Fable - Ask What Lies Beneath

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Emelia Atchins

Emelia Atchins

Member
"You're late."

Emelia winced at the tone in her father's voice as she slipped in the back door. The sun was already dipping below the horizon, sky painted in fire to the west and ashes to the east. She did not answer her father, either. He was not happy that she was late. Probably because it wasn't the first time this week, and definitely not the first time this month.

Anger smoldered deep within. She showed none of it on her face. She smiled brightly through a skillful painting, her appearance as true as the emotion displayed. She waved a hand haphazardly towards Papa as she headed to the closet where they kept the clean aprons. Papa went back to the current project - the drains again, always the drains - without a second glance at his daughter. He only looked at the outside, and never further.

She knew he loved her. He had to; she was all that he had left of mum. She couldn't understand why he couldn't see that she was suffering. She couldn't stand the fact that even if she could speak, she couldn't. Not really. Papa couldn't be brought into the nightmare that was her life and had been for years.

She just wished she had someone to turn to, to confide in. May as well wish for a prince or for a happily ever after while she was at it. She was as likely to get either.

Emelia swept into the common room with a slight limp. She wore a high-necked dress of plain linen with a white bodice and delicate embroidery round cuff and collar. Her layered skirts were black and grey. She was wholly unremarkable in the setting. Just another pretty lady in a dress serving tables. Only her eyes were truly remarkable, luminous and pale; different colors danced in the irises. They made a fine, round face into something more than it would have been otherwise.

It had been a bad morning when Reph had come home. It looked like this evening was going to be more of the same, the tables thronged. The Mistral Refuge was not a tavern, so to speak; it served mostly middling travelers and merchants. It was a place to stay that was clean and with decent food and beds, well away from the usual riff raff common in other parts of Alliria. It was more boisterous than usual this evening, a bard (or at least a musician) playing something upbeat and light on a dulcimer in the corner. The music didn't suit her mood, but it didn't matter. There were at least two dozen people out here. Most were engaged in animated conversation with one another either over meals or waiting for them.

"About time ye put in an appearance," one of the few other hired hands said wryly as she slipped past her toward the kitchen. Myra was much more what you would expect from a tavern wench; full curves and a mouth that pouted even when it didn't. Her lilting voice was just what Emelia didn't need to hear tonight. "I've got most of 'em sorted, but the tables at the door've jus' come in."

Emelia said nothing. She never said anything, or near enough never. It was a failing of hers, and a damned inconvenient one given what she did for a living.

Her eyes followed Myra for a moment, face soured by a scowl. With a wince for unseen bruises she went to her work for the night, the scowl replaced with something that almost looked like a smile.
 
Decanian literally fell on the chair exhaling loudly. He had hoped to find a corner table but he was too tired to do a slalom between people and waiters so he had to take a seat near the front door.
The Mistral Refuge was almost exactly as described by the traveller whom he had asked regarding a good tavern to dine and pass the night. The loud chatting and laughing were an annoying noise but at least there weren't drunkards fighting or dead junkies under the tables.

He was happy to be back in Alliria. It was two years since his last visit to his family. His parents grew older and he knew he had to enjoy more time with them but his work at the College, the corvées at the Healing Halls and the duties for the Gold Order took almost all his time.
His mother shed tears of joy and his father hugged him with love. He stayed with them a couple of days then he had to depart. He was secretely on a quest for the College and he had to stay in Alliria but his family's house aroused in him sad memories about his sister, so he decided to take leave of his parents and find a tavern in the city.

The Foard of Maesters had charged him to find an ancient manuscript about fabled ruins in the dephts of Alliria. However, they didn't know neither where to search nor if the tome actually existed. So Decanian passed three days in the libraries of Alliria and talking with rich book collectors. He had found nothing.

Now he was tired and downhearted. He strongly believed in the existence of the book but now that certainty was starting to fade. He entered in the tavern hoping that a good meal may help in clearing his mind. The place, although noisy, was pretty cozy. He placed his long staff against the wall and looked around for a waitress. He caught the glimpse of a fair, pale woman in a neat working dress apparently entering the hall from the service rooms. After a mute confrontation with another waitress she turned her face to him. Her mouth was a kind smile but curiously her deep, hazel eyes weren't smiling at all.
 
She snatched a towel from behind the counter and swept across the room to clean a table, stacking the dishes and uneaten food to one side and wiping everything down with the brisk, efficient motions learned over a lifetime. As quick as that, she was carrying dishes back to the kitchen and the other hired hand on staff tonight, a boy of fifteen washing dishes.

Dumping her load carefully, she ignored him as he went about his work and hurried back into the common room. The mellow music was still like discordant noise to her ears. As the door closed behind her, the front door opened and another customer stepped in.

He looked weary though otherwise unremarkable. Her eyes swept him from head to toe, taking in his well-made clothes. Perhaps a merchant or someone of means, but certainly not a far flung noble.

She fixed the smile on her face and went to the table to see what it was he wanted. Arriving at the table, she made a welcoming gesture, and then stood attentively (if not sincerely happily) to await an order or whatever else it was that brought him in.
 
When the woman approached his table he had the opportunity to examine her closely. Blonde and pale-skinned, she was undoubtedly pretty. But once again what struck him most were her eyes, and in particular the purple and green flecks that he was now able to see.
He realized with embarrassment that he had remained silent looking at her and woke up blushing.

"Excuse me" - he began, speaking quickly and saying the first thing that came him to mind - "I would have a portion of stew and a mug of your beer, thank you".

The woman nodded, taking the order silently and started to turn around.
Whether out of desperation or a flash of curiosity he thought he detected in her eyes, Decanian stopped her with a wave of his hand. He politely signaled her to come closer and said to her, trying to drown out the widespread noise in the room but without shouting:

"Greetings to you. I am a scholar of the College and I am looking for a book about some lost ruins that are supposedly to lie under the city. I have visited all the bookstores and collectors without success. Innkeepers like you meet many people and see many travelers, so could you help me or tell me someone I can turn to?"

Immediately after he finished speaking he called himself stupid. The place was crowded and that woman certainly didn't have time to help a stranger. But the impression of interest that he believed to see in her eyes seemed real. Furthermore, her appearance looked almost out of place in the prosaic nature of a tavern. Her deep, icy gaze indicated a complex personality, the personality of a person intended to emerge from the monotony of their life to do something great, something to be remembered.
 
She pursed her lips at the question, bewilderment alive and well in the back of her head. It hadn't been but a few months ago that she could have answered this man simply. Unfortunately, that ease was gone. The price of a Bargain that had not solved anything.

Blood on her hands had, but the power she had claimed had not. The gift had not been worth the price.

Yet. Yet. Surely it would prove its weight eventually.

She cocked her head to one side, and then pointed at the ground and nodded in the affirmative. After a moment, she frowned and shook her head. Pointed to him, then the ground, and then made the universal gesture for getting your throat cut.

She stood straight again and waited. Maybe he would understand, maybe not.
 
Decanian was stunned by the woman's silent response. The macabre final gesture had sent a cold shiver down his spine but the simple fact that she apparently knew something about the book had affected him even more intensely.

But how to interpret that gesture? Was it a threat or a warning? Did it mean "if you come down I will kill you" or, on the contrary, "if you come down you risk that someone will kill you"?

But it was a problem he would solve later. The important thing is that now he had a real lead. Under that inn a quest that had begun six months earlier and which had taken him from one end of the continent to the other could be concluded; he had kept Alliria as his last hope and now, just when all seemed lost, the penetrating eyes of an innkeeper gave him a maybe crucial clue.

He absolutely had to access the basement of that building, no matter the cost. His nature and religious faith would not have allowed him to break-in or to use violence to obtain something. His only option was to be accompanied voluntarily. He had to convince the girl. He stood up and moved a little closer to her.

"Listen, I absolutely need to get this book" - he began, looking around. Then, thinking about it, "it's not necessary for me to take it away, it's enough for me to be able to consult it."

He didn't offer money or talk about incredible riches buried among the hypothetical ruins: he knew how to recognize a greedy look and the girl in front of him, unfortunately or fortunately, had a very different expression.

"I am at service of knowledge and my mission is to bring the secrets of the world to light for the good of all. That book could give access to an unexplored mine of ancient wisdom.
I don't know who or what holds that tome but please help me. I am in your hands."
 
Her eyes widened in bewilderment. She had not meant to imply that she knew about any such thing as a book, only that there were ruins beneath Alliria. It was mostly Alliria to be honest. Like many old cities, what it was built atop was mostly itself.

She needed to think, and the flow of his words only made the need stronger.

"Emelia, stop the chit chat and help some of our guests" Myra called from across the room. Emelia started a bit, face going blank as she spun and hurried back to the kitchen. Myra looked at Decanian with a practiced sweep of her eyes, and then huffed a laugh to herself before bustling off to another table.

Finding refuge in the kitchen, she leaned against a wall and tried to check her emotions. Currently it ran more to anger than anything; she was the owner's daughter and the other hired hands shouldn't treat her like some scullion.

Hands balled into fists, she screamed silently at the ceiling. She hadn't bargained for all the ancillary difficulties that came from a 'gift' that had proved anything but. Her heart lurched and her hands burned with an unwelcome memory, but she clamped down on it hard.

Better to avoid it.

Swallowing frustration and doing a poor job of hiding it, she swept into the kitchen to grab a bowl of rich beef stew and thick, crusty bread. With the absent-minded ease of long practice, she managed to gather those and a crockery mug of yeasty beer and head back to the table.

Depositing each item carefully, she turned to go to another table.
 
With a grimace of disappointment Decanian watched the girl move away between the tables. His first thought was that he had acted too quickly, saying too much and frightening her. With his gaze lost in space he began to rack his brain looking for a way to gain her trust.

He took a sip of beer. It was bitter and fresh and he savored it closing his eyes. A pleasant warmth pervaded his torso. He absentmindedly stirred the stew, following the girl's movements with his gaze, wondering what could be the key to unlock her secrets. The stew was hot and tasty and gave off a penetrating juniper scent. Decanian's mind worked in concert with his jaws, and when he finally put down the spoon he had worked out a strategy.

From his satchel he took a small roll of parchment, a bottle of ink and a quill. He spread out the paper trying to avoid the cracks in the wood of the table and began to write.

"Salute. From your actions I understand that you know some things, things that interest me. I need to know if there is an underground city and if you know a way to access it. I know that you are busy and cannot speak freely. Join me this evening, when you finish the service. I will be waiting for you on the other side of the street. Don't be afraid. D.A."

Praying that the girl could read he rolled up the parchment and tied it with a piece of string. He put away his things, placed some coins near the empty dishes, took his staff and stood up. The girl was far from him but he didn't want to leave the message at another waitress, fearing that she would open it herself.

So he attracted the attention of a little girl who was begging among the tables.

“Do you want to earn a coin?” he asked her. The young girl nodded smiling. "Good" - continued Decanian - "take this parchment and give it to the blonde maid with hazel eyes. Only her. Then join me outside, I'll check on you from the window."
He placed the scroll in the little girl's outstretched hand and in a few steps reached the door and left.
 
She went about her work without thinking about the man and his obsession with some book, waiting tables and cleaning and collecting coin. Some beggar even tugged at her dress and handed her a scrap of paper before disappearing (or getting booted into the street). The evening wore on, and the unexpected rush died down to the usual flow, a few tables occupied with people most interested in their business and maybe the meal or sat at the chairs near the fire reading books or other papers.

Eventually, Myra retired for the evening and Emelia herself was left to stare at the piece of paper offered to her by the unwashed girl-child from earlier. Unfolding it with some curiosity, she read it slowly and with some difficulty.

She let the hand hold it fall to her side. The wise thing to do would be to ignore it and move on; natural selection would take care of this fellow quite effectively. The underworld of Alliria belonged to the various criminal enterprises that more or less ran the city, whatever the so-called rulers thought of it.

Except...

...except it offered an opportunity.

Emelia hated those same elements. It hadn't been until Reph had been forced to work for those cretins that her life had fell apart. Their life had fallen apart. Thinking of him made her heart stutter a beat, and the madness that sat waiting around the corner threaten to creep back in.

It wouldn't be something to be proud of, but she had always wanted a chance to cause problem for her husband's employer.

Hanging the apron up, she absently waved goodbye to her father, then hurried out the door. Maybe the fellow would still be there.
 
Sitting for hours on a cold stone bench, Decanian guarded the front door of the inn in front of him. On the other side of the street, in the windows of the building he had seen several times what he believed to be the shadow of the enigmatic girl but this did not reassure him. After a couple of hours of surveillance he had realized that there was probably a back exit and that if that girl had wanted to avoid him she easily could have done that. He had to hope he had captured her curiosity.
He had only been out for a few minutes when the little girl he had charged with the task of delivering the message was rudely chased out of the place. She had done the job flawlessly, so Decanian was happy to double her reward.

Around him the Outer City progressively changed its face as the evening approached. The shops closed, the artisans retreated to their homes and the travelers returned to the inns for the night. The shadows of the buildings became longer and the dark corners more numerous. The Allir Keep loomed menacingly over the city, dominating buildings, neighborhoods and city walls. Naval traffic had also stopped.

He finally put away the document he was trying to read to pass the time: the light from the surrounding torches was too dim. Even dimmer was the hope of seeing the girl come out of the tavern door and for the umpteenth time that day he found himself fearing that he had reached a dead end.

At that moment the door of the inn opened wide and a female silhouette was outlined in the box of light.
 
She closed the door behind her and stepped to the side, staring at the figure in the gloom. She looked quickly up and down the street for any obvious threats, but did not immediately see any. This part of Alliria was not particularly dangerous, not like the Shallows or down near the docks. Still, she was a woman alone in a city full of thugs.

Thats why she kept a knife hidden in her skirts. That and the smoldering power that flickered in her veins were her only defense in this city.

She kept a hand at her hip as she waited for him to speak, still unsure how she would communicate anything complex to him.
 
As the girl approached, Decanian stood up. He straightened his tunic and lowered his hood, revealing his face in the faint light of the street. He smiled affably. He wanted to appear friendly and harmless to gain the girl's trust as quickly as possible.

It wouldn't have been easy: the enigmatic look, the hand on her hip in some sort of a challenging attitude and those colored flashes that flickered in her irises revealed a circumspect and wary personality. It wasn't hostility that he read in her gaze but he knew he had only one opportunity to obtain if not her sympathy at least her collaboration.

Mindful of the failure of the previous dialogue, he decided to proceed slowly, without overlapping the concepts. He needed clear and simple answers.

"Greetings, my lady" - he began, bowing his head respectfully. "Forgive my boldness, but my quest - or perhaps the gods - has brought me here. I know you can help me."

He stopped for a moment trying to catch an expression in the girl's eyes.

"I'm looking for a book that talks about a city in the depths of Alliria. Beneath the hideouts of cutthroats and the tunnels of smugglers. There are tales of priceless ancient knowledge and unknown magic. Do you know of this lost city? Can you lead me to it?"

He took a breath and waited for an answer. Any answer.
 
She scowled derisively at the idea of gods. Still, she shook her head in negation. No, she could not lead him to any secret and ancient ruins. She could, however, lead him into the dark underbelly of the city. The place where rats and vermin of all variety thrived and carried out their various activities.

She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came was a pain croak and then silence. She colored at the slip, an angry gleam in her eye.

After a moment, she pointed to her mouth and her throat and then shook her head. She paused a moment, and then mimed writing and gave him a questioning look.
 
The strong disappointment for the unequivocally negative response of the mysterious girl was immediately suffocated by another sensation, more immediate and violent: the embarrassment for having asked to speak to a mute person and the sense of inadequacy that he began to feel for the whole situation.

It was difficult not to notice the angry gaze that had accompanied the girl's attempt to speak. A more than understandable feeling, he told himself. At the same time, however, he confided that he had been courteous enough to hope for a continuation of the dialogue.

The girl was unable to speak but apparently wanted to communicate. The eloquent gesture with which she had mimed the action of writing demonstrated that she was literate: at this point he couldn't ask for more.

He dug his hands into his pouch and pulled out a quill, an inkwell and a yellowed but clean sheet of parchment. He also took a thin wooden board to use as a support. He handed all the material to the girl with a smile, letting her decide whether to write on the bench, in the dim light of the torches, or in another place.

Apparently she wouldn't lead him to the underground city in search of which he had returned to Alliria after several years but he was still anxious to read what her first words would be. Perhaps they would have opened the doors to an equally suggestive mystery.
 
She snatched the implements abruptly and sat down on the bench. Somewhere in the darkness, the flutter of wings echoed on the dark street. A shadowed shape lit on a roof across the way.

Emelia spent a minute with her tongue caught between her teeth, dipping pen in ink. The lighting was terrible and while she was not completely illiterate, she still struggled to write out her words. After a seeming eternity, she handed him back the parchment and looked expectantly at him.

Scrawled in rough formed letters were the words 'you will die'.

She waited until she had his attention, pointing at the ground. She mimicked pulling a hood over her head, and then gestured as though she were stabbing someone. She paused for a moment, then shrugged. She held her hands in front of her as though she were holding a book, and then shrugged again.
 
Those words again. Mimed a few hours before in the tavern and now written without the possibility of misunderstanding on the parchment. It was clear that "beneath," whatever that meant, there was a great danger. Murderers, judging by the imaginary hood and knife evoked by the innkeeper. The last thing he had understood was that she knew nothing about any book. He was deceived.

However...

However, she wasn't an ordinary innkeeper. Otherwise, she wouldn't have risked meeting a stranger in the dark or wasted time with him trying to communicate. To corroborate this sensation were always her eyes, deep and penetrating. Those eyes were hiding something. What if that warning, that desire to remove him from the depths of the city was something different? What if it was a request for help?

The girl seemed a little hesitant in writing but it was clear that she was capable so he decided to give it another try. He didn't want to bother her any further but he really needed answers.

"Listen" - he began. "I understand that you cannot take me to the book I seek nor to the buried city. It doesn't matter."

He paused.

"I understood that serious dangers hide in the depths of Alliria. My nature pushes me to investigate mysteries and my ethics require me to help those in difficulty."

He stopped again.

"Are you in trouble? If you need help I'm here, dedicated to your service. Trust me".
 
She paused, and then nodded. It wasn't even a lie, not really. She did need help if she was going to deliver the vengeance she so desperately wanted. The underworld of the city had ruined her marriage, her family, and her life.

The need for blood burned in her veins like the smoky fire of her patron. The dark music sang in her soul.

Somewhere in the darkness, harsh laughter - ever so slightly off - echoed.

She took up the pen again and wrote on the parchment. If she was embarrassed by the fact that her writing looked like that of a child, she didn't show it. Not like many of the humbler class of people was even literate to begin with; the fact that she could read and write already elevated her beyond the general population of the city.

'tHeY KiLLed mY boY' was scrawled on the parchment. She looked at the scholarly looking fellow and almost cringed. She was not by nature deceitful, but she was vengeful. The statement was not entirely false. They had killed her son, sweet child that he was. It was just that it had been done indirectly.

The bastard that had done it was alrea-

She clenched her hands into fists. The heat of ghostly blood staining them burned, and the memory attendant to it winked out almost as soon as it reared its ugly head. Her face went blank, eyes distant, knuckles white. The same harsh laughter echoed in the darkness again.
 
"They killed my boy"
Those words stuck in Decanian’s mind with all the force that such a heinous act could generate. He repeated them over and over again with a growing sense of horror and dismay.
He never doubted that sentence for a moment. Why would the innkeeper lie to him? For what purpose? She hadn’t asked him for money and he himself had offered to help her. So it had to be the terrible truth.

He looked at the girl, a mask of shadows in the flickering light of the torches. Her hands clenched into fists and that strange expression in her eyes added truthfulness to the words she had written just before. Something violent was happening in her mind. The feeling was sincere: a baleful rage gripped that woman, a burning grudge that only revenge, he thought, could extinguish.

But could he, a healer who pursued the Good, use his strength to take revenge? The ethical dilemma was quickly resolved. In all likelihood, whoever killed that woman's son was part of the swarm of criminal larvae that proliferated under the city. They were Evil. And punishing Evil, according to his moral principle, coincided with the pursuit of Good.

"If someone killed your son and you thirst for revenge, I am at your service." - he said. "I have vowed to purify the world from Evil, in all its forms."

He paused for a long time, trying to meet the girl's gaze in the dim light.

"May I know your name?"
 
A bird fluttered out of the darkness and took up station in plain sight, not far away. Black with white markings, it opened its beak soundlessly and lifted its head as though it was laughing before turning dark, too-intelligent eyes on the pair.

She took the parchment back and wrote out her name slowly. Emelia. She was even able to look Decanian in the eyes as she handed to him. What would he think of someone that sold their soul to a Faerie for power? She thought the word she was looking for was warlock, but the world of adventuring wasn't hers.

Hadn't been hers. The first attempt at using that power had come to tears in the end. A cooling body had changed her in ways that she could scarcely understand.

She shuddered.

The bird mimicked laughter again, and then fluttered down onto her shoulder. She startled a little at it, but some flavor of his presence seeped from the bird. Up close, it was clearly a magpie and its beady eyes were bright on her.

She pointed at him, and then at the paper bearing her name with a question in her eyes. She pointedly did not look at the bird, which hopped back and forth on its narrow perch, claws digging through her blouse.
 
Emelia was therefore the name of the mysterious innkeeper. A peculiar name, one he had never heard. A sincere and almost sweet name that, little by little, took on sharp and disturbing nuances. The same sensations that the girl who bore it aroused.

Decanian looked up at her and then, suddenly, at the strange bird that had appeared. He analyzed its curious behavior and immediately realized that something was wrong. That magpie was laughing. And magpies don't laugh. At least not normal ones. The appearance of the new character added mystery to an already intricate situation but he was happy to have established a dialogue with the innkeeper.

He had now convinced himself that she was seeking revenge against those who had killed her son. And he was ready to help her, fulfilling at the same time his vow of charity and fight against Evil. But where to start? He had no idea who the murderers were and didn't know how to reach them. Would the girl lead him to them or would she just give him instructions and ask him to bring back the head of the person responsible?

He stood up, staring at the girl, and whispered: "I am willing to go down into the guts of the city and carry out your revenge even today but I need informations."

As he waited for an answer he turned his attention to the strange bird that was hopping around in an impertinent way. He was tempted to touch it but something in his soul held him back.
 
He didn't give her his name. In a way, she was almost thankful. It kept a level of impersonality about the entire affair that she wished she could have in so many other things.

She tilted her head for a moment, not quite meeting his eyes as she thought. After a moment, she wrote something out in her painfully slow scrawl. The not-quite-magpie continued to laugh in silence and hop from one shoulder to the next. She caught the beady eye of the creature for a moment and felt a sliver of the Patron within it.

She almost wanted to melt from relief. Dark and enticing as Saang had been, there was something about his presence that left her feeling fraught and tattered. As though she had narrowly escaped some terrible fate.

Narrowly.

She handed the piece of parchment back to Decanian. There is a way into the under-city that I know, it said. She looked at him expectantly, and a trifle uncertainly. She really should not be taking the aid of a stranger, especially into the underbelly of the city.

But she felt confident enough with the bargain she had made.
 
Standing in front of the girl, Decanian took the paper and looked at it, reading with difficulty in the dim light. The uncertain and trembling handwriting showed that the innkeeper did not usually write but he was struck by the fact that even in that corner of Alliria there were literate people. Noticing the lively intelligence that shone from the woman's eyes he was sorry that her education could not continue. He would have been happy to help her in this aspect too but the brief moments spent together had shown him a personality too shy and reserved, which probably would never open up enough to him.

He brought his mind back to the present and pondered the best answer to give. Yes, the girl knew a way to the bowels of the city and yes, she would lead him there. Perhaps from an access still unknown to all. And he would for the first time in his life walk the underground tunnels of the cutthroats of Alliria, perhaps discovering new ones. He promised himself that if he had the time, he would draw a map of the routes and camps they would find. It would be useful to both the Knights and the city guards.

"Please, my lady" - he said, bowing his head - "take me there. Once inside, I will be honored to help you."

As he took up his staff and slung his bag over his shoulder, he realized that he still didn't know if the girl would accompany him on his mission or would simply leave him at the entrance to the caves with a few simple instructions.

Now, let's go - he said to himself - then we'll see.
 
She reached out and tugged his sleeve as he gathered his things to go, and held a finger up, then mimed writing. She took the parchment back and the pen and drew closer to the lamp post outside the Refuge to see what she was doing better.

Follow, but wait. When they take me in, sneak, she wrote out with painful slowness. She handed the parchment, and then touched her hip to make sure the knife was still there in her skirts.

A thrill of fear flicked through her. This was different than [angry eyes yelling fear breaking furniture knife flash anger vengeance blood blood] anything she had done before in her life. It was definitely a departure from the safe life of an innkeeper's daughter. She had seldom put herself as directly in harm's way as she was about to.

Wouldn't do to think on it too much. She had laid awake at night for years silently praying for a chance to deliver righteous vengeance on the bastards that had stolen her husband and then her son away from her. Finer details of that story be damned. The result was the same.

She stood and looked back at the door of her father's way-house. Safety and stability lay that way. A glance into the dark streets, and back to the door.

For the second time this year, she turned her back on a simple life. The magpie stopped hopping a moment to laugh again, and the amusement pouring forth from it almost spoiled the moment. Then it took wing and fluttered round her, describing a wide circle.

She hurried through the streets. She did not head toward the Shallows or any of the rougher parts of town, instead heading into a better, classier slum. Before long - fifteen minutes of walking - she paused outside an alley. She peeked round the corner, and saw a couple of men standing in the alleyway, talking with one another in hushed words.

She looked to her nameless companion, seeking comprehension of what she had said before. Her palms felt sweaty and her heart raced, but she tried to show none of it on her face as she searched Decanian's eyes.
 
Decanian leaned on his staff to catch his breath. A few meters in front of him, Emelia appeared strangely calm and at ease. Upon closer inspection, however, one could not miss the rapid rise and fall of his chest, indicative of labored breathing which could not only be the result of the walk. The girl was obviously tense. This reassured him in some way since he himself did not feel entirely safe wandering around those streets.

The boldness with which he had faced the situation had quickly weakened when he read Emelia's last sentence. He clearly hadn't expected to dive into the clamor of battle but sneaking in unseen made him uncomfortable.

In any case - he said to himself - I am a servant of the Light and a Knight. No creature of darkness can intimidate me!

But would he be able to crawl through the shadows? He had done it only a few times, yes, but he was more than determined to follow the girl's plan perfectly.

He noticed how she had turned to look at the inn, as if saying goodbye to something known and concrete. She had the sad and willful look of someone who leaves one life to embark on another. More difficult and dangerous, certainly, but which will allow to achieve your goals. Looking at her, he saw the Decanian of a few years earlier, who had left the comforts of his father's home to begin his academic career at the College of Elbion and later joined the Knights of Anathaeum.

He had followed Emelia for several minutes, very surprised by the fact that instead of entering some infamous alley they were walking along the clean and tidy streets of a wealthy neighborhood. The girl had stopped in the darkness cast by a tall building and was peering around a corner at the street in front of it. From Emelia's cautious attitude he deduced that someone was there even though he couldn't see or hear anything.

She looked at him eloquently, as if to remind him of the silent instructions written on the parchment shortly before. Decanian responded by nodding slowly signaling he was ready for action.
 
She nodded curtly once, assuming that he understood. It wasn't until she turned away and he could no longer see her face that she swallowed hard. Steeling her courage, she stepped into the alley in a swish of skirts, her black-and-white companion suddenly making itself scarce.

One of the men looked up as her feet crunched on the cobbles, and spit to the side. "Don't need a whore tonight," he began and then paused. His companion whistled under their breath and shook his head. "You!"

She continued on until a hand clasped her arm below the shoulder. The hand belonged to a third person who had been cloaked in the shadows so effectively even she hadn't seen him.

"The fuck are you doing here?" The first man was the only one speaking, and his hard eyes bored into her with enough force to make her flinch. "Where is he?"

The grip on her arm increased to the point of pain, the flesh round the offending hand turning red and white. She tried to shrug in response to the question, but the sallow man who was doing the talking growled something impolite under his voice.

The man holding her roughly shoved her towards a door in the wall, thick ancient oak. He released her at the same time.

"Your lucky day, Em. Boss wants 'is money back, and since your sweetheart ain't showed 'is face in more'n a month, you can do the talking." He laughed, and all the others did too. Cruel, derisive laughter; they knew too much. Her pale cheeks turned crimson, though whether it was from rage or embarrassment was hard to say. "Maybe do more than talk, eh?"

Another round of coarse laughter. The man that had caught her - a big brute, much taller than six foot and strapped with corded muscle beneath his simple tunic - shoved her again. Sallow man opened the door, and she found herself being roughly shoved in ahead of them, sallow in the lead and thug behind.

The other man remained where he was, perched against the wall with lidded eyes watching the alley as the door shut.
 
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