The hooded man’s unease was obvious, though Delphyne couldn’t tell if it was due to the dimly lit inn’s surly clientele, or because she was seated next to him. She wondered idly if it was her height, average for a dragonkin but still taller than human men by a head, her horns that curled upwards on either side of her head or her clawed hands and feet that made him nervous. Or maybe it was her wide, radiant smile. She smiled wider at the thought; the hooded man visibly flinched at the sight of her sharp teeth. The rest of the inn’s patrons paid them little attention. As inns went, the Golden Anchor was far from bad, but it was a far cry from good. Anyone who went there was looking for something to fill their belly and quench their thirst, and enough folk to drive away the feeling of being alone, yet still able to keep to themselves without being bothered.
Art cleared his throat to draw the man’s attention back to him and gave him a smile of his own. The yellow-haired human in plain but well-tailored clothes – she wore a simple leather vest and trousers designed to accommodate her tail, practicality was key in her mind – was handsome, at least according to human standards, with lazy grey eyes and the casual grace of a cat. Delphyne had spent ten years in human society and she still couldn’t tell what made humans attractive to other humans. Give her a sturdy dragonkin man with large, thick horns any day.
‘You will be pleased to know, sir,’ Art said, ‘That we have confirmed the information you gave us, and the safe is indeed where your informant said it would be.’
‘That’s it?’ The man demanded, apparently forgetting his fear for a moment. ‘I thought you wanted this meeting so you could hand it over to me! Do you have any idea how much I risk with these meetings-‘
‘There is a problem, sir,’ Art said calmly, raising his hand to silence the man. ‘The safe requires a specific key to open it, or else a spell will trigger and trap the safe-opener, and alert all the guards in the building. Or it could simply kill whoever opened the safe. We’re not entirely sure what will happen, only that something bad will happen.’
The man scowled, but as Art continued speaking, his surprise was evident even within the shadows of his hood. ‘We have two ways of doing this. The first is safer, but takes longer, and requires some input from you, sir. You will provide us with a copy of the key to open the safe, or even better, the actual key itself. The second is immensely risky, and,’ Art smiled broadly. ‘Hideously expensive for you. We will pick the safe’s lock and deactivate the spell, but considering the great risk our…operative will have to take, we require an additional, immediate payment of two thousand Albion sovereigns.’
The ‘operative’, of course, was Delphyne, and there hadn’t yet been a safe, lock or trap that could trouble her – but there was for need for their client to know that. The man stared at Art incredulously. ‘You want two packets of gold on top of the eight packets I’m already paying you?’
‘We are perfectly happy to wait while you provide us with the safe’s key, sir,’ Art said, leaning back in his chair.
The hooded man scowled. As the pair well knew, their client couldn’t afford to wait. They had been hired to ‘acquire’ one of Lord Breyan Hawforth’s most prized and valuable possessions, a page from the legendary Aspects of the Demiurge, a book which allegedly foretold – or more accurately, described the characteristics of – the coming of special individuals chosen by fate.
The book was supposedly written by the first Demiurge himself – or herself, records were strangely vague on that matter – or, as some scholars thought, by one of his followers. Some time after the first Demiurge’s death, the book had been torn apart, though no one could agree who was to blame. It was said that when fragments of Aspects were placed together, they would come together like the page had never been damaged.
Hawforth flaunted his page whenever he got the chance, but rumour had it he was going to offer the page to the King of Albion in exchange for keeping his land and title. Delphyne had little interest in Albion politics, but from what she had heard of the King, it seemed doubtful he would be moved by Hawforth’s amazingly blatant attempt at bribery.
Their client, Lord Geoffrey Weyatt, thought he was terribly clever with his cloak and dagger act, but it had been laughably easy to find out who he was. Like so many petty nobles who were too low ranked to warrant much attention, he hated and envied those with better stations than he did in life. It was likely he had never met or heard of Lord Hawforth before he learned of the page from Aspects. Neither Delphyne nor Art thought of asking their client what he would do once word got out that what appeared to be the exact page Lord Hawforth once had was in someone else’s possession. It was none of their business, after all.
The good Lord Weyatt spent another thirty minutes trying to weasel his way out of the extra payment, but in the end became yet another victim to Art’s silver tongue. Once the disgruntled lord had swept out of the inn, Delphyne pushed away from the table and walked up the stairs to their room, where the third member of their group waited.
The room was small by human standards and made even smaller by Delphyne, who had to duck through the doorway to avoid hitting the frame with her horns. It just managed to fit a human-sized bed and a dragonkin-sized bed, which the innkeeper had managed to drag out of somewhere, muttering under his breath and demanding extra coin all the while.
Jolene stood up from the larger bed, folding her arms across her chest as they entered. The red headed woman was as tall as most human men, and was apparently considered quite the beauty, with fierce green eyes and full lips. Art gave her his customary leer as he came into the room, which Jolene ignored.
‘I hope you convinced the fool,’ Jolene said to Delphyne. ‘There is absolutely no way I am going to spend another day at Hawforth’s. I am sick and tired of cleaning rooms the size of this bloody inn.’
‘A hard day’s work does you good, milady,’ Art said, lying down on his bed and stretching out. Jolene made a gesture that made Art laugh and put his hands up in mock surrender.
Delphyne shook her head and clapped her hands to draw the humans’ attention. Jolene flushed a little as she turned back to Delphyne. Art, on the other hand, folded his arms under his head and grinned insolently.
Jolene had been working as a maid at Hawforth’s manor for the past few weeks, learning the security systems and layout of the manor, as well as finding out if anything else was worth stealing. It seemed that besides the page from Aspects, Hawforth was also the proud owner of a mounted basilisk head (with red glass eyes and fangs made of plaster), an heirloom sword handed down by his ancestors (Jolene thought the real sword must be hidden elsewhere since there was no way anyone would pass down a sword that gaudy), a statue of a wolfhound (Hawforth liked dogs), a rock with some sort of creature’s claw print pressed into it (which confused Art to no end, but no amount of research or discreet questions revealed it to be anything but a rock), an original copy of the infamously scandalous Highborn and Lowborn (due to the amazingly graphic and explicit sex scenes, as well as ideas peculiar to the good people from that time), several paintings of various breeds of dogs (Hawforth really liked dogs) and various other artistic or expensive knick-knacks the rich and powerful tended to accumulate.
Reaching under her bed, Delphyne pulled out a somewhat crumpled backpack, making sure to deactivate the spell that would set fire to the bag and its contents – as well as any unfortunate soul holding it at the time – before opening the flap and pulling out a rolled-up sheet of paper. Art watched warily from his bed, likely remembering the last time someone tried to sneak a peek into her pack.
‘Alright,’ Delphyne said, unrolling the paper on her bed. ‘Let’s go over the plan again.’
It was simple, as plans went. There were wards set everywhere someone could potentially gain access into the manor – windows, doors, gates. The wards would dispel any spells an intruder cast on themselves, as well as binding them and preventing them from escaping. Jolene had determined that the wards were automatic and indiscriminate, and had to be deactivated by the guards to allow visitors to enter. That was why Art would be visiting the Hawforth manor the next day, disguised as a travelling salesman. It didn’t matter if he actually got into the manor or not, so long as he managed to convince the guards to let him through the front gates. Delphyne would seize that moment to rush onto the grounds and make her way to the servants’ entrance, at which point Jolene would coincidentally leave to deal with the kitchen’s trash. After that, it would be entirely up to Delphyne to sneak through the manor undetected and leave with the page from Aspects.
Perfectly simple.
Of course, no plan went off without a hitch. Delphyne huddled in some convenient shrubbery in a park opposite the Hawforth manor, watching with irritation and not a little amusement as Art’s charm finally meet its match in the form of an obstinate guard captain who was insistent that the Lord Hawforth did not want to be bothered by the common riffraff. As Art waved his arms about and gradually grew redder and redder in the face, Delphyne decided to go to her back-up plan, which, in all honesty, was even simpler than the original. While the walls around the manor had vicious-looking spikes on top, there were no wards there as far as Jolene had been able to tell. Delphyne took a moment to gather herself, then drew in the mana around her. Some said mana was the life force of the universe, others said it was the power of unlimited potential; either way, mana was the fuel needed to cast a spell.
Successful thieves, especially those who break into houses to relieve the owners of their possessions, tend to be quite lithe and slender, all the better to slip through narrow gaps and sneak in the shadows. They tend to be quiet, which isn’t the same as being silent – they are careful to make noises as natural as possible, not to be so soundless as to project an air of unnaturalness. Delphyne, being a dragonkin, which meant being large, horned, having sharp claws and a long tail, was absolutely none of those things – so she cheated like hell.
Filled with swirling mana, Delphyne could feel the burning of the runes Seared into the deepest recesses of her mind. Once a rune was Seared, you remembered it forever. Even if you lost your memories, all sense of the person you used to be, you would remember the rune. She drew those runes out now, a jumble of glowing eldritch shapes, and fit them together in her mind, three at a time. Three runes made a spell, that was how it was. She wrapped three spells around her: one that gave Truesight, one that enhanced her strength, and one to make her invisible. Not unnoticeable, not hard to see – invisible. Those three runes were her pride and joy.
A quick peek told her that Art still had no success with the guards, but he was still fulfilling his purpose as a distraction. Delphyne took a deep breath, readying herself – and rushed out of her shrubbery, making a mad dash at the wall. The wall rushed closer…closer…then she leapt, trying to sail over the ten metre wall. She almost made it – but a spike scraped through her trousers, drawing a line of sharp pain down her leg. She landed in the garden behind the wall, biting down a snarl of pain and hoping like hell Jolene hadn’t run into any trouble. The Hawforth manor was a few metres from where she was crouching, a fairly standard (for the rich) building of white stone, facing roughly the direction where the city of Albion was. A door in the side of the manor opened, and Delphyne saw a familiar redhead walk out with a large bag. She snuck her way to the door, limping a little, and let her tail brush Jolene’s leg as she passed, to let her know she had entered the manor.
The path they had chosen was a servants’ corridor typically used by servants returning from the city, or those taking a longer route on errands to avoid going back to their original duties. More importantly, few of the manor’s security stood guard there, as the steward deemed them obstacles to the servants’ work. A steward’s word tended to be divine law in any noble household, above that of even the lords and ladies of the house. As Jolene had reported, there were no guards at the door leading out of the manor, and none until Delphyne reached the door at the end of the servants’ corridor, sneaking behind Jolene. She could hear two guards on the other side of the door – they weren’t speaking, but if she focused hard enough she could hear their breathing. Natural perks of being dragonkin.
The guards turned as Jolene pulled open the door, more curious than cautious. Jolene waved a grubby envelope that she had been keeping in her apron pocket, murmuring ‘For the steward.’ The envelope contained a letter from a ‘distant relative’, penned by Art, begging for money. In the event the steward actually fell for it, Art had arranged for the trio to collect the money in some fashion, but it didn’t matter either way. It was merely an excuse for Jolene to enter the manor proper, allowing Delphyne to sneak through the open door and past the guards.
Leaving Jolene and the guards behind, Delphyne quietly made her way down the corridor. Hawforth kept his page of Aspects in his treasure room, a specially-designed room harkening back to the old days when nobles had actual loot and spoils of war. Modern architecture tended to leave this room out since few felt the desire to have a room designed, at the whim of the owner of said loot, to trap, knock out, poison and otherwise incapacitate enterprising thieves without actually damaging anything in the room. This was why the treasure room was sometimes called the ‘flytrap room’ by the somewhat shady and unscrupulous. Hawforth was a stickler for the old days; rumour had it he was part of some cabal plotting to dethrone the current King of Albion. The throne had a somewhat convoluted history. The current King was the grandson of one Lord Grenwould, the best friend and right hand man of a previous King. This King died heirless and the throne would have passed to his extended relatives if Grenwould hadn’t shown up with a document allegedly signed by the King before he died, declaring Grenwould to be his heir. Grenwould had been quite popular at the time and turned out to be a strict but fair ruler, but the King’s relatives were naturally quite unhappy, to say the least, and so civil war reigned in Albion for a while. Even now there were still those who were determined to see the old bloodline sit on the throne.
Delphyne tried to gather her thoughts and remember where the treasure room was – why was her mind in such disarray? Surely she had the manor layout well memorised by now – and finally remembered it was on the floor above her. So all she had to do was sneak upstairs; the room would be three doors down to the right if she took the main staircase. Strictly speaking, there was no actual door to the room as it could only be accessed by going through Hawforth’s study. So it was more like a vault than a room, really, but it was called a room since nobles used to use it to show off their prized possessions back in the day. A vault sounded like something you kept shut, and it would make people uneasy to no end if they were invited into a ‘vault’. Her leg throbbed as she snuck down the hall, and she glanced behind her idly, to see if Jolene had left – the guards had swords.
She had scuttled halfway down the hall, her heart pounding madly, before it occurred to her that the guards were still standing by the door, and even if they were alarmed about something, they couldn’t see her anyway. Delphyne huddled against the wall, trying to gather her thoughts. Only the garrisoned soldiers of Albion’s cities were allowed to carry swords or other bladed, so-called ‘lethal’ weapons, anyone else either had their weapons confiscated or sealed to prevent them from being drawn, or if you were a guard, you were armed with clubs, batons and only allowed to use spells that incapacitated. Supposedly this was to prevent unnecessary loss of life, but in reality it was to stop nobles from trying to take over the city with their private guard forces. Though nothing stopped them from trying to bribe the garrisoned soldiers…no! Delphyne shook her head wildly. Something was horribly wrong.
She decided to focus on the guards first. There was no way Jolene would forget about or fail to notice guards with swords, so what was going on? Now that she was focusing, she saw a distortion around and on the guards’ swords. Ah. It was the Truesight she had cast before she entered the manor, allowing her to see through illusions. So Hawforth had had the guards’ weapons disguised. Did he have something to hide, something he’d risk killing for (the fact that Hawforth was trying to hide the fact he was breaking the law never once entered Delphyne’s mind – after all, everyone was breaking the law in some fashion, and Hawforth was a noble anyway)?
Now…why was she so disoriented? It wasn’t fatigue, though she did feel tired. And a little nauseous, if she was being honest. Her leg hurt like hell. Wait, but why? Wasn’t it just a nasty scratch, deep enough to draw blood and ache but not so bad as to make her woozy, from what? Loss of blood? The obvious drawback of being invisible was being unable to see yourself, and Delphyne didn’t intend to become visible again in full view of the guards. Besides, she had cast those spells outside to avoid triggering any alarms inside the manor. The nausea seemed to have grown a little. Delphyne suddenly felt cold (metaphorically, since dragonkin can regulate their own body temperature).
A sudden realisation had struck her – the spikes on the wall had actually punctured her scales. Dragonkin didn’t have the impenetrable scales of the legendary dragons, but their scales were tough enough to withstand a few blows, or dull a reasonably determined stab from a knife. Which meant those spikes were sharp, sharp enough to rip open any other race if they had tried what she had. Meanwhile, the nausea, the disorientation and the throbbing of her leg seemed to add up to one thing – poison. Dragonkin were resilient to most poisons that could kill other races, which meant that this poison was pretty vicious to have an effect on her. Thankfully though, it wouldn’t be deadly to her. She hoped.
The poisoned, sharp wall spikes. The guards with disguised swords. The meticulous ward and alarm system that bordered on paranoia. The heavily warded treasure room. The mere existence of a treasure room. Delphyne was now positive that Lord Breyan Hawforth had something to hide – and he was willing to commit horrible murders to ensure no one found out.
But that had nothing to do with her, of course, beyond the immediate matter of possibly being discovered and murdered. Delphyne was just here to relieve Hawforth of a few items and leave immediately. She made a mental note to tell Jolene to leave Hawforth’s service as soon as possible, and to make it seem unsuspicious.
Conversations with the Wind 