Archduke Emmyth bel Miradan sat upon his dais in the grand audience hall of his ducal palace. A magnificent tapestry depicting his coat of arms hung behind the throne: an azure field with a golden spindle, flanked by two river otters in gold and blue, symbolizing agility, prosperity, and connection to the water.
Oh, how he despised it. Just as he despised any reminder that the wealth of his domain relied on the very guilds that sought to undermine his power at every step. Shifting in his elegant wooden throne, the expensive, guild-crafted cloudwool cushion was an unwelcome metaphor that even the comfort his own ass was complicit in this insult.
He gestured to Chancellor Perion, and the gaunt, aged man stepped forward. The look on his face a clear indication that whatever news he brought would only serve to further befoul his mood. As if he didn’t already have enough problems with the Grins threatening an outbreak in the city.
He couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of the terrible disease.
Perion bowed, then stepped up to present an unremarkable strip of beige fabric.
“Your Grace.”
Emmyth sneered at the cloth as though to shame it for daring to be in his presence. The Chancellor, accustomed to his leige’s moods, remained silent and unperturbed.
“What am I looking at?”
The Chancellor made a small tear in the fabric, and they watched as it quickly knit itself back together.
“It's a new textile spun from the verdant keraga plant. [Herbalists] have long used the plant to create healing potions. While they require only a modest supply, the clothwrights have developed a technique to spin it into self-repairing fabric for which demand is sharply increasing. The plant grows easily, and the Farmer’s Guild is requesting more subsidies or they will switch to this more profitable crop.”
Emmyth shot to his feet.
“They already receive a knight’s salary in subsidies to refrain from growing other crops!”
Perion bowed his head and replied calmly.
“That is so, Your Grace.”
“Thieves. The bloody farmers. The clothwrights. The huecrafters. Every one seeks to plunder my coffers. And behind them all, that thrice damned Order.”
Some guards shifted uncomfortably at this and received a glare for the lapse. They snapped to strict attention, eyes locked firmly ahead under the Archduke’s baleful eyes.
“I will revoke their guild charters.”
“We can ill afford another war with the guilds. Last time was extraordinarily expensive and the king was furious.”
“Let him be furious. He only needs to deal with the simplicity of war. Not these sneaky underhanded merchants and backstabbing Emissaries from the Order.”
Perion cleared his throat, and Emmyth gestured for him to spit it out.
“If I may offer a suggestion, Your Grace. Fewer food crops are an unacceptable security risk. It would mean importing more food from the north and relying on both the Merchant’s Guild and your cousin’s continued prosperity. We can raise the tax on fabrics in accordance with the increased subsidy. The merchants will protest, but they will pay.”
The Archduke’s expression relaxed from one of anger to mere annoyance. He nodded as the Chancellor finished.
“Very well. See that it is done.”
Perion bowed low and excused himself from the audience hall. After he passed through the door, the Steward poke his head in.
“Are you prepared to receive Spymaster Galathorn, Your Grace?”
Emmyth perked up at this. Unlike that bothersome Chancellor, the Spymaster always had interesting news for him.
“Yes, send him in straight away.”
Galathorn bel Thane was a whip of a man, striding in with unhurried grace. His casual gaze swept over every square inch of the audience hall, recording each detail for possible use in the future. Emmyth knew from experience that in a week’s time, he could ask Galathorn the eye color of the second guard from the right and he’d rattle it off without a moment’s hesitation. The Spymaster could then go on to tell him the guard’s name, parentage, and where he sticks his dick each night.
“Your Grace,” Galathorn said, sweeping into a deep bow.
“Please tell me you’ve procured blackmail on that contemptible High Emissary.”
The Spymaster looked up with a clever smile and a sparkle in his eye.
“No, Your Grace. But this does involve the Order of the Loom.”
Emmyth sat forward in his seat. He just needed one good win against these bastards.
“Well, then. Out with it.”
The world around them muted, and he knew the Spymaster had used his privacy [Skill] before continuing.
“A thief was caught in the library. He broke into the Rare and Priceless section and badly damaged an invaluable tome.”
The Archduke frowned.
“I fail to see why this is something I should care about.”
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“The High Emissary dropped all charges against the man.”
The frown deepened. This propensity to build tension for dramatic effect was his least favorite thing about the Spymaster.
“You are testing my patience, Galathorn.”
A deep bow quickly followed.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. My spies in the Order tell me that the thief sought out a particular book on ancient [Class] and [Skill] patterns. The patterns detailed in this book have a singularly intriguing prerequisite. One must be godlaced to weave them.”
“Are you telling me this thief is a rogue godlaced?”
“We don’t know for certain. What we do know is that the High Emissary suspects it is either him or he was acting on the behalf of one. The Order had already turned him over to the custody of our guards when they realized their mistake. They did not want us questioning him and quickly ordered the release.”
Preventing the Order from claiming a godlaced would be a huge slap in the face. Doubly so if he could make sure they knew it was him.
“Let us proceed with caution. There’s no telling what [Divine Skill] is at play, and I do not want to spook this godlaced into flight while there is a possibility we might claim them as our own. Have the thief followed. Updates on this matter will be included in your daily report.”
Galathorn bowed low once more, recognizing a dismissal when he heard one.
“As you command, it shall be done, Your Grace.”
Long after the Spymaster made his exit, Emmyth sat and fantasized of which power he may be denying the Order to put into his own service. Scholars estimated that only one in a quarter million people turned up with a [Divine Skill], and there were far too few nobles to claim many godlaced among their ranks. The vast majority ended up as Templars. It was unlikely to fundamentally change the struggle for dominance in this city, but he would take great pleasure in poking the High Emissary right in the eye.
***
Raith’s ability to sleep in [Stacatto], combined with Nyhm’s meditation necessitating only a couple hours of rest each night meant the two had spent an unprecedented amount of time together. Often training, but quietly talking just as frequently.
Very few people could interpret the nuance of Nyhm’s stoic face. As he entered the bedroom, he found Nyhm meditating crosslegged on his bed. His brother’s eyes shot open as he entered, and Raith knew Nyhm was all the way pissed off.
“Why didn’t you ask for my help?”
The tone made Raith realize he was mistaken. Nyhm was certainly mad. But more than that, he was hurt.
“I’m sorry. I just don’t want to always be running to my older brother to bail me out and thought I had it handled.”
“Do you still want me to go with you and Thea?”
“Of course I do.” He walked over and plopped down next to the Nyhm on the bed. “Actually, I could still use your help with something.”
Nyhm stood up and turned to face him, crossing his arms.
“The Thieves Guild?”
Raith’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw refused to work for a second.
“How do you know about that?”
His heart sank as Nyhm relayed the encounter in the alley. Not only had Raith lost a valuable magical item, his brother had beaten the crap out of three guild members.
He puffed up his cheeks and blew the air out slowly. Now he was less worried that he would be accepted into the guild than he was that they would slit his throat the moment he stepped inside.
“I don’t want to wait for them to track me down to deal with this. My heart can’t handle that kind of uncertainty. Will you back me up for a visit?”
“Tonight?”
Raith nodded.
“Tonight.”
“We can’t miss uncle Merin’s funeral tomorrow.”
“If we don’t make it, it will probably be because we’re dead.”
***
Luckily, Nyhm was capable of keeping up with the rooftop route, or they would have spent half the night just elbowing their way through revelers.
They arrived to find the Drunken Crow packed on the last night of the festival. As they entered the bar, a very round man glanced their way and eyes widened to the size of saucers. He leapt from his seat and dashed to the door that Raith had seen led to a downstairs.
“Shit.” Nyhm said.
“Was that one of the guys from the alley?”
“Yep. Meatpie.”
Raith looked at his brother, assuming he had heard wrong. Nyhm shrugged.
“Evidently, his mother gave him that name.”
Woeful was pouring drinks behind the bar, and nodded his beak when he saw Raith. There weren’t any tables available, but they managed to squeeze in at the bar. This time, he knew better than to ask any questions without making a purchase.
“One wine and one mead, please. That same white, if you have it.”
The corvid deftly swept the coins away and replaced them with drinks.
“Woeful, this is my brother Nyhm.”
The corvid gave him a piercing side eye.
“Pleasure to meet you, elfling.”
Nyhm just nodded in reply, but Raith was pleased the bartender got it right.
“Is Willoughby here, tonight?”
“Aye. He’s downstairs. Let me thin out this crowd around the bar and I will grab him for you.”
The two brothers leaned with their backs to the bar, carefully watching the crowd and that door the man had fled through. Raith hoped they could speak with Willoughby before Meatpie came back. They didn’t have long to wait.
The three men who came up the stairs were not pudgy, past their prime burglars, or low level lackeys sent to spy on a prospect. These were steely-eyes killers, and a cold fear gripped Raith’s gut as they approached. Meatpie followed close behind, pointing them out at the bar. Woeful’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the burgeoning storm, and he stepped over as the group approached.
“This man is a prospect under the sponsorship of Wil the Grim. Conduct your business with that in mind.”
The smallest of the group stepped forward. A sharp featured man with long, jet black hair.
“We don’t want him, we want the halfling. He beat up Meatpie’s crew whilst they was on official guild business.”
Raith reached for his rope dart. It would be very difficult to use in a crowded bar against a well trained dagger fighter. Nyhm had been drilling him hard on kicks and using the rope to grapple limbs, but it was definitely not his strong suit. He was very glad his brother had agreed to come and noticed him subtly activating tattoos as the situation developed.
“It was a misunderstanding,” Nyhm said, meeting the man’s eyes steadily.
The man moved his hands to the hilts of his daggers.
“Accidentally drop something in a pottery shop and it still needs to be paid for, doesn’t it?”
Raith tensed as Nyhm shifted his feet, preparing to launch an attack. A familiar voice cut through the noisy crowd.
“Raith, me lad!”
Everyone froze and turned to see Willoughby walking out from the basement door. Nyhm glanced at Raith, an unspoken question to use the distraction to strike. Raith gave a small shake of his head. He preferred to resolve this without taking a dagger to his gut. The thugs moved to the side as Willoughby arrived and clapped a meaty hand on Raith’s shoulder.
“It’s a marvel to see you out and about. Heard that little adventure hit a spot of trouble.” There was an unmistakable edge of suspicion in his voice. “Why don’t we all head downstairs and have a friendly talk?”
That seemed like a terrible idea. They were already outnumbered up here, and there were certain to be more guild members below. Worse, they would be that much farther from the exit if they had to flee.
“We can talk here just fine,” Raith said, taking a sip of his wine.
Willoughby looked around, seeming to notice Meatpie and his entourage for the first time. Raith didn’t buy it. Woeful hadn’t gone to get him, so the old thief knew exactly what was going on.
“I’ll make sure these lads wait up here.”
Meatpie made a sour face at that, but the others didn’t react. Raith glanced at Woeful, who was paying close attention, but his feathered face unreadable.
“I would prefer not to go down there, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Did you have time to read the book?”
“I did.”
“Then you’re far more valuable to me alive than dead.” He gestured at the thugs. “And more valuable than this whole lot combined. I will admit to having questions, but our deal is unchanged. You have my word that if you come talk privately, you will both leave here unharmed.”
Raith wouldn’t trust Willoughby with a single loose copper, but was surprised to find himself believing the man’s word at this. He looked at Nyhm and nodded.
“Alright. Let’s go talk.”
