Chương 242: Arc 4 - Chapter 44

When the day of Fritz's meeting with House Whiteship finally arrived, much delayed past the five days they'd previously agreed upon, he was in something of a dark mood. The frustration of securing a proper place and time, only for a missive to call off the appointment and apologise on no less than three occasions, had irked him to no end. That, and his efforts in acquiring Rain Spire badges had proven to be in vain. Still, the delays gave him the opportunity to learn more of House Whiteship.

He spied on them when his schedule allowed, which was not often, and learned a few interesting things. First, was that the House's heir, Lloyd, had been regimented to a life of hard practice and study. Intended as reprimand and a righting of the son's wayward bent. Second, a grand total of four of their trade vessels had been lost in recent months. The rumours suggested that they were either commandeered by Krakosi pirates or sunk by the leviathans and their brood.

Sure, there were no witnesses to these disasters, but there were no other apparent explanations for their disappearance. Another oddity in that tale was that the King had not made use of his navy to search for the missing ships. A sure sign that the Whiteships no longer received any favour from the House of Rain. Third, and the most concerning, was that the House was in secret contact with the Empire Prince. The one that had likely supplied the poison administered to Fritz.

He had discovered this while he watched the Whiteship estate. One night, he'd spied a messenger, a cunningly quick and quiet figure, deliver letters into the waiting hands of the head butler, who in turn hid them away into his coat pocket. Of course, even with the far-sight granted by his newly acquired spyglass, the seals on those letters were impossible to make out, if there were any. So he had to follow the figure.

On his first attempt, the messenger had slipped away skilfully and left Fritz with no tracks to follow. The second attempt was more fruitful by far. He had requested the aid of Toby and Mel for a spell of nights, and together, employing all the skulduggery at their disposal, they were able to find out to where the figure fled. The messenger had run to an extravagant manor Prince Ixaron was currently occupying.

It was said that although he was invited to reside in the Palace itself, he refused the King's grand hospitality. Some gossip claimed that he could not bear the feeling of being underwater; other gossip whispered that he wished to indulge himself with delights that could only be enjoyed outside the palace. Or that he desired to encourage the nobility to visit him so as to discuss any plots and give any gifts as was appropriate for such meetings, which would be unwise to do under the King's roof.

Politics aside, Fritz had also learned that House Hightide, and therefore himself, was not one of the Duke's most pressing concerns. No, the Duke's faction was in disarray, his ships were missing, and his son was made a fool for all to see. He had much on his plate, near as much as Fritz had, and so the overtures of peace, or at least a truce, were well received, if bitterly so. And to all appearances, there was to be no ambush, physical or political, when the parley was to proceed.

Or rather, any planned embarrassments were not intended to shame Fritz. Though he had caught wind that the Duke's son was to be sent to negotiate. Another punishment, to face the man who prevailed over him, and publicly so. It was to be a test of the young Lord Whiteship's character and self-control. Fritz desired to make that trial a difficult one; he wanted to make a fool of the merfolk man. He craved vengeance.

But those were his worst instincts, and further disgracing the young noble would only bring more trouble, complications he and his House couldn't afford in their precarious position. Striding into the exquisitely exclusive salon, Fritz made his way to where Lloyd Whiteship was seated, or attempted to. He was stopped by one of the well-attired staff, who then proceeded to escort him out with exasperation. Until Fritz declared his business and who he was there to see, that was.

Then it was the bowing and scraping, all the apologies one could profess, and then he was led right to Lloyd. The lounge was quietly decadent and elegantly arranged. The chairs were plush, and their fabrics were fine. All manner of small delectables sat upon a silver platter on a low table. And there were a few bottles of richly coloured wines and languidly labelled liqueurs. The Duke's son rose from his seat, then bowed deeply. It was stiff, and affronted anger boiled off the gesture.

Fritz returned the bow with one of his own, Gracefully, and as genteel as he knew how. They both righted themselves in the same moment.

"Lord Hightide, please, sit," Lloyd entreated, sweeping his hand at the couch across from himself. Fritz did so, as did Lloyd. The young lord hadn't changed much since they'd last met, having the same pale hair and grey eyes. However, there was now a long scar down the man's face, right across the brow, nose and mouth. Fritz's cut hadn't taken the eye, but the white, gnarled line parted the scales it passed through and twisted the lord's lip where it alighted.

Lloyd noticed him studying the scar and attempted a smile.

"Yes. Quite the eyesore, is it not?"

"I think it lends you a fearsome look," Fritz said civilly.

"A fearsome blade imparted it, so why not?" Lloyd chuckled, his lip twitching with well-concealed hatred.

"Your father won't let you heal it?" Fritz asked, not acknowledging any mirth.

"He will not," Lloyd said. There was a moment of silence, then they fulfilled the tedious duty that was small talk, each partaking of some delicacies and drink while they danced around the reason for their meeting. After fifteen minutes of such polite niceties, Fritz had finally had enough. Though the young lord was affecting a pleasant demeanour and was cordial almost to fawning, there were bitter, furious motes steaming and swirling around him.

It was irritating to have to listen to lies, knowing full well their falsity.

"Lord Whiteship," Fritz began.

"Please, we have duelled, and you have bested me. You should call me Lloyd, as my friends do," Lloyd professed.

"Lord Whiteship, let's dispense with these pleasantries," Fritz said, his face stern, smileless.

"I know you hate me for what violence and shame I brought to you, though you inflicted it on yourself. I, too, harbour much ill-will for the part you played. Yet, that makes no difference. I'm here to negotiate a price, a ransom for Whiterazor, not to befriend you, nor settle any grudge or pursue any feud." Lloyd kept his smile on for another few seconds before he dropped it like an anchor in the ocean.

"As you wish, Lord Hightide. What do you want for the blade?"

"Twelve-thousand gold," Fritz said. Lloyd barked out a barren laugh, as if he'd expected such audacity, then he quieted and shook his head.

"It was bought for six thousand, and that was three-hundred-and-fifty-four years ago."

"What of it? It is House Whiteship's sword. Powerful and precious, especially to you," Fritz said, frowning.

"It is," Lloyd agreed.

"Though the times change. You know that."

"I do know this. Though, why should it matter?" Fritz asked. Lloyd studied him for a second, then sighed.

"I suppose your upbringing, or lack thereof, has left you with little knowledge of scholarly thought and theory. I will illuminate you. Simply, if you would prefer?"

"Simply," Fritz agreed, keeping hold of his anger. Lloyd smirked, then explained, "As centuries pass, Treasures accumulate, and are made more plentiful, stored in vaults or carried by Climbers alike. Gold, however, dwindles. The reasons for this are manifold, though its increasing scarcity is predominately because it is used to feed all manner of magics, runes, Treasures and alchemy, most among then. And therefore, gold's worth is greater now than ever.

As such, you cannot expect the same exchanges as there were in the past."

"I see," Fritz said.

"Ten-thousand, then."

"To clear your debt to the crown?" Lloyd noted knowingly.

"That and other expenses," Fritz agreed.

"The patch of land in the desperate district? I heard you are attempting to make it livable," Lloyd divulged.

"I cannot see why, though. Why care how the low-born live, so long as they make rent?" Though he was disgusted by the lord's callous disregard, Fritz didn't bother to argue. He just stared at the merfolk before him. Lloyd cleared his throat.

"House Whiteship has another proposal, one you should find more pleasing than gold. I am sure."

"Oh?"

"I have an older sister, she is quite dear to me," he continued, hesitating, then he pushed on, resignedly.

"The proposal is just that, a betrothal to Lira Whiteship."

"In trade for the blade?" Fritz nearly sneered.

"Not only that, though her hand alone should be more than enough for someone of your station," Lloyd said, a dark glint in his eye. Fritz said nothing. The Lordling glowered.

"And there would be other benefits, other advantages and opportunities. And a sizeable dowry, of course."

"Of course," Fritz repeated.

"Will you accept such an offer?"

"No. Never," Fritz refused.

"What?" Lloyd asked, incredulous and affronted.

"Have you not heard she is a great beauty? One of the most desired bachelorettes in the City. Even Prince Roderick considered the pairing. And he is worldly and mighty."

"I will not consider that proposal," Fritz stated, waving his hand sharply.

"I desire gold, or if your House cannot afford that, more useful Treasures in kind."

"Is she not worth even consideration?" Lloyd demanded, leaning forward in his seat.

"Her hand is worth far more than gold. To deny it would be a profound insult. One I would duel over. Again, if I must. I would suffer another scar for her honour." His hand went to his sabre's hilt. Seeing that the meeting was descending into a needless argument and could end in blood, Fritz let loose a trickle of Dusksong.

"You need not take my denial as a slight. Lira's hand is beyond worth. I am in no doubt of that. However, I am a romantic. I believe a woman, or a man for that matter, should choose to whom they are to be betrothed," Fritz waxed.

"Duty, while a worthy cause, is not enough for eternity. Love, I think, should be the sole reason for such beautiful, binding, vows."

"You know, I could believe you. And I would, if not for the knowledge that you are to be betrothed to Lady Noonsea," Lloyd remarked.

"If you knew that, why approach me with this offer, knowing I must refuse?" Frustration fluttered around Lloyd's head.

"It was thought you would see sense. That you would take a prestigious, wealthy Whiteship wife over a lowly, grasping Noonsea whore."

"Take those words back," Fritz commanded. While he didn't love or even like Yvonne Noonsea, he wouldn't have her besmirched either.

"If not, you will suffer another scar. Just as you wished." Lloyd glared. Fritz smoothly reached for his rapier. Lloyd paled, then some memory surfaced and he winced. He sat back, sagging slightly.

"My apologies. The wine has gone to my head. I meant no offence to Lady Noonsea, nor her House." Fritz nodded once.

"Good." The merfolk went to take up his glass, then stared at the red wine within and thought better of it, pushing it aside. Fritz drank his own glass, then they sat there for a few minutes, not speaking.

"Six-thousand gold," Fritz said. Lloyd shifted uncomfortably.

"Two-thousand. Any more and I will have to consult the Duke."

"Then consult him," Fritz said.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I will report to the Duke. And I will tell him that you are a reasonable man and seek no petty vengeance. We will continue all further dealings by letter and writ, if that pleases you?"

"It does," Fritz agreed, glad to not have to meet this lording in person again.

"Good day to you then, Lord Hightide," Lloyd said.

"Good day," Fritz said. Now that their meeting had come to an end, he stood, bowed shallowly, then left the salon. The matter of the sword was negotiated over the next few days, though not by Fritz himself, but by Lauren acting as his broker. She had a better head for such things and corresponded with Alfred in order to attain the fairest price. Sadly, what Lloyd had said about Treasure's and gold's respective values being different in the past was true.

Though in the end, they eventually agreed upon a modest sum of three-thousand-and-nine-hundred gold. Fritz, while giddy at the thought of so much wealth, still felt somewhat cheated. He didn't let it dampen his mood, though, nor would he let it douse his determination. Bert wouldn't let him sulk either, wouldn't hear a single complaint. After all, nearly four-thousand was a great amount of gold. Beyond his wildest dreams as an urchin. Beyond his hopes even a month ago.

Just as Fritz began to smile, hefting Whiterazor one last time before he reunited it with its old owners, the message stone in his pocket warmed.

"Come, Climb." The Nightshark called.

Elliot Hightide, heir to House Hightide, should his brother perish or disappear, as was dreadfully likely, set down his blunted rapier and wiped his sweat-beaded brow with a cool cloth. He was rather proud of his performance. He had not stepped off line, his blade had not wavered, and his stance was as straight and as steady as the steel of a sword. And there was that weight, a pressure, one in both his head and chest, pushing. This was just as it should be; it meant he was close to learning a Technique.

However, despite his effort, it could not yet be realised. He had no Sanctum, only the seed of one, and so the Inevitable Blade was just out of reach. Until the next Tolling, at least. Just two years and nine months, and he would be a man, ready to shoulder all the responsibility that entailed. And he would do so better than others were. Hightide would rise. Its name and honour would be restored. It would be respected again.

Thinking forward and imagining that far distant future sent a thrill of excitement through him. He could not wait to Climb Spires, to earn powers and wield mighty magics. Just like his grandfather, who was both a skilled swordsman and could summon wind to add a further edge to his blade, or so the family histories claimed.

Or perhaps he could surpass that old warrior, grow as strong as his great-great-great-grandfather, his own namesake Elliot Hightide, who could cut the air with singing gales and could still a squall with a spoken word. His mind soared, as it did after a body's exertion. It was the afternoon, and he had come to the training hall for a bit of additional practice. He had gone at his own pace which was just what one needed when one was worried, restless or bored. He wasn't the only one who thought so, either.

Two others shared the hall with him, or rather three, as Sir Silent the Snorepuss sat unobtrusively in a corner, watching on with interest. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Currently, her gaze rested upon Lauren, who was in the middle of a series of dance-like steps, swinging and spinning a quarterstaff around her body in graceful circles. Her loose training robes flapped and flared as she whirled with poise and purpose.

She was practising a Technique, the same one she had been learning for a while. It was a defensive style of staff fighting, though that wasn't to say it was completely without offence. Occasionally, when spun at a sufficient, steady speed, the tips, both top and bottom, of the staff would flicker with thin fingers of fire, leaving trailing lines in the air, orange bright. They were nothing larger than a candle's lit wick, but entrancing nonetheless. Though more entrancing was the woman who willed them into being.

It was difficult to take his eyes off her, but he managed it after admiring the sight for a few moments. A minute at most. Lauren finished one last sweeping movement, chopping down and letting loose a short shout, "Ha!" Fire flared, then faded fully less than the time it took to blink. She held her stance for another moment, then she raised the staff and set it to rest on her shoulder. Lauren closed her ember ringed eyes and let out a long exhalation. Her breath rippled with heat.

When she had centred herself, she opened her, now clear, eyes and looked around. Lauren quickly noticed Elliot's stare and raised one brow. He looked away. Though he wanted to suggest that it would have been better, safer, to practice her Technique outside in the rain, where there was no risk of anything catching flame. Elliot wasn't going to be the one who advised her to do so. No, he wouldn't be so rude or so foolish. In addition, he did not truly believe the hall was as delicate as that.

As he averted his gaze, it caught upon George. The bulky man was sitting cross-legged in front of the wall where he had hung all his inscribed tiles. He wasn't poring over them as he usually did. Instead, he was hunched over a scattered selection of metal plates and ingots, attempting to decipher their secrets, as he claimed they contained, through touch.

"Any progress, George?" Elliot asked.

"Plenty," George said, straightening, then smiling proudly.

"Have you discovered what the Technique does?"

"Not fully, but I'm sure I'm close. I suspect, from what the plates tell me, that it will harden my Essence of Metal, which in turn will allow me to affect any metal I wear or wield. It will make any Patterns woven with it more effective. Resilient, too, if I guess correctly," George explained.

"More powerful Patterns, is it? Sir Needle told me that he knows a few for Essence of Metal. Has he taught them to you?" Elliot asked.

"Only one of them. It's difficult to maintain, but it further hones the edge of a blade. I'm almost there. In a week or two of practice, and I'm sure I'll be able to use it in battle," George confidently claimed.

"That is wonderful. You will soon have a most fearsome sword. I am the portrait of envy, George," Elliot admitted.

"How I wish I were born a few years older and join you all in the Spires." George blinked, smiled shyly and shrugged one shoulder.

"Well, when you do come of age, I'm sure you'll catch up quickly."

"And his Lordship would be a welcome addition to the team when that time comes," Lauren added, having walked over to join their conversation. Which in Elliot's mind, she was always welcome to do. He smiled, and his chest swelled.

"And when it does, I will endeavour to keep you all safe." His hand went to his hip, grasping for the hilt of a rapier that wasn't there. He patted the side of his belt instead, hoping one one would notice his blunder.

"Still, I wonder," Lauren said.

"Wonder what?" Elliot asked.

"I had thought that you would form a team of your own, once your Tolling passed," Lauren said. Elliot furrowed his brow pensively, considering the idea of leading his own team. It was an interesting thought, and not one without merit. He had studied the art of command as part of his noble duty and had spent some effort in the mastery of tactics and strategy. He enjoyed reading of great battles and the triumphant campaigns told in the long histories of the mainland.

"You think I could?" he asked.

"Certainly. Though I must admit another blade to protect our backs would be more welcome," Lauren said. Heat washed over his face, and he covered a burgeoning blush with his towel, pretending it was his still beading sweat that had bothered him.

"Well, we will see.

""What will we see?" a new voice asked. It was a rude voice, somehow both scratchy and sonorous. He looked up to see Rosie as she trudged closer, right up next to Elliot himself. Too close, they were almost touching. He took a step back away from her. If she was offended by his retreat, she didn't show it. Instead, she smiled a mouth filled with irregular fangs. Immediately, he was irritated, affronted even that she would speak to him in any way at all after her insults and insubordination.

"What will we see?" she asked again.

"Nothing," Elliot said.

"Okay then," Rosie said, nodding once.

"I have to practice my parrying and blocking. Will you spar with me, uh... Lord?"

"I was just finishing up," Elliot claimed.

"And George would be a better sparring partner for that, would he not?"

"Nah, George hits too hard. Breaks my pretty scales, you see?" She said, holding up her arm. Sure enough, the scales on the outside of her forearm were crushed and cracked, and a few were missing, revealing the rough, pale skin below.

"Sorry," George said, hanging his head an inch.

"Don't worry, George! It don't hurt none. It just looks bad, and it's itchy. But scales are like that when they're not properly watered," Rosie professed.

"I heard there's a lotion, or was it an oil, to soothe and prevent scale dryness," Lauren said.

"Really!?" Rosie asked, eager as an eel.

"Where do I buy it? The itching has been driving me mad. All night I'm scratching, scratching, scratching. Even when I sleep, or so my bed-friends tell me. They don't like it either." Lauren's smile endured, somehow, through the woman's crude confessions, though it did take on a condescending curve.

"There are stores right here in the Palace Ring that will sell what you desire."

"Ah," Rosie said, deflating.

"They don't like me up here. Don't know why. Maybe they're jealous? Are there any places in the Upper Ring or the districts that sell the stuff?" A look of exasperation and pity crossed Lauren's face.

"There should be one or two in the Upper Ring. Though none that I've heard of in the Districts. However, now that I consider it, there's a pair of pretty alchemists down there that could concoct what you need."

"Yeah?" Rosie asked, idly fingering a loose scale.

"Yes," Lauren said.

"We, meaning House Hightide and I, are their generous patrons. They're quite skilled, though they may not have what you desire."

"Alright, I'll go see them," Rosie agreed.

"Where do they live?"

"I believe they relocated to a spot in the Desperate district, a building owned by House Hightide," Lauren said.

"The Refuge?" Rosie asked.

"I have heard it called that, yes," Lauren agreed.

"Refuge?" Elliot asked.

"Why is it called that?"

"You will have to ask Lord Hightide," Lauren said.

"Cause they take care of sick, old and kids there," Rosie said.

"And a storm protects them. Wish it was around when I was little. A bed and a meal back then would have been real magic."

"Quite," Lauren said, then changing the subject continued, "Now, about those oils. Let us look in the Thoroughfare Market first. See what you can find there. And I'll write to our alchemists and request they find a suitable recipe with which to help you."

"Okay," Rosie said.

"Will that take long?"

"A letter and a response? Lauren asked.

"Maybe several hours, which is why you should go check the market yourself." Rosie nodded.

"Alright. Will you come with me?"

"To the markets?"

"Yeah. It'll be fun, we can buy all the girly things we want. Ah, can I get some of my gold from the vault?" Lauren only hesitated for a moment, coming up with some excuse, no doubt, then she resigned herself and said, "Let us go get your gold."

"Yeah," Rosie agreed, smiling. Lauren returned it with only a little strain.

"Let's go then," Rosie said. Lauren tilted her head, acquiescing, then turned to Elliot.

"I hope you can excuse me, Lord Hightide."

"Of course," he allowed with a pleased smile. She moved her gaze to the still fidgeting merfolk and stared at her for some moments. Rosie stared back dully. Lauren sighed.

"Say your farewells, too, Rosie. Be polite." Rosie blinked.

"Ah, Right. Farewell... Lord Hightide." She stood there awkwardly, seemingly searching for something more to say. Elliot endured several more moments in her presence.

"Uh..." she mumbled, before a steel entered her eyes.

"Um, and I'm sorry for being rude to you. At breakfast a while ago. When I called you a prick. Remember?" Lauren exhaled slowly.

"Oh, that," Elliot said tersely.

"Yeah, well, I am sorry. Fritz said that you've been feelin' rough 'cause of all the changes. I don't know why you would be when you have all you have now, but he knows these things true. He's very clever like that. Wish I could be, too," Rosie said, her gaze now distant and peering to the side. Then she shrugged.

"Anyway, I'm sorry." She held out one scaly hand, webbed fingers splayed. Elliot stared at it for a whole second, debating whether or not to accept this commoner's meandering apology. Reflexively, he wanted to refuse her, but when he met her eyes, he could see her determination and blunt sincerity. Somehow, it moved him. He took her hand and shook it.

"Apology accepted. Though now that I look back on my own words and deeds, perhaps I owe an apology or two, as well." Her hand was as solid as a statue's, and she squeezed him like a serpent.

"That's alright! You're a good man, Elliot." When she shook his hand, it was with a frightening strength. Soon, she let go, and he stifled the instinct to rub at his, now aching, fingers.

"Damn, how strong are you?" He couldn't help but wonder aloud.

"Fifteen," she boasted.

"And that's only half of what my Durability is. I'm tough, alright."

"Quite so," Elliot agreed.

"Anyway, I'm going with Lauren now. Farewell, Lord Hightide," she said before turning to the other woman and nodding once. Lauren sighed, smiled an apologetic smile, then they both left the training hall. Elliot watched them go, a slight crease upon his brow.

"That was decent of you, Elliot," George said.

"Very decent, considering how she is. Thank you."

"No need to thank me," Elliot protested with pleasure.

"If she's a trusted member of your team, she must have some redeeming features." George shrugged.

"She's tough. Suffered through a wound poisoned by bittersteel. Bore it well, too. No surrender and no whining. Well, not much whining. Solid as steel." Elliot, hiding his surprise, nodded.

"Well, if anyone knows solid, it is you. What with that metal Technique."

"Yes. I suppose so," George agreed as hesitantly humble as ever.

"And if you don't think it too bold for me to say, I believe you have all the qualities of steel, too."

"Not too bold. Not too bold at all," Elliot said half-chuckling. Then he sighed.

"Why can't the rest of the team be as good as you are, George?" The man stood slowly, then shrugged, then stretched his powerful shoulders.

"They are as good as me. In different ways. Just give them time to show-" A man burst into the training hall. His dark hair was soaked, and his boots were muddy, as were his gloved hands.

"Cal? What's wrong?" George asked as the man's eyes darted around the room.

"I just saw Rosie leave here. She was in a good mood, and being escorted by Lauren of all people. So I came to see what trouble she had wrought," Cal stated, his brow heavy with apprehension. Elliot stared at him for a full second, then chuckled.

"No trouble, Callum. In truth, she apologised, and we reconciled our differences."

"You did?" he asked, his voice high with both relief and surprise.

"Yes."

"Good." Then Cal sighed.

"Good."

"It is good," Elliot agreed.

"I was worried she'd insult you further," Cal admitted.

"Fritz, I mean, Lord Hightide, warned me to keep an eye on her. And you."

"He did, did he?" Elliot asked, a prickle of annoyance running down his body. Cal blinked, then smiled apologetically. Apparently, it had been meant to be a secret, which only made the prickling sharpen into hot needles.

"Your brother wants peace amongst the household," Cal said.

"Is that why you apologised?" Elliot accused.

"Earlier, I mean?"

"Not entirely," Cal said defensively. Elliot could see right through him.

"So everyone's on orders to be nice to me, to coddle me as if I were a petulant child!?" Elliot seethed. He clenched his fist, opened and closed it thrice over as a frown overtook his face.

"No. That's not the case," George said, placing one thickly calloused hand on Elliot's shoulder. He wanted to shrug the hand away, especially if it were the loathsome hand of a man who only pretended at respect and feigned a friendship on his brother's behest.

"Is that really so? Swear it then, that you're under no orders to watch over me," Elliot demanded. As soon as the words left his mouth, and George's stern expression grew sterner still. He felt a fool. But he couldn't take the command back; it would look weak, which was worse than looking foolish.

"I am under no command to coddle you, nor keep you company," George stated. Though Elliot had every reason to suspect duplicity, he could only sense honesty from the man. His anger, once searing, cooled, and his pride, swollen from the humiliation, shrank. Then shame crept up his face and threatened to fill his eyes with tears. He pushed that away; it wasn't needed.

"My apologies," Elliot said, lamenting that he had suspected the man of any treachery.

"None needed," George said, taking his hand away and waving it dismissively.

"Let's not waste our time with words. You look to be recovered from your practice, would you care to spar?"

"I would like that," Elliot agreed wholeheartedly. Then he reached for his rapier. Cal left without a word, but Elliot paid him no mind. There was swordsmanship to study, and he was so far behind.

Rosie walked down the halls, whistling a song as she hefted a pouch filled with gold triads. It was a new song. One she had learned from a foreigner. He said it was old, but she had never heard it before. It was about a man whose name was Eddy Thim, or something like that. Some great rebel, who fought kings and titans and gods alike. She didn't remember the words or how the tale went, but the tune had stuck with her like a skulg on a rowboat. Rosie had changed her clothes.

From her training tunic and trousers, and into her favourite dress. The one made of Sirensilk that made her look as nice as a daffodil. Lauren, who had helped her get her gold from the vault and made her write down how much she took in the ledger book, was now gone. She said she had forgotten something important and told Rosie to speak to Lady Hightide about borrowing the carriage. Riding in the carriage! Like a proper Lady. What a world. What a city. What a life. Only a few months ago, she was in the gutters.

Without a copper. Wearing rags. Now look at her. Silky, yellow dress, gold to spend on oils and girly-stuff, and scales as sleek and beautiful as any fish. Sometimes she would just stare at herself in the mirror for minutes. It was hard not to. She had become so pretty. She'd gained a good amount of weight, too, and she was clean and was not a 'filthy gutter-waif' anymore. And best of all, her breasts were now proper handfuls. Just as she'd always wanted. But they could always be a bit bigger.

Real jugs, like Jess had. Apart from that gripe, things were only getting better and better for Rosie. If these oils Lauren had told her about worked, then that would be the last of her troubles solved. Rosie smiled wide, and sped up her pace, heading for the library. That was where Amathea Hightide, or Thea, as Jess and Lauren were allowed to call her, spent most of her time. She was a book girl. She was quiet and shy. Also, she was sheltered and a bit stupid. And that was a sad thing for a book girl.

Though Rosie didn't like women like she did men, she had to admit that Thea was also very pretty. She looked a bit like Fritz, with dark hair and green-grey eyes. She thought Fritz was better, though, much better. Bert was really handsome too, and he was strong and tough, and rough and tumble. And tasty, and good, good, good. She wondered if he'd come home that night. She really wanted him to. Her mind wandered as she walked, and as she trudged up some stairs, she stopped halfway.

A sudden picture flashed through her thoughts. It was of the heel of her shoe giving out, then of her tripping, then falling backward, spilling all the way down the steps before crashing into a heap at the bottom. Rosie frowned, then stared down at her glossy, red shoes. These 'thought pictures' sometimes really happened, so, carefully, she unstrapped the buckles and took them off. The heel was loose on the left shoe, just as she knew it would be.

She grumbled, then, holding the pair in one hand, she shrugged and kept on walking up. She kept her eyes on her sock-clad feet so as to be sure she wouldn't trip. Once she reached the top safely and passed under the archway, she laughed.

"Hahaheh. Not today, stairs." Just as she had declared her victory, a short-furred demon descended upon her from its perch upon the door frame.

"Ahck!" she shouted as Skittercat pounced onto her shoulder and sank its claws into her. Or tried to. Her scales were too tough to be hurt by such tiny talons. The cat, finding this out for itself, then leapt off her and bounded away down the hallway with lolloping grace. While the claws did no harm, the surprise had unbalanced Rosie, and she had dropped one of her shoes. She stepped back, clutching at her pounding heart, then slipped and fell.

Rosie tumbled down the stairs, thumping, shrieking and spitting, before slamming to a halt at the very bottom, crumpled.

"Urgh," she groaned. It was only from reflex; she didn't hurt that bad. She lay there a few moments, then sat herself up and stood. She herself was fine, no broken bones, no sign of bruises. There wasn't any pain either. She really was tough. Durability was good like that. Not just for trips and falls either. When she ate, she could bite right through the bones of whatever bird or beast Cal had cooked up. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Even the little bones of fish that got caught in her throat and pricked her didn't bother her. She could just swallow really hard, and they'd go down all the same. And after learning that Technique from Bert and their friend, Treltear, her body was at least as hard as wood. A few scales had fallen off though. She picked them up and, having no place to put them, shrugged and dropped them back on the floor. She then checked herself and her things. No tears on her dress, but the heel had snapped off her shoe.

The line of her mouth turned downwards, and she sniffed. Her first pair of fancy shoes. She was about to cry when a polite voice called down from the top of the stairs.

"Rosie, is that you!? Are you well? Whatever has happened?" Amathea had appeared and was bustling down the stairs, hands holding up her long skirt so she wouldn't trip.

"Fritz's damn cat attacked me, and I fell down the stairs," Rosie said, fighting back a wail.

"Are you hurt?" Amathea asked, looking her over swiftly.

"No. But, but, but," Rosie blabbered.

"What is wrong? Are you sure you are not hurt? Did you strike your head?"

"I broke my shoe," Rosie said, holding up the two red halves.

"Oh, that is no trouble. You can purchase new ones," Amathea said. That just made Rosie sad. Her first pair, broken so soon and thrown away just as quick.

"Or have those repaired if you cannot bear to part with them," Amathea said.

"Would you like that?" Rosie nodded.

"Yeah."

"Well, I can give you the address of a well-regarded shoemaker. Come, I'll write it out in Francis's study." Amathea beckoned for her to follow and lead her up the stairs.

"Watch out for Skittercat," Rosie warned.

"Yes. He is something of a menace. Pouncing out of nowhere and making one jump out of one's skin with fright," Amathea agreed.

"Is that what happened to you?"

"I wasn't scared. Just startled," Rosie argued.

"Of course, you are a fierce Climber after all."

"Yeah. I'm tough." They climbed, then walked the rest of the way in silence. Soon, they entered the study. Amathea smoothly sat behind the desk and produced ink and quill. Rosie stopped her with a "wait." Amathea looked up, puzzled.

"Um, before you waste any ink, uh, I wanted to say something," Rosie said.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to say sorry,""For what do you need to apologise?"

"I've been rude to you and your brother, Elliot. So I'm sorry. All this polite, noble stuff is strange to me, but I'm trying hard to learn the right way to talk and dress." Amathea frowned, but it wasn't out of anger or hate, just more confusion. She was stupid, alright. Rosie didn't point it out. She was going to be kind and not ruin the apology Fritz had asked her to make. Then she had another idea.

"We should go together to the markets, and you can show me where the shoemaker is," Rosie said.

"I was coming to see you about borrowing the carriage anyway."

"You were?"

"I am," Rosie said.

"Lauren said there's a shop that will sell me some oil that will help with my dry scales. Stop me from being so itchy all the time. I wanted to take the carriage. Fritz isn't here- I mean, Fritz is sick, so you're in charge."

"I am overseeing the estate while he convalesces, yes," Amathea agreed.

"Yeah, that," Rosie said.

"Come with me. We can buy girly stuff together. Like you do with Jess and Lauren."

"Girly stuff?" Amathea asked.

"Yeah," Rosie said.

"Powders, paints. dresses, shoes... oils."

"I had no idea you were interested in those things otherwise, we should have invited you, Rosie," Amathea said.

"I'm not very interested, but Cal told me that I need to have pastimes that aren't just training with the team and tumbling with boys," Rosie explained.

"He can be an idiot. But I think he was right about that."

"Tumbling with-" Amathea repeated softly, before her words cut off, and she blinked slowly.

"Yeah, love me a tumble. It's great fun," Rosie boasted. The young lady just stared back at her, smiling stiffly. It occurred to Rosie that Amathea didn't know anything about what happened in bedrooms, brothels and alleys. She didn't hold it against her. That's just what happened when you locked up dull girls behind the safe walls of their fancy orphanages.

"Oh. Right. You're a highborn maiden, and a book girl, so you don't know," Rosie stated, taking pity on her.

"Don't worry, you're very pretty. When you're ready-""My maidenhood is not up for discussion," Amathea interrupted, holding up her hand.

"Oh, okay," Rosie said. Though she didn't wear anything like a frown, Amathea glared darkly.

"Uh, sorry," Rosie hedged, scratching at her forearm. After another few moment, the young lady sighed.

"Very well."

"I can borrow the carriage?"

"Yes, and I will come with you," Amathea said.

"Prepare to leave in half an hour."

"No need. I'm ready to go now," Rosie said.

"Yes, however, the horse is not, and neither is the carriage," Amathea explained.

"And you are not wearing any shoes."

"Ah! Right!" Rosie said.

"I'll meet you outside then. Should I invite anyone else?" Amathea stilled for a moment, her eyes flickering over Rosie.

"Perhaps your brother, Callum was it, should join us?"

"Yeah. Cal. He'll be good for carrying everything." Rosie nodded. Sometimes dumb people had fine ideas, and this was one of them.

"What about Jess? She's nice. Taught me to read better."

"Yes, I will send for her," Amathea agreed.

"Good!" And it was good. Rosie left, then in half an hour they all met up, just as planned, hopped into the carriage, and rolled out into the street. Then, they had a great day. Shoes were mended, dresses were commissioned, scale oils found and bought. Then there were things like nail and lip paint, and face powder. Rosie tried them, but didn't like how they felt at all. She now knew she preferred to go paint and powder free, but she did buy some brushes, files, and proper soaps for her scales.

The store assistant had said that they would make her even more shiny, silky like her dress and glossy like her shoes. She bought a lot, she talked a lot, and she learned a lot, and by the end, she was wrung out. Then they had tea at a tea-house. That was fine, but she preferred to drink spirits strong enough to sting on the way down. She said so, and Jess and Amathea both laughed as if she had made a joke. Rosie shrugged and laughed with them. Cal looked on, unsure. But he had looked unsure the whole trip.

That or he'd be gazing at Jess. He liked her. He liked her plenty. Rosie would have to make a plan to help him out there, but that could wait. She was too tired to scheme right then. Then, after they had drunk their tea and eaten the tasty biscuits, they returned home. Back to the estate. What a great day it had been. Rosie knew she'd remember it forever.