Isabella watched the warriors training throughout the wide-open hall that Valerio had taken her to. On the outside, this place looked like a fancy bank. Deep inside, however, countless well-kept warriors sparred amongst each other. Isabella didn’t know very much about fighting, but they didn’t look clumsy or poorly trained. Rather, it reminded her of when she’d entered the training barracks of the holy paladins.

  “What did you call this place?” Isabella asked Valerio. She wore a large black cloak, and had stuffed all of her hair within the hood to conceal herself.

  “The Court of Condottieri,” Valerio answered, watching the people fight.

  “Who are these people?” she asked him. “Why do you think they’re reliable?”

  “In Dovhain, the eldest son takes all,” Valerio said. “But this tradition started in Ambrose, actually. Sons that didn’t stand to inherit anything would take arms and armor and pick up warfare as a profession. They became condottieri.” He looked over to her. “That tradition was exported here. Most of the people you’re looking at are landless nobles.”

  Isabella looked again with a new perspective. She supposed that not every noble could earn a living serving as a knight for a family… or perhaps they simply didn’t desire it. Instead, they found employment here.

  “The ships I raided at sea started hiring these people,” Valerio reflected. “The only time we ever struggled was when condottieri were aboard a ship. There was a bounty on me in this court, for a time.” He looked over to her. “So… I’m speaking from personal experience when I say they’re much more reliable than other mercenaries.”

  Isabella played with a ring on her finger. Honestly, she didn’t know what she looking for in a bodyguard. She looked at Valerio, deciding that she could rely on his insight.

  “Who do you think is the best fighter among them?” Isabella asked.

  “That man,” Valerio pointed to a lithe man who seemed to move around as swiftly as a rabbit. He fought against two people on his lonesome. “But he’d be a terrible bodyguard.”

  Isabella looked at Valerio in confusion.

  “Good fighting doesn’t count for everything,” Valerio continued. “You want someone with good situational awareness. Someone that can tell when something is off, who can tell when things are dangerous. Ideally, you want to avoid ending up in danger at all.” Valerio pointed to the corner. “That man… he’d be good.”

  Isabella followed his finger, where it finally fell upon a man who stood still in the very corner of the room. He was broad, with a thick body, thick arms, thick legs, and a thick head concealed by a helmet. He trained with a dummy, alone.

  “Why him?” Isabella asked.

  “He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I entered the room,” Valerio said. “That’s the sort of threat assessment you need. If I were to guess, he has orcish blood. Very difficult to sneak up on orcs. They have some sort of sixth sense, and reflexes that could make a cat cry with envy.”

  At Valerio’s praise, Isabella looked over to the manager decisively, and the man walked up to her.

  “Could you bring the broad man over?” she asked, pointing him out. “And give me his name, if you would.”

  “Ah.” The man looked over. “His name is Randolph. If I may be so bold, my lady…” He rubbed his hands together, choosing his words carefully. “I believe you are of quite high stock. Randolph is… quite unbecoming of noble sensibilities.”

  “Unbecoming how?” Isabella questioned. “Do you mean baseborn? I don’t care about such things.”

  “No, he’s…” the manager rubbed his hands together, then said delicately, “Very sassy. And unrepentantly vulgar.”

  “Is he disloyal?” Isabella asked.

  “No, never that,” the manager assured. “He’ll do precisely what’s asked of him. Just… impolitely.”

  Isabella looked at Valerio, who shrugged. She looked back at the manager, then said decisively, “Prepare a contract.”

  ***

  Isabella and Valerio sat in a stately reception room not inferior to any that one might find in a noble parlor. The door opened, and Randolph walked in, his helmet off. He had a bald, blocky head marred by scars. His eyes immediately went to Valerio, and he froze in place.

  “Gods damn it,” Randolph said with a heavy western Dovhain accent, then walked back out and shut the door. She hadn’t heard many people with a western accent. It was simple and direct, often called the ‘workman’s dialect.’

  Isabella looked at Valerio questioningly. “Do you know him?”

  “I tend to have that effect on those with orcish blood,” Valerio explained.

  “Why?”

  “I told you. They react to danger,” he responded cryptically.

  It took a few moments, but the door reopened, and Randolph inched back inside. He shut the door, standing right beside it as if ready to depart at any moment.

  “Presumably I’m not to be guarding that devil,” Randolph said, gesturing at Valerio. “If that bloody bastard needs guards, he’s doing tripe miles above my paygrade. So, miss… I take it you’re my client.”

  “That’s right,” she confirmed.

  Valerio rose to his feet, and Randolph reached for the doorknob. Valerio merely shot out his cuffs, then said politely, “I’ll leave you to him.”

  When Valerio left, Randolph pulled out a cloth and wiped his head for sweat. “Bloody bones are aching after that.” He looked at her. “I hope he’s not a fixture of this job.”

  “He’s my fiancé,” Isabella responded.

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  He wiped his face with one of his big hands. “And here I thought alcoholism was a distant prospect, not a near future.”

  “Why does he frighten you so much?” Isabella asked.

  “Why is the sky blue? Why do seagulls view my head as a perfect target?” He shook his head as he walked closer to the couch opposite her. “If I knew the secrets of the bloody universe, I wouldn’t be wasting my days away as a condottiere.”

  “You don’t have any notion?” Isabella pressed. “He said you have orcish blood.”

  “My mother said as much,” Randolph said, picking up the contract that had been drafted. “I assumed she was giving an excuse as to why I was born with this face.” He looked up. “So, I’m guarding the precious flower as she traipses about the capital, am I?”

  Isabella nodded, impressed he read it so quickly. “In short.”

  “If only I was born rich instead of handsome,” he said sarcastically. “Very well. Eight gold per day. I shan’t barter.”

  Isabella discreetly pulled a pouch out of her boots, retrieved sixteen gold coins, and set them on the table.

  “For tomorrow,” she explained. “So you don’t take on any other jobs.”

  Randolph took one of the coins and bit into them, nodding just afterward.

  “A wise decision, my lady. There are graveyards are full of idiots who dithered at paying my fee.” He flicked the coin. “I’ll get me things.”

  ***

  For the first time in both her lives, Isabella wandered the capital without significant oversight. She had obviously toured the streets before, but it had always been a very controlled experience. It was somewhat jarring, frankly, to be just one face among many. The many noises and sights and sounds were slightly overwhelming, but…

  He’s like a human wedge, Isabella thought as Randolph walked ahead of her, clearing a path.

  Randolph had already effortlessly caught a pickpocket. She hadn’t brought anything worth stealing, but his competence was on display immediately. No one had as much as pushed her. Nothing seemed to slip by her guardian. She hadn’t known what to expect with him, but he was already proving to be worth the gold.

  Isabella finally came to a grand building that was fenced off, and heavily guarded. She told Randolph to stop, and peered beyond. The chateau seemed every bit as grand as any of the wings of the royal palace. She saw a fountain beyond, and an immaculate garden easily peer to the one where she’d had tea with Valerio this morning.

  This was Duke Albert’s art auction house.

  It took a great deal to ruin a duke. Slave trading, domestic abuse, murder, kidnapping, rape… so long as these crimes were done to the right people, the most that would happen was a slap on the wrist or perhaps a fine. King Edgar II wouldn’t care if Duke Albert was eating babies daily, so long as they weren’t important babies.

  “Ah, the finer arts,” Randolph said, leaning up against the gate. “I, myself, am a great admirer of the works of Santiago. His morbid aestheticism and chiaroscuro of desolation speak to my deep connection with the sublime decay, and my unending fascination with our corporeal transience.”

  Isabella looked at him, baffled at a few of his words.

  “You spent eight gold to take me to a bloody art show?” he continued incredulously. “I’m appreciative that you’ve deigned to bestow some of your gilded purse upon my lowly person, but these places are generally quite safe.”

  “You like art?” she asked.

  “I consider myself a connoisseur of the unobtainable. A dilletante, if you’re insufferably pretentious,” Randolph said, vigilantly watching the street behind them. “I’ve got enough problems without throwing gold at pretty colors. Don’t even have a bloody house to frame paintings at.”

  Isabella looked through the gate. “There’s a big shift coming in the art world.” She pulled her hood down lower. “People are tired of the grandeur and religious intensity of the paintings today. The church is corrupt, yet our art has never more splendidly depicted the gods. It’s all devotional, paying fealty to the king and the gods as supreme figures. Those figures are faltering.”

  “You pay my fee, so I agree whole-heartedly,” Randolph said sarcastically. “You’re a visionary, madam.”

  Isabella rubbed her hands together uncertainly. She was a visionary in a manner of speaking. She had knowledge of the future. But knowing the future and executing it were very different matters.

  Artists loathed working underneath Duke Albert. The moment that a new opportunity appeared, they had eagerly flocked over to different patrons in her last life. New names had risen up seemingly overnight, as all turned their focus from devotional art to new styles focusing on individualism, pleasure, beauty, self-indulgence, leisure, and intimacy.

  The shift in art was a reflection of the shift from royal power to widespread factionalism, where the individual position came to matter far more than the gods or the king had.

  Isabella had seen this occur in her previous life naturally. Albert’s auction house closed two years from now, and he was executed for embezzlement after trying to steal money from the crown to pay the many debts his business had accrued. It was very difficult to predict the whims of the art enjoyers, but the notoriety that she’d accidentally gained put her in a perfect position to do so.

  “Art is one of the few spheres permitted to noble women without restriction,” Isabella said after her long period of silence. “And it’s perhaps the only one where they’ll allow me to win.” She looked to Randolph. “I can’t stay out too late. I’d like you to do something for me when I’m not here.”

  “Ask away,” he said.

  “There are some lesser-known artists affiliated with this auction house,” Isabella said. “I’d like you to see if you can’t locate them. I wrote a brief description of their appearance and their names.” She handed him a list. “All you need to do is find out what you can.”

  “Do I look like your bloody errand boy?” he crossed his arms.

  “In the right light,” she said dryly.

  “To the hells with you,” he said, but took her paper. “I’ll do what I can, but don’t expect much. I’m no master sleuth.”

  ***

  Isabella laid in her bed, staring up at her ceiling sleeplessly as she had many nights before. A great deal had happened today. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d been enjoying wandering around the capital until she’d been brought back here. Randolph seemed reliable, and she didn’t mind his crass tongue overmuch. She’d learned new words today, from ‘chiaroscuro’ to many new vulgarities. He seemed… worldly.

  She had many more questions about Valerio, though. Why did he terrify Randolph so? What was he after? He said that it had just been instinct, but she’d been around long enough not to buy that nonsense. Someone like him that’d remained ostensibly neutral for all eight years of her prior life didn’t just act on a whim.

  Perhaps Valerio had been an unseen mover in her prior life. The thought made her uneasy.

  Once Duke Albert is done with… I should end the engagement, she mused. I can’t figure out what he wants. I don’t want to be used, then tossed aside. He’s been nothing but gracious… but that’s the problem. No one does anything without expecting something in return. Not in this place, not in this life.

  As Isabella rested, she heard a strange tapping noise. She turned her head to the small window. A brown woodpecker sat there, tapping at the glass. It was quiet, but difficult to ignore. For a few moments she simply hoped the bird might go away, but it persisted. She stood and walked to the window. She thought her presence might shoo it away, but it stared up at her undeterred. She tapped the glass with her nails, but still it persisted.

  Isabella lifted up the window slightly—not enough that it could enter, but enough she could touch it. She stared down at the bold bird confusedly. She didn’t want to hurt it, but she needed to sleep.

  “May I come in?” it said, and she slammed the window back shut in shock.

  Isabella stared at the bird, wondering if she was dreaming.