Chapter Text
Prologue.
Deep within the Core Spire, in one of Jrusar’s less than privileged neighborhoods, a side-street cuts into the stone of the mountain away from the main way. There, nooked between two large businesses, a hole-in-the-wall tavern called The Left Hand—but known more by its cheap ale and cheaper clientele—has its door open to the sparse movement of another hot morning. Past the weathered, defaced tables, mostly empty save for a couple of early drunkards—or perhaps they’ve been there since last night, it’s hard to tell with how they meld with the surface of the wood—, behind the counter where the owner struggles to stay awake, an unassuming unlabeled door leads to a backroom.
Laudna straightens her clothes idly for the umpteenth time, staring blankly at the folders and documents arranged neatly over her desk. She tries her best to keep the office in order, decorating it with all sorts of pleasant knick-knacks she finds or makes herself, and it is for the most part a welcoming environment she believes, even if small and lacking ideal ventilation—being carved into solid rock and all. The location could be better, but it is what she can afford, and if she’s honest she likes being out of the way and out of view, affords her some safety and comfort in this larger-than-she’s-used-to city.
The truth is, she’s bored. There haven’t been any cases in a while—more than a while—and at this point she can hardly call herself a private detective anymore; most of what she does is sit back here twiddling her thumbs, or help with maintaining the tavern in exchange for barely paying anything for rent. Her savings are running low and looming closer than ever is the very real possibility that she might have to leave for another town. She drops her head down until her forehead rests against the cold surface of the desk, sighing heavily. Another wave of dark thoughts grips her, and she does her best to ward them off as her stomach coils painfully with anxiety and fear; an idle body is a festering ground for the worst parts of her psyche and she’s of half a mind to close up early and go for a walk to distract her understimulated brain, when she’s brought out of her spiral roughly.
Rapping at the door—polite, measured, definitely not her landlord.
She quickly raises to a straight position, brushing at her garments and patting down as best she can her disheveled hair. “Come—” her voice falters for lack of use. “Ahem. Come in.”
The door creaks open, letting in the pungent smell of the tavern, but that hardly has her attention. At the threshold, reluctant to enter, is the most peculiar person: her clothes, her posture, her well-mannered hesitation, her wavy, perfectly well-kept hair—of the most striking lavender!—, all scream nobility, but the frayed edges of her dress and practical utility of the accessories she wears tell of someone not unfamiliar with hardship. Laudna is caught up in those eyes, trapped in their intensity even as they stare her down from a room of distance, and just as she starts to think the moment dragged on too long, the spell is broken.
“Excuse me,” she says, her voice strong but melodious, yet something to the words catches Laudna’s attention, as if they were being entoned carefully, practiced, and the absolute lack of any accent whatsoever is off. “Are you detective Laudna by any chance?” Her enunciation of her name is precise, slow, as if she tested it beforehand, and, surprisingly, correct. Her expression is sharp, though not unfriendly, in a way that makes it clear she’s reading every little detail of the space and who she’s talking to but not for a hostile or untrusting reason.
“I am. What can I help you with, Lady…?” Laudna extends the word, giving her a segue to introduce herself.
A shadow of something unpleasant crosses over her expression at the title, but she responds in the same polite tone. “Temult. But just call me Imogen, please .”
Temult. The surname is familiar. She can’t recall the details, but obviously she misstepped. “Apologies, I meant no slight,” Laudna concedes with a respectful nod, summoning every last bit of class she had learned from observing—spying on—courtiers and ladies back in Whitestone. “It is a pleasure to meet you Imogen, and I am at your service.” She almost believes herself to be a member of civil society, instead of a hermit with an off-putting streak.
Imogen nods, and appears to gather her wits in composing herself. “Likewise, but actually, I’m here for the job opening?” She produces a rolled-up piece of parchment and extends it, revealing a flier covered in familiar—Laudna’s—script.
Oh. Right! The fliers she had spread across Jrusar—It’s been a while since she got any response for them however, she had practically given up and forgotten (after having had to deal with a handful of questionable characters showing up at her doorstep ranging from the naive to the criminally insane). So this is unexpected, a noble is hardly the type of person who she’d think would want this job. And considering her current lack of active work, hiring an assistant seems like an expenditure she can’t afford anymore. Still, it can’t hurt to interview her—and if she’s honest, there’s something about Imogen that urges her to find out more, a good feeling of sorts, and she’s rarely wrong about those. She sits back down behind her desk, and gestures towards the vacant chair on the other side in invitation. “Please.”
Imogen complies, folding her legs neatly when she sits, like someone who’s done it her whole life. If she’s anxious, her mask doesn’t betray it, and she looks expectantly at her.
It’s hard for Laudna not to be exceedingly nice in these situations, to a fault, so she reins in the part of her—most of her—telling her to smile and dote on Imogen by some premature notion of kinship, and does her best to maintain a cordial but distant presence. And apparently Imogen sees right through it because her smile widens into something genuine. “So,” Laudna begins before she loses her composure, “have you always dreamed of working as a subaltern to a third—possibly fourth—grade, small-time, independent contractor?” She always found unadulterated honesty to work best for moments like this.
Imogen schools her expression into something more serious at that. “I do believe you’re underselling your reputation detective—”
“You may call me Laudna,” she says pleasantly, and wonders if Imogen has been looking into her and asking questions before she came here. A point in her favor, surely.
“—Laudna, right. And to answer your question, since we’re being honest, it was not my dream to pursue this career, no. But, I do believe I can potentially be quite good at it, and well, I… really need work, and your offer seemed like the perfect position for someone who does not wish to be prejudged. Or was I wrong to think that?” The question is sharp, but there’s no bite to it, not really, only sincerity and earnestness and a kind of quiet desperation.
Laudna ponders the question before her—both of them—, takes note of the coiled power that seems to permeate every aspect of Imogen, from her poised arms covered in gloves too long for this weather to the carefully constructed costume she wears in every aspect of her presence; and behind all that, more abstract, this insistent feeling that she can trust her, fully and openly. “Not wrong, no.” Laudna allows herself to smile, and is pleasantly surprised when Imogen doesn’t flinch at all but instead reciprocates with the tiniest upturn of her lips. “I really am in no position to judge. I hope you’ll pardon me for being a little curious as to what makes you so confident you can thrive in this line of work, however.” She poses the probe as an invitation rather than a demand, hoping to gently steer her away from committing to this.
Imogen looks intensely at her then, and everything about her demeanor says she’s both steeling herself and making a decision, before she speaks. “I know you’re thinking of how to nicely tell me to leave.”
Laudna opens her mouth to speak but Imogen continues, boldly.
“You might be asking yourself how I can tell— Wait, that one was too easy to guess… How about this, I know you’re thinking you can’t afford to pay me, and that’s fine! You don’t need to— I mean, I’d like to get paid, but only when we get work— I can work for commission!”
Laudna raises a single eyebrow, amused by the way in which her classy presentation falters as she rambles.
“What I’m trying to say is, I know what you’re thinking. Because…” There’s hesitation on Imogen then, some fear, but there’s also determination. “Because I can read minds.” She appears to brace for something and falls silent, expectant.
“Alright…” That was a bit rushed. Like Imogen was removing a gauze from a painful wound, swiftly before caution overtook. A sign of truthfulness. “Alright. I believe you.” That kind of power can make someone a target easily, so now the holding back and masks make sense, and so does the way Imogen seems to look at her with knowledge in her eyes. Laudna gives her an encouraging smile, to let her know she remains unjudged.
Imogen gives her a strange, long look. “You believe me? And you’re sympathizing ? That’s it? I mean— Not that I’m complaining, but folks tend to react with more… hostility if they find out that I can, and I stress this again, read every thought that crosses their mind .”
Laudna nods sagely. “Yes, people tend to be hateful of that which they don’t see as normal .”
“But not you?”
Laudna chuckles. “Like I said, I don’t have grounds to judge. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors, since you clearly asked around about me.”
Imogen flushes slightly at that, another layer of her carefully constructed exterior coming away. “A little bit, yes.”
It suddenly hits her, all at once, as she makes the connection between Imogen’s power and rumors she came across when first entering Jrusar. The Temults— Yes, she certainly heard of them before, and not accompanied by kind words. A story of a minor noble family, part of the council, losing its titles and holdings when the lady of the house was outed as a twister of minds and conspirator against the throne, running away and leaving behind a baffled husband and daughter to fend for themselves in a now hostile court. It explains why Imogen isn’t hiding her power in an ivory tower of privilege, and is instead here looking for shady work; she’s likely out of options.
“So you know.” Imogen’s expression is unreadable, but her eyes are fixated on Laudna, waiting. “Saves me an awkward conversation, I suppose.”
“Nasty folk-talk hardly constitutes knowing; but yes, I do. I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner, I wouldn’t have—”
“Been so polite?”
“—been so insensitive in assuming.”
“Oh.” Imogen blinks at her. “Thank… you. That’s the first time anyone ever apologized for their thoughts, but you’re fine, I didn’t mind.”
“Hm. Thoughts can be nasty too, I can’t imagine what hearing them from others must be like.” Her own head can certainly be a dark, unfortunate place sometimes. Suddenly it strikes her how that might present her to someone like Imogen, and she feels the urge to pull at her hair in the neurosis.
Imogen reaches out then, resting her hand over Laudna’s in a touch that should’ve felt out of place for two people who had just met, but in quite the opposite way, felt strangely familiar. “Not yours, actually.” She hesitates, averts her eyes before bringing them back to hers. Her tone slightly shifts and an accent starts to show through, a barely there drawl. “I can’t explain, but they’re nicer, more honest than others. I don’t feel like an intruder as much— I’m sorry,” Flushing again she recedes her hand to her lap. “I didn’t mean to sound overly personal.”
“No, no, you didn’t, I—” Crashing and yelling from beyond the door catches their attention and they turn towards it just in time to see it slamming open.
Three people dressed in matching dark, dusty garments walk in brandishing daggers and snarling. “You won’t get away this time, witch,” one of them bites out as they spread in a circling pattern to block the exit and focus all their attention on Laudna, completely ignoring her guest.
She barely has time to register their lunge as she feels shadowy arcane energy gather from the ground to her hands in readiness but too late to stop a blade glinting as it cuts the air towards her throat when—
The assailant closest to her crumples to the ground in a heap, smoke rising from their back where a lightning bolt hit them, the smell of ozone fills the air and Imogen stands, hand outstretched, half furious half surprised, her hair raised at the edges as if containing untold potential energy; she recoils her arm, anxiously touching and pulling at the gloves covering her hands and forearms, expression morphing into horror.
Laudna turns to the other two, visibly gathering her power and readying to unleash it, but their panicked faces give away their intention mere moments before they turn and bolt back through the door, just in time for her to see a couple more burly thugs positioning themselves to point heavy crossbows at her and Imogen. Instinctively she grabs Imogen and guides her off to the side, tumbles the coffee table inside the office to the ground and pulls both of them down behind it as cover. Heavy thuds sound off as a bolt strikes the table piercing halfway through in the space between their shoulders and the other ricochets off the stone wall behind it.
Imogen is breathing heavily beside her, though she seems to be in fight or flight mode rather than frozen, ready to do something, eyes wild.
“I’ll bait their shots,” Laudna whispers roughly, holding Imogen’s shoulder to get her full attention. “When they stop to reload, hit them with anything you got.”
Imogen nods once, then twice more with determination.
“Alright Pátê, your turn.” She ignores the askance look Imogen sends her way as she picks up her puppet dead rat from the mess of her previously perfectly organized things now all over the ground. Holding him over the table, in full view, she ventriloquizes as loudly as she can: “Oi, your aim is terrible!”
Another bolt whizzes past dangerously close to her hand, followed by a second which hits closer to its mark, cutting her arm deeply before sinking into the cabinet on the wall behind her. Ignoring the jolt of dulled pain, she rises to her feet—very pleased to see Imogen do the same without hesitation—and unleashes a dark bolt of energy at the crossbowman nearest, hitting him square in the chest and sending him tumbling like a doll.
The second ranged assailant has a moment of panic before she too is hit—by a ray of lightning this time—and gasps in pain before falling.
A moment of stillness reigns in the tavern, as Laudna checks for more hostiles. The same tavern where, behind overturned tables, customers are looking at her wild-eyed. “Everything’s alright now, go back to your drinks,” she addresses them with what she hopes is a reassuring tone. The owner looks extremely displeased, and she can foresee an attempt at a raise in rent coming later, but for now he seems unwilling to say anything as he goes about fixing the mess left behind, cursing under his breath and raising nervous glances their way. She brings her attention back inside, where Imogen is completely still staring at the dead person, and steps around the debris and ruined table to close the door again, returning a modicum of peace to her office—well, excluding the body splayed in the middle of it. “Are you… quite alright?” She wants to reach out and touch her shoulder, but catches herself in not wanting to set her off.
“I— I— Think I killed them…” Imogen breathes out, “I didn’t think—” And gone is her earlier inflection, now a clear and defined accent tinges her words.
“Oh, darling,” Laudna half-whispers, taking a step closer, and suddenly feels a wave of protectiveness surge within. “It’s okay. If you hadn’t they would have killed me. Us .”
Imogen appears to barely register the words, looking fixedly at the corpse. “I don’t even know why I— I just wanted them to stop—”
Laudna risks a touch then, sensing her falling down a spiral, reaches for her arm, gently resting her hand on it.
That breaks Imogen out of it, and it doesn’t provoke a flare of temper, which is definitely a relief. She simply looks back, surprised at the touch but not unwelcoming to it.
“You didn’t have to step in at all,” Laudna says, gently. “But you did, for a stranger no less, and I am very grateful.”
Imogen stares at her for what feels like a long time, her eyes dancing over hers, as if looking for something, then “Alright,” she nods. “Yeah, yeah, it was— self-defense.”
“It was.” Laudna catches her eye, unwavering. “It was. So how about this: I’ll get you out of here, we can go somewhere else, get a warm drink or something while I pay someone to clean up this mess, yeah?”
“You seem awful calm about this. Aren’t you worried about the law? We just killed three people .”
“Regretfully, this is not the first time thugs have tried to kill me or retaliate.” She looks at her seriously. “This is dangerous work you’re trying to get involved in, you need to be aware of that if you seriously want to commit.”
“Okay, you need to tell me more, who were those guys and— Wait, you’re— You still want to hire me?” Imogen asks, incredulous.
“Well, no.” Laudna says, grabbing a coat for Imogen off her rack and carefully placing it over her shoulders when she gets a nod of permission. “I was thinking more along the lines of a partnership—If—If that’s fine by you, of course.”
Imogen adjusts the coat snugly, wide-eyed. “Uh, yeah… Okay. Okay, okay. That sounds… better. But why?”
“Well…” Laudna shrugs. “You seem pretty capable of handling yourself, and I would feel like I’d be exploiting your work for anything less than full partnership.”
Imogen takes a moment to look around the office, taking in her carefully decorated space now partially in shambles, and, surprisingly, smiles—that is until her eyes find the body and she grimaces again. “Yeah, let’s get out of here first. And then you tell me everything.”
As Laudna locks up the door to her small business, she can’t help but feel giddy at the prospect of having a partner. For so long she was completely alone, she forgot what working with someone is like. Well, she isn’t one to lie to herself, so obviously this will be a brief crossing of paths, only for as long as Imogen needs her; and yet the lightness to her step and the erratic ghost beating of her heart are there all the same.
I.
From a letter found on Laudna’s desk this morning, within a neat, simple envelope sealed with no mark or indication of procedence:
You don’t know me. But I know you, and I know you work for the betterment of this city. That makes you if not an ally, an asset.
There are threats to the very fabric of the social agreements we live under being put into motion. I would hire you to deal with them before they can damage Jrusar irreversibly. If you do, you will find payment delivered post-haste, if that is something that compels you; if not, the knowledge that you will be doing good for the people of every strata ought to.
I will contact you again,
A.
—
The commercial district of the Lantern Spire is bustling with activity, even at this time of night. In the wide streets that eventually lead to the religious quarter and temples you have everything, from street vendors to fancy established businesses, all in one chaotic package of sensorial hell. Normally, Laudna wouldn’t be here, especially with Imogen—the crowds are not easy for either of them to brave—, but they hadn’t diverged from the house-office routine in a while, and they were getting restless.
In the two years—give or take—since Laudna met Imogen their now shared aspiring investigative bureau has seen a small but significant uptick in business. Mostly owed to Imogen’s savviness when it comes to building relations and finding trustworthy contacts, they now at least have built a source of steady income. Yes, most of what they do is solve petty grievances, but occasionally pulling off a job for people with gravitas looking for discretion has helped them build a certain name for themselves within the right—and the wrong—circles.
Imogen’s arm interlaced with Laudna’s pulls in the direction of a side street, and she gives her a giddy smile. “There’s a restaurant I used to come to all the time ‘round here,” and her expression turns wistful. “The food there was so different from anything I had in— Gelvaan; it was a reminder that I was in a totally new place. And it’s small and quiet.”
Laudna returns the smile with her own, and allows herself to be led. “Sounds pleasant.” Moments like these are so rare, when Imogen gets to share something from her past that brings brightness to her expression, and she wants to enjoy every second of it.
It really is a small place, a house converted into a bistrot with a single dining room and a handful of small tables. The walls are decorated cozily with paintings and tapestries. Soft, melancholic music plays from some arcane source she can’t pinpoint. They don’t have to wait for a table as the place is only half-occupied, and in less than ten minutes they are seated and waiting for their food with matching glasses of wine.
“What?” Imogen asks, smiling, and Laudna realizes she had been staring.
“Nothing, just… It’s nice seeing you like this,” she says honestly.
“Like what?”
“So… carefree.” Laudna shrugs, feeling silly and a little awkward.
“Oh.” Imogen tucks her hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s calm and mostly silent in here. I’ll be back to my brooding self when we go back out into that crowd with all its screaming thoughts.”
Laudna rolls her eyes playfully. “Imogen, you don’t brood. You’re too classy for that.”
“Ha ha, we both know that’s not true. Near you I feel like a bumbling idiot.” Imogen blushes strangely then. “You have the kind of refinement that can’t be taught by tutors or granted by a golden cradle.”
Laudna opens her mouth to respond but the self-deprecating retort dies in her throat when someone pulls the empty chair between them and sits at their table noisily.
The stranger is short but muscular, their hair—or rather stone mimicking hair—spiky and colorful, their clothes utilitarian and aged by use. “Hope you don’t mind me interrupting this lovely trist.” Their voice has a presence and a rasp to it, but every word they said feels like a provocation on its own.
“Excuse me,” Imogen says, and her walls are back up in an instant, tall as the Aerie Spire and just as solidly built, her tone back to detached politeness and no trace whatsoever of the accent Laudna loves falls from her lips as she speaks coldly. “You are interrupting in fact— who even are you?”
“That doesn’t matter yet, and this doesn’t concern—whoever in the blue-blooded hell you are.” He turns to Laudna intently, ignoring the anger in Imogen’s eyes and the danger he’s in by speaking to her like that. “You the detective? The one who finds people?”
“That— is one of the things I do, yes.” Laudna says, taken aback. “But you’re being very rude to my partner right now—”
“I don’t have time—” They groan in frustration. “I’m sorry , alright?” And the words sound extremely hard for them to say. “I’m not here to judge your questionable choice in company. I want to hire you. To find someone.”
“Well, we are not working right now—” A muttered frustrated ‘as you can clearly see’ comes from Imogen’s end of the table. “—so you can come to our office in the morning and we’ll—”
“Listen, pal,” he says, leans over his crossed arms on the table and Laudna takes note of the wild look on his eyes, the anxious rhythm of his breathing. “Why do you think I followed you here? If I go to your office I might as well put a target on my back.”
“So you want to find someone, but you’re in trouble as well?”
“You could say that, yeah.” They lean further on the table. “So will you help me or not? I can pay.”
“Then,” Imogen says, measured but with an edge. “Why don’t you back off and calm down for a moment, before you find more trouble? Then we’ll talk about work.”
He pulls back to look at her then, as if assessing her threat for the first time. “Fine.” He raises his arms in theatrical surrender and leans back on the chair, pulling away. “Fine, fine. I’m calm, see?”
“Good. I’m Laudna,” she says, and gestures across the table. “This is Imogen. My partner, owed the same amount of respect. Now what’s your name?”
They hesitate for a long time, looking between the two of them before biting out “Ashton.”
“Oh, how serendipitous.” Laudna says, giving Imogen a meaningful look.
“We got a letter from an ‘A’ earlier today wanting to hire us.” Imogen says, eyes narrowed at him. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Why would I send a letter then come meet you?” Ashton says, arms crossed. “Makes no damn sense.”
Laudna looks at Imogen and gets a subtle nod communicating he’s being truthful. “You’re right, it doesn’t. Apologies, I just needed to check.”
Ashton gives her a long, hard, partly confused look. “Okay…”
“What exactly do you need from us then?” Imogen asks.
“My friend was kidnapped. I need you to find them.”
“Sorry, but did you take this to the Wardens?” Laudna asks. “They have more resources to handle kidnappings.”
“Of course I did, and of course they were no help.” He says, frustrated. “Those fucking fascists won’t lift a finger because my friend ‘can’t be considered a citizen’, and said that I should file a report of property theft instead. Which is obviously going to get nowhere, so I had to do it on my own—”
“Wait, back up,” Imogen says. “Why would the Wardens say something like that about your friend?”
Ashton purses their lips. “Look, he’s not… like you and I. He’s an automaton. And I know what you’re going to say, so just fucking don’t. They’re a full person, with feelings and aspirations and whatever else people have. But those assholes treat automatons as property and that’s it. They wouldn’t even consider the possibility of a sentient one.”
“I was not going to say anything, actually. I believe you.”
Laudna nods. “If you say they’re a person, then that’s settled.”
“So you’ll take the case?”
“If you give us more information, yes.”
“Huh.” Ashton seems genuinely relieved. “Apparently the rumors about you are true. You are crazy." A crooked smile. "We’ll get along, I think.”
“Right. Lovely.” Laudna makes a mental note to check on what’s being said about Imogen. She can handle any rumors, but Imogen doesn’t need to shoulder any more than she already does because of her family. “Can you give us more details? We need something to work with. What’s your friend’s name? How long has he been gone?”
“Sure, yeah. His name is FCG— Stands for Fresh Cut Grass— Long story. He disappeared one, almost two days ago. I did some digging on my own, and found out he was last seen leaving the Fownsee Hollow—that’s where we live.”
“They have not been gone long, how sure are you that they have been kidnapped?” Imogen asks.
Ashton bristles, but responds. “Remember that trouble I mentioned? Yeah, well I started asking around and looking for FCG, and that’s when I noticed I was being followed. I lost them a few times, but they always came back.”
“They?” Lauda asks, serious. “More than one person then?”
“Oh yeah, many more.” Ashton shrugs. “Two of them caught up with me, and I think they wanted to kill me, but I bashed their heads in before they had a chance.”
“So it’s a group, and they kidnapped FCG, but you they just tried to assassinate?” Imogen has her business face on, and Laudna can see the gears turning behind her eyes. “How long have you known FCG? Could they have past grievances here that you don’t know about?”
“Not long. We met in Bassuras, came here together a few months ago. And I’ve been with him practically the whole time.” Ashton stares down Imogen, then Laudna. “Look, I’ll be honest detectives . We didn’t lead clean lives. I’ve done some things, made some enemies, and FCG by proxy. But this feels different. It’s not turf war bullshit.”
“Alright—” Laudna is interrupted when the waiter shows up to their table with their ordered repast.
“Oh. Will you be needing another menu?” The young man in a cheap suit asks, looking between Ashton and the two of them.
“No—”
“Yes!” Laudna cuts Ashton’s response off. “Our friend just got back to town and has so much to tell us about their travels, isn’t that right?” She sends him a loaded look.
Ashton sighs sufferingly. “I mean that I don’t need a menu because I already know what I want.” They try for a polite smile, only succeeding in making it seem sarcastic. “I’ll have the strongest drink you have, make it a double. And…” They look at Imogen’s fancily arranged plate and make a face before returning their attention to the waiter. “Some breadsticks. Or whatever simple, salty thing you serve with drinks here.”
A long, awkward pause takes over the table as they wait for the order. It’s only after it’s delivered, and Ashton downs half of it in one go without so much as a wince, that Laudna breaks the silence. “We’ll find your friend. But you need to tell everything. And we need a way to contact you.”
Ashton looks over his shoulder for the hundredth time before thrumming his fingers on the table. “Sure. But, when you do find out who took them, I want to be there to get them back.”
“Sounds fair.”
It’s a while later when they leave the restaurant, after they interrogated Ashton and got through their reluctance as best they could. The information they got was scattered and confusing, but she did manage to draw a sketch of FCG based on their description. Mostly she’s thinking they’ll need to go to ground and do their own ask-around.
At the door Ashton splits off, ducking into a side alley covering his head with a dark hood and not dignifying them with any parting words.
“Does this mean our night off is officially over?” Imogen asks her with a frown.
Laudna relinks her arm with hers and smiles sympathetically. “Well… We really should start working on this case… But we can take the scenic route back, through the ramparts. They’re mostly empty at this time.”
Imogen brightens and lays her weight against her side, head resting on her shoulder briefly before they begin the trek back to the main street.
—
Laudna leans tiredly over a map of the Core Spire unrolled across her desk, eyes fixed on the markers she arranged over it—designating possible areas for them to investigate in the morning, wondering if she missed any. They definitely need to pay a visit to the Hubatt Corsairs—not something she’s looking forward to, but they’re a good contact to have and know a lot about the shady underbelly of the Spire. Then there’s the Green Seekers—but that’s a last resort as they won’t be easy to rope into a job, and treat them as competition in the business, even if they are nice about it. Feeling her eyelids grow heavy, she rubs at her eyes and brings her head up to the other side of the office.
Imogen sits on the other desk they had managed to fit, somehow, inside the small room. She’s lazily spread over the chair, in a position tutors might call ‘unfeminine’ and ‘improper’ and Laudna can’t help but feel fondness swell at such a small but meaningful sign of how much more comfortable she feels in these moments alone with her, comfortable enough to shed every last bit of propriety and just allow herself to exist.
Noise from the tavern beyond filters through the door, occasional drunken yelling or someone falling on the hardwood floor, and then a knock on the door. And another, insistent. Laudna shrugs at Imogen, and reaches for their mental connection, sending the words It’s late, be ready, to her. Still, she walks around the desk and slowly unlocks the door, a hand hidden behind it dripping with gathering energy as she opens.
On the threshold stands a tall faun—very tall, even for Laudna’s standard—, her hair and horns decorated with small pretty flowers, her dress so finely made with such a bold cut that she feels completely dislocated among the rabble of Jrusar ogling her shamelessly. Her eyes are sharp and full of life, and she smiles widely, in a way that would charm even the stoniest heart. “May I come in?” She asks, and her voice feels like summer—which might not make sense, but is the only thing Laudna can think of as she steps aside and gestures for her to enter, wordlessly.
Remembering herself as she closes the door on the leering and whistles from the Left Hand, Laudna clears her throat—glances at Imogen, who seems just as affected by their visitor, staring mouth-parted-open. “Ahem, yes come in. We were just about to close up, but, how may we help you…?”
“Fearne. Calloway. And it is truly such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance Laudna.” She raises a hand and when Laudna takes it for a shake, she grabs hers and turns it, finding no resistance, and kisses its back boldly, maintaining eye contact for a beat longer than is appropriate as she does. And then she’s releasing her and turning to Imogen, making a show of looking her up and down with a smooth smile. “And Ms. Temult, of course. You’re even more beautiful than the rumors give you credit for.”
Imogen’s cheeks pink, and she stutters in a halfway attempt at her formal speech. “Who— Who are you? Do we know you?”
Fearne sticks her hand in her cleavage and produces a thick wad of paper with a sweet, knowing smile. “Well, I have a letter for you.”
—
Inside an unmarked, nondescript envelope much like the first, except for it being saturated with the smell of too-sweet perfume, is another missive:
I know you met with someone tonight, and by consequence found a job to pursue. This is good, and should put you on the right track for serving my interests. I predict you will need help, and so I sent Ms. Calloway. She is a trusted associate and shall guide you where I can’t, act as liaison, and oversee my interests. Any questions may be directed at her, though you might find she knows not much more than you. But do not allow yourself to forget your ultimate goal: ending the unknown threat.
Along with this letter, you will find documents and records related to the moving of residuum, both legally and illegally, through Jrusar, which I acquired in a move to remove them from the reach of suspect individuals. You will figure out how this fits with the threat, and why it is of interest.
I will be watching,
A.