In the early hours of the morning, two mercenaries rode in a cart along the Minanter River and into the walled city of Starkhaven. Esme sat on a heavy chest in the back, casting Byrne the occasional thoughtful look. This new job was – plainly – nonsense. Attend a ridiculous party as Lord and Lady Barclay of Ansburg – that city state’s reputation as a backwater to hopefully cover any social faux pas. Sniff out a target that they knew by description only: an artist in great demand, currently serving a Marcher noble, the medium of their work left out of the briefing. Abscond with them, somehow. The city rolling by did not seem easily absconded from.
She kicked him. Not very hard, just on the side of the boot.
“This doesn’t seem like our usual sort of work.” Perhaps it paid hideously well? Still odd, even if that were so. Caro was very cautious unless you got him in an actual fight then he lost his mind. She couldn’t imagine him making a stupid decision on coin alone unless they were in much worse straits than they currently were.
Harlin’s was a step above the taverns and rest stops that Esme would typically frequent on her own. More expensive, of course, but you could walk out of it dressed like a rich man without being immediately robbed. They’d sent Alred ahead to reserve a suite of rooms for planning and changing. She collected their key from him in the common room and headed on up.
The room was nice enough. Blond woods and white, embroidered linens. Esme drew the shutters and flopped down on the double bed, just barely managing to suppress a groan of pleasure. She hadn’t slept somewhere so nice in a long time.
Not that she’d be sleeping now. But a real bath? With hot water? That seemed quite possible. And if this job took more than one night? That would be no hardship – except possibly for their pockets.
“Why’d you want me for this? And not Ceren or Lelindin.” Would her leg hold up to dancing in a fancy, tight laced gown? He’d regret that if she trod on his toes.
Caro shrugged and thought about her comment. She saw to the heart of the issue immediately but not in focus. “You're right, this isn't our type of work, which is to say this doesn't seem like our type of work.” He smiled wryly. “Whenever you get an opportunity for upper class work you gotta jump at it. Guarding estates and finding missing people beats months of hiking every time.” he smiled, all teeth. “If we do enough of these type of jobs, it can quickly seem like our type of work.” He shrugged, “Hopefully.” The truth is that this was likely a one shot with a good paycheck at the end, but they had to try anything to spread the word. If nothing else they could spread word about themselves at the event.
Finding a mysterious Ferelden artist in a crowd would be tough, but surely an ego play would get someone to talk, then we could compare notes and carry forth. Maybe they'd find nothing, but they had to try. Surely. He tucked into the side room and began to sort his clothes. A deep red side buttoned jacket with an embroidered salamander over the breast, with black shirt and pants, and a white tie. A bone white masque with the rough shape of a shield with a single eyed face drawn in clean glyph like red lines, and heavy black leather cavalry boots. Enough to stand out surely, but hopefully not too much. He straightened out any creased placed them to settle in the corner.
“I think Lelindin is too new to be trusted with this.” he answered simply, the red dogs introduction into the Salamanders wasn't without hiccups, and stressing the bonds too closely at this time wouldn't be wise. “And Ceren is a scout at heart, she'd be lost without her bow and horse. You're much more suited to street work in my opinion.” there was no polite way to say, I think you are a better liar than her so he decided to omit it. “Plus Genthus was busy.”
“But I kind of like the hiking parts.” Now that she had a wagon to sleep in, anyway. Esme blew hair out of her face and stretched until her joints complained. Her own nest in her own wagon still didn’t compare to a real bed, though. That much was very true. And better work meant better pay. It changed the work itself, as well.
She didn’t have the experience to put it into words. Nights like that first one, when Karvil had been so terribly hurt – maybe things wouldn’t happen like that, if they weren’t scrabbling in the dirt for their coin.
Or maybe the attacks would just be more deadly next time.
Caro had gone into the other room. After a couple of minutes of silence, she got up and followed to see what he was doing. Laying out his clothes, evidently. That mask was still very odd – and she wasn’t sure that the Barclays would have a salamander insignia if they were real people. Wouldn’t rich folks pick a dragon instead, if they could?
“I guess that’s fair.” The Dogs were even newer than Esme, though not by much. Lelindin being an elf was probably the real problem. Not to say there were no elves among the nobility – but that one would require explanation. Ceren would do the job but she wouldn’t like it. And she wasn’t much of a liar besides.
“I’m sure you don’t mean the rest of that, Circle boy.” It was easy to forget the circumstances of Caro’s previous life when he was ordering you about and teaching you to kill people. Then he’d say something like this and remind you. Esme touched his collar, very lightly, trying to imagine the effect of the full costume laid out beside him.
“Saying that a woman is suited to street work makes it sound like you’re calling her a prostitute. Very rude. I didn't think you had it in you.”
“The hiking parts are nice, but they tend to drag a big long.” He straightened a fold on his clothes. “Find people probably beats wearing holes in your shoes to put holes in strangers.” He winced heavily at the unintended slight. Street workers and street walkers weren't quite the same thing in his head, but the fine lines were clearly lost in the margins. It occurred to him now that even if he didn't call her a whore outright, he certainly called her a burgler. He just blinked and shook his head for a moment before stammering, “I, I didn't. I don't have it in me.” Her proximity to him made the slight all the more unavoidable and he just flushed red and pivotted away. He had to sleep and get prepared
The white marble of the front facade of the hall they walked toward shined sunset burnt orange right into his eyes and squinted beneath his mask, trying to avoid the impulse to put a hand in his face. He strode up the carpet padded stone steps into the hall proper, handing off his pass to the poleaxe armed guard at the door and stepped into the massively high roofed hall and stood among the pillars staring at the crowd. He was a crowd of unfamiliar faces with more filtering in, The musicians were still tuning their instruments in the corner, the stage only partially set up. He let his eyes unfocus a moment, letting the room dissolve to starburst of orange light against a tan and grey background. He still had no idea how to find his target.
“Alright Mrs. Barclay, how about we mingle for a while, then meet up afterwords.” he smiled slightly under his mask, even if he didn't find anything of note, he could listen to music and eat random things on trays and call it a wash. “Let's remind these good people about the charms they are missing out from dreary old Ansburg” he tiled his head toward Esme and walked over to one of the table spreads. Might as well start early.
“That’s too bad. I might wish you did.” Esme grinned and stepped away from Caro, leaving him to his own devices. It was good fun making him blush, though. She went back to the larger room and unpacked her dress – a dreadfully heavy thing more suited to winter than spring. Pretty, though, and cheaper than ought to have been in the proper season. Layers of auburn and brown and black feathers were sewn randomly into the body of a white dress. To finish the effect, she had a barn owl mask that was more than a little creepy on its own with that cut apple face.
She’d have to bathe, then beg the innkeeper’s wife to help her get it all on and wrangle her hair into submission. Byrne had it easy, assuming he could see anything through his own mask.
–
Lady Barclay walked in demurely at her Lord’s side – and was promptly abandoned hardly a few steps inside. Not a moment to get her bearings and they were early. Unforgivable. She glared daggers at Caro’s back as he departed for a cluster of tables.
Where would she be if she were an internationally known artist? Schmoozing with the prince and his advisors, presumably. Except no such august personages seemed to be here yet. Sighing, Esme wandered upstairs to listen to gossiping mothers and wallflower daughters. She kept half an eye out for Bryne’s mask, ready to react if he found a lead first.
The host has an illusionist performing in the basement but it is still much too early to go down …
Lord Fulton has hired many new mercenaries recently – he must be looking to protect something valuable.
Caro turned over the party with wild abandon, like a child digging for grubs. He had no need of Ansel Barclay after this next couple hours so his reputation was just as expendable. He flirted, he taunted, he boasted, he did anything Caro himself would never. Caro hated him but thrilled in his shoes. He had trouble keeping his goal in site for all his bizarre antics and trysts. Caro had agreed to meet several people later on for an private affair and one other person tomorrow for a honor duel. Ansel was here for a good time but not a long one it seemed.
Luckily behind the constant rumor milling and his own personal disgrace he found the needle. Practically trod on it to be fair. Eventually he was approached by a nervous man with calloused hands and a bright sunflower yellow angular fox masque. “Excuse me Ser, I was told to meet a person at this party. They said they would stand out.” He turned his head back toward him almost accusingly before the corner of his mask hit the wall with a dull thud. He stared the stranger up and down a moment. Thick callouses and an unease around predators put him as a prey creature, approaching the communal drinks desperately wishing that there be no crocodiles this time. “Oh, you must be him.” Caro said quitely, dropping his accent. “Go approach Mrs. Barclay across the way, she's the lovely owl holding a full flute of champaine and considering how to drink it through a manufactured beak. She'll guide you out when I make the signal.” It would have been wise to prearrange the signal but he already had an idea
It was easy and unkind to see the ofal and excess around them and think of those outside the city scraping by and feel that biting rage that rests just behind the teeth. Useful too if you have to do something unkind in return. Caro stood still a moment his eyes blind as his senses fled into the unyeilding stone. Slowly the granite tables ground into the bones and bread piled above. Dust ran in waterfalls off of the table edges and on the to the ground mixing with the debris of a night just starting. There they pooled for a moment before making a break for the walls and finally the ceiling. People began to gasp and clap, assuming their pet illusionist had made their way to the party. Slowly the river of filth on the ceiling led to a bulge of swirling brown particles, dryly grinding against each other and growing until like a massive water droplet, it snapped and plummeted down into standing brazier and promptly detonating. The room shook with shock and sound, and then was filled with choking smoke. Tapistry and banners burst into immediate flame, and the sudden pressure and heat drove the guests to the floor. Caro having been braced for it was already at the side exit and let the wave push him into the street, the cobbles soft and yielding at his behest. He got up, looking back at the party now in flames and jogged away coughing toward the meet up point.
Full masks at a party were certainly inconvenient. Esme had to tilt hers up every time she ate or drank, balancing the need for anonymity against the need for sight. Eventually, she gave up. The glass was only ornamental; she spent a great deal of time watching Caro flutter about instead.
It was hard to reconcile the stammering man from Harlin’s with the character he played now. She didn’t have quite the trick of it herself, running out of pleasantries to exchange with other ladies in only a few passes of mild conversation. Thankfully, it did not matter in the end.
Messere Fox wasted no time in presenting himself. Esme abandoned her drink and guided him downstairs by the hand. She didn’t need to see the signal past the first shower of dust, smoky grit that clung to her hair.
“Are you a sculptor, Messere?” What the artist did, exactly, had been left in question. His hands were very rough – a surprise, even though she knew he was a noble’s pet and not of rank himself.
“Uhh, something like that, Miss.”
The fires were going by now. She led Messere Fox out a servant’s entrance, struggling not to trip over her skirts as they picked up speed. Alred would be waiting with the wagon, not too far. They would meet Caro there.
And they nearly made it. Armed men boiled forth from the castle, fighting against the tide of the crowd. Shit, some of them had crossbows.
The party snapped close with the heavy thud of catgut against steel. The angry whistle of loose fletching tore through the air and spat angry flecks of stone near Caro's head. He was caught completely flat footed, he scrambled, his will half focused and lashed out attempting to place a wall between him and the hail of bolts from the alley. Screaming pain and weight drove him back during the spell however, and stone half formed melted into a sludge wave of pyroclasm. Brutal heat hit him immediately, and he staggered away from it back toward the wagon. He ducked under the wagon, sheltering beneath the wheels, the angry nail of in his stomach nearly made him pass out as he bent down, but he managed to get himself underneath.
The impromtu flame wave was already spreading through the street. Even this barn here smoldered along his eastern wall. Confused guards poured into the street and began to search for buckets and troughs. The raw influx of confused bodies into the street drove the entire area into mass confusion. One way traffic filled the streets, and horses and carts tore angrily through the crowds. Caro dragged his hand off of his side and stared at it in the rudy glow of the night. Sopping wet and near black. They had to get going quick. He planted his elbow and kicked his leg, sliding himself on his ass across the ground, his other hand over his wound.
Against everything his body told him he forced himself to stand, pushing up from off the edge of the wagon. He saw his scupltor in the back of the wagon. He reached out to him and he grabbed his hand and tried to drag Caro into the wagon, but the slick awful on his hand caused him to slip and caro smashed his face into the rail, he drapped there a moment before he felt two sets of hands drag him in to the now rolling wagon. He could hear screaming and the crunch of metal on cobble, but he saw no more. He heard Esme around him, but he could not understand her. He stared upward toward the top of the lurching wagon, breathing ragged and feeling only pain and fear
Esme ripped the owl mask from her face and threw it into the bed of the wagon, turning to scan the crowd for any sign of Caro’s distinctive costume. The horses shuffled nervously in place; eyes rolling, skin shivering. Alred had them under control for now. She and the sculptor wasted precious seconds, each trying to hand the other up onto the bench. Cursing and shoving the man toward the back, she frowned up at Alred’s worried face.
“Emmi dear – we ought to go.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Caro would meet them later. That was always the back up plan, in case they got separated. Even so, she hesitated before scrambling up.
Bolts flew, flints striking sparks off the cobbles. Her hair stood on end as a failed spell changed the pitch and tone of the fleeing partygoers to something altogether worse. Mindless, instinctual, anything to get away. The rising glow of spreading fire made eerily lit monsters of Starkhaven’s masked nobles. Bending, she produced a handful of velvet-wrapped vials from the hidden space in her false leg.
She still felt grossly under armed, tossing a few smoke bombs to cover their escape. The sculptor suddenly pulled her over the bench and into the wagon bed, leaving wet handprints on her sleeve. A man was slumped forward on the back rail, barely holding on.
“Byrne?” Together, Esme and the fox masked stranger dragged Caro up and in. Crouching bedside him, she pulled off Caro’s mask – he’d busted his lip or his nose or both and was pale as a corpse beneath the gore. Shit, that couldn’t account for all of this. Maker’s tits, she couldn’t see a damn thing …
Esme’s hands skimmed down Caro’s front, finding the bolt by feel. Oh. Her left – his right, ribs palpable above and below. He'd been stuck in the liver.
“Fox man, I need you to press here. Both hands and don’t let go for anything.” She placed his hands on Caro and watched a moment to make sure before crawling back toward the driver. Twenty minutes of solid pressure should slow the bleeding. “Get us back to Harlin’s.” There was nowhere else to go. He would die for sure on the road.
She’d never done surgery in an inn room before. It was hardly ideal – but then, what was? Esme had stopped the bleeding that first sleepless night but she thought it would be some time before Byrne would be well enough to travel. Heaps of coin had changed hands – buying the eponymous Harlin’s silence – and Monsieur Fox had departed with the Dogs.
There was little to do now but wait and clean and watch for fever. Esme rested the back of her hand on Caro’s forehead, studying his bruised face before moving on. She flicked open his shirt to check his wound, a small part of her regretting how she’d challenged and flirted with him in the recent past.
If only because he’d be quite scandalized if he’d been fully conscious.
Caro did not know where he was. It was dark and everything was sharp and stale. He felt like he was dipped into tacky liquid left to dry somewhere. He couldn't remember where he was before and he had no idea where he was currently so his mind fled to the only logical conclusion. But if he was dead, it lacked the bliss of a righteous end, and while he ached and it tore to moved, it was hardly the torture of an ignoble one. His forehead creased and he could feel the skin around his eyes crack. This certainly wasn't the nothingness of the abyss. Perhaps Victor had taken him over and shunted him to a dark corner of his own mind, but why was he so sticky. He glanced around before he felt a strange tearing on his eye lids and the faintest glimmer of candle light broke through in a sideways slit. He squished his check up toward his brow and back down until he could fully break the seal of gunk that held his eyes closed. It hurt for a half second before it disappeared beneath the waves of pain and wrongness and drowning below.
He was in a room, it was dim brown and ruddy orange all around. His vision was blurred but he had been in enough inn rooms in his life to recognize it without truly seeing it and even then he could tell Esme's silhouette sitting in a chair looking down at something. It relaxed him. He tried to open his mouth to speak but his lips were neatly glued together. They peeled apart with a slow uncomfortable rawness. He let out a kinda awkward squeak. His throat was impossibly dry. His tongue lay limp in the bottom of his open mouth like rough masonry grinding against the bottom of his mouth. He creeked out a quietly plantive “water”.
He woke up a time later cool water pressed up against his lips. It poured impossibly slowly into his mouth and he drank for what seemed an age before the cup disppeared away. He tried to lurch forward, but he barely moved before pain and dizziness overtook him. Eventually he woke again. He lifted his head slightly, leaning his back up through the pain and his heart beating in his ears and spoke quitely, “How long.” The worst of the confusion was over, now was the fear. He had to know even if he couldn't doing anything about anything yet.
“You’ve been in and out for a few days.” Esme poured water from a kettle into a shallow basin and dipped in a cloth. She tested the temperature on her wrist and squeezed most of the water back out. “Hold still.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and cleaned Caro’s face, brow creased in concentration. One eye, then the other, then his mouth, perpetually chapped lips peeling and a bit scabby. Brow and cheek and nose – limited success where his beard was growing in, patchy ginger. Maybe now you’ll stop twitching and trying to sit up? Only once she was done did she sit back and fold the rag over itself in her lap. Watching him, trying to see the person and not the tasks ahead. Without magical intervention, he’d be a long time healing.
This was so, so strange. It was oddly embarrassing to wash someone’s face and be observed by them. Worse than the pragmatic intimacy of emergency surgery – but then, bedside manner had never been one of her strengths. When he still didn’t drop away back into unconsciousness, she knew she had to say something. Report, probably. They had been working, somewhere between four days and a hundred years ago.
“I sent the artist along with Alred. Haven’t heard anything back yet, good or bad.” There hadn’t been any choice; they had to trust the Dogs now. Esme slid off the bed and discarded the washcloth on the side table. She poured a glass of hot water into a cup and set a bundle of herbs to steep.
“We picked a bad time for this. The city’s locked down.” Esme strained the infusion through a sieve into another glass then returned to the bed, ready to help him drink.
He sat there confused, squinting through the pain. Sebastian being dead either made things better or worse and he couldn't decide. “Did he die in the fire?” It was unlikely but if they were looking for him it would be worse. But if it was unrelated, then it probably helped him. A back alley scuffle and a fire paled before regicide and anyone with a decent sense of mortality probably assumed him dead. All the better as far as he was concerned. A sudden white hot thought hit his head. “Was it the same night?” Were they the distraction for something more sinister? He stewed in the thought of being used. Perhaps the plan was always to get caught and cause hell. Damn.
One thing had gone right though. He picked the right salamander for the job. His hand slowly fumbled under the blanket over his stomach, lightly tracing the thick stiches in his side. His skin felt sickly and sallow, lacking the taut fullness of a belly full of infection. A job like this without an ounce of magic in a dimly lit room directly after a days work was unreal. The fact it had a chance to work was wild enough to consider, but that it did was even more boggling. He sat there unblinking. A moments lapse gave Esme days of tired work and perhaps cost them a good chunk of their earnings. Shameful redness burned his face. He stammered out a quiet “Im sorry” to the dimming window light.
To any other Salamander he wouldn't be so open, but Esme was different. Always had been. He always had more trust, and more time for her. It was natural to pick her for this for her skill set but it was always the default in his head. Perhaps a dangerous train of thought for a leader to have, but he was glad he had had it in the right now. He reached out quietly, his hand overtop hers and squeezed just enough to feel her hand flex underneath. Far too much effort for him in this exact moment but had to do it. Gesture replacing lost and confused words.
“No. No, I don’t think so.” Esme thought back to their flight. Between the smoky ballroom and the molten stone Bryne had conjured in the street, the stables had caught fire. There had been a great outflowing crush of people losing their minds, likely hurting each other in their progress. But she had not seen the prince among them – or a strong enough guard presence to suggest he’d been in attendance to begin with.
“I don’t know.” Time had gone a little funny. She and Byrne and Alred and the artist all crowded in this room, the latter quietly panicking by the window. At some point, she’d made them leave. Esme remembered the innkeeper’s pinch-faced wife hauling away their bloody clothes by the armful to burn, with a good deal of Ruth’theran’s coin tucked into her sleeve. Sometime after her first sleep, she had heard the city guard conducting their search. They hadn’t come upstairs, but if they came again ...
Well. She’d burn that bridge when she got to it.
“Hey. Don’t mess with your stitches.” She sat the cup of blood lotus tea aside. He hadn’t taken much of it, but with nothing but water in his stomach it wouldn’t be long until he felt it. Next time he woke, she’d find something for him to eat.
Sorry? For getting shot? His hand closed atop hers, a little cold and weak as a kitten, dark crescent moons of old blood deep under his short nails. Esme exhaled slowly and took it for permission to touch him back, turning his hand to rest between both of hers.
“Why, Byrne? You did the same thing you always do. Ran in, caused a giant mess.” Bound to get hurt eventually, behaving like that. Her loose fingertips tightened around his wrist, willing him a portion of her warmth and strength. It didn’t work like that, of course.
“It’s just bad luck.” And – importantly – people shooting at the crazy fire mage were people that weren’t shooting at her. Or their driver. Or the client. “But if you feel badly about it, I promise to throw things at you when you’re better.
“Someday you’ll manage a decent barrier. I have faith.”
“Flying off half cocked seems to find bad luck at times.” he said laughing lightly and then regretting it instantly. Pain rattled his ribs and he reflexively coughed which gave in to more pain and more coughing. By the time got back ahead of the cycle he was dripping sweat and dizzy from pain. He stared back at her, his head heavy on his pllow swaying slightly. He smiled again at her though, forcing himself not to laugh again. Truth is he hadn't even considered a barrier. He could with a thought coat himself in unyeilding stone but he just lashed out like an angry confused child. The great stragegist hiding in his head was strangely silent, and he sent a thought after him.
After a long moment Victor responded. “If then breath between seconds, the choice of action is nearly inconsequential, you merely act and deal with the repecussions. The failing, if there was one was well before that moment.” Caro frowned. Either he was an idiot who walked into a trap at the first opportunity or there was nothing he could have done and he by all rights should have died in that barn. Neither sat right with him. Both could easily be true at the same time. Nothing nice could ever be safe with him it seemed. He squeezed Esme's hand again.
“Toward the east wall in starkhaven is a burnt out house. Two story with the northside corner collapsed in and water damaged. Inside the pantry underneath a cracked hogshead is a cellar door that leads to a tunnel under the wall. If you can get someone to meet us in the woods right outside there we can get out.” After Caro's escape from Kirkwall the first time, he had made the trip into starkhaven a couple of times to steal supplies from his families now barren estate. Assuming no one knew about him, it would be easy enough to use that route. “I'm of no use to either of this tasks I'm afraid.” he said simply. He felt the corners of his mouth tear at the sudden movement of his lips. He sighed heavily and sank back into the bed. It'd be time yet till he could be moved. But he'd be fine here if Esme stayed with him.
