Chương 236: Arc 4 - Chapter 38

The rain fell in a calm, slanted drizzle, as close to a clear night as one could hope for. A man, perched high on a wall and covered by a cloak the same colour as the stone, watched the Hightide estate. It wasn't just his cloak though, that was that same grey, it was his clothes, boots and even his skin. He fancied himself a spy, an investigator and an informant. Hidden by his magic, he stared with a keen gaze, only occasionally wielding the weapon of his trade, the spyglass.

He would set it to his eye to scan the distant windows when shadowy silhouettes slid over thin curtains, or better yet, bare, clear glass. Free for all to see. Something moved within the east wing windows, and he eagerly armed himself. He extended the brass casing and stared through the lens. There, standing in the light of a lantern, was a woman, the most beautiful of the household, though he had to admit that that title was contestable.

The young lady Hightide was nearly as delightful, despite the disappointing lack of curves. But he supposed that her figure would grow fuller as she bloomed into womanhood. Then she'd be a beauty indeed, the kind that would have men howling like hounds. His tongue darted and he licked his lips. The woman in the window was undressing, which required his full attention. While some may have called him a voyeur, it was simply part of the job. Who knew, after all, where and when one could uncover an important secret?

And who cared if he enjoyed his job a little? Seeing a bit of fair, fine skin was an acceptable trade for the ache in his legs, the stiffness of his back and the chill of the cold he endured while he stooped on the wide section of wall. Some could even call it a perk. A chill slid down the spy's back, and some dread fell upon his shoulders. His gut told him something was wrong. Not only that, but a sudden fatigue was now weighing down on his limbs and eyelids.

He collapsed the spyglass and put it in the pocket as he suspiciously scanned the quiet road below. There was nothing, but he couldn't lower his guard. If he'd been found out, he'd have to flee. As he readied himself to leap to the clover below at the first sign of trouble, he wove his Awareness around his eyes. The thin plane of magic, like a glass lens, distorted his vision. The world and everything in it shone with an inner light, and was outlined with a hazy luminescence.

It was a neat trick, one he had won in a wager. Learned from a foreign Scout who said she had stolen the secret from a Guide. She had likely only said that to scare him off collecting his winnings, though. Still, there was a worry he'd be discovered, so he kept quiet about it. He searched the shadows around him, watching for the shining silhouette of whatever had spooked him. Again, there was nothing. Not on the road, not on the roofs, not on the clover and not by the walls. No company but the rain and the cold.

The spy didn't hiss a curse, nor make any noise at all. He was too experienced for that. But he could feel a yawn creeping up on him, and his eyes were getting grittier by the minute. That was likely the strain of the Pattern, though. It strained his eyes and would leave them aching as though he had stared hard at a bright fire for hours. He dismissed the Pattern, hoping the brief use would curtail any hurt he'd suffer.

Then a worry struck him, and he pulled out his spyglass again and aimed it at the window he'd been observing a few minutes earlier. To his dismay, the woman had already finished changing into her nightgown, a sleek, silvery thing that left too much to the imagination for his tastes. She walked out of sight, her gait a sultry glide that threatened to set his blood aflame. Then the light dimmed, and the room went dark. Too dark even for his high Perception and Owl's Eyes to pierce.

He sighed, lowering the brass tube with dissatisfaction. Then, he fell. Or rather, he was pushed from his perch. The spy held back his scream as he hurtled towards the ground. His back struck the springy clover with a soft thud, then something heavy landed hard on his chest, driving all the air from his lungs. Winded, he wheezed, gasping for a breath that wouldn't come, and there, looming above him, was a shadowy figure clad in a grey cloak. Whoever stood over him set a boot to his chest, then pressed down.

The spy looked up into the lowered hood and could see a thin fog. The face behind it was blurry, smudged like a portrait painted in the rain.

"Now, what do we have here?" the grey figure asked. It was a man's voice, smooth, refined, and although it was sheathed in levity and languid ridicule, it had an edge of cold and cruelty. Of course, being the professional he was, the spy wouldn't answer, even if the voice sent a chill down his spine. That, and he couldn't catch a breath with which to speak. While this wasn't the first time he'd been discovered, this was the first time he'd been so completely caught off guard.

Still, he had an escape route planned and the power to extricate himself from any pursuers. Finally, he was able to suck in a ragged breath. Then he muttered something. It was nonsense, of course, a misdirection that would invite the figure to lean closer. Unfortunately, the bastard didn't take the bait.

"Speak up," the man in grey said. The Spy whispered some garbled words, trying his trick a second time. The boot planted on his chest rose, then came down, stomping at his gut. He used the brief freedom to make good his escape. Activating Puddle Jump, the Spy's body flowed, becoming clear water that bounded nine yards away, right through the bars of an iron gate. When he reformed, his flesh and bones solid again and lying in the road, he stood swiftly, then ran. The figure followed.

Though the grey-cloaked man was fleet of foot, the spy clearly outpaced him, and the distance between him and his pursuer grew. Nine yards stretched to ten, to eleven, then twelve. Yet as he fled, he felt something was off, his legs were growing tired, and though it had been only a minute or two, he was panting like he'd been running for an hour. Has my condition truly slipped so much? He asked himself. It likely had, but not so much as to be as drained as he was. It didn't matter in that moment.

An arrow wreathed in shadow whistled past his head, then soared into a tall hedge. He nearly yelped, not at the near miss, but at the shock. He hadn't felt the strike coming. Then, up ahead, at the end of the neatly-paved road, there was another peril. Light. A mana-lantern held in the steady hand of a Scale Guard patrolling the safest paths in the city. The spy, though he feared for his life, didn't want to incur the ire of the King's men, nor their attentions if he could avoid it.

Better to die quickly than to languish in the dungeon under the palace. Using his Treasure, a brooch of silver set with three opaque, blue stones, the sound around him faded from hearing. His boots no longer splashed softly on the road, and the hoarse hiss of his breath, which still came too hard, was much diminished. Though its power wasn't often needed, Silent Shell proved its potency in those moments. He dove through the hedge.

Branches snapped and scratched, but the sound was muted, barely a whisper, drowned in the drum of the rain. Once he was past the brush and bramble, he sought out a spot to secret himself. There was a pavilion, painted bright blue, but it was too obvious. As he stared around the sparse garden, and the dread mounted by the second, he found no other suitable places to hide. The pavilion it was then. He rushed to it, vaulted its waist-high wall and ducked out of sight, Activating his Camouflage Trait.

His clothes and skin both took on the appearance of his surroundings, and he waited. The light of the guard's lantern cast twisted shadows as it shone through the hedge. Thankfully, they didn't see anything amiss and patrolled right on by. Panting, sweating and absolutely exhausted. The spy sighed. It stretched into a loud yawn, which was fortunately muffled by his Treasure's power. His eyelids drooped, and he nearly fell asleep on his feet. That wasn't right.

The night was still young, and he shouldn't be so tired. Frowning, he pulled out a stamina potion from a belt bag and drank. Once the burning, bubbling draught had reached his stomach, roiling warmly, he fully realised the vague doom he had been wary of. The potion did nothing; the vigour simply boiled away, somehow stopped from soaking into his body as it should have. A soft splash sounded nearby. A footstep. Then another. And another. Closer and closer.

The hooded head peered over the pavilion's low wall and looked his way. Even through the blur, the spy could tell the man was smiling.

"Found you." The spy groaned, and the vial slipped from his fingers as he attempted to fend off sleep. He blinked, and his mind drifted into darkness. A voice called out to him. Once, twice, then thrice. It came as if it were from a great distance, carried on a chill wind. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Wake." He woke, startled and sweating, his heart beating a mile a minute. It took a moment for him to remember who he was and where he was. The spy, slumped against the wooden wall, stared up at his pursuer.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"You were watching that estate, why?" the man in grey demanded. The spy's first instinct was to deny the accurate accusation, but something glittered violently in the darkly vague shadows of the hood, right where the eyes should be.

"There are many parties interested in the sudden resurgence of the House of Hightide. Information about it and those a part of it is fetching a high price," he replied.

"No one sent you?" the figure asked. The spy hesitated. While it was true that rumours, whether whispered or shouted, regarding the Hightides, especially those pertaining to the newly instated head, were sought by many, it was also true that one noble in particular had put forward a more formal interest, retaining his services to spy on the house and those within it. To speak the name of his employer, though, was unconscionable.

Also, it would mean the end of any confidence any future patron might have in his silence. If he uttered but a word, he'd be out of work at the least and out of life at the worst. And so he wouldn't speak. The grey-clad man crouched and his hand slid gracefully to his belt, then snaked out swiftly. A dagger, one made of pale bone, pricked the spy's neck, then its curved edge was resting against his throat. The spy decided to reconsider his stance on silence.

"No one," he lied smoothly.

"And I'm not the only one that's been watching. In all his splashing, that Lord Hightide has made some wide waves, and a few foes."

"Has he? And you were hired by one of those foes," the man stated.

"I'm a freelancer. No master. No employer," he protested.

"I can tell when you lie," the figure warned, pressing the dagger all the closer to cutting.

"Tell me the truth, or die." The spy had been threatened before, and with worse than a swift death. Torture and beatings and the lives of his family, those were the usual threats. None of those previous had filled him with such dread, though. It was the voice; there was a power in it. One that promised the end of his too-short life.

"Duke Whiteship, Lord Hightide humiliated his son and house, and stole his sword," the spy admitted.

"He seeks anything to use against him."

"And have you found anything of the sort?" the figure asked, relaxing the pressure the edge of his blade put upon the spy's skin.

"Hightide hasn't been seen in at least a week. He's recovering from some illness, or rather a poisoning."

"Is that so? Do you know who attempted the assassination?"

"No. But some whisper it was endorsed by the Prince of the Empire."

"Why would he care about a nobody Lord?"

"Well... it was said that Hightide had the King's support. So his defeat or death would do his Majesty a blow. Removing one of his pieces from the board, you follow me."

"I don't. The Lord is considered to be part of the King's faction?"

"Most certainly. The real question is if he's a witting pawn or not. Still, he's paid the price for it either way, if the rumoured assassination is true." The figure in grey was still, considering something. Then he broke the quiet.

"You seem to know quite a bit."

"That's my job," the spy replied. He then grimaced at his reflexive boasting.

"Tell me more," the man in grey commanded. Normally, the spy would have expected coin for the information, but in his current circumstances he couldn't refuse. He yawned despite his fear, then answered all questions asked of him. The interrogation went by in a lethargic haze. Then, when all that he knew was spilled, the figure put away the dagger, stood from his crouch and loomed ominously.

"Never return. If I see you again, I won't warn you with a push. I will cut your throat, and you won't even notice until you're too dead to do anything about it."

"Never," the spy agreed sincerely. The gold wasn't worth it.

"Go then," the cloaked figure ordered. The spy heeded as swiftly as he could. His legs trembled, but he was able to stand, then swing himself over the wall. He trudged away hastily, occasionally looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed. Not that he would know, even if he were. The man in grey had been able to sneak on him once. He could do so again. Who knew just how powerful he was? As he slunk away, he tried to commit all he had seen to memory.

He'd find out who the man was, and why he protected the Hightides. Was he a friend of the young lord? A member of his Climbing team? Or perhaps the Lord himself? Already, the details were slipping away. The figure had worn rings; he'd made note of each of them, but now he couldn't recall how many there had been, nor if they had bands of gold, steel or silver or the colouring of their stones, if they had any. Did they? Had the man in grey even had rings?

The spy concentrated, scowling, as he trawled over the recent events, but he couldn't even remember what the man had been wearing, apart from the grey cloak. While he could attribute some of the fogginess to his weariness, it couldn't be all that was at play. It was magic, then. A Treasure or a Trait. Perilous. Too perilous! That grey shade was not to be trifled with. Perhaps it was for the best that he forget. Yes, he decided, it was for the best.

While the spy had originally intended to report what he'd seen to the Duke, he thought better of it. He'd said too much to return to his master without some severe punishment. And so he would send a letter of resignation on the coming day. Once he'd rested some. He needed sleep. A lot of it. With a shrug and a yawn, he changed his route, turning away from the Whiteship estates, and plodded his way home.

Fritz followed the spy, ensuring that he wasn't attempting to warn his employer. Eventually, though, the man made his way to a gutter grate and transformed into water, flowing out of the Palace district without needing to pass through the gates. An enviable power to those that were inclined to infiltration. With much on his mind, intrigues and the ensuing irritations most abounding, Fritz strode homewards. Though he did keep an eye out for other spies, he didn't notice any.

That wasn't to say there weren't any, so he carefully made his way to the gutter tunnels below the ground and to the secret passage into his estate. He waited by the rushing stream for an hour, until he was satisfied he hadn't been trailed. Then he opened the hidden door, slipped in, then closed it. With a sigh, he made his way through the narrow passages. The rooms he passed were quiet; only a few had the faint sounds of breathing or snoring. That was good.

It meant that the days had likely been peaceful, and his absence had not been too sorely missed. Or at least he hoped so. He felt a mote of guilt that he'd had to leave, but he reminded himself he wasn't given much of a choice in the matter. The Nightshark would have her way until she was dead. And it wasn't as if his efforts had been fruitless, he carried home some gold, two treasures and some more magical items besides.

There was also a promise from the fence that once the materials were sold, they'd get their share of that too. Still, he'd been away, and he knew he should be present. What was the point of taking back his estate if he wasn't able to spend time with his family and friends? Quietly, he sighed and entered his bedroom. It was just as he had left it. He set down his pack and began to strip off his leathers, beginning with his boots. Fritz heard a creak of a floorboard, then a muttered curse outside the door.

He recognised the voice. Smiling and standing, he waited for Bert to burst into his room. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Bert leapt in, grinning. Their eyes met, eager amber gazed into weary violet-green, then they charged. Their chests met with a thud and an 'ow', and they embraced. It felt good; he'd forgotten how much he'd missed the man.

"You're still in your armour?" Bert complained, squeezing him.

"Of course, how else would I survive your welcome?"

"There's a Technique you could learn for that. Just have to be beaten half to death to earn it."

"As amusing as that sounds, all my channels are full. Alas."

"Alas, my arse," Bert laughed, letting go and stepping back.

"How did you fare in my absence?" Fritz asked.

"Well enough. Won a few fights. Had some fun here and there," Bert boasted.

"How about you?" he asked, looking Fritz up and down.

"You look tired."

"I am weary, and not just from Climbing."

"Oh?"

"I had to run off a spy," Fritz explained blandly.

"He was watching the estate."

"The bastard. Where is he? I'll break his legs," Bert said.

"I had the same inclination. However, I set him free with a warning," Fritz recounted.

"Help me with this breast plate, would you?" He turned, yawning, and Bert loosened the straps and clasps for him.

"Just a warning?"

"Well, not just that," Fritz continued, breathing easier once he pulled off his armour.

"I also pried some interesting information from him. And a few baubles."

"Baubles?" Bert asked with avid greed. Fritz produced the spyglass he'd found in the man's pocket as well as a silver brooch studded with three blue gems.

"No gold?" Fritz shrugged, then tossed Bert the spy's purse. He caught it and weighed it with one hand.

"Not much here."

"No, not much. Likely not worth the trouble. But I was annoyed, and wanted to teach him a lesson," Fritz said, then he sighed, rubbing one sore shoulder.

"Perhaps he'll hold a grudge."

"Piss on him and his grudge," Bert said.

"I would have broken his neck. He was spying on us. What if he was peeking into our rooms? What if he was peeking into your sister's room?" Fritz's fury at the spy reignited. He glowered and decided that he was too lenient. If he ever saw him again, there would be a reckoning. Bert nodded seriously. Fritz suppressed his anger; it wouldn't do him any good now that the spy was gone.

"As for my sister, does she fare well?" Bert pondered the question for a moment.

"I heard she and Lauren had something of a row. But that seems to be settled for now."

"Right, well, I'll talk to her and Elliot tomorrow," Fritz said.

"I've missed much and missed them just as much."

"What about me?" Bert asked aghast, a hand rising to his chest.

"You too, but you know that, don't you?"

"I do." They shared a smile.

"Speaking of knowing things, how did you know I was back? Or have you been barging into my room like this every night?" Fritz asked.

"I have not," he denied.

"I just got a feeling you were around." Fritz nodded.

"A gloomy feeling," Bert continued, his smile widening to a grin.

"Brooding and sulky. Like storm clouds or the setting sun." Fritz chuckled, the idiot was trying to get a rise out of him.

"Did you get anything good in your Climb, or was it all taxed away?" Bert asked suddenly, his eye lingering on the grey cloak draped over the bed.

"It wasn't all taken, I was able to keep a few things. Though not as much as I pleased," Fritz said. Then, when Bert's expectant stare didn't cease, he told of his Climb and what he'd found and claimed. Bert, of course, focused intently on the Ring of Inner Fire when it was revealed.

"You know, that ring would look mighty fine on my finger," he began. Fritz rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure it would, but what use would you have for Resolve? You're as mad as a bull and thrice as thick."

"And what use would you have for it? You're as sly as a squid and thrice as slippery," Bert retorted.

"Anyway, I wanted it for Dale. He's a coward and hates the cold. It would help him plenty."

"You want to give a Treasure ring to your snail?" Fritz asked incredulously.

"Can beasts even use Treasures?"

"Uhh... yes... you've seen them do it," Bert said.

"The goblin chief, remember?"

"Oh, yes, and the necromancer," Fritz recalled.

"The necromancer?"

"That's a tale for another time," Fritz said.

"As is the distribution of the Treasures. Let me rest, Bert. It's great to be back, but I am so very tired. Haven't had a good night's sleep in at least a week."

"Fine," Bert said, affecting a sulk, before grinning again.

"It is great that you're back. I missed you. We all did." Fritz smiled.

"I'll get back to my own bed. Many people will be missing me, too, if I stay much longer," Bert boasted. Fritz shook his head, still smiling.

"Go, I'll see you on the morrow."

"Yeah, you will. Before dawn as well. We have training. Sir Needle will be glad to see you're 'hale' again." Fritz groaned, and Bert slapped him on the shoulder.

"Sleep well, Fritz. You'll need it." He left, closing the door behind him softly. Fritz lay down heavily, pushed all the worry from his mind, and surprisingly, he did sleep well. After all, he was home.