These events take place preceding Dyv5-05 Riposte.
“I’m not so sure of this, Bailen.” Two men stand in one of the myriad alleys of
“Please do not use my name while we are doing this. By the Lady of Perfection, have you never done this before?” the second man growls.
Staring blankly at his friend and ally, Klabert Lord Grandhearth blinks a few times, considering the query in stunned contemplation. “No, no I have not. Have you, Bailen?” Bailen Lord Maltrus puts his face in his hands, stifling his frustration.
“I assure you he has,” the feminine voice replies. Grandhearth swings around, startled. Maltrus, though, does not share his surprise. His head rises from his hands, a smile appearing where before there was only a grimace.
“Lady Midnight,” he says to the shadow-strewn wall behind them, “I am glad you could join us.” Cloaked in pitch-black cloth, a woman of striking beauty steps part-way from the darkness. The lamppost just outside the alley illuminates her face, her right arm, and part of her upper torso, the rest dissolves into the inky black. She smiles wickedly at the elder gentryman. Her violet eyes pierce his gaze like a surgeon’s knife.
“Welcome Master Architect. You have brought company this time.”
“You!” Grandhearth gasps, realizing who she is. Her smile widens.
“Occasionally there are some rewards to infamy,” she coos. “I must say I never tire of that reaction.” Her smile quickly dissolves into a scowl as she sees Grandhearth’s hand drop to the hilt of his sword. “What did you come here for, old man, if not for what I have to offer. Control your dog, Architect, or our business here is through.”
The two men had discussed this option repeatedly before they made their way beneath the city. Lord Maltrus had hoped his peer’s presence would offer some validity to the terms they were prepared to offer. This reaction by Klabert, though, causes Bailen to react in a similarly impolitic manner. He takes his elbow and jams it into Grandhearth’s side. The man grunts, but the blow brings him to his senses.
“Apologies, Lady,” Maltrus begins, hoping to salvage the meeting. Grandhearth releases his sword and stands waiting for Lord Maltrus to make the next move. The scowl does not disappear from his face.
“I heard your speech in the square. It was inspiring,” Timmorn Darkeyes quips. The guildmaster of the
“We have business to discuss, Lady,” Maltrus says, preventing another reaction by his forthright ally. He does not break eye contact with the rogue. He squares his shoulders, hoping to change the subject from posturing to actual negotiation. After a moment’s thought, the woman obliges.
“What do you need, Architect?”
“Peace. We need peace. The words of my esteemed colleague rang true. The gentry have realized our folly through sacrifice and tragedy. We understand our misguided efforts and the cost that has had on us and on the city. We want peace.” Lord Maltrus looks at his friend. Grandhearth does not return his glance. His eyes are set on the woman, hoping that if he stares hard enough, she might erupt in flame. Bailen has never seen Klabert so angry before, and he realizes just how much Grandhearth is sacrificing by agreeing to meet with an
“You want peace. What concern is that of mine?” Darkeyes asks flatly.
“Do not toy with me, Lady. I know what circles you are a part of. Your sticky fingers are in every honey pot of this city. Ours is a mutual relationship, but do not presume me a child. With Hunter’s loss, we rule this city now—“
“No!” the woman shouts forcefully, causing Lord Maltrus to take a step back. Grandhearth’s hand bolts back to his sword hilt, but his weapon remains sheathed. “Still you smack of pride, Architect. You are allowed the illusion of rulership simply because we allow you to have that illusion. Forget your place in this city and there are many people who can supplant you.” Her smile turns to a sneer, and she bares her teeth like fangs. “How quickly you have forgotten the folly of Pengallen.”
“Derreg Pengallen was a traitor and a demagogue,” Grandhearth growls. “He has fled these lands in fear of the justice he would receive. We are nothing like him.”
“Again your words speak false, lords.” Lady Midnight hisses. “There is no escaping our justice. Pengallen flees, but he will be dealt with nonetheless. As for peace, you may wish it, but you cannot have it.”
Regaining his composure, Bailen Lord Maltrus steps forward. He is an imposing figure when he wishes it with broad shoulders and a sharp nose. “Choose your words wisely, woman. The Gentry Council is unified in our intent and will act with impunity if you are so foolish as to war for this city. Think us puppets if you wish, but if it is conflict you want, we shall gladly offer it, and you will find that your puppets have cut their strings.”
Silence. It fills the alley, causing nerves to stand on end. The violet eyes seem to stare at both men simultaneously. They stop breathing, hesitant on what happens next. How many of her underlings that they cannot see are standing in the shadows?
“You are cute, Architect.” That was not what they were expecting. “Zilchus teaches us that politics and war are simply two other forms of trade. There is significant profit to be made from war…but not with you.” The noblemen stand, staring at her blankly.
“I don’t understand,” Grandhearth says.
“Of course you don’t. Your type doesn’t associate with my type, which is why you wouldn’t have known for another month if your friend hadn’t brought you along.”
“What is this, Lady?” Maltrus speaks up.
Reaching behind her, Timmorn Darkeyes pulls out a sizeable chest. She pulls it open forcefully. What little light there is in the alley shimmers across a pile of gold. “War is coming, gentlemen, and there is significant profit involved for me and my allies. Consider this an investment in the cause.”
“The wounds are not yet healed from Pengallen’s folly and you would have us make the same mistake?” Grandhearth’s voice rises angrily. “Save your bribes, woman. We have coin aplenty as it is.”
“By the Bitter Hand, would you shut up!” she barks. “War is coming—“
“How do you know this?” Grandhearth interrupts.
“War is coming and you are surrounded by enemies. We would not allow you to leave the city undefended while you resolve your obligations. This should allow you to hire those forces necessary to protect the city while you are away.”
“Away? Where? How do you know this?” Grandhearth asks.
“Because I know how to listen! And people like to talk to those that listen!” Darkeyes shouts.
Ignoring the quarreling pair, Lord Maltrus reaches into the chest and picks up one of the gold pieces, inspecting its authenticity. Although the gold is quite real, one flaw is apparent. “These are not Dyversian wheatsheafs,” he says breathily.
Stopping their bickering, the guildmaster smiles widely. “Does that matter? Gold is gold, regardless of its mint. Use it to prepare yourselves.”
“War is coming,” Maltrus repeats.
“Profit is coming,” she whispers. The guildmaster disappears into the darkness. “Leave this one at home next time, Architect. He bothers me.” The noblemen stand alone in the alley,
“I don’t believe her, Bailen. This is some type of deception. This gold was most likely stolen from the Viscount of Verbobonc or the King of Furyondy. They hope to instigate a war so that more of the Gentry Council can be removed. They hope to take control of the city.”
“What need is there of such efforts when they already control the city,” Lord Maltrus replies disheartened.
“I don’t believe that. That is how they work. They peddle disinformation to subvert the will. Good people rule this city, forthright and just people.” Lord Grandhearth reaches down and grabs hold of the collar of the urchin who had snuck into the alleyway. He pulls the boy away and tosses him from the alley, causing the whelp to drop the few coins he had managed to grab hold of. “Do not believe their deception, Bailen. We are a great city.”
“Yes, we are, Klabert. But you are mistaken about one thing. They do not peddle deception, they peddle the truth. The truth is far more vicious than any deception man can conceive. War is coming. We must prepare.”