Ivana Boritsi's page

Behind the curtain, more darkness, until a wench lights a candle, and then another, and then another. The room is long, and must extend beyond what you saw of the room above. The walls are hidden by red velvet drapes behind mahagony cupboards, and the center of the room is dominated by an enormous table, at least eight feet wide and nearly twenty long, with ample seating for a score, though the head of the table is dominated by an elaborate armchair, carved so that it appears that elaborately stylized men are supporting the seat, arms and back of the chair.

Ivana strolls around the table to seat herself. Two of her guards remain behind her, but the rest are dismissed, and her servants began to set out glasses, pouring wine from casks that they seem to have carried with them. Ivana drinks and after some time has passed, she sighs and looks around impatiently, as though some expectation isn't being met.

The innkeep returns, bowing obsequiously, and tells her. "Your fat friend left very late last night on an errand. He has not returned."

"Gnome," she snaps. A tall stool is brought and placed in the corner behind her. "Something soothing."

A few minutes later, people begin to enter, looking around them as they step into the room. Most are armed. Ivana's servants show them to seats and pour them wine as they sit.

"Thank you all for joining me," she says at last. "As I can see you are the sorts of degenerates who frequent this establishment, I won't waste words. I am looking for someone. It would seem that my husband to be, Alain Baton, has had the poor taste to bring his mistress with him to Levkarest." She rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders. "He's Richemuloise, so I suppose he couldn't help himself, but I would so very much like to meet her. Whichever among you can find her and bring her here will be rewarded more than suitably."

The sword clatters to the ground and the defeated man spits on the ground and shakes his head, stalking back to his companions to glower at the victor.

"Finish it," Ivana says, nodding to the disarmed man. "Kill him."

Any objection is silenced by the presence of a dozen guards, and the victorious young man looks sick as he approaches his defeated enemy. In a moment, it is done, a stab through the heart leaves the loser bleeding out on the street. Ivana laughs at the joke and slips her arm through the victors.

"You will join me, won't you?" she purrs, and turns to leave. Before she takes more than a step, she stops, distracted by a curious sight, a twisted creature come to collect the corpse of the thief. "What in heaven's name is that?" she gasps.

"Pardon me, my Lady," Emilio Sarac says, sweeping a graceful bow. "Garold is employed primarily as a rat-catcher. I beg your pardon for his appearance, but I assure you he is not dangerous."

"Except to rats," Ivana smirks, and turns to Garold. "Rat-catcher, come with me. I have rats that need to be caught. Emilio, you'll take care of the bodies, won't you?"

The nobleman gapes at her for a moment, and then nods, the bitter taste of swallowed pride twisting his features. Ivana looks around the street as though she's forgotten something.

"You play well, gnome. Come. You will play for me while I dine." Satisfied at last, she turns and walks away, towards Levkarest's most notorious tavern, her entourage trailing behind her.

I won't always be so heavy-handed with the railroad, but I do hope you'll join us at the Dark Maiden.

On the streets, things get more as the day goes on. More crowded, more decadent, more gaudy. There is a note of desperation in the depravity already, as though the young noblemen and women and the bright courtiers that swarm around them have an obligation to meet. They drink and laugh and dance, but they rarely show an honest smile. Though the festival atmosphere can be felt everywhere, on the faces of the revelers is more envy, spite and bitterness than joy.

It seems liable to come to a head before the bells of the Great Cathedral have even rung the nine o'clock hour, when two young bravos from different noble houses let the hostile glances turn to barbed words and then to fierce insults. In a moment, their blades are out and a space clears around them in the crowd. Bets are whispered and encouragement shouted as they circle each other.

"And what is this?" a woman's voice says. It is soft, but it easily cuts through the noise, and a quiet falls. She is pale and coldly beautiful, impossible to age, and dressed in an exquisite black silk gown. She holds a crystal glass of wine and sips from it. A slender band of silver set with rubies is all that identifies her as Borca's mistress, Ivana Boritsi, though the train of guards and servants that follows her marks her importance immediately. "A play? In my honor? How wonderful"

"Another glass," she says, and as her servants bring a second glass of wine, she looks at the two young noblemen, who have both turned and bowed low to her. "Proceed," she says to them. "I will drink with the survivor. Gnome, a martial song, please."