Firebrand 3 the acolyte, p.49
Firebrand 3: The Acolyte, page 49
The Night Knife narrowed his eyes. "What are you on about?"
Martel nodded for the man to look over his shoulder; at the same time, he ignited everything within the yard. Crates and barrels with provisions, tents, surcoat, weapons rack and so on. Anything that would burn caught on fire. As the mercenaries shouted and ran around, Martel crossed the street to sit down on a stone and watch the spectacle through the open door. All in all, the conflagration was limited, and even Flora should have enough water magic to put it out.
His vantage point did not allow him to witness as the latter happened, but he felt the flames disappearing and saw black smoke rise above the garden wall. Moments later, Flora marched out towards him, the soldiers under her command following some distance behind. "That was months' worth of supplies!"
Martel stood up to face her, enjoying that the height difference allowed him to look down. "What I took from you can be replaced with coin. You tried to take my life from me, Flora. Be grateful."
"I have done no such thing! I would never be so foolish!"
"No, not directly. But you lay all the groundwork for the Silver Serpents to turn their daggers on me. You wanted them destroyed, and you were happy for me to die in the process." He stared at her in anger.
"If this were true, the Lyceum would have torched our home by now."
"Spare me. I did not come to hear excuses, but to deliver two messages. You have received the first. The second is this." He made sure to keep his eyes locked on hers. "I have written a letter describing my work with the Night Knives. But I added how I now fear for my life, and that I expect your mercenary band will seek to kill me after I defied you at the Four Flagon Tavern. Being true, the Lyceum should have no difficulty verifying these events. I made sure to describe you in excruciating detail, Flora. If anything happens to me, that letter will find its way to the overseer and unleash the same Nether-born storm upon your organisation as revisited upon the Silver Serpents. So you better pray that no further attempts on my life take place."
She opened her mouth, but no words came, and Martel knew he had beaten her. He turned around demonstratively and began walking away from the earthmage and her warriors, his magic sense extending behind him; at any sign of danger, he was ready to summon his shield or react with a counterspell. Nothing happened. Peacefully, Martel left the bridge district.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR
GREY BROTHERS
Moira's lessons on Manday saw a repeat of practising with or against golden weapons. It was not terribly different compared to fighting an opponent armed with an ordinary dagger. It really only required two adjustments. The shield spell being ineffective, you had to keep distance to your enemy; and you had to direct your spells elsewhere than the torso, otherwise the easiest place to land a spell, as the gold on the dagger might intercept and nullify the attack.
Having faced plenty of enemies using gold against him, who had also tried their best to kill him, Martel found it rather easy to duel against the comparatively timid fire acolytes. He knew to direct his spells at other parts of the body and otherwise continued to avoid and dodge the blade. If he had been given a staff to fight with, the latter would not even be necessary; he felt confident he could simply knock the weapon out of the other person's hand.
That said, Martel never saw a reason to complain if his lessons in fire magic were easy. At least he could move around and bury his attacks, unlike previous fivedays, mindlessly blasting fire rays into the wall. Even if he had to admit, when faced with the islander on the street, the spell had certainly become more potent.
A message yesterday from the Keeper had told Martel of the plan for tonight; or at least, the appointed hour of their departure. Martel did not know much else other than their destination had to be the residence of House Thierry, where a celebration was taking place, which they would attend in disguises. While not particularly comfortable with sneaking around this way, Martel was mostly concerned about that last point. Knowing the attire favoured by the Keeper, Martel dared not guess what he considered a suitable disguise.
Leaving the Lyceum, Martel glanced around at the square. The usual vendors crowded at the edges, and the occasional citizen or cart crossed it. No sign of his companion for the evening.
Resigned to waiting, Martel leaned against the castle wall, idly glancing in different directions. A cart loaded with barrels and driven by a monk approached, and to his surprise, the wagon halted in front of him. Looking at the driver, he recognised the Keeper in a completely ordinary, undyed robe of grey wool.
"Climb aboard, good master. In the back, if you please." Martel followed the instructions, making his way up between the barrels. "There's a role for you as well, though you may want with changing clothes until we are out of sight. Just in case any of your acquaintances from your school wonders why you are getting undressed in the back of a cart driven by a monk." The Keeper laughed to himself and set the cart into motion.
"We are going to a celebration at a noble family's house, right? Won’t two monks stick out?"
"Not among the other dozen," his driver snorted. "One of the little brats in their family has had a naming ceremony today. They did it this morning at the convent of the Grey Brothers, who are therefore invited to the feast. You and I are bringing a gift of wine for the celebration, giving us cause to enter. Once inside, we can search around without anyone questioning our presence."
Grey Brothers – a rather practical name for a religious group. Apparently, women of the cloth were more imaginative when it came to names. Though given how wizards did it, Martel was in no position to criticise. "You mean I'll search around," he corrected the Keeper.
"Yes, yes, you're the ship bringing us ashore, and I'm just a sailor."
The Lyceum disappearing in the distance behind them, Martel pulled his red robe off to put his disguise on. The home of House Thierry awaited.
Driving through the nobles' quarter, they eventually reached a mansion that looked like most of them; certainly grand and opulent compared to any building in the districts south of here, but not on the scale of the home belonging to the duke of Cheval. They went to the backyard, where servants could receive the barrels of wine brought for the celebration. After making sure his red robes were well concealed, Martel and the Keeper left the cart and entered the stately home.
Arriving through the back, Martel did not have the same experience as when he attended the celebrations for Solstice in this quarter. Instead of statues and painted walls, they passed through the servants' quarters. The smell of food from the kitchens filled the air; as for the scent of magic, nothing piqued Martel's sense.
"Any suggestion on where to go?" Martel asked, making sure his grey hood covered as much of his face as possible.
"I've never been here before, but a few things tend to be the same in all these houses. Servants downstairs, masters upstairs. If the relic is here, I assume they'd keep it close."
"So, we try to make our way up without anyone noticing us," the wizard muttered. Should someone like a guard stop them, he hoped that the Keeper would be able to spin a lie on the spot; that seemed like something in his repertoire. Though come to think of it, when that had happened outside of Lady Pearl's bedroom to Martel, the Keeper had not been much help.
As it turned out, despite any claimed similarities, finding a route that led them to the upper floors without attracting attention proved a challenge. Guests, guards, and servants filled most of the hallways. The only saving grace proved to be that none seemed interested in talking to a pair of monks; nobody approached or spoke to them as they filed through the corridors.
Martel suddenly stopped, reaching out to grab his companion's arm. It almost felt like his skin tingled. Amidst the countless sources of heat from the many people or even just trays of cooked meat being carried around, Martel sensed something else.
"What is it?"
"I can't say. But there's something here."
"Which direction?"
"I can't say that either," Martel admitted. He looked down the hallway, where sounds emanated. "Could be that way."
"I doubt they'd hide stolen goods in their great hall, but you're the one with the nose."
"I'm not a dog. And I'm not sure either."
"Well, let's find out." They set into motion, approaching the centre of the festivities.
The celebration was in full bloom. Guests in silk and jewellery ate and drank while music played. All that resembled any other feast Martel had attended on marbled floors, though he did notice something different. A troupe of dancing girls, dressed as modestly as those working The River Pearl, who entertained the crowd of nobles with their moves.
As enticing as they looked, Martel felt too uncomfortable to pay them heed, wearing a stranger's robe while inside a place most likely hostile to him. If someone from House Thierry had worked with the Silver Serpents to steal the relic, they might have known or even ordered the attempt on his life. The sooner this was over, the better. Martel extended his magic to learn what he could.
Countless flashes of heat met him. To be expected in a hall full of people. But something else. Intangible. Martel glanced around, trying to learn what he could. Finally, his eyes fell upon a woman.
She was pale as snow, accentuated by dark red lips and other cosmetics, presumably. Like any guest, she wore expensive clothes and plenty of jewels. She even looked familiar to Martel, though he could not place her. His interest was not drawn by her face, at any rate, but the necklace around her neck and the sash around her waist. They both shimmered with power.
Most guests wore gold; both Martel's sight and his sense of magic told him as much. This woman wore enchanted items, though he could not discern their purpose.
As if his eyes had drawn hers, she looked up and stared straight at Martel. Feeling caught, he quickly turned around and approached the Keeper, who had strayed a little to watch the dancing show. "Aren't you supposed to be a monk?" Martel asked in chastisement.
The rogue shrugged. "Monks are human too."
The wizard chose to ignore that. "The pale woman behind us, do you know her?"
The Keeper gave a discreet glance. "Certainly. The Comtesse. The Ninth Lord claiming ownership of this quarter. I suppose it's not strange she would appear. That does confirm her ties to House Thierry. Best you avoid her – she might recognise you from the Undercroft."
Perhaps too late for that. Regardless, her artefacts were not the relic; given how strongly he had felt its presence at the shrine, Martel assumed that he would have recognised it by now, should it be in the great hall. "Nothing here. Let's look elsewhere."
The Keeper nodded, and they quickly left the celebration. "Let's go towards the entrance hall. There should be stairs around there leading up. If need be, I'll create a distraction."
Having no better plan, Martel followed, and the pair of fake monks walked through the mansion towards the entrance hall. Even at this hour, new guests still arrived.
Martel felt it. The first inkling came so subtly, he barely noticed. But every step towards the great doors leading to the front yard reinforced it. Like the scent of lilies in his nose, except he sensed it through his magic. The relic.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE
TREASURE HUNT
Unlike hearing a sound, Martel could not tell the point of origin when feeling the relic. It was a sensation that slowly built up inside of him, but he had to guess the direction; he only knew he had chosen right when the sensation increased and grew stronger while moving. This led to the Oort spectacle of two mugs, one trailing the other, walking in awkward circles around the entrance hall. Fortunately, neither guests nor guards questioned them, and eventually, Martel could discern that they had to go outside.
The flow of arriving celebrants had slowed to a trickle, and the two monks had no trouble making their way outside, even against the stream. Looking at the front yard, they saw a variety of carriages, all waiting for when their owners would leave the feast. Martel frowned a bit, wondering if the relic might be in someone's wagon; that felt a bit too unlikely, though.
Perhaps it had simply been transported through here? He knew from the shrine that it left a lingering presence long after its removal. On the other hand, the artefact had also rested in that place for years, decades, perhaps centuries; perhaps that had an effect, building up said presence over time. If so, the relic simply moving through the place should not leave sufficient trace for Martel to notice; this was guesswork, admittedly, but he was beginning to feel convinced that Stars-damned hand was actually somewhere on the premises. The question was where exactly.
Martel tried to think where one might feasibly hide a stolen relic. Unfortunately, he had no experience nor ability to really imagine it. Buried somewhere in the dirt? Unlikely. The area was open; easy for someone to spot a thief digging a hole, even at night. While the servants had their quarters in the back of the estate, the stables lay in front along with some huts that he assumed provided living quarters for the stable hands. Further beyond, stretching down the sides of the main building, lay orchards and gardens; plenty of area to search.
"Well?" asked the Keeper after a lengthy silence where the mage had not made any movement either.
"Hold your horses," Martel grumbled. Before he began combing through the area, he still hoped to get a better feel for his goal. The sensation of the relic tickled him, like the sense of something sweet teasing his nostrils, yet he could not track it.
Horses. Stables. Martel looked towards the buildings. It seemed a profane place to leave a holy object, but obviously, the thief had little reverence for such matters. Ignoring the odd looks from the various drivers by the carriages, Martel walked towards the stables.
The smell of equine creatures, already present outside, became pungent. It was dark inside, and Martel almost summoned a flame on reflex before he remembered his disguise.
"In here?" his companion said questioningly. "I suppose the less likely, the better when it comes to hiding places. Still, it takes audacity to hide something of such value in so lowly a location."
Squinting and waiting as his eyes adjusted to the dark, Martel walked down the aisle between the stalls. Most of them contained a horse, but one in the back stood empty, which almost seemed to call to him. Martel was grateful to be drawn towards the one unoccupied; he had little experience with horses, which seemed skittish creatures to him, in turn making him nervous.
Martel entered the empty stall. He felt the relic more strongly than ever, but he saw no places to hide it. Hay covered the floor, which seemed the only option. He crouched down and pushed it aside, revealing the dirt beneath. The Keeper followed suit, staring at the ground. "Fascinating."
"You have a lot of opinions for someone contributing absolutely nothing." Using his body and sleeves to create as much cover as possible, Martel summoned a tiny flame to provide light. The dirt had been disturbed. Recently, even. "I don't believe it." After all this time, they were too late. This had to be some kind of cosmic jest.
"Someone else beat us to it."
"How?" Martel felt frustration rising. He did not even care about the bloody relic, but being denied this close to the goal felt like the Stars were mocking him.
"Lady Pearl and her henchwomen have the same knowledge as us. We're not the only ones making use of this night," the Keeper speculated.
That meant they had arrived too late by a matter of hours, perhaps even minutes. Extinguishing his light, Martel stood up. He could abandon the search, but something in him wanted resolution. Answers. He looked around. Was every stable hand celebrating as well? If one of them had been present, they might have seen who took the relic. Else the drivers outside ought to have noticed someone enter.
Making sure he had not missed anything, Martel extended his sense of magic around him. Something grabbed his attention. Plenty of heat inside the stable, with all the animals making it their home; each of the horses felt like a lighthouse in the dark. Yet unless four-legged beasts had learned to climb a ladder, someone human lay on the hayloft. The source of warmth was certainly too big to be a cat or the like.
The ladder up to the hayloft stood by the entrance. Looking in that direction, up towards the dark, Martel spoke out. "I see you up there. Come down. We wish to talk to you." Hopefully this particular stable hand had enough reverence for men of the cloth to tell them what they needed.
If confused, the Keeper quickly adapted. "In Sol's name, we are pious men who require your aid." Martel hoped that, whoever was up there, they had not spotted him summoning a flame, or else their little charade would already be unmasked.
A moment passed. Martel began walking towards the ladder, wondering if he would have to climb up; if their bad luck continued, it was some stableboy snoring in the hay, having missed everything that happened below them. They would have to question the drivers instead, in that case.
A shape jumped down from the loft. Flickering light from the yard outside briefly illuminated the person before he ran out of the entrance. By his clothes and age, Martel would indeed have taken him to be a stableboy; by his facial features, the wizard recognised him to be an islander. With a curse, Martel set into pursuit.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
WHEELING AND DEALING
With empowered speed, Martel ran after the fleeing islander. He swore at his grey robe, longer than he was accustomed to, forcing him to pull it up in order to run. Plenty of drivers in the yard laughed seeing a monk hike up his clothes to sprint like a madman in pursuit of a stableboy. Laughter only increased as a second monk appeared from the stable, likewise in pursuit, though he quickly fell behind.
