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Salle, Antiva
9:42 Dragon
Viago de Riva had squandered the last of the goodwill he’d accrued with House Dellamorte. If not with the entire house, the most certainly with one of its three primary members. However, two challenges presented themselves to Lucanis as to how he might make this change in status known to the new Talon of House de Riva.
Firstly, he grudgingly acknowledged that even being Caterina’s favorite grandson did not afford him enough influence with her to make such a thing possible. Worse, still, if his intentions were mistaken as an interest in leadership… he recoiled at the thought. He’d kill as many blood mages as required of him—and there was an increasing number of contracts on them these days—if it meant avoiding all that politicking.
As for the second challenge, his present irritation was not so potent as to inspire any genuinely vindictive feeling.
Instead, he entertained himself imagining a series of minor slights that would, perhaps, get the point across. Everything from suggesting the new art acquisitions added to the gallery at the De Riva estate were fakes to repeatedly referring to Viago as the sixth in the ranking of Talons while within earshot floated through his mind ambiently. Unfortunately, the man was already so devastatingly unimpressed with him that none of them were likely to cause more than brief irritation.
Entertaining to think about, nonetheless, and it kept him occupied while waiting for his target to make an appearance.
Viago had given him little in that regard. Look for the ugliest hat in the place, the Talon’s missive had instructed him. While it had also contained the name of the tavern and a secondary address, few other details had been included. Not that he needed them for the task, but reason was no friend when one was indulging in a bout of pettiness.
Lucanis had to give it to him: the hat was, indeed, very ugly.
An old, wide-brimmed felt thing, not unlike something he’d seen in the country. Whatever color it had been before had faded to a muddled gray; it was pinned up on one side, and had a scraggly black feather stuck through it to make it all the worse. Illario would have called it an insult to hats, had he been there to see it, with little exaggeration. The youth wore it high on their forehead in a jaunty fashion that matched the confidence with which they sauntered into the tavern, a silk cape that had seen better days tossed over their shoulders.
He tracked them from his corner table as they crossed the smoke-filled taproom to a group of rough-looking men already deep in their cups.
Sailors, by the look of them—or fishermen, more likely. In their flat caps, and threadbare linen shirts stained with old sweat, fully brined from a day’s labor hauling in nets—he could smell them from where he sat. They’d been telling ribald stories over their card game for the last hour, growing more brazen with the barmaid who kept their tankards filled.
Now, they laughed loudly and elbowed one another as the youth approached. There was a telling flash of coin. A pause. Then the scrape of stools as the group made room for one more in their game.
He caught an expression passed between a few of them, but the youth took no notice as they settled in, hat firmly in place. The first round, unsurprisingly, went to the youth. Then the second and the third. Their pile of coins was stacked high, and now they wagered the entirety on a fourth round. Confident in their winning streak and aided by ale, with no little encouragement from the woman serving the table, they had no idea they were about to lose it all.
Internally, Lucanis sighed from his corner, ready to finish this contract and be done with it—and Viago de Riva—for good. Once his target lost their winnings, there would be his opening.
As expected, the youth was sorely fleeced and Lucanis prepared to move as they begged for another hand to be dealt. The men jibed and prodded, demanding to know with what money they would play with. Having lost it all, they had nothing left to wager with. The group fell silent as the youth produced a gold andris—the single coin worth more than what they’d won.
He sat up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing as he watched the group regather. There was some argument as to how they would meet the bet until it was decided they would pool their earnings to attempt winning the andris off the youth. More sharp words were exchanged as they deliberated who would represent them. Eventually, they put forth their chosen player and settled once more at the table, dealing the cards between them.
The energy in the tavern seemed to shift, becoming quieter, as all eyes turned to the game.
A ripple of unease threaded up his back as the youth and the fisherman began. One card was turned, and then another. The fisherman drew first, and as he drew a second time, the youth held. There no bets to place as the last card was turned face up.
That’s when he saw it.
The flick of a sleeve—a distraction.
As the youth fanned out their winning hand, a cacophony of protests broke out. The fisherman knocked his chair back in fury.
“Cheat!” The man bellowed, leading the charge of drunken men, setting the youth scrambling.
Hastily scooping up their earnings, they made a dash for the door. Lucanis rose to follow, slipping around the edge of the room on swift feet. The serving woman was directly in the youth’s path, and they caught her about the waist. Their exchange was lightning quick. While the woman let out a hearty laugh as she was bodily swung out of the way, the youth dropped the coins into her waiting hand, and then they were off again—silk cape trailing behind them.
Lucanis slipped out the front of the tavern in pursuit, the woman too occupied with keeping the fishermen from doing the same to notice him.
The mark was quick on their feet, he’d give them that, but not enough to lose him entirely. He spotted the tattered hem of their cape slipping around the corner into the alleyway. He lightened his steps as he neared the edge of the building, listening. The scuffle of boot heels. A light grunt, then… silence. They were still in the alley, he was certain. Modulating his breathing, he stepped around the corner cautiously.
If they were setting a trap for him, he’d let them—if only to end this faster.
The alley was narrow and near pitch-dark where the buildings on either side blocked out the moon. A catwalk of wooden planks ran along the second story of the building next door, like a make-shift balcony, and he eyed it with suspicion. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his hip as he made his way further into the alley, steps slow, heel-to-toe, along the uneven cobblestones.
A prickle of awareness tickled the hairs at the back of his neck, but he remained undeterred.
As his sight adjusted, the alley began to take on shape.
A stack of crates along the tavern’s wall. A barrel left out to catch rainwater. Discarded remnants of a fish dinner and other refuse. And there, further down, the end of a cape slipped just over the edge of the catwalk above him. He smirked, and, feigning as if he hadn’t spotted it, continued toward. His steps slowed beneath it, watching it flutter slightly.
A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, Lucanis sensing—
He turned just in time to see them land, agile as a cat, in the only shaft of light the alley allowed.
Still wearing that distinct hat, he noted.
They stared him down, expression hard, as they brandished a knife at him. For a heartbeat, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into, agreeing to this. He raised his hands, palms out, quickly calculating his odds.
The youth was nearly his own height, but slight and round-faced—younger than he’d originally determined, perhaps. Their grip on the dagger was decent, their arm slightly bent at the elbow, suggesting they had some knowledge of how to wield it. But there was a tremor in it—they were lacking confidence. Sweat dewed on their upper lip and, though they kept their eyes on him, they kept blinking as if they were trying to pull him into focus.
Whatever their skill level, he had the advantage of sobriety.
“We do not have to fight,” he told them calmly, keeping his hands where they could see them.
“Why are you following me?” They demanded, eyes narrowing skeptically. “If it’s the money you want, you’re not getting it.”
“Obviously not,” he replied drily, brow arching. “Since you gave it to that barmaid.”
Their eyes flickered in obvious surprise before they frowned. “Then what do you want?”
“I am here on behalf of House de Riva,” he said, tilting his head just a little. “You took something from their Talon. He wants it back.”
“Oh, does he now?” The youth laughed darkly. “Well, you can tell the Talon he can retrieve it himself, if he so pleases.” They paused, shrugging a shoulder. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about the fight?”
Between one breath and the next, he moved.
Capturing their wrist first, he twisted it safely away from both of their bodies, placing just enough pressure in the right spot to loosen their grip. The weapon dropped to the stones as their feet. The youth swore as they pivoted, throwing their full weight against his chest to set him off balance.
It was surprise, more than anything, that delayed his reaction, granting them an opening.
They brought the heel of their boot down hard on his instep. It didn’t do much damage but the affront to the fine Antivan leather would, in point of fact, be going on Viago’s bill. He let out a grunt as a bony elbow jabbed at his gut and the youth wrench their wrist from his grip.
As they made to bold, he grabbed them around the middle. The hat, in all its ugly glory, was relieved of its duty—a long trail of curling dark hair freed as it was knocked from their head. He hauled them back, trapping them. They kicked out at him as he hooked an arm around their throat, pressing just hard enough on their windpipe to threaten.
“Yield!” they huffed after a moment, beating their fist against his arm. “I yield!”
“Will you come quietly?”
He gave them an inch and, when they made to break free, he allowed them to with a resigned sigh, watching as they promptly rescued the hat from a puddle.
“I’ll do you one better,” they groused, attempting to beat the shape back into the hat before giving up. “I’ll see myself there.”
He blinked before following.
“If you deliver yourself, how shall I be paid?” he asked lightly, a step behind them, curiosity piqued by their boldness in turning their back to him. They were either very stupid, which did not seem to be the case, or otherwise extremely confident the Talon did not wish to see them dead.
Yet, anyway.
Without breaking their stride, they retrieved the gold andris from the pocket of their breeches and tossed it to him
“There you are,” they said, not looking back. “That should be about how much I’m worth to the Talon.”
The way they said the title—sneering, childish—gave him pause, but he said nothing. This was no simple thief, he thought, suspecting there was some intention behind Viago’s omission of particular details. He was certain they were not an outsider, but the grudge was intriguing. A fledgling, perhaps? An impertinent one, if so. Troublesome also came to mind, though just how much was yet unclear.
Catching the coin in midair, he turned it over in his gloved hand—the weight of it not what it should be.
“It’s a fake,” he realized aloud.
They turned to stare at him for a moment.
“There is something between those ears of yours,” they remarked, and he reared back at the insult. “Excellent observation. It is a fake—and a bad one, too, you’ll notice.” They jerked a thumb over their shoulder in the direction of the tavern. “Unfortunate for them they didn’t before they lost all their wages.”
“Ah, but you cheated.”
“What’s that got to do with the price of turnips in Ferelden?” they shot back as they continued on their way.
“So you’re a cheat and a thief.” What were the De Rivas feeding their fledglings these days? Poison was the likeliest answer. He wondered if it made them all surly.
“Don’t see how there’s much of a difference between the two,” replied the youth, shooting him a wry glance. “I’m a liar, too, if you’d like to add it to the list.”
“Oh, I had already assumed as much,” he replied blithely as he followed them down a side street. “What am I making a list of?”
“I don’t know. Descriptors? My sins?” They dropped their voice dramatically, the effect ruined as they tripped a little over their own feet. “If it’s the last one, you should really also add gambler and philanderer.” They stopped again, this time so suddenly he almost ran into their back. “Can a woman be a philanderer, actually?”
“Sure,” he shrugged, stepping around them. Her, he supposed, if that’s what they were saying. “I don’t see why not? At your age, I have to confess I have my doubts about that claim.”
“I’m eighteen. Not a child.” They rolled their eyes in what he was sure seemed like a very un-childlike manner to them. “But you’re right.”
He nodded.
“A woman can be a philanderer if she wants to be. Alas, it was only the once and I don’t think that’s enough philandererery—” She blew a raspberry and attempted the word again. “Phil-and-der-er-ee. Never mind. I don’t like that word anyway. Let’s definitely take it off the list, then.”
“Certainly,” he agreed, watching her sway a little to the left. He reached out to straighten her direction. “I think we can add drunk, however.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded. “Lucia was supposed to water the ale down but I—” Hiccup. “—I think she forgot this time.”
“Do you do this often?” he asked, steering her toward the correct street after she started to wander.
“Not anymore,” she sighed as they started over a bridge. “Too busy. And it’s not as fun as it used to be. I keep having to find new disguises.”
That explained the hat.
She stopped—again—in the middle of the bridge. He sent up a prayer to the Maker for patience, resisting the urge to hurry her along. Dawn was likely to arrive sooner than they would, at this rate; the chances of his getting any sleep before he was meant to be riding out of Salle were growing slim.
Unexpectedly, she gripped the railing, her expression turning a little funny. There was a sharp inhale of breath just before she doubled over—heaving the contents of her stomach into the canal. He turned away with a grimace, wrinkling his nose at the tell-tale splash below. When she was finished, he offered her a square of linen he kept tucked up his sleeve largely for incidental messes.
She was assuredly one of those.
“This is… handy,” she smirked at it, then giggled. “You know, because it’s a—” She caught the look he leveled at her and cleared her throat. Lowering herself to the ground, she sat back heavily against the railing. “Give me a minute then you can keep following me.”
He rolled his eyes and warned, “One minute.”
He’d shepherded drunken adolescents to their destination more than once—a minute quickly lost its definition with no one to keep the time.
“What did Viago offer you anyway?” She asked, squinting up at him. “You’re not a De Riva.”
Mouth flattening, he didn’t respond to that.
“What did you steal from him?” he asked instead, lifting his brows.
“Nothing of value.” She waved a hand. “I was trying to make a point and—well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” She fell quiet for a moment. When she spoke next, her voice was smaller. “Is he still very angry?”
“Who? Viago?”
She nodded.
He searched her face for a moment, wondering how truthful she was being about the theft. Viago hadn’t told him what it was, either, when he’d asked. The job was only to locate and produce the thief… only the thief had big, round eyes and looked so utterly miserable in that moment he almost felt compelled to apologize for doing so.
“No angrier than I’ve usually seen him,” he answered honestly, looking away. “Hard to say. He doesn’t smile much.”
“That’s true,” she sighed. “I bet he’s storing it all up for me anyway.”
“Perhaps you have gambled enough for one night,” he suggested lightly.
Her lips twitched but she said nothing, her eyes sliding closed as she rested her head back.
Swearing under his breath, he nudged her with his boot. “Time to move.”
The words elicited a noise that was half-whine half-groan but she obeyed. Struggling to her feet, she started onwards, her steps unsteady as she tried to right them. He caught her up, dragging her arm around his neck to keep her upright. At least she managed to keep her legs under her, he thought, just before she collapsed against his side.
By the blood of the Maker.
There was a struggle but somehow he managed to get her onto his back and both of them off of the bridge before they tumbled into the canal.
“It’s not far,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
He very much doubted it would feel that way before too long as he bent under her weight.
There was no conversation then as he carried her along a darkened street. He eyed the shadowy outlines of shrubbery with suspicion. If they were set upon here, he would have to drop her and hope she had enough of her senses. He recalled the dagger she’d had in the alley but couldn’t remember seeing her retrieve it. Did she have another? His frown deepened. The probable outcomes of an attack at the present moment were less than ideal.
“You never answered my question,” she said as they turned a corner.
He grunted.
“What did Viago offer you?”
“Not—" Huff. "—Enough.”
Rather, it could be argued it was he who’d paid most dearly to be put in this position.
He’d miss the set of daggers he’d given up in the negotiation. Viago now had three of his favorite blades and for what? That fucking concoction had better be worth it. For the price, their apothecarists were getting precisely one sample with which to attempt parsing the ingredients—he’d earned the rest for himself.
Her arms tightened around his neck as they started up an incline but she said nothing more until they arrived at their destination.
The building was three stories with a pitched roof, and tucked between others of a similar size, close enough one could leap from the window of one onto the balcony of another. Given the late hour, it was no surprise to find it dark, their residents abed for the night. A single window in the uppermost corner glowed from within.
She slid from his back and he felt more than saw her stiffen as she caught sight of it.
"Fun's over, I suppose," she sighed, face angled up toward the window when he looked at her. Her brow puckered a little as she gave a shake of her head. "Now the consequences."
There was a familiar note in her tone made him reach out as she moved away, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. Something cold trickled down his spine, suddenly reluctant to let her return alone.
She paused, blinking at him for a moment. Then her expression turned wry.
"You don't have to be here for this part," she said, the corner of her mouth kicking up. There was no humor in it. "I'll make sure you’re paid."
In that, at least, he believed she’d be true to her word.
A thief and a cheat, but perhaps not entirely a liar.
He couldn’t say why he thought so. Perhaps it was in the way she insisted she was, as if she wanted others to believe it. In his estimation, real liars presented themselves as trustworthy—something she’d worked to undermine at every opportunity.
That thought begged several more questions he sensed he wanted nothing to do with. However Viago delt with his house wasn’t any of his business; from experience, he knew the relationship between Talon and underling could be fraught. Whatever theirs was seemed especially complicated—the sort of complicated he was better off not involving himself in.
He released her with a frown, his part complete, save for the delivery. The contract had only required him to bring her here, he reminded himself, beyond that was outside of his obligation. Still, he waited until a shadow passed across the lit window before he turned away.
Fishing out the andris she’d given him, he considered it a moment before tucking it back into his pocket.
She’d have to find a new trick to cheat with, but that was entirely Viago’s problem.
His own Talon was waiting for him back in Treviso.