no longer anywhere near where this whole fiasco had started. How she ended up in a south shore cellar more than a half day’s walk from the Granary, that was a question still lost in a targras haze.

She takes a deep breath. Let’s the air fill her lungs. Draws it in to cleanse the lingering effects of the poison from her system. She draws another. Smells the stale, musty, dampness of a little used cellar. There was also the smell of fish, but nearly every cellar and storage room along the Shore smelled of fish. And the tar used to seal the ships. This one was no different. Occasionally the smell of spices and hot sauce drifted in from Petra's making her stomach grumble.

Listening to the wind whistle through the foundation of whatever rundown dockside shack her kidnappers had tossed her into, she tries to bring the day’s events into focus. It all started with her visit to Sister Amelia. Following the disaster that took her home, her family, and most of her people, she’d spent the rest of her youth in the Sister’s care and especially under the tutelage of Sister Amelia. Amelia had been her favorite among those harsh mistresses of the Lady’s Blessing. Quick of mind, stern, but softened with kindness and a real caring for those fallen into her care. A stark contrast to the others whose harsh lessons and punishments flowed out of bitterness, spite, or broken dreams. Amelia was also a first class healer and midwife. It was from her that Sasha learned the basics about treating wounds, sicknesses or helping bring a child into the world.

Sasha still visited her every couple of weeks. Usually they just had tea, prayed, and then gossiped a little while strolling the Temple grounds. Amelia can't get around like she used to. Yet while her body was fading, her mind was still sharp as a Bravo's blade. So it was surprising to see the usually stoic woman in such an agitated state when Sasha arrived that morning. One of the children had gone missing. Another young garnetyne. A boy named Salvio.

”He’s a good boy.” Amelia said, her eyes glimmering with tears. ”And smart, a thinker. A lover of books and learning. More so than you were.” She adds with a teasing smile to her former student.

”Yes, but does he have my roguish charm?” Sasha adds with a soft laugh.

”Indeed not, my dear girl. Thank the Lady.” As quickly as the good humor arrives it slips away. ”He would not just stay away like this. It has been a whole day. Something has happened.” She turns her increasingly cloudy eyes to Sasha and grips her hand with a firmness that says there is still strength in this old body. ”The Watch will do nothing. The other Sisters have no time to look for one wayward child. Will you find him? Bring him home?”

The wind rattles a loose shutter somewhere above. Sasha sighs. Of course she'd said yes. Agreed to find one lone boy in a city full of boys and girls and all manner of ways for one to disappear. Salvio apparently liked to watch the ships unloading at the Granary. Liked guessing the number of sacks each ship carried. So off she went to find a needle in a grain silo.

The targras root was weakening. Fortunately a gas created from the stuff was much less potent than if it had been slipped into her coffee or evening wine. Voices drift down from above. Something about the woman’s voice triggers an alarm in her head. It was time for her to start working a way out of this predicament. Rolling onto her side, she stifles a groan. And doesn't curse yet another ruined set of trousers and the shirt she'd borrowed from Kyra that morning. Instead she gives thanks to the Lady for ensuring that whoever had tied the knots on her bindings wasn’t a sailor. With practiced ease she starts working the poorly secured ropes. Slowly at first, and then with greater urgency, she works her wrists back and forth. Staring into the darkness, she focuses her attention on the small dim outline. Uses that to motivate and push through the pain and blood now coating her wrists. There in the darkness, a few feet away she could just make out the small, pale shape of another small body. Smell the grain dust on his clothes. Hear the sound of his slow, even breathing. At least she’d found the boy and he was still alive.

8 Gennaio, 794

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LUCIANA
=============

They say music is the food of love; but when the winter storm sends the harbour waves crashing over the docks, and the howling wind drives the sleet and frozen rain near-horizontal; when lightning arcs across the sky, illuminating the sullen clouds with violent flashes; when thunder rolls across Ilrien as though the Lord and Lady are going to war, there is another music – one you remember from your earliest days of childhood.

The Groan sings softly, between the crashes of thunder: lulling the Deathless back to slumber, it’s called; and if in the further, loftier heights of Ilrien the well-bred look down on that practice… well, they aren’t the ones with nothing but a tumble-down city wall between them and Necropolitan Hill, are they?

This southernmost crescent of the city is where you are from: a swath of narrow alleys dotted with tall and narrow apartments stacked on top of equally small shops and cafes. A hard place, the Twist, and plenty of bad memories – but when the thunder crashes, nowhere else in the city feels right without that low, soft singing. A place then to remember, and to brood, when the not at all opaque or tedious House business gets to be a little too much at times. The New Year Ball, for instance – a week past now, but another reminder of not belonging among the nobility.

Such is a Couth’s lot.

“Hey, Signorita – you, uh, lost or something?”

In the pouring rain, your cloak wrapped around you, you didn’t see the trio of youths until you’d almost walked right into them. They grin, the leader bold with his two friends behind him, nudging one another as they look at your finery.

“This is a bad place for one so fine as yourself to be alone, Signorita. We could show you the sights.” Lightning illuminates the glint of a blade. “Maybe a little something else.”

Such is also a Couth's lot, of course: when you do go home, you get a stranger’s “welcome.”

8 Gennaio, 794

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KYRA
=============

O, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!

Calista’s words still sting as they propel you away from her, out of the house and into the storm-swept streets of Ilrien.

Thankless. Ungrateful. Selfish.

Your mother can draw blood without ever needing a knife. It had started as a simple enough argument, although one more suited to having with a sister: the shirt (your shirt!) she’d wanted to borrow, that you’d lent to Sasha earlier that day. The Garnetyne Eye seems to have a penchant for borrowing clothes when she needs another alias, although her hasty explanation suggested this wasn’t exactly House business. You gave it to her anyway, a simple favour for a friend, but your mother contrived to make that simple shirt a symbol of all your faults and failings, distilled into a single garment; and every word you utter becomes another stick to beat you with.

Finally, nothing for it but to take to the streets, clear the whirling in your head. Family. You can choose your friends, but not your relatives. The icy sleet to the face is certainly a way to take your mind off things. Or at least, a way to refocus the mind on other matters.

Sasha, for instance. You’re pretty sure she said she’d return the shirt already – not that it matters, but she tends to be pretty good about keeping to time. What exactly did she say she was up to, again?

Another gust of wind almost knocks you across the Plaza. This won’t do at all. You need to get inside, and dry off, and think.

8 Gennaio, 794

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VIOLETTA
=============

Now is the Winter of our discontent made glorious Summer by Constantin Bastien – at least, that seems to be the official line. Although with the storm overhead and the icy rain and sleet blowing almost horizontal with the wind, summer seems a long way off. In truth, Ilrien has a temperate clime – snow here is almost vanishingly rare, while in Calrais it is said they measure the drifts in feet rather than inches; and you have heard stories about the lost Jewel Cities, where it was the same hot weather all year round (although their winters were apparently marked by something called a tie-fune, which sounds unnecessarily unpleasant). No, as an Ilrienne born and bred, this climate is all you’ve known; it gets more bearable from here on in. Usually.

So, the New Year is in, House Bastien is on the rise, and all is right with the world, no? Oh, if only it were that simple. You, as a Key, know that mechanisms always, always fail unless properly tended to: wound (but not too tight), oiled (but not too much), cosseted, polished, occasionally taken apart and… inspected.

Which is what you are doing tonight: inspecting. Of course, a good Key doesn’t need to take something apart in order to know whether it is working properly: they know it from observation, from the subtle way that tick occasionally fails to give way to tock, or does so too soon, or too slowly. Everyone else at New Year might have been gawping at Constantin and his progeny, or the reactions of the other members of the Esultare (House Elanda are going to be a problem, and sooner rather than later), but your gaze was looking back – sometimes it is the trouble behind you that causes the big problems, usually as it overtakes without warning.

It wasn’t much that caught your attention, a look that passed between the Conte of House Szalar and the Marquessa de Scalier – easily dismissed as two nobles acknowledging an assignation later that night; but it was the way they looked away when they noticed your attention. Tick. Tock. Tick… Trouble.

Two Houses Minor, each alike in their ideas: if House Bastien can rise at the expense of a House Major, why not us, too? Still, a problem spotted is half-way to being resolved, right? Hence your splashing your way across Ilrien on a winter's night when sensible people are wrapped up indoors.

A thought which makes you wonder how many of the rest of your Coterie are out here tonight.

8 Gennaio, 794

The freezing rain cools Kyra's burning cheeks, a welcome sensation for about three seconds. But she does not seek shelter, not yet, her mind full of fanciful imaginings.

She is lying in her bed at home, her face pale except for two spots of colour in her cheeks. Her lips are chapped and there is a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her hair ripples across the satin pillows, a dark nimbus. The House Grace stands at one side of the bed, hands clasped before her, brows pinched in concern.

Kyra closes her eyes for a moment, the better to visualize every detail of the scene. And now, for the sweetest part. Calista, her face drawn, a trembling hand holding a handkerchief over her mouth. To hide the fierce biting of the lip, the... no, the trembling hand is too much. Calista would never allow herself such lack of composure. Her hands folded, then, to mirror the posture of the Grace. Her voice is calm as she asks, "Is there no hope, then?".

Oh yes, her mother will be sorry for sending her into the storm like this. She will weep bitter tears when Kyra will catch a deathly cold and fall ill. Thankless. Ungrateful. Under the hood of her cloak, Kyra snarls. I am plenty grateful and thankful, mother. For the countless lessons in selfishness that you have imparted upon me.

She is so consumed with her fantasy of revenge and the imaginary rematch she is having with her mother that she barely notices where she is going. Their house is in the Gilt, of course, on the southern side and as far as you can get from the Palace while still being in the Gilt - but that gives them a proximity to both the Silk and the Rose that Kyra appreciates. Now, she finds that her feet are carrying her on the familiar route that skirts the western edge of the entertainment district and ends in that liminal section of the city that is not quite the Rose and not quite the Groan, but an awkward space between them. Her friend Jian lives there, as rent is cheaper than elsewhere and it is not so far from where most of her customers live. Yes, getting into her other skin will do her good. It would be unconscionable to walk to the Arsenal in this dress, in this weather.

The familiar building comes into view, a tall, narrow three-story house with a hoist beam and a pulley at the very top. The trouble with building in a city that is half water is that it is nearly impossible to have a basement; start digging more than a meter and the water seeps through the ground. So most of the houses built next to the canals use their attics for storage instead - hence the hoist beams. The one where Jian lived had been sub-divided a long time ago and her friend's apartment was tiny, but Kyra always felt comfortable there. She picks up the pace for the last dozen steps or so, eager to get out of the miserable, stinging sleet, and she almost runs into someone coming out the front door. He is cloaked as well, and his broad-hemmed hat is low over his face, but those boots are a dead give-away.

A few moments and a soft knock later, Jian opens the door. She is wearing her apron, stained by a dozen or more shades of paint, her dark red hair gathered under a similarly stained scarf. They appraise each other with the practice of long familiarity; Jian can tell that Kyra had another fight with Calista, and Kyra can tell that Jian is tense. They hug once Kyra sheds her wet cloak, and Jian moves into the little kitchen area to set water boiling for the tea - and likely to give herself something to do rather than...

"What was the bárbaro doing here? Did he want something from you?"

Jian sighs, shakes her head. It is not an answer to Kyra's question, but a sign that she doesn't want to talk about it. "Will you want your other clothes?" Kyra thinks about pressing her, but whatever it is that's bothering her, Jian will tell her in her own time. "Yes. I'm talking a walk through the Shore."

Jian nods, sets the steaming cup of tea on her work table, then kneels next to her narrow bed to pull out a trunk from underneath. Inside is Kyra's greatest secret - or at least somewhere in the top three of her greatest secrets. Carefully wrapped in oiled paper and hidden under spare bedsheets and blankets, two male outfits. One is wool and fine linen, reasonably well tailored - the clothes of a wealthy tradesman or clerk, but not a noble. The other one is more suitable for what she has in mind today, the heavy fabrics of a day labourer on the docks, a little frayed at the hems, faded by the sun and stained with sweat. Of course, the discoloration and stains were Jian's handiwork and not the real thing - Kyra had her limits. The last item is indispensable for both outfits, a long strip of woven cotton that she wraps tightly around her chest to flatten it, then secures it with a couple of pins. She gathers her long hair on top of her head, tying it and pinning it before she dons a workman's flat cap.

Of course, the clothes are just one part of it. Her posture shifts, her limbs are looser, the ramrod straight back and highly-held head that Calista and Caliope had drilled into her over and over curve and droop. Somehow, she is bigger. It's not that she has physically grown, but she takes up more space, lets her footfalls be that little bit heavier. With one hand she picks up the tea cup and slurps - not sips - from it, while the other is reaching for the stick of charcoal that is ever present on Jian's table. A smudge on her fingers is transferred to her upper lip; just a shadow, the peach fuzz of a boy who is not yet old enough to grow a proper mustachio.

There, she is ready now. Kyra walked into the building, but out comes Olívio, hunching his shoulders against the wind and rain as he ambles across the southern part of the Groan towards the Shore. It was rather fortunate that the weather was this bad; when she was in this mood, the one thing that helped her feel better and calm down was watching the waves crash against the piers and seawalls. Gazing at the sea and the horizon for hours on end, the tumult of the water echoing her anger and pent-up frustration.

Sorry this went on for so long, but I discovered some important things about Kyra.

Though Luciana García is not big on vows as a rule, she made a promise to herself upon her admittance to House Bastien. She vowed that she would never forget where she came from; that she would never allow herself to become soft and fall in among the ranks of Ilrien’s spoilt nobility, who take even the most basic perquisites of their sheltered lives for granted.

… or who become insufferably cross when confronted with an experience beyond their rigidly circumscribed ken, such as having their notion of what constitutes a proper dance challenged. Really, couldn’t anyone get an Ilrienne waltz and an Altori cloud-step mixed up? Never mind the distinction between traditional open position and Crucesan open position! But when it happens to silly uncouth Luciana, of course, it is a minor scandal. In particular, Violetta channelled her disapproval of the Iberican’s blunder into a veritable death-glare that gave way to an outright dressing-down following the conclusion of the ball. That was a losing battle for Luciana, and she knew it; ultimately, all she could do to appease Violetta was to agree to take regular dancing lessons – another promise she won’t get out of honouring. Precisely who is going to be the (un)lucky soul to instruct her in that important courtly ritual remains undecided for now, but she does not doubt that she isn’t going to end up having much of a good time.

A diversion from all of that is the chief reason Luciana is out here tonight, strolling through the storm in the nastiest part of town, soaked through despite her cloak – and enjoying every minute. She needed the reminder that Ilrien is more than its august ballrooms, than its noble courts, than the ostentation of the impeccably wrought and furnished Gilt. Its underbelly is outright ugly by comparison, an insalubrious sprawl of grime, poverty, and even violence; those who cannot endure its uncaring ways are swiftly devoured, never to be seen again. But those who can are left the stronger for it, their scars and calluses physical expressions of the hardening their very soul undergoes. And she passed through that crucible at a young age, when she had little more to her name than the ragged clothes on her back.

It is reassuring to discover that she has not become a stranger in this place. The shadows gathered in the alcoves and doorways of the shabby streets do not elicit paranoia or dread, only a healthy state of heightened alertness. The soft little song it sings at times like these, like a lullaby for the waking hours, evokes memories that she could not excise from her mind without obliterating the person she is today. Even the cold, rain-slick cobbles under her habitually bare feet merely sharpen her focus; a throwback to the years of genuine poverty she weathered, reminding her that if she survived in this place, she can survive anywhere.

And still, Luciana is somehow caught unawares by the three shady-looking youngsters. Perhaps a shade of complacency has ever so slightly dulled her edge after all. It occurs to her belatedly, too, that she must seem a worthwhile victim to them. By the standards even of House Bastien, her garb tonight – the woollen cloak, the plain linen shirt, the unadorned breeches – is not much finer than a common servant’s livery; in the Groan, though, this modest outfit still suggests a certain measure of wealth… or simply a person in the wrong place. In either case, it’s inviting trouble.

Luciana considers the would-be robbers. Just desperate youths, masking their apprehension with forced swagger and bravado? Or, sadly, seasoned criminals already, entirely willing and able to gut her to get at the contents of her purse? It can be difficult to tell. Even she never perfected that art. The Groan breeds a wide variety of souls, and some of them simply don’t conform to any patterns or modes of behaviour one might reckon with ahead of time. They are freaks, wildcards, anomalies – some kind or at least harmless, others dangerous or downright malevolent. Some are cunning social chameleons; others are just insane. You won’t know which it is until you find out. Dumb luck, or the Lady’s favour as some like to think of it, can make as much of a difference in this as long-honed shrewdness.

Still, for the time being, she decides to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Evening, lads,” she cheerily greets the trio. With her right hand, Luciana makes a show of brushing a strand of wet hair from her face while her left hand surreptitiously drops low, ready to grab the edge of her cloak and turn the garment into a swirling, confounding shield if need be. “Lost? Oh, in thought, maybe. You know how it is. Anyway, the sights, you say? Hmm. Might have to take you up on that. Plenty to see ‘round the Groan, eh?”

She lets that gruff, sloppily enunciating Twist accent, which she has done a middling job of learning to suppress now that Luciana García is supposed to be above such things, creep back a little more into her voice with every word, rejoicing to find that it still fits her like an old, well-worn glove. “Say, how’s about old Peccote? There still more water than ale in that piss he calls drink? Charge three fiore a mug, he used to!” She grins, honestly grins, at the memory of the first flagon she ever partook of in the Beggar’s Walk. It was pretty much her last flagon, too. In hindsight, getting more or less turned off alcohol for life hardly was the worst thing ever to happen to her.

Luciana tilts her head, studying the youths. “Whose crew’re you lads running with, anyway? Not Lyra’s, surely? Unless things’ve changed, she only recruits girls. Something ‘bout business benefiting from a feminine touch rather’n just having some berks wave their knives around.” Her brow furrows. “Say, this isn’t just the three of you doing your own thing, is it?” She makes a bit of a face, her expression a blend of pity and faint, contemptuous revulsion. “ ‘Cause that hardly ever turns out well, see? When you’re not getting done in for trespassing on somebody else’s turf, you’re getting done in because… well, why not? Best to nip things in the bud afore you can stir up any trouble. Without a crew who’ve got your back, you’d be nothing more’n three bodies to dump and forget about, just like that,” she says, snapping her fingers for emphasis. “Not safe to think you can ignore the rules of the Groan like that, believe me. Not safe at all.”

The smile she gives them is friendly, yet founded on the steely calm of somebody acutely aware of the game being played here. It seems to say, We could do this, but I’d rather not. You shouldn’t, either. What you should do it is count your blessings and call it a night. Privately, of course, she hopes that this evening is not going to end with her bleeding like a stuck pig in a gutter somewhere, because aside from a passing comment to Elisabetta about going to visit some of her “old haunts”, Luciana didn’t bother informing any of her compatriots as to her whereabouts. After all – and especially in the wake of last week’s ball – the knowledge that she is going on this kind of jaunt would be quite unlikely to improve their opinion of her in any way.

I, on the other hand (pun not intended), apologise for nothing! Nothing!

8 Gennaio, 794

=============
SASHA
=============

The small figure of the boy has been lying still, watching you even as you are watching him. "Heya." He squints in the dim light from the hatch overhead, taking in the colouration of your sun-bronzed skin and discerning the Garnetyne hue. "You're like me, aintcha? Probly even old enough to remember, too. I've only ever heard stories. Never even been onna boat." He sounds wistful, but his eyes are alert. He sits back on his heels, ready to bolt in any direction like a scalded cat if he senses danger.

"If they tied you up, means you're bad news. For them, for sure." He jerks his head in the direction of the cellar door, but doesn't take his eyes off you for a moment. "Bad news for me too, maybe. They was gonna let me go, I think - I'm a Nobody, ain't never gonna talk to the coppers, they give me a clip round the ear if I even try. But you? You got the look of a Somebody, the watch'd listen to you for sure, right? I'm right, aren't I."

He spends a moment or two thinking, as a frown draws his eyebrows together. "I'm Salvio. Whyn't you tell me your story, Miss Somebody, an' I'll tell you mine, fair?"

8 Gennaio, 794

=============
ELISABETTA
=============

"Easy there now, Petey. Let's not be having any trouble, now, eh?" A smaller man with an ingratiating smile puts one hand on Petey's heavyset shoulder, encouraging him to sit back down.

"Sorry about that, for sure, we're not used to the likes of you, Ladyship. I'm Aiden." Aiden gives a slight bow of his head, and flashes another smile. "You know what it's like, you get together a few lads from the old country, far from home, and there's always a few has a drink too many." His hand stays on Petey's shoulder, giving a warning squeeze. The reek of sour Calrayan liquor emanating from Petey gives the truth to Aiden's story.

"So, you're looking for Sasha, right? An Altori walks into a Calrais bar looking for a Garnetyne, that's the start of a joke right there, I'm thinking." Aiden looks evasive for a moment. "But, uh, truth be told, we've not seen her for a bit, if I'm honest with you. Not since, uh..." He looks away.

On the edge of your peripheral vision, behind you, someone sitting at the bar holds up a hand with four fingers.

Aiden snaps his fingers as though suddenly remembering "Four! Four nights, since she was in here last. And that's the honest truth." He gives you the steady, even gaze of the born liar.

For sure, Aiden is a lot more personable than Petey. But it would seem you are still dealing with the monkey, rather than the organ-grinder.

8 Gennaio, 794

=============
KYRA
=============

As Kyra, walking alone into Shore in this weather, at this time, you'd attract notice and probably attention. Nobody gives Olívio so much as a second glance, until the crack of a whip at his feet sends you tumbling into the gutter. "Oy! Out the way, turd-brain!" The shout goes past you as a carriage rolls by, a two-horse team going at a fast clip as the driver on top lays about with the whip, scattering the few pedestrians in his way - you among them.

You catch a glimpse of the crest on the door: Corvetto. Interesting, but not entirely surprising. Shore mostly belongs to Elanda still, despite their grasp being loosened of late - apart from the Arsenal, which has been in the hands of House Battalia since time immemorial - but the Corvetto still consider all of Ilrien to be theirs by right.

Better to be under a Corvetto wing than a Corvetto beak. That saying, too, is from time immemorial.

You pick yourself up - it's fair to say that being cast into the gutter like that probably doesn't happen to Kyra very often - and with the rumble of the carriage now far ahead of you, you carry on your journey untroubled.

8 Gennaio, 794

"Well, Aiden," Elisabetta replies in a voice that's steady and casual, "I'm not looking for any trouble either." She steps forward, dropping a couple of copper coins on a barrel in passing as she picks up the half-full wooden tankard that's resting in front of a grizzled dock-worker. She stops right in front of Petey. Close enough that they could be dance partners if Petey actually knew how to dance. Keeping her eyes locked on the bearded man, she can see the urge in his eyes to vent his frustration out on her. Lifting the tankard to her lips she takes a slurping sip that echoes through the silent room. Her eyes never leave Petey's. "And I'm sure Petey isn't looking for trouble either." She smiles, lowering the mug.

Turning her back on the pair, she faces the rest of the room, her eyes wander over the rest of the inhabitants, but her attention is entirely on Four-Fingers. "My friend, Sasha, also wasn't looking for any trouble ... four days ago you said?" Fulling anticipating Petey to make an unsubtle grab at her, she takes another loud sip of the cheap drink. "So who was she talking to ... four days ago?"

8 Gennaio, 794

=============
LUCIANA
=============

When in the Twist, watch your step.

It's intended as a literal warning: the gutters in this part of the city run above ground, meaning that - especially in a heavy downpour - the filth can run all the way along the street. But it's also metaphorically true as well: the Groan breeds a wide variety of souls, and some of them simply don’t conform to any patterns or modes of behaviour one might reckon with ahead of time. For example, you can be talking three-to-one against a promising target, only for her to show she knows the territory and its rules rather better than you do yourself.

The hard edges of that accent are a better shield for you than any armour right now: the two friends at the speaker's shoulders are suddenly, without obviously moving, much further from him than they were a moment or two ago. And he knows it. Knows that as leader, he has led them into a dangerous situation, but that if he backs down too soon, his so-called friends will turn on him. Weakness is never tolerated. He licks his lips, suddenly unsure; and hesitates.

And he who hesitates is lost. The laughter catches you all off-guard, not far off and getting closer, the laughter of those that laugh because they choose not to weep, the laughter of those with nothing left to lose.

"oh no." No time or energy to spend on cursing or shouting. The Motley are on the move and the Wild Hunt of Ilrien is loosed in a blood-dimmed tide of lost souls, those crushed by circumstance who have hit rock-bottom and found, on the other side of the despair... well, nobody knows exactly what they find there. Gaze too long into that abyss and you too may find that you laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Two of the youths are away in a flash, but the third - the one who until a moment ago was all swagger and bravado - turns to flee, shoving his knife into his belt and losing his step on the cobbles. He falls heavily, knife skittering away into the darkness, with a scream and a crack of bone as his ankle gives way.

He hauls himself up, face white with pain, but his friends are long-gone. He slips back to the ground with a moan of agony, and as the jeering and laughter grow closer, the flickering of torches just around the corner throwing shadows that move with evil menace, he looks straight at you.

"Please."

You know, few better, what the Motley will do if they catch him; or if they catch you, for that matter.

"Please."

8 Gennaio, 794

A knot of worry unravels in her gut when the boy’s voice breaks through the drum patter of the pouring rain. A large enough overdose of root has sent more than a few souls into the Lady’s embrace. Salvio up and talking meant that whoever mixed up that batch of alchemical gas wasn’t much on keeping to the proper ratios. The boy should’ve been out three times longer than she was given his size and weight compared to hers.

She looks down at her thin and at the moment, dirt covered and tattered frame. Sighs. Okay, maybe only twice as long. Her workouts with Elisabetta had surely added a few pounds here or there. Surely. As if mocking her hope, the rope finally slips and she pulls her slim hand free. Another sigh. Mother used to call her ‘her little fae princess.’ A waif. Sack of skin and bones. And plenty else, she’d been called over the years. Much of it worse than simple comments on her size.

Slowly bringing her hands around to look at the damage to her wrists and rub a little feeling back into her fingers she nods at the keen-eyed Salvio and smiles. ”I am like you.” She says in a soft whisper. ”Garnetyne, orphaned, a favorite of Sister Amelia, has the Lady’s own worst luck, and likely much too curious and head strong for my own good.” Her smile broadens. ”But that last bit may only apply to me.”

Sasha holds out her hand to shake his as if they were meeting in the common room of some posh eatery in the Rose. ”I’m Sasha. Pleased to meet you Salvio.” She shifts her legs into a more comfortable position and tries a few stretches to see what if any effects of the Targras root remained in her system. As she does so, she keeps talking to the boy in soft whisper.

”Can’t say I’m really somebody. Most of us islanders are still considered outsiders by folk here. It’s not really meanness or spite that makes it that way. There’s just a lot of fear wrapped up in what happened.” She reaches out and touches the tips of her toes, her forehead pressed against her leg in a single, graceful motion. ”Since most in Ilrien think the sinking of the islands was some divine retribution delivered by the Lord and Lady for our great sins, folk don’t want to take a chance of that curse rubbing off on them.” Her face turns sour like she’d just bit deep into a lemon. ”Of course it’s all hogwash. No one really knows for sure what happened. But my heart tells me it t’wasn’t Lord or Lady that caused our home to sink beneath the sea. If I had to guess, I’d say it was someone messing with the Weave of the World. Magic. Big whodoo gone all wrong.” She waves a hand in the air dismissively. ”Or the sea just got a bit over hungry and decided to treat itself to the best, prettiest morsels of land in all the world.”

”But look at me rambling on like some school girl.” She snorts a very unladylike snort and shakes her head. ”Must be the damned gas. Always makes me talkative. I may not be much of a Somebody, but I’ve friends who are. And when we get out of here, we're going to go see them.”

She glances around the room. Doesn’t find much of any use. A few rotting barrels. Old nets. Buckets filled with dried tar. A few old scrapers, knives, planes. A mass of moldy silk and canvas. A crab pot. A broken oar. Someone used to own a fishing boat. She decides. Debris lines the corner across the way where the wall’s crumbling. A narrow stream of water flows from damage. Her eyes follow that growing trickle to a low point in the floor and an ancient, rusted drain grate. A drain that would almost certainly lead to sewers or maybe directly to the beaches. A way out. Narrow, but perhaps not too narrow. Certainly Kyra or Luciana couldn’t do it. But a skinny waif of a woman like herself. Someone with the womanly figure of a fourteen year old boy. It was possible. She looks back at Salvio.

”Amelia asked me to find you. She was worried because you’d been gone for so long. I promised her I’d do my best to see you back safe.” She says, moving over to take a closer look at the grate after listening for any sounds of the occupants upstairs getting curious about their prisoners. Hearing none, she presses on. ”Now, I keep my promises, so I’d rather we got out of here without spilling any blood or putting you in any more danger. She looks at her own bleeding wrists and the handful of other cuts marking her body. ”Okay…any more blood.” She adds with a grim smile. ”If my ears aren’t befuddled from that targras they dosed me with, I’d wager that the woman I heard earlier is the wife of a mean piece of work who I’d rather not tangle with unarmed, drugged, and with a young, dashing lad like yourself to see after. So in order for me to keep my promise, we’re going to have to get a little creative and a whole lot dirtier.”

Grabbing one of the thin bladed scrapers, she starts carefully slipping it all around the edge of the grate, slowly loosening and scraping clear what little mortar still exists. As she works, she glances over at the boy. ”Amelia said you liked watching them unload the grain ships. Even counted how many barrels or sacks went on or off.” She says casually as if she was discussing nothing more important than the weather. ”How many do you think came off the Bountiful Beauty?”

Because that was the real prize and why she was stowed down in this hole. Why there was almost no chance of them walking out of this oversized grave. Somebody or nobody, it wouldn't make any difference. Someone was smuggling goods and using the Granary as their front. Not particularly broadsheet worthy information in a city built on smuggling. She stops her work and checks the little pocket sewn into the interior of her trousers. Felt the hard black powder grains still tucked there. But a shipload of black powder, that was a whole different story.

She feels the grate pop free and a feral smile once again crosses her features.

8 Gennaio, 794

There was something almost fun about tumbling into the gutter, into getting dirty. Sure she'll have to scrub the clothes clean later, but what else was new? Calista had been making them wash their own clothes since they were five or six, and only relented when Amparo pointed out that their chafed and calloused hands were starting to cause Comments in society.

And where, oh where are the Corvettos going in such a rush, on a day like this? Olívio runs a bit after the vanishing carriage, hand outstretched.

"Spare a fiore, sir! I'm very hungry, sir!"

That last part was true, Kyra realizes; it was about lunch time and she had stormed out without eating, of course. Making a mental note of the carriage's rough direction, she turns down a street leading to the Docks. There would not be many street vendors in this weather, but perhaps she could risk a tavern. Being discovered would be disastrous, potentially deadly. But the sharp edge of danger is making her skin tingle and her heartbeat dance in what she tells herself is excitement, not fear.

A half-bell later, she is standing at the mouth of an alley, marginally sheltered by the roof overhang, considering her options. Petra has his little stand out, as expected, but she's not that hungry. A little farther up the street there's a nameless eatery serving clam chowder and fish slurry, but Kyra cannot abide those textures in her food, so that's another pass.

Having driven off the prospective robbers with nothing more than some choice utterances and the accent to go with them, Luciana is afforded a few moments to feel… not smug, perhaps, but self-satisfied. Evidently she is still able to pass for a local, has not lost her touch, and this heartens her much more than flawlessly dancing an Ilrienne waltz at the ball would have.

Then that laughter starts to boil up somewhere behind her, distant but not nearly far enough. That damn laughter. The frenzied cackling of souls that have gone over, forever and irretrievably, to what she used to call the Funny Place as a child. She has since become certain that it is, in fact, nothing of the sort, but for some reason the infantile expression has stuck with her. As has the primal dread induced by its deranged denizens. It made a chill run down her spine back then, and it still creeps her out today.

And it’s coming for her fast, a tide of madness that will swallow her up as easily as a breaking wave would drown her in the ocean. Feeling the back of her neck prickle, she casts about for the quickest means of gaining the rooftops. In her youth these always were her favourite hiding places, as well as a convenient way of getting around the Twist while avoiding the manifold perils of its streets. Getting up there in the first place always was the trickiest part, but she has always had a knack for finding the right spot to make the climb.

In a moment it becomes a superfluous consideration as the lad who threatened her mere moments before has the nerve to beseech her of all people for help after clumsily ruining his ankle. (His friends, she cannot help but note, have made their exit quickly and cleanly. Clever boys.) Luciana stares at him for a second, her entirely rational sense of self-preservation warring with that frankly inconvenient ember of human decency deep down that even the Twist never managed to extinguish.

“Oh, by the Lord’s hairy balls!” she blasphemes in a low hiss, tiny geysers of rainwater fountaining off the cobbles in her wake as she leaps forward. The Iberican is a fair bit more athletic than her slight frame suggests – nothing like those barbarian brutes from Calrais, by any means, but in times of need her sheer scrappiness enables her to perform some surprising physical feats. It does so now as she pulls the youth to his feet with a grunt and another muttered oath, supporting him as best she can while she casts about for somewhere to go to ground while the laughter of the perennially insane draws ever nearer.

The rooftops are out of the question, the alleyways too risky, but… her eyes light upon a shabby ground-floor dwelling nearby. It’s empty, abandoned, though Luciana couldn’t begin to explain how she arrived at this conclusion; the absence of light behind its ragged curtains hardly constitutes evidence for such a claim, not at this time of day and not in this part of town. She just knows somehow, guided by gut-feel, her hard-won instincts not letting her down. The Motley has yet to get hold of her, and it shan’t be doing so tonight either.

A few moments later she half drags the injured youth into the derelict dwelling, wedges its door shut again, squints into the darkness in search of a spot to hide. That rickety table back there, she decides, seems like it’d do for huddling behind once overturned. It’s not as though the Motley, all sound and fury, is famed for its thoroughness; its constituent crazies content themselves with sweeping the streets clean but they do not scour individual tenements, only pour past them like a flash flood of howling, bleating lunacy.

Or at least, they used to. Luciana hopes that is another way in which the Twist hasn’t changed.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments.

If only. Lucretia and Cesare certainly seem to think that the work is done – swanning around in their new finery, enjoying the invitations to all the parties. Even the Hand have relaxed. Luciana gave up on propriety completely and danced a jig of all things. It was amusing to watch, but it was neither the time nor place so dancing lessons have to be arranged to teach her a lesson.

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Merry meetings indeed, between Conte la Szalar and the Marquessa de Scalier of all people. Well, there’s no accounting for taste, but one does have to account for ambition and there is no doubt that those two nobles in particular have it, all too much of it.

A threat? Not truly. Szalar have men, but of no great quality and the Marquessa has almost nothing of value except her own hand in marriage. Not an inconsiderable negotiating tool for sure but, by its very nature, one which will only hold its value once. So not a threat, but quite possibly an opportunity.

Bastien has lost a lot to secure this. Yes they have more than ever before but now they sit among the Esultare, the pinnacle of society where wealth has been horded for generations. Where the weak take what they can and give in tribute to the strong.

Violetta’s smooth face contorts briefly as Marcello swims across her thoughts.

Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now… He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

That’s the way to do this – head to the lady’s chamber and deal with the problem there. If Violetta is right, and she’s rarely wrong, then the Marchessa will be the true driving force here and if the rumours about her are true… well then, her hand in marriage might be worth a lot less than everyone thinks.

Opportunity. Means and motive. Pressure and response. Tick and tock. Look and leap. These two nobles are looking, eying up a leap that might be glorious but will probably end in a crashing fall. Or they could be persuaded, steered gently to some safer crossing point and there a hand extended, a favour granted and valuable resources secure for Bastien. Yes, that would work well indeed.

I am determined to prove a villain,
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams.

Nothing is more dangerous than a Key with a plan so Violetta takes a little time, lays her snares more cunningly than any hunter. It is perhaps fortunate that the rest of the Hand are busy on their own errands. Elisabetta, ever dependable Elisabetta, would add a certain solidity to the proceedings, but this is better done quietly, under the cloak of manners and diplomacy so for tonight at least Violetta is on her own.

A small soiree, more exclusive than the Marchessa would normally receive an invitation for. Alisha was happy to host, she and Violetta go back a long way, further even than favours for a friend and so, at the opportune moment Violetta will take the Marchessa aside, tangle some tempting bait and see if the fish bites.

Action and reaction. Hook, line and sinker.

=============
ELISABETTA
=============

Four-fingers is old; grizzled might be a better word, he has the sort of weather-beaten wrinkled face that could put him anywhere from his early fifties to his late sixties. A twinkle in his eye as you identify him as the leader suggests that there's a brain to go with that burly, dock-worker's brawn. One corner of his mouth turns up and he's about to speak when Petey takes the bait that you have all-too-obviously presented. For all that he seems drunk, Petey is surprising quick as he lurches to his feet and grabs your arms by the wrists, spinning you round to face him. He gives you a gap-toothed smile. "Aiden here likes to talk, but you've asked enough questions." His broad, muscled shoulders work to keep your arms pinned. "Posh rakkers like you, I know your sort. Good with a swanky blade, but my weapons are, like, closer to hand." He laughs at his own pun - an unpardonable offence.

He gives you another leer. "My question is, you going now... or after I take that nice cloak off your shoulders? I give my girl a fine silk like that, I'm made for the rest of the year, I reckon."

Behind you, Four-fingers is the perfect expression of a facepalm. "Ah, dangnabbit. No bloodshed, if you'd be so kind. I'm low on sawdust as it is."

Petey nods. "No worries, boss, she's just leaving."

Four-fingers sighs. "Sure and I wasn't talking to you, Petey."

=============
KYRA
=============

For all that they parade through Ilrien as though they own the city, the Corvettos take a certain pride in doing good works. Several of the major orphanages in the Twist are run (or at least funded) by House Corvetto and it is they - rather than House Bastien - whose influence is most felt across the Groan... at least for now.

It is therefore not a great surprise when one of the guards riding on the back of the coach digs into a purse and tosses a few coin in your direction, with a warning look. "That's close enough, friend." She puts a meaningful hand on the hilt of her sword. The coach rumbles down through Twistmarle Street, before turning into an open gateway which closes swiftly behind it. The arms on the gate are known to you, courtesy of your mother's ceaseless lessons on etiquette and heraldry. Interesting. What business does House Corvetto have with the Margravine Octavia? Or is the occupant of the carriage - much like you - on business of their own?

Impossible to know, of course. But nothing prevents speculation.

A half-bell later and all that is behind you as you shelter from the never-ending rain under the overhang from the roof above and consider your culinary - and other - options.

=============
LUCIANA
=============

Quick thought, allied to quick action, has saved you a time or two before; and so it is again. The Motley bang on the doors and windows of the buildings that they sweep past, but their focus is on the open streets and narrow alleys and their haunting, hollow laughter and frenzied drumming (there's always a drum. Where do they find a drum? They can't just carry it with them all the time, or do they?) flows past without awareness of the two souls huddled beneath a table.

The youth's face is white, drawn with pain and terror, the latter slowly receding as the Motley's sound and fury flows past you to fade into the distance. He keeps his eyes on you as best he can, with that wariness the Twist instils in those who have ambition to survive it, but behind that caution is a look of gratitude, and perhaps surprise. "Th-thank you." His hands gently probe one ankle, with a wince that turns into a gasp as he unwittingly scrapes broken bone against bone. That's not mending by itself, for sure.

The Graces run one of their many charity-houses not too far from here, you remember. Sasha still returns there from time to time, although she might not be aware that you know that. The Sisters would bind his leg and tend his wounds, for sure. Of course, this youth and his now-absent friends were of a mind to rob you, not that long ago. You've saved him from the obvious threat, and few would blame you for walking out now.

No doubt about it. Not getting further involved is definitely the smart play.

8 Gennaio, 794

"Your weapons may be closer to 'hand'," Elisabetta growls with a smile, "But you can't expect me to ..." Her heeled boot comes down hard on Petey's instep. "... 'foot' the bill for your misdeeds." The strike isn't enough to cause any real damage, but it's enough to cause the large man to shift his stance just a bit to avoid her weight. Unfortunately for him, it is enough to give the Brava the real opening she was looking for. Whatever sound her knee made as it connected with Petey's jewels is masked in a collective empathetic grunt of pain from the crowd.

"And as you see, I don't have a 'kneed' for my weapons," she continues. As Petey's hands release her arms and instinctively move protectively to his groin. Elisabetta follows up by grabbing his ears and bringing his face down to meet that self-same knee.

"Now everyone 'nose' not to lay a hand on a lady without her express consent. Did your mother not teach you that?"

Assuming that most of the fight has been drained out of the man, Elisabetta turns her attention back to Four-fingers. As if nothing untoward has taken place, she saunters over to take the empty stool at the old man's barrel.

"Now let's talk about my friend Sasha," she begins again. "I respect the fact as a businessman, you like to keep the confidences of those that you do business with. However, I believe that Sasha's in trouble. And as a friend of hers, it's my duty to take whatever measures are required to ensure that she sleeps soundly in her own bed tonight, unharmed."

She glances over to where Petey is slowly pushing himself to his feet. "I can't say the same for those that stand in my way."

=============
SASHA
=============

Salvio's arm reaches out to touch your extended handshake, before snatching his hand back to safety; but some of the scalded-cat alertness has left him as he listens to your story. He grins, lopsidedly. "Reckon we share some of that Lady's own worse luck. M'lady." Belatedly remembering the manners that the Sisters have drummed into him.

At your question about the ship, though, his wariness slips away as his brain takes over. "The Bountiful Beauty. A three-masted schooner, rigged Lapis-style, berth for up to 24 sailors, but can run with as few as eight. Just back from Calrais with a hold full of grain. Cargo capacity for 30 cartloads, but only 28 came out and I counted them twice - once as they come out, and again in my head to make sure. I thought maybe they was running a bit light, but I snuck in to the hold cos, well... like you said, too curious for our own good." Another lopsided grin. "But I was right, there was two carts there that hadn't come off, and then I heard some people coming so I snuck onna cart, was gonna jump off when it stopped at the Granary, only it didn't stop there, did it, and then when they found me... well, they weren't happy about that. Them Calrayans can really swear, you know? But the big man said when all's said an done, it's 2 carts of grain gone an that ain't worth a body. Specially someone the Watch'd never listen to, nohow."

It's almost insulting, really. Two cartloads of missing grain is - well, it's a rounding error. The cost of doing business. A bit of petty theft that slips in the gaps formed while House Al-Mari consolidates their hold on something the Elanda used to own.

The sudden pop as the grate comes loose brings you back to the present. Salvio looks at you sceptically, and then at the small hole your work has opened up. "I can get down there, I reckon. Gonna be a scrape, though. But you?" He gives you a quick once-over. "You're skinny, but that's no joke." He weighs your chances. "You'd better go first, that way if you get stuck I can grab your legs an pull you out. M'lady."

=============
VIOLETTA
=============

It is, of course, done exquisitely. Alisha is, after all, Altori to the tips of her sublimely-manicured fingernails; and thus a practitioner of the art of perfection done effortlessly. A small soiree at the embassy (the Ambassador, alas, not in attendance) with a chance to view one of the recently-rediscovered paintings by the maestro Arvaggio, the contrast of light and dark still as poignant as when he painted it three centuries ago - just before his mysterious and unexplained death at the hands of House Corvetto tragic but easily-understood suicide. (A painting which, by the by, now hangs in the embassy courtesy of some quick work by yours truly; but thereof needeth not to speak as nouth.)

Yes, it is perfectly set: the Marquesa de Scalier proudly counts Arvaggio as one of her forebears; it was the height of courtesy to send her an invitation to its official unveiling and she would not dream of refusing. The light in her eye fades slightly as she turns her rapt attention from the canvas and spies you. "Ah. Lady di Valori. What a delightful surprise."

How easily you catch the lies.

Behind her, Alisha shoots you a meaningful look: One favour to another, we are square, yes? It's not a question.

As always my friend. Violetta replies, the gentle quirk of her lips saying all that needs to be said. Alisha is probably, almost certainly, her oldest friend. It would take a lot more than a painting or party for there to be anything owed between them, but alas friendship must wait. There is business to be conducted.

"Your ancestor was most talented Marquesa." Violetta replies. She tries to speak the truth where she can and Arvaggio was one of the Great Masters of his own, or perhaps any, age. "I am so impressed by the depth of the work. Every time one examines it one sees something that they did not before. It would be a worthy lifetime spent in simply understanding the work, if such a thing could even be achieved. I imagine one could more easily win the Great Game than truly appreciate his artistry."

The Marquesa's mouth flaps with preening words and vague platitudes and Violetta listens to the tone rather than the words. Once the tone has fallen a little she steps in once more, redirecting de Scalier's self absorbed bombast for truly important matters.

"I believe what made him great was his understanding, don't you my dear Marquesa? Looking at this work I feel that Arvaggio truly appreciated the contrast of light and dark, the danger inherent in both. To stand in the light may seem all well and good from the shadows, but we both know, don't we, that standing in the light makes one a target too, doesn't it?"

Violetta slips her arm into the Marquesa's and leads her away from the painting, taking advantage of the long portrait gallery to gain something close to true privacy. "Take House Bastien for example. At last Prince Constantin has led us into the light, the work of a lifetime. Even as close to him as I am it is almost impossible to appreciate the effort, the pains he has taken to achieve it. He is a towering mind, a genius in his way just as your illustrious ancestor was. After all, how many have tried to raise their houses and failed?" It's a light question, at least the way Violetta asks it, but they both know the Marquesa's grandfather on her mother's side - how he lived and how he died. A cautionary tale if ever there were one.

"It is a great leap from the Houses Minor to the Esultare." Violetta says, pressing her point home as they reach the far end of the gallery and turn back towards the party once more. "So many people only see the rewards, they just see the light in the painting, but you and I Marquesa, we know that there can be no light without darkness. There are no rewards without risk and great rewards carry even greater risks. A young painter, seeking to make her name, would do much better to apprentice to a master such as Arvaggio rather than attempting to sell her own works on a streetcorner wouldn't you agree? The resources of a masters studio would offer so much more than she could possibly gain on her own and then, once the master has opened doors, given her the opportunities, then that is the time that the artist could display her talents and bring glory to both her own name and her master's. In a way that the talented but headstrong painter on a streetcorner could never achieve - no matter what sweet words might be whispered in her ear."

They've almost arrived back at the rest of the party and Violetta stops to admire the painting from a distance. "It is such a masterpiece isn't it?" She muses, before shooting the Marquesa a piercing look. "And worth so much more as a gift given freely than it could ever have been horded as a treasure. A gift given has power, it buys goodwill, encourages favour. It makes friends and as one rises in the Game, they remember those friends and those gifts freely given - far more so than the rivals left behind." Her grey eyes fix the Marquesa in place for a moment as all friendliness drops from her voice. You've had the roses, now for the thorn. "You are a true noblewoman Marquesa de Scalier - I would hate to forget you. Do enjoy the party."

She offers a small curtsy and sweeps away, slipping out of the servants door and down a non-descript corridor to the small observation room hidden behind a particularly large landscape of the city two hundred years before. Alisha is already there, watching and she offers a smirk as Violetta steps in beside her, their skirts brushing. The Marquesa is staring at her ancestor's painting and both women can see her hands tightly clenched behind her back.

"Thank you for the party Alisha." Violetta says, her lips curving into a thin smile. "I do enjoy seeing things go so well."

8 Gennaio, 794

"No, it didn't stop at the Granary." Sasha says, memorizing the boy's tale. "I suppose it's the Lady's own dark humor that put me on the spot to find you just after those Calrayan's did. We'd have gotten away clean if it hadn't been for that bast...errr...daft lad and his globe of knockout gas."

Following Salvio's gaze, Sasha nods quietly at his judgement. He wasn't wrong. She'd need to shed most everything she was wearing to be able to squeeze through. Fortunately, her captors had already seen to most of that already. Her knives, pistol, even her specially crafted lockpicks were gone. Probably already halfway to the nearest pawnshop.

"I've been in plenty of tight spots." She says. "Cleaned out more than my fair share of bilges when I was growing up." Her nose wrinkles at the remembered smells of filthy, lowest most, innards of her families trading ships. "Mucking out the slime and grime. My dad was a stickler before the fall. Every nook and cranny had to be cleared, else it was back down and do it all again." As she talks, Sasha slips out of her leather jerkin and boots and sets them aside. She's left standing there in nothing but Kyra's tattered blouse, her tights and stocking feet. She didn't relish the loss of her gear, but better than spilling blood. "And I really haven't grown all that much since."

Putting her head down to the opening, she ignores the stench drifting up from the narrow opening and instead turns her head to listens for several seconds. The rush of flowing water was loud. The storm had turned the usually stagnant waters of the city sewers into something more akin to a mountain river cascading from the cloud shrouded heights. And they were close. Not very far down at all. The benefit of being this close to the sea.

The squeaking of a rat on the run from the storm flood made her grin. Amelia had always accused her of being part rat because she was always slipping in and out of places where she wasn't supposed to be. Here she was about to attempt another even more desperate and foolhardy escape. It seemed only fitting she was about to join her fellow unwelcome creatures in swimming for her life. At least they wouldn't have to worry about running into smugglers or any of the other usual denizens that lurked in the dank depths of Ilrien. Still, she turns back to Salvio. She'd practically grown up in the water. Like most islanders, she'd learned to swim before she could walk. But despite his garnetyne skin, the boy had grown up in Ilrein, not the Jeweled Cities.

"Can you swim?"

She shakes her head. "Probably doesn't really matter." Using the rusty knife as best she can, she rips off several lengths of her blouse and expertly knots the silk strips together. Creating a small loop at each end, she puts one loop over her wrist and hands the other to Salvio. "Grab on to that and slip the loop over your wrist. That way, assuming we make it through to the sewers, we won't get separated and I can help you stay afloat."

With one last glance at the door upstairs, she nods to the boy and gives him a fae grin. "Well, best we not push the Lady's grace any longer. Let's get going before more trouble arrives." She says and then starts to slither her way down the drain.

=============
ELISABETTA
=============

ouch >.<

Four-fingers looks past you as you sit down, giving a rueful glance to the unfortunate Petey. "Aiden, be a fine fellow and fetch a bucket before - dangnabbit, too late." This last is drowned out by an explosive retching sound as Petey drops back to the floor on all fours and throws up, spattering the backs of your culottes with puke. (Annalise will doubtless be having words with you about that - Calrayan liquor is just as pungent on the way back up as it is going down).

With a shake of his head, Four-fingers turns his attention back to you. "Oh well. Tis the hot iron that teaches best as my old mother used to say, Lady bless her memory. Petey there will think twice before tangling with one such as yourself in future." His twinkling eye lights on the red glove at your belt, an important feature that Petey overlooked. "So I'm Samwell, of Samwell's, as you probably guessed, and now you have the advantage of me, being as I don't know your name at all - though I could probably find out without too much in the way of bother, given there's not many Altori blades in the service of House Bastien." He's also spotted the identifying tassels on your sword-belt, and gives a slight smile: he's long suspected Sasha's affiliations, but the wily Eye has never confirmed or denied which House she works with. Elisabetta - who has many good qualities, but espionage and subtlety are not among them - has done that work for him.

Samwell continues unperturbed. "Last I spoke with yer friend, she was on the trail of some boy - and I'll tell her what I told you: my bairns now have bairns of their own, so I'll be thanking her not to cast aspersions on me and mine for harming a child! But as it happens, my crew, including Petey here, were working on an unrelated matter at the Granary, a business opportunity you might say, the details of which I'll not be troubling you with, so I sent her on her way untroubled, and- what, Aiden?"

Aiden has been shuffling from foot to foot for the last few moments of Samwell's speech. "That's, uh, sorry boss but that's not, uh, I mean, Petey here did it a bit different than what you're saying."

Samwell gives a long, low growl. "Oh, Petey. Have you been making a liar of me?" The luckless goon does his best to get to his feet and stumble away, but two of the other heavies in the bar haul him up and drag him into the back room. Samwell fixes a gimlet eye on Aiden. "Talk."

Aiden audibly gulps. "Well boss, it seems that Petey wasn't sure that, uh, that Red was gonna steer clear and he was worried she'd stumble into the - the business matter you were alluding to, uh, and ... what I heard, there was a kid snuck into a cart and, uh, Petey, he wasn't happy about that, but he said he'd stash him until it all blew over and uh, I was gonna tell you boss, I was, but Petey was real, you know, insistent that it would be fine and so, you know..." He trails off.

Samwell's grizzled face is thunderously angry, but the words come out calm. "Seems that you - and Red - were in the right of it after all. Aiden - Petey's stash-house still that place in the Docks?" When Aiden nods mutely to confirm, Samwell gives you the address. "You'll find the kid there, and your friend most likely, if she's half as good as I think she is. I'd send two of my guys with you but they'd probably just slow you down. And tell Red..." Gang bosses don't really do apologies, at least in front of their crew, at least if they have aspirations to still be the boss tomorrow. "Tell her I'll make it up to her. And if you'll excuse me, it's past time I had a very serious word with Petey."

(in the early hours of 10 Gennaio, Petey's mangled body will be found tangled in one of the great winches at the docks. The Watch will quickly rule the death as accidental, which will be correct inasmuch as Petey certainly didn't mean to offend his boss.)

=============
VIOLETTA
=============

The Marquessa de Scalier has buried two spouses - and, if rumour is to be believed, only one of them was already dead. Her eyes flash with a fury that suggests she would happily put you in the tomb with them, but she forces a smile.

"My dear Lady di Valori. Thank you so much for your thoughtful words - indeed, we are all trying to better ourselves, are we not? And you are so right that the resources of a master's studio are the right place for a would-be apprentice, just as your brother so cleverly allied himself to one of the truly great Houses, did he not? I shall be sure to pass on your regards to him when I see him next."

So it is in the Great Game: you may have forestalled her current machinations, but there is always another route to get what you want for those who have the ambition and ruthlessness to put their will into action.

But today's trouble is averted, and tomorrow can take care of itself.

=============
SASHA
=============

""Can you swim?"

Salvio shakes his head, a little nervous as you propose your plan, but it beats staying here. He slips one arm through the loop of silk on your wrist and grins, despite himself. "I won't tell the Sisters about this if you don't."

The grate is tiny, and if it weren't for the fact that you're more used to dislocating your shoulders and hips than is probably good for you, it would be an impossible fit. As it is, it's just extremely uncomfortable. Behind you, Salvio mutters a few words that show he was paying attention to the Calrayan swearing he mentioned in his story, as the rough stone scrapes his face, knees and shoulders; but he follows you along gamely.

After a few - excruciatingly uncomfortable - metres, the narrow sluice channel opens into a wider, but still very cramped, sewer tunnel. No sooner do you have time to stretch than a surge of storm water (mostly seawater, from the way it stings your eyes) floods the tunnel, threatening to drag you both remorselessly away with it to Lady alone knows where.

By luck, or wits, or whatever, you scramble back into the sluice you crawled out of, soaked to the skin. Salvio coughs up seemingly most of his bodyweight in saltwater, and looks at you. "You can't be serious about trying that again."

8 Gennaio, 794

Fortunately the darkness prevents Salvio from seeing the wild smile plastered across Sasha's filth stained and soaked face. Either the cramped, foul smelling darkness had finally caused the garnetyne's mind to snap or she was actually enjoying herself. Sister Amelia would probably make the astute observation that those two things were not mutually exclusive. A light laugh rises above the constant sound of water moving through the tunnels.

"I'm afraid so." She says glancing back up the dark shaft they'd just crawled through. "There's no way I could actually climb back up through that. Just let me think a moment."

Closing her eyes, she tries to recall the area up and down from Petra's stand. The old buildings. Mostly a mix of warehouses, rundown tenements, bars that catered to sailors, dockers, and anyone else desperate enough to drink the cheap swill they usually sold, and of course, Fisherman's Wharf. The wharf was where the handful of independent fisherman operated from. Their leaky, ramshackle boats lining the decrepit pier along the canal not so very far from the dark walls of the Silent and the Necropolitan Hill. Not part of the official city fishing fleet, the independents eeked out an existence on the scraps and leftovers that the Elandan backed fleet deemed unworthy of their efforts. Most independents were former fleet members who couldn't keep up with the high dues and tithes extracted by House Elanda. It also just so happened that most of the independents were former islanders like herself. Such was life and opportunity in Ilrien.

See remembers sitting atop an old piling eating a Puck one summer afternoon. She watched the gulls swirl around the boats like flies around a carcass and listened to a pair of fishermen complain about their latest catch, or lack thereof. Remembers seeing the sewer outlet just a few dozen paces away. The slow oozing trickle of gravy brown sludge dropping into the canal was all too similar to Petra's thick greasy, biscuit soaking special. She turns back to the gulls and takes another bite of gravy soaked biscuit.

Crouching there in the cramped confines of the sluice, she traces an imaginary line back from that outlet to where she is now. It wasn't far. It was downstream. There was more than a good chance this tunnel leads to that outlet. She was certain. Pretty certain. Desperately certain. That this tunnel would lead to that outlet.

She grabs Salvio as the rumble of another surge floods through the tunnel. Her grip isn't that of a frail noble's daughter as might be expected of someone her size. No. It is the iron grasp of one who's spent most of her years climbing rigging, scraping hulls, and bucking the great sacks of goods on and off the trade ships of the Jeweled Cities and Ilrein.

As soon as the flood passes she swipes her hair back out of her eyes and turns to the boy. "I've got an idea. It means we get wet." A pause when the boy snorts at the obvious. "Okay we get really, really wet." The grin on her face carries through to her voice causing them both to spend a few seconds giggling as if they'd just pulled some playground prank. "Right." She says before they hysteria can overwhelm them both. "I've a good idea as to where this sluice runs. I think it dumps into the canal not so very far from here. We can make it." That last is said with a confidence that is part truthful but mostly bravado and spitting in the eye of her own fear. "Wrap your arms around my neck." She says twisting around in the tiny space as if she were going to give the lad a simple piggyback ride. "When I say, take the deepest breath you can and whatever happens, don't let go." She taps Salvio on his arm. "Got it?"

"Got it."

She waits for the next surge to rumble through the tunnel and steps out into the pulling current. "NOW!" She shouts and feels his grip clamp about her chest and shoulders. She starts crawling as fast as she can to pick up a little speed and control. A heartbeat later the water slams into the pair picking them up and carrying them along in its rush toward the sea. An old board claps her in the head. Her arms and legs are scrapped, battered, torn as she's dragged across the rough stone and brick of the ancient tunnel. Long seconds pass. Her lungs start to burn, start to cry out for air. Salvio's grip tightens desperately around her chest. She twines her hand with his, squeezes a last remnant of reassurance. Just hold on. Her shoulder slams into the wall as the tunnel curves slightly. Pain lances along her arm and she stifles the urge to scream and release what precious little oxygen remains in her lungs.

Fire burns in her chest. She feels Salvio's grip start to slip. Grabs him tighter. Suddenly, the echoing rush and rumble of the water changes. The darkness ahead is broken by a circle of slightly lighter grayish black. She squeezes the boy's hand again, gathers herself as best she can. Moments later Sasha with Salvio clamped to her back like a small, terrified barnacle shoots like a cannonball from the spillway and out into the canal. Her flailing legs and arms accompanied by a handful of gasping breathes and a single strangled cry before she hits the water with a flesh bruising *SLAP*

While the Motley’s tide swells and surges outside, Luciana simply stares ahead, eyes unfocussed, only occasionally glancing towards the youth huddling next to her. She is listening intently, or else attuning herself to that other sense not everybody would agree even exists. Intuition or instinct are its more mundane monikers; the “sixth sense”, a more fanciful one. Ilrien’s Knacks, those dabblers in the arcane, no doubt possess still more esoteric appellations for it. For her part she simply calls it gut-feel, and it has always served her well.

Eventually, silence settles on the street once more. She cocks her head for a few more moments, purses her lips, then lets out a breezy phew. “Yeah, yeah,” Luciana waves off the lad’s thanks as she nimbly leaps upright. “Show your gratitude by not giving me a reason to regret doing this.”

After brushing herself off, she stands looking thoughtfully down at the would-be robber, her arms akimbo. “Well,” she finally says, “the Graces’ll sort you out. Probably. You’ve not gotten in their bad books yet, have you? ’Cause if you have, you’re on your own.” Assuming that the boy is, at the very least, not stupid enough to admit as much until she has actually managed to take him to the closest charity-house, Luciana then gets him back up on his feet and goes on to do what some would consider the right thing.

Opinions on what she’s doing, if elicited, would differ wildly on whether it’s a good idea, needless to say. Morally sound, perhaps, but that doesn’t count for too much in Ilrien generally and in the Twist specifically. And if a third party were to try to get the jump on the two of them while she’s lugging the lad along, saving her own skin would indeed be her priority. Mostly she is doing this because she has an idea of what it’s like to be in the kid’s shoes, of the things that surviving in this part of the city drives some folks to do. She doesn’t necessarily approve, but she gets it. And on a more practical level – most importantly, some might say – the boy’ll owe her one, if not two. While there’s no telling if he is the sort to honour a debt like that, there is also no telling how doing somebody a good turn like that might end up percolating through the community, after all.

Luciana makes no effort to stop or look for the youth’s knife in the street outside, though. A bit of cutlery isn’t too difficult to come by even in the Twist, and all things considered, it’s a small price to pay for the lesson he hopefully learnt today.

Court of Blades – Season One: A new partner in the Esultare's dance

Prologue: a triumvirate of tasks, Part 1

12 Gennaio 794

It is over a decade, almost two, since Cesare Bastien last worked as a foreman on the docks (as his grandfather before him) and although he no longer does manual labour he still has the appetite of one who does; which explains, perhaps, why his shirt collars never quite fit and his fingers are almost invariably tugging at the silken cravat which wraps round his slightly pudgy neck. His shoulders and arms are still muscled beneath that pudge, though, as more than one luckless rudemouth has discovered to their cost.

His tastes, too, as well as his appetites, are largely unchanged despite his (and House Bastien's) rise in fortune; he has a pleasant home in a nice district, but he still works and mostly lives out of his rooms in the docks. His sole concession to his new status is that he owns the building instead of renting it. The ground floor is a raucous chaos of navvies, stevedores and burly foremen kicking it back on their off-hours at the tavern Cesare runs on the premises. No fine fare this, they offer fuel for the working man (and woman) - dark rye bread, heavy smoked fish and cheese, together with that commoner's drink known as small beer; safer to drink than the water in the Groan, a rank concoction of raw yeast akin to drinking liquid bread dough. The brewery nearby (also owned by Cesare) is located on New Quay, the bottles recognisable by the dancing bear on the label. A bottle of the "Bruin" is akin to a meal all by itself, although for those not born to small beer it is most assuredly an acquired taste.

Several bottles of New Quay Bruin, together with a plate of rough ham and cheese on rye are already in Cesare's office as one of the workers shows you in. Unlike many in power, Cesare doesn't have that affectation of making you wait to show how busy and important he is - as soon as you arrive on site, you are his priority. After all, House Bastien owes its rise not merely to Constantin's machinations but to the Hand that helped shape his vision into reality. Good retainers are worthy of their hire.

Cesare takes a bottle, cracks it open and drinks directly from it, his feet comfortably up on the table that serves as his desk (Lady Calliope be damned). As ever, he gets straight to the point. "Well. I'm glad you're here. We may have a bit of a problem. I think."

12 Gennaio, 794

It had been four days. Four days of pain. Four days of healers concoctions. Four days of apologies. Four days of curses, threats, and warnings. Four days of extra work. That last courtesy of Calliope whose fury over the loss of what was apparently her blouse and not Kyra's was not to be underestimated regardless of advice given by the healer.

The arrival of a summons from Cesare was more than a welcome blessing despite her still stiff joints and fading bruises. Putting on her leathers, best boots and cloak she arrives with her companions ready to serve her house as best she can.

12 Gennaio, 794

Kyra had agonized for hours over what to wear after the summons came. She rarely saw Cesare, so she could not waste this opportunity. She had to present herself most advantageously, but not in a way that clashed with his tastes, both their stations, or the locale where they would meet. An impossible problem.

In the end she opts for a striped silk shirt and a low cut leather vest that emphasizes her waist, worn with low-waisted velvet trousers that flare at the bottom over low boots. The outfit is completed by a long coat of fine wool with discreet silk embroidery on the cuffs and lapels. The style speaks of practicality; the shirt and vest somewhat resemble what many dockworkers wear at work; the quality of the materials and the precise fit speak of wealth and taste. No jewelry, save for a thin chain around her waist that makes a V-shape at the front, ending in a jeweled spike.

As she arrives, she takes in the spread on the side table, fervently hoping that Cesare won't expect her to join him in drinking the horrid thing he so enjoyed. She arranges her features into an expression of pleasant expectancy; House Bastien had many problems, not just one, but she waits to hear which particular one Cesare is referring to.

12 Gennaio, 794

"That's remarkably fast." Violetta says, taking the seat opposite the desk and nudging Cesare's feet off the desk with one gloved hand. She and Cesare had a fling, once. It was over almost as soon as it began - neither of them fits the other at all, but that works quite well (in the business side at least). Really she'd be more likely to join Lucretia in bed these days, but a long acquaintance and former intimacy buys her a little more leeway than many others with the Heir to House Bastien. So she nudges his feet onto the floor , sits primly and returns the compliment he offers by giving him her full attention.

"Who screwed up so quickly and what would you like us to do about it?" She asks without mincing words. Simple and direct - that's how Cesare likes to do business, so that's how this gets done. Internally she's already running through possibilities, there shouldn't be anything going wrong yet - unless the other great houses are moving far faster than she expected.

12 Gennaio, 794

Elisabetta has also dispensed with the finery of the ball in exchange for a tastefully embroidered blouse over the top of a pair of tight leather trousers. The former to give her an air of elegance and the latter because Annalise had made a comment about how amazing her ass looked in them. Tall boots and a dashingly decorated broad hat completed her ensemble.

As expected, Annalise had given her an earful when she'd returned the culottes the morning after the ball. She wasn't interested in the brava's explanation and, in fact, was angry enough that Elisabetta had spent the next night in her own bed ... alone. It'll be fine, she tells herself. Get the woman a nice bunch of flowers and take her out for a nice dinner and she'd be in her good graces again.

Speaking of good graces, Elisabetta eyes one of the bottles sitting near the spread and without so much as a by-your-leave snags it, opens it, and swallows a long draft in Groan fashion, like Cesare, right from the bottle.

"Hopefully it's a problem that can be solved by a simple punching," she comments with a smirk.

12 Gennaio

Luciana, for her part, moves quite comfortably amongst the working-class rowdiness of Cesare Bastien’s dockside tavern; pleasantly coarse and unpretentious, these folk are much closer to being “her people” than the nobles with whom she has come to rub shoulders of late. This is one reason she is not dressed much fancier than she was for her Twist outing a few days before – not that she is ever one for preening if she does not absolutely have to. When it comes to Luciana, what one sees tends to be what one gets, which she actually considers a sadly underappreciated gesture of forthrightness and integrity on her part.

In the man’s office, after making a playful but earnest enough curtsey by way of a greeting, she leaves the taking of seats to the coterie’s genteel, word-bandying members. Luciana lingers in silence behind Violetta’s chair instead, leaning lightly on its backrest and smiling politely as she waits to find out what sort of problem House Bastien must contend with.

12 Gennaio

Violetta and Cesare did indeed have something of a dalliance, some years ago when their status was of equals (or possibly indeed tilted somewhat in Violetta's favour); but times have changed. Cesare looks momentarily bewildered at Violetta's familiarity, which verges on the presumptuous, but he's a cheerful soul at heart. "Indeed, Lady di Valori, where are my manners? Here." He cracks open a bottle of the Bruin and passes it to her, knowing that small beer is something she has never learned to like. He clinks his bottle against hers - "Your very good health" - giving her a choice between declining or accepting.

While she is contemplating which of those is the least palatable, he takes advantage of the moment to plonk his feet back on his desk.

"As for who messed up, well." He looks away for a moment. "I'd rather discuss the problem rather than point fingers. As you probably heard, Father took ill after the ball - it's a simple chill, and the Graces say he'll make a full recovery, but he's got a bit of a fever at the moment. That's not the problem, though."

It's very unlike Cesare not to get straight to the point.

"As you also probably know, or may have guessed, Father made a number of deals in order to get us to where we are now. One of those deals was with House Corvetto, as a result of which we owe them a favour. A significant favour. But that's not the problem, either."

"The problem is, well. The only person who knows the specifics of the deal with House Corvetto is Father, and he's not really talking much right now, or at least, talking much sense. In one of his lucid moments though he asked me to take care of it, and I said I would. Obviously, we can just wait for him to recover and find out what the deal is, he'll be fine by the end of next week, they say. But I don't know if it's time-limited, and House Corvetto are not exactly known for being patient. Also... I don't want to let Father down, I'd much rather be able to tell him when he wakes up that it's handled."

Cesare has many faults, but he doesn't lack self-awareness (that particular vice is owned by his younger sister). He's well aware that he's not the man his father is. But he does at least have the wit and enough humility to know when to ask for help instead of going it alone.

"So what I'm asking you to do is find out - discreetly - what the Corvettos are expecting from us, and to make it happen."

Violetta accepts the beer from Cesare and takes a deep swig before inclining her head and putting the bottle back on the table. The thick, thoroughly disgusting drink is her penance for a moment of playfulness and she can see the flash of pleasure Cesare takes in it. Still loves a display of power. She thinks fleetingly before he reveals a problem that's both practically nothing and a hell of of a lot at the same time.

"Do you have anywhere for us to begin Your Grace?" She asks, keeping the honorific entirely polite. "If not we will depart and begin work at once."

Calliope might know something, but Cesare would forbid that if he only thought of it. No, that won't work. She muses, Giovanni though... he's going to be the best man to ask. If anyone knows Constantine's mind then it will be his personal secretary. The man is as dried and wizened a year old prune but he has a mind like a steel trap and Violetta honestly envies him for that.

Kyra to make that approach - hopefully we can get the details without resorting to anything foolish. Then depending on what the Corvetto's want...

Tick, tock, goes the clock. A favor for the crows and a father's pride. With such threads are the weave of fate sewn.

"So no punching, then?" Elisabetta comments with a shrug and a grin. She takes another drink of her Bruin before sneaking glances at Violetta and Sasha. She assumes the Eyes will be calling the shots this time and waits for their carefully considered questions.

12 Gennaio

Sasha gladly accepts a bottle of Bruin and a ham and cheese on rye. The healers had been particularly stingy during her recuperation and so the hardy dock grub was a welcome surprise. The only welcome surprise given Cesare's description of the 'bit of a problem' they were begin tasked to solve.

The half chewed bite of sandwich suddenly tasted like ash in her mouth when the heir of House Bastien said they owed a favor to the Corvetto, but didn't know what that favor was. Lord and Lady, how could the old man let that happen?! It isn't truly clear if she meant dealing with the Corvetto in the first place, owing them a favor, or the absurd possibility of not actually being able to follow through on that favor. To Sasha, none of those options seemed like ways to extend the length of Bastien's rise to power.

While her mind yowls like a lonely ship cat, she takes a long drink of beer to wash down the sandwich and cover her agitation. She'd a fear of the mysterious Corvetto ever since...well ever since her homeland went slipping beneath the sea. There had never been any proof of course, but she grew up listening to the rumors. In those horrible, tumultuous weeks following the disaster every garnetyne, berylyne, or lapyne had their own pet theory for what happened. Many of those theories involved the Corvetto of Ilrien. They whispered of dark pacts with even darker creatures or gods. They chattered of shadows, of sacrifices, of arcane nightmares and devilish powers conjured by Knacks sworn to secrecy and servitude. They scuttled from ear to ear saying the ancient mages of Corvetto were jealous, envious, suspicious, even afraid of the islands. Even back then she knew most of it was just gutter bunk with no more truth than a dockside harlot's promises of love and faith. Still, how often had she found that tiny kernal of truth at the center of some far-fetched rumor? Perhaps all the stories and theories were just fabrications by a people struck by a tragedy beyond understanding. Perhaps not. It was that fed those little tentacles of fear rising from the depths of her gut. It was that unknowing that allowed those slithering tendrils to squeeze her heart and kept her more than wary of the Corvetto and their schemes.

Glad to have stayed near the back of the small office, Sasha used Cesare's focus on Violetta to steady herself and calm the roiling sea of agitation churning through her gut. She wasn't some child to go hiding under the bed because the boggy man just stepped into the room. Better instead to follow that old source of fright and get some leverage on the nightmare conjuring old coot. Figure out what it was he feared, protected, wished for others not to discover. That was the way the Great Game worked and even Corvetto still had to play by its rules. Bastien had already done the impossible. She was their Eye. Mystery and the unknown seemed to wrap themselves around Ilrien's greatest house. And like any jealous lover they didn't give up their secrets easily or without price. She and her companions would just have to find a way to take them anyway.

12 Gennaio

Cesare tugs uncomfortably at the silk cravat swaddled around his muscular neck as he replies to Violetta's question. "I've already spoken to Father's private secretary, but Giovanni wasn't at the meeting. All he was able to tell me is that Father had a meeting with Tommaso of House Corvetto at the Bank." There are many banks in Ilrien; but there is only one Bank - the Bank of Brass and Bone. "The mediator was someone called Luther. The Bank will definitely have some record of what was agreed, the trick will be getting it from them." He looks uncomfortable. "If all else fails I can go and ask Tommaso straight up, but it won't just be me that looks foolish, it'll be Father and the entire House, if it gets out."

Cesare shrugs, masking his discomfort as best he can with another swig of small beer. "That's really all I can tell you. Oh, I should add - Lady Calliope wants to see you, says she has an errand. I've heard what she wants and it's fine with me, although it's not my priority. Also, my sister wants to see you, although I've no idea what she wants."

There are many demands on Cesare's time, and your meeting is over. Except... as you turn to leave. "Lady di Valori, a moment of your time, if you please."