Private Tales Into the spiderweb

Alicia pensively watched the glass fill with wine, crimson like liquid garnet. She scrunched up her nose at the unfamiliar scent of cologne - sharp and chemical.

Picking up the glass at length, all five fingers curled around it like it was a mug, she glanced up at him with suspicion.

"Thanks." She swirled the wine a little in her glass, uncertain if she should drink it. It was tempting to have Drystan taste it first. Then again, if they had wanted her poisoned, they could have done so long ago. She knocked back the wine like it was a shot.

She didn't usually drink wine - usually preferring cheaper or stronger drink. But even she could appreciate its sultry and well-rounded taste.

Remembering her manners, and that this wasn't in the Knock-teeth Pub, she jutted out two fingers from her grip, keeping it aloft. Making sure a little remained, at least.

"So. You're his manservant, huh?" Another rough swill, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. A nasty little smirk followed. "How'd you get that job if you keep snatching yesteryear's wine?"

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:

"Make no mistake, Honored Pneria, even if our Lord hadn't used his magics to apprehend you I could have caught you myself."

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Alicia's stared after Drystan. It was a bold challenge, unlikely to be tested. But certainly, he seemed to trust in his own skills. She tensed up as Petrus sat down, her previous smirk and faint relaxation evaporating.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:

"With that concluded I have news for you. Your previous employer has been contacted with an offer to buy out your services. As well as the paperwork began to register you as an agent of this House."

Those amber eyes would flicker up to Pneria's gaze meaningfully as his tone became more purposeful.

"I suspect he will accept the offer."

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When Petrus spoke, she tore her gaze away from the door, forcing herself to look him in the eye.

Her fist closed so tightly around the glass it elicited a small crack. She looked as rigid as a plank frozen in winter, face uncomprehending.

This couldn't be true. It had to be another trick.

But when the contract slid her way, she knew Petrus was being serious. Unsteadily, her free hand pulled the contract a little closer, studying it, finishing the rest of her wine in a quick gulp. While she had learned her letters, at her elevation from pickpocket to burglar, she was still a slow reader. She took her time, bombarded by inky words, promising riches, land, titles, a possible cure . . . and a change of her name.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:

"But what I am more interested in is...... will you?"

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The glass hit the table with a ponderous clink. Alicia, or Pneria as she might come to be known, hefted the flimsy paper. It gave a deceptive rustle in her hand. She held it up closer, her eyes first constricting, then widening with full understanding.

So this bantering around about her name hadn't simply been fun and games, after all. It seemed that if she were to sign this contract, she would not only sign away her former life under Velin's employ . . . but she would erase her very name. Take on the mantle of the lesser moon.

It shouldn't have been a hard choice to make. Most people she knew in the streets would have given their right arm for an offer such as this - nethers, maybe even a foot and leg, too! If this contract could be believed, of course, but all the same . . .

It was as if she would wipe away all her former life leading to this moment. The endless climb she had made to make a name for herself. The struggles and victories, the whispers of Blackbolt on fearful lords- and ladies' lips, or in the cheers of drunken rascals. What would her father have thought? And how would Velin react to losing a prized asset?

The paper went back down on the table, and Alicia's eyes sought the floor. She clicked her tongue in annoyance, chiding herself for her hesitation.

It would only be a cover name, for Astra's sake. A simple alias. In fact, it might help her keep out of unwelcome attention, mixing affliations with nobility and crime lords alike. This offer was the sort that only came once in a lifetime, and she should take it.

But there was still the risk that Velin might say no.

"And what if he doesn't?" So caught up in her own head, she had to clarify, raising herself in her seat and locking eyes with Petrus. "Accept, that is? What if he says no and I sign this?"

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:

"Should you sign this then you are no longer Velin's concern. My offer to him is business as usual but hardly a bargain. No. You will be mine and all that that entails."

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Alicia looked back into burning coals of his gaze, her forehead furrowed with concern. From one hungry patron to another. If nothing else, counting on this one's protection against the wrath of Velin Deal had more odds of success than coming crawling back to him after her failed burglary.

There was an odd mixture of danger and protection to him. She had no doubt Velin might exercise caution around this one. Perhaps, this could be her way of paying him back for extorting her services.

But who was to say this lord wouldn't do exactly the same thing?

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:

"I am now in the process of taking up a longstanding position on the Allirian Merchant Council I have toyed with the prospect of claiming for some time now. The law of the land, as it were, and from my side you will have power beyond what your beggar-king could ever imagine."

Leaning back in his seat Petrus would scan Alicia's eyes in subtle, searching motions, his pupils moving in barely-perceptible flits as he asked.

"That is, if you are not tired of being the novel oddity beneath his heel, Alicia Blackbolt? And if you are ready to be something more than the circus act we both know they whisper of you as, my Pneria."

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The muscles in her neck worked with effort and a lump appeared in her throat, as if Velin's ghostly hand could constrict her voice from accepting. Petrus was intending to take over the city? Madness. Absolute madness. Run, she could almost hear Velin's velvety voice urge, run as far away as you can. This one is beyond you. Alicia bit her lower lip, her foot tapping restlessly below the table.

At his mention of her name, her eyes went back down to the parchment, hooded with thought, darting as if searching for something between its letters. Some sort of trap, perhaps. By now, she knew he was working her. This had all been an elaborate scheme to secure her loyalty, it seemed - or perhaps rob Velin of one of his agents. But why? To take over Alliria itself?

So what manacles rested within these written words? What had she missed? The offer itself seemed too good to be true.

Finally, she sighed, closing her eyes. It was just a piece of parchment. Lordlings might adhere to carefully worded paragraphs and letters of agreement, weaselling around with their scribes, but such games were not for her ilk. She didn't have to be bound by it. What was a splotch of ink on a shaven piece of tree to dictate her fate?

Her eyes opened with her decision, staring at Petrus' awaiting eyes, a lurking dragon in a cave of shadows. She would test his offer and see if these wealthy promises would actually materialise from the page. Indeed, she was tired of being under his heel, though she suspected it wouldn't be much different under this one. Stick it to Velin, then, and if this one let down his word, then stick it to him, too. They would all learn what it meant to defy the Blackbolt.

She picked up the quill with sudden, defiant alacrity, as if she simply wanted this over with, quickly as possible. But when she grasped it, a small stab of pain jolted from her finger. Alicia sucked in a brief breath through her teeth, looking down to a see a single drop of blood. A little fragment of glass, pushed further into her finger, from her earlier clenching of her drink.

She scrabbled out the tiny shard, watching a bead of blood bubble to the surface no matter how much she wiped it. Oh, piss off, she thought, hefting the quill, dipping it in ink and signing the damn thing.

Blood mixed ever so gently with ink, adding a faint vein of crimson to the cursive A - X that made up for her signature. It was as economical and rarely seen as herself, written like slashes of a tiny blade.

With a decisive sniff, she slid the parchment back in his direction, leaning over the table. Her dress crinkled and glittered in a movement not suited for it, and as Alicia returned to her erect, seated stance, she adjusted it absent-mindedly, finding it far too loose for comfort. She flicked back her hair with a hand, unconciously sorting herself out for this agreement.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Alicia shrugged her shoulder free - carefully, like one might extricate themselves from a thorny bush.

She tried to concentrate on the paper, but it was difficult to focus with him looming behind her.

All her nerves and danger signals were tingling with him standing behind her chair, touching her hair. She felt an urge to bolt right up - maybe even tumble over the table to gain some distance. It didn't help that he continually referred to her as my Pneria, sounding as jealous about her as a treasurer might with a prize jewel.

But if she had learned anything through this long night, it was to take more measured steps and be more careful with her words. Nethers, she was becoming a right courtier already. Suffering through highborn bollocks with all the bloody air of a magistrate. Though she still felt like a novice at this particular game.

The best she could achieve, trapped as she was, was to lean forward, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Her elbow touched the satin cloth of table.

"You want me to hunt down them horn-fondlers? Tch," she clicked her tongue, resting her chin in her hand, then mumbled to herself: "Figures..."

Before her dissatisfaction could take full root, or re-ignite the lord's ire, she shifted to study the paper again. Fingers drumming on the table pensively.

"Aye. I'd be up for it. I've sapped savvier targets before. I don't normally shoot to kill, but with 'em, it might even be a damn pleasure." Reminding herself to smoothen her cussing tongue, she turned in her seat, daring to glance up at him with a half-cocked smirk, twitching the side of her face not marred with scars. "Way things are, your lordship, I seem to run into them left, right, center, whether I care to or not. So why not earn my keep for it?"

Though she presented a cocksure face, her heart was drumming rapidly in her chest. The knife still hidden against her thigh was a small comfort, and her one hand dangled not too far from it below the table. In case of another thunderous flare of fury.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

"You want me . . . to stay?"

Pure incomprehension marred her face. With the implied tone, she felt she would be safer sleeping under a bridge or in an alleyway than here.

"It's a bold thing to let a prigger sleep under your roof, you know." Alicia pushed back the chair, slowly standing up. Barely reaching his chest in height, she took a single step away from him, standing next to the table, hand on it as if to maintain her balance. She returned his pointed gaze with an even look - her nerves revealed in the crumbling of a piece of satin cloth between her fingers.

"Maybe it'd be safer if I, ah, slept outside, your lordness . . . If you want to keep our arrangement discreet and all . . . "

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

A guarded furrow was painted on her brow, though her grip on the cloth relented.

Did she dare believe someone had her best interests at heart?

The world had done nothing but prove otherwise so far. Her stomach had twisted and turned into a bundle of knots throughout this exchange. She didn't dare believe in safe harbour - didn't dare let her guard down.

But sleeping under a roof, in a proper bed, might be . . . preferable.

"Well . . . Much obliged." Then with a mumble to herself. "I suppose . . ."

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Swept along by Petrus' guiding hand, Pneria walked through the marbled halls of House Iskandar, matching his elegant stride. She still balked at his touch, though her mouth parted slightly at the bow of servants, staring at their formal reverence with incredulity.

She had experienced respect before among other scoundrels and thieves. Even had a rousing round of cheers, once or twice. But she had never experienced anything like this. Treated and observed like some noblewoman . . . servants with salaries far above her station, parting in her wake . . . and for the span of a few, stuttering breaths, walking as an equal next to Petrus Ritus Iskander.

Oh, she could get used to this.

Soon enough, they walked up a flight of stairs, each step seemingly made from ivory - as impossible to her as this current situation. She felt as if walking straight through the halls of some strange dream, fearing she might wake up anytime soon.

The gilded double-doors opened with a brush of his hand . . . revealing an astounding chamber.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:

"Alas we must now part for the evening my Pneria, until tomorrow, though I am certain you are loathe to leave my presence."

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Pneria gave him a mystified look, eyes lingering on his back until he had disappeared behind the door.

Then, she drifted through the chamber, as if sleepwalking. This might as well be taking place in her mind and not reality, for all that reality seemed to throw her off-balance. Like a punishing parent suddenly and inexplicably turning generous, reality had similarly turned, now extending its open hand at her.

She could still feel the echoes of Petrus' touch on her palm. Unyielding as a stone, warm as a billowing hearth. It seemed he was the author of her newfound circumstance. But with what end in mind?

In some way, she almost feared this unaccounted generosity more anything else. Dreaded it, even, since it tugged at her desires and long-bottled needs. The need to not always be running, not always struggling to make ends meet, and watching her hard-won prizes disappear into a pawner's coffin . . .
A ripple of terror went through her. What if House Iskandar did not have access to the same medicine as Velin? Her last dose had been yesterday, and depending on the amount of stress she put her body through, it could last for a few days before she would need more.

She could only hope House Iskandar could live up to its boasts of medicinal superiority. In either case, she decided, moving from the bed to the vanity, sizing up her boils sceptically in the full-length mirror, if needs must, I'll slip off tomorrow in search of more Lickshine. Her hand brushed the air an inch above the marks of her contagion, tracing the line down to her neck, where it disappeared below the dress.

Never in her life had she been afforded such a clear view of her malaise. Its pustulent face. In truth, she had imagined it to look worse, what with the pains it had afforded her. Turning just so in the mirror, facing with her right side . . . and one couldn't see a thing. Simply a smooth, square-jawed face, iron eyes dimmed with reflection, locks of dark hair playfully cascading over cheek and nose.

Soon enough, her pilfering fingers rifled through bottles of perfume, makeup and rattling jewelry, with the customary swiftness of thievery. But they slowed when it dawned on her . . . she wouldn't have to bring this to a fence and exchange for coin. She owned this now.

She stood still, frozen in this singular thought, dangling like a drop from the branch of her mind. A golden necklace snuck between the knuckles of her hand.

Old habits died hard, however. The necklace went over her neck - just in case she wouldn't return, she would make sure to have something from here, at least.

Those same fingers that had once picked items with vulturine greed brushed against the smooth wood, ponderous and caressing, like stroking a trusty guardian. Her feet took her to the balcony outside, and soon, she leaned against the railing, drinking in the view. Dots of light glinted and flittered like distant processions of souls, moving or standing still among darkened rooftops and cobbled streets. She craned her neck, allowing her full weight to rest against the solid railing, gaze soaring upwards to take in the night sky.

Lessat, now a looming, dark guardian, stood at attention beside the crescent moon Pneria. Half of Lessat's smaller ward was hidden in midnight, the other half glowing like a rusty afterthought of the sun. She eyed the two moons, wondering how on earth she had managed to claim the name of one of these celestial bodies. A thought nicked from more educated minds, somehow amusing to a nobleman's fancy - and with that, she had left behind her old name to the Shallows and the mire of her birth.

Her lids turned heavy, sleep summoning her to the bed. She rubbed her eyes, feeling how all the frenetic energy of the evening leaked out of her. But a last thought managed to follow her to her rest.

She might be the first thief to steal the name of a moon.

- FIN -