Sporaton Capital Inner District

  Former Eliah Estate

  Shortly after Dusk

  Ketch swept through the streets with her cloak once more pinned comfortingly closed about her, bitter winds filtered and warmed through the thick furs caressing her cheeks. The busy streets were fading with the sun, peasants and the occasional yeomen filtering off the cobblestones into bars, taverns, and homes. Ketch stepped deftly between the crossing feet of the ebbing crowd, one of few going against the tide, and trusted the ck of buzzing flies against her skin for proof that she was unnoticed. She was a bck blur above sooty cobblestones to most, a short, unremarkable girl to those perceptive few, and a preternatural avatar of the shadows to only herself.

  Ketch had known Evie well enough, she thought, before leaving for Sporatos. There was an intimacy that came from having a woman's tongue crawling up and down your body, beyond just the conversations offered in the aftermath. To know that the sprawling structure before her was where the enigmatic sve had spent her youth was both bewildering and enlightening, filling in gaps of what she knew of the woman.

  The Eliah family, for all its prominence, was one even younger to Sporatos than the Vomuns. A hundred and ten years ago was when Evie's predecessor had ascended to the ranks of nobility, shipped in as an exotic source of entertainment from the forested north. Rather than remain a decoration on a noblewoman's arm, Evie's great-great-grandfather had outlived his wife by decades, and so unshackled, forged a mercantile empire within the heart of Sporatos.

  The product of his wealth, grown considerably by his descendants, was on dispy before Ketch now. Three stories of beautiful vaulted windows were ensconced within artfully carved stones, a series of courtyards hidden within. The entire pace– and pace was all Ketch could think of it as– was built in a grid, so that every room had a window overlooking either the city streets below, an interior garden or pavilion, or swathes of trimmed grass where picnics and games of fanciful sport were pyed in the summer months. According to Tagrensi, the Eliah estate could comfortably welcome and entertain near a thousand guests, affording each of them a personal room if so desired. Why the te Lady Eliah, who had one daughter and no surviving siblings, had such a sprawling estate, Ketch didn't know. In her letters, Sara had called it a "big dick power py," but Ketch just thought it wasteful, particurly now that it was empty.

  The estate was a far cry from King Sporatos's dwelling, which was an ancient castle that had once defended the city before the walls had expanded outward. She could see why the King had chosen the Eliah estate to host the event, when his own was so comparatively utilitarian. Again, she didn't understand the whims of nobility. The most powerful man in the kingdom, who effectively was the kingdom unto himself, lived in a dank little bunker, neighbored by masterpieces of sprawling gss and masonry. Motivated by something like showing off his martial prowess, or his dedication to defense of the nation, or some simir such drivel, she guessed. Ketch didn't much care, because the Eliah estate was as far as she ever wanted to push her luck. Infiltrating the King's keep would be simple suicide.

  Ketch passed rows of metal ebony spikes that blocked off the interior courtyards, shuffling along rapidly with her hood drawn close, like she was lost and desperate to be out of the cold, should anyone actually spot her.

  Her act did not have to st long, because in short order, she picked up on the raucous shouts of drunken voices echoing out of a side street. Ketch slowed to a halt, looking about in confusion, waiting for the right moment.

  With arming suddenness, a riotous crowd barreled out of the side street, pushing and shoving and roaring their drunken displeasure as they neared the spiked walls of the Eliah estate. Ketch did not recognize any faces in the crowd, but knew some of her allies were pying the role of both instigator and shepherd, guiding the brawl to the very edge of the Eliah estate.

  Almost immediately, the guards patrolling the grounds colpsed onto the pile of forty-odd men and women, spinning their spears around to bash and shove with the blunt wooden hafts. Several voices bellowed their protest back, too lost in drink to realize the stakes of their situation, and the drunken brawlers united in protest against the uptight guards trying to ruin their fun. What was first a disciplinary whacking became a proper shoving match, pairs splitting off from the mob to punch and insult, the sight of which stirred the others to even higher passion.

  She hoped that shoving and roughhousing was all it would remain as, considering the dire penalties that always fell down upon peasants when nobility were involved, but she couldn't spare the time to watch. With every nearby guard being pulled into the informal melee, rushing desperately to keep the disturbance beneath the notice of their noble masters, Ketch stepped up to the wrought-iron fence.

  Thin though she was, even she couldn't slip between the bars, and with their winter-slicked bars topped by vicious spikes, she didn't dare climb over. Instead she reached into her bag, pulling out a vial of clear liquid. She uncorked the vial, opened up her cloak, pulled forward the colr of her tunic, and upended the vial onto her bare skin.

  She immediately doubled forward, world whirling as the venom soaked into her skin. Heat, delicious, delectable heat, radiated inward from her skin, a powerful throbbing spreading with each pump of her heart. Sellie may have managed to protect her against the paralytic effect of Noctie's venom, but she'd seen no need to nullify the pleasure.

  Which was rather helpful at the moment, because what Ketch did next wouldn't have ended with anything other than her screaming until she passed out. Her mouth salivating so thickly she had to swallow every few seconds, lest she begin to drool uncontrolbly, she stepped up to the wrought iron bars, turned herself sideways, and began to squeeze forward.

  Courtesy of years of Sellie's alterations to her body, Ketch's pliable ribcage began shattering under the pressure. Muted by the venom, but still present, she felt each and every grating snap of her bones, her entire torso colpsing in on itself. The pain was a far away thing, muted past the point of discomfort, but she knew what it should have felt like, and even contempting it had her grunting in reflexive discomfort. Her lungs began abutting the shattered shards of her ribs, her shoulders popping and dislocating with each huff of effort, but through each tug forward, she made progress, all while the brewing riot continued behind her.

  Finally, a subjective eternity ter, her torso and legs finished squeezing through. It left her head behind, however, the thin bars colpsing her trachea so she couldn't so much as gasp. She was Azarketi, though, and holding her breath was no struggle. She shoved her neck down, drawing her mother's knife that Sellie had enchanted for her, and began to carve at the edges of the wrought-iron bars, until there was just enough extra space shaved off to pull her head through. She retrieved the vial, sprinkled a bit more of Noctie's venom on her ears, then pulled.

  With an awful tearing noise filling her skull, Ketch's head slipped through the bars, leaving both her ears behind. With so much venom coursing through her, she could barely stand, but she at least kept the presence of mind to reach up and scrub at the blood she'd left behind, sweeping her ears into a pocket. The shaved pieces of metal taken from the fence would be visible upon close inspection, but only in the morning, when the light was properly upon them.

  Ketch stumbled forward through the garden, cmmily downing the first of her two healing potions to repair the damage to her torso before the venom wore off. She may have felt the pain's muted effects, but she most certainly did not want to see what it truly felt like to have every bone in her chest broken.

  As her body reknit, she moved to crouch between two snow-dusted bushes, their barren limbs supporting just enough of a thin haze of frost to hide her. Several entrances were nearby, and she knew one of them was the one she wanted, but she couldn't figure out which, not while she was still high as a kite on vampire venom.

  After a few minutes of letting the delirium fade from her body, as well as letting the potion regrow what she'd torn apart, Ketch felt steady enough to press onward. As Tagrensi had promised, the bulk of the security was focused on the exterior of the sprawling manor, ensuring none got in in the first pce. She reached the door that would lead to what they believed was a main hallway and knelt, fiddling with her gloves so she could properly manipute her lockpicks.

  Unlike the Vomun household, the te Lady Eliah had spared no expense on her locks. Ketch spent several minutes with anxiety building in her gut, picking and prying at the lock, her hands growing ever colder. Just as she began to fear the lock had some kind of enchanted component to its mechanism, she heard the final satisfying click, her tension bar twisting, and the door handle began to turn.

  As always, Ketch let the door swing open freely for a minute, probing for a reaction. When none came, she slipped slowly in, peering in every direction.

  The entire hallway was lit, in a dispy of unfathomable wealth, by glowing crystal chandeliers. It was not even a major thoroughfare; just a hallway connecting rooms to rooms, meant for guests to access other portions of the pace. Ketch had to swallow back her saliva again, but not because of the lingering venom. She was drooling at the thought of what some of those gems could be sold for, should she swipe a few.

  But it wasn't the time for that. Ketch instead began creeping down the hall, following what she knew of the pace's yout. Tagrensi had done an admirable job gathering what information he could in the thirty-six hours of notice they'd had to prepare, but it was far from complete. Ketch would have killed for Evie's own expnation of the grounds, but a letter would have taken weeks to pass back and forth. She would do as best she could with what she had.

  Her objective for the night, Ketch and Tagrensi had decided, was less material than was her norm. She was not to be stealing pns, nor sabotaging documents, nor even leaving ominous forged notes to spread paranoia among the nobility. No, her main purpose was the ga itself.

  Why had it been called? Why break the regur schedule of parties and gatherings, calling together every noble of consequence to attend yet another masquerade ball at the heart of the capital? King Sporatos hosting an event himself was rare on its own, and to do so this abruptly had arm bells ringing in the minds of the entire underground resistance. Some feared the acceleration of the invasion timeline, some the discovery of their resistance efforts, and others some more nebulous, ominous theories, baseless conjecture that was compelling solely for its extreme pessimism. Ketch sincerely doubted the King would be announcing a purge of the peasants or some such thing, but the fact that some of the resistance were entertaining such an absurdity spoke to how out-of-character the impromptu ga was.

  Following her heightened hearing towards the sounds of revelry, Ketch eventually began stumbling upon staff passing to and fro in a hurry. Having been brought in from other manors solely for this ga, they were so panicked and lost while entertaining the horde of guests that hiding from them was ughably simple. The shade between crystal chandeliers was all it took to utterly erase Ketch from their sight, and she wouldn't have been surprised if even walking in the open wouldn't have garnered their attention.

  There were, of course, exceptions. Guards, posted increasingly frequently as she neared the sounds of partying, who scanned the hallways with bored expressions. As an Azarketi, Ketch couldn't have fooled them by dressing herself as a servant, no matter how convincing the disguise. Instead she began skittering up the walls once more, her nails sharpening to find stabbing purchase upon the wallpaper. She may not have been as strong as Sara, a dedicated combatant, but now at her tenth advancement, she had more than enough upper body strength to support herself by fingers alone. Thankfully, the crystalline chandeliers aimed their light down, leaving the corners of the ceiling in deep darkness, and so it was a simple fare to remain unobserved as she drew ever closer to the party. Ketch had to imagine that security would have been better, if anyone present had ever set foot in the pce before, but she certainly wasn't compining that her enemies were being x.

  Just as she was reaching what she believed to be a withdrawing room, a pce where the nobility would come to rest between bouts of drinking and dancing, she felt a tug on her mind. She'd been intending to listen to the conversations within, but the urging she felt at the back of her skull was unmistakable. Sellie was guiding her away, towards a set of stairs down a further hallway. She couldn't tell why, their bond too weak, but she trusted her girlfriend implicitly.

  Ketch continued her journey atop the ceiling, watching staff pass by below carrying ptes, chairs, and innumerable creature comforts to sate the whims of nobility in the greater dance hall, which was now only a few hundred feet away. Ketch could hear coordinated harps and their accompanying choirs fading in and out, serenading the ga with the finest musicians the capital had to offer. Of course, to Ketch, who had often heard the wholly unique music of Sara's homeworld, the simplistic plucking of harps was barely worth remembering. She had been spoiled, she reflected. Had she heard this music properly, with her expectations unmarred, it would have been a beautiful thing.

  Oh, well. Too te now. Let's see what Sellie found for me.

  Still attached to the ceiling like a spider, Ketch reached the start of the stairs, which ascended at twisting right angles to the floor above. She poked her head above the base of the banisters, confirming no one was there to greet her at the second story nding, then scurried up the wall at a double-pace, petrified she would be found before reaching the safety of the roof's shadows. Thankfully, no one emerged from any doors, and she was freed to once more follow Sellie's tugging influence.

  After navigating through several corners, the staff and crowd growing progressively thinner below, Ketch eventually felt Sellie practically shoving her towards one particur door. It was small, unremarkable, and without any sign of guards or otherwise about it. If it weren't for her girlfriend, Ketch never would have paid it the slightest attention.

  But, trusting in Sellie, Ketch skittered along the ceiling, craning her neck backward, so she was looking at the floor below, searching for an entrance. Eventually, she spotted the telltale sign of a narrow line in the wallpaper, and she dropped from the ceiling, nding in a silent crouch before the servant's door.

  Hearing no movement within, Ketch slipped inside, shutting it silently behind her. She retraced her steps to the room Sellie had taken such an interest in, brushing aside cobwebs that had grown since Lady Eliah's execution. From the intensity of Sellie's guidance, she anticipated something serious in the room, and so she slowed accordingly, moving as silently as she was capable.

  Eventually, subtly, voices began to filter in. Two men, speaking to one another in the tones of refined frustration, the politeness of their words having little to do with the true sentiment they wished to express. Ketch began to move to peek through the nearest servant's peephole, but Sellie's guidance yanked at her colr, rooting her in pce.

  Whoever this is, Sellie thinks they're dangerous.

  Ketch obediently stood stock-still, contenting herself with listening to the words being spoken.

  "...but my liege, surely you understand the dangers of leaving after such tumultuous times have just barely passed us by?"

  A rattle and cnk of a metal mug being set on a gss-topped table. "Come now, Emeric. Surely you're aware I've heard countless such objections."

  The first voice, Emeric, spoke as if simultaneously on the cusp of shouting while also wishing to show perfect deference. "My liege, if you have heard so many objections of simir ilk, may it not be because they have merit?"

  "They do. But it is my assessment that the threat represented by the Mad Champion far outweighs any internal affair that my absence may allow to fester. She intends to be a threat not just to the wellbeing of her people, but to all those who properly guide their nds."

  "This I understand well, sir, but does opposing Amarat's Chosen not weigh heavily upon your conscious? Her Church remains adamant that the Champion has not been subverted, and I see no signs of madness in the minds of Amarat's faithful I have interviewed."

  A scrape of the metal mug being retrieved, then a long swallow. "You have taken it upon yourself to interview the Church's faithful?"

  "As a leader of people, ensuring I am as informed as is possible is one of my many responsibilities, my liege."

  A barked ughter. "Emeric, Emeric, how I admire that resolve of yours! It is no wonder that you have risen to the heights you have, with a dedication to duty such as that."

  Emeric ughed as well, but with less warmth. "I thank you for your kind words, my liege, but such praise begs the question once again: if you so value my dedication to the people, is this not evidence that my counsel against war is worth considering?"

  "It is, and whether you believe me or not, your counsel weighs nearly as heavily upon my mind as that of my advisors. You are a fine knight, unlike them, and know well the ways of the battlefield. Yet still they, nearly to a person, would agree keenly with you. They say the war is a waste, that the Champion's peculiar notions are doomed to failure, that the rabble will eat themselves alive without the guiding hand of their betters." Another long drink, then a smacking of the lips. "I do not disagree, ultimately. I only fear what such a hideous example will inspire in the interim, before the inevitable colpse."

  "You fear a peasant rebellion, my liege?"

  "Fear?" A scoff. "Of course not. Find distasteful, without doubt. It is always so dreadfully time-consuming, to pick off the lots of insurrectionists, particurly if their remnants turn to banditry once their feeble attempt at forming an army is crushed. I am growing older, Emeric, and have better things to do with my greying years than smother brushfires. My daughter will inherit my throne someday–" Another deep bark of ughter, "hopefully not too soon–! And when she does, I wish to leave her a stable realm, so that she may grow into her role as is proper."

  "So you wish to crush Tulian now, so as to avoid instability among the peasants, who you know can be suppressed with retive ease, yet admit that doing so will further foment resentment among the nobility, whose rebellion would be inordinately more dangerous?"

  A long pause. "Emeric," the second voice rumbled dangerously, "you grow too loose with your tongue. I value your leadership upon the field greatly, but you are a knight-commander. Not a lord in your own right."

  A brief pause, then a genuinely apologetic whisper, sounding as if it were directed to the floor, the speaker bowing. "I have overstepped my bounds, My King. I offer you my humblest apologies."

  Ketch's eyes shot open. King? That was King Sporatos in that room? By every god's name, why had Sellie led her here? She heard no sound of others in the room, but if that was King Sporatos, his protections would be unfathomable, almost certainly beyond Ketch's ability to hide from. What had Sellie been thinking?

  And yet, as Ketch always did, she trusted her girlfriend implicitly. And so she stayed, controlling her nerves, listening, taking as few breaths as she could, all to better avoid notice.

  There was a prolong silence after Emeric's apology, nothing more than the shuffling of legs, clothing, and chairs. Eventually, it was the King that spoke up once more, his tone growing contemptive.

  "Do you know why, Knight Emeric, that I have called this war? Truly?"

  "...I have my suspicions."

  "Ah, you needn't look at them like that. You are right, after all. As you have already proven, you are adept at pursuing information. What think you of the rumors swirling about the Wooden Masks?"

  While a knot had long since formed in her throat, those words sent Ketch's airway painfully clenching shut.

  "...Am I being asked to speak freely, my liege?"

  "Within reason, I suppose."

  A contemptive silence, then Emeric cleared his throat. "I fear that they, who have appeared so suddenly, hold undue influence upon the courts. I know little of their capabilities, but know they aim high, far higher than most mortals. They speak of pns not in months or years, but decades, and dispy a patience I once thought unique to the fey and undying. An admirable trait in an advisor, perhaps, but with so little known of them, I cannot help but grow anxious."

  "A poor outlook upon them, but drawn from accurate enough information, it would seem. I cannot reveal all to you, Emeric, not yet, but I ask for your patience until the day I can. These Wooden Masks, shrouded in secrecy to so many, do so for a very grand reason. A holy reason, of the kind befitting Kings and Kingdoms. I know you fear the war, Emeric, and I know it is not from cowardice, but care for your people, and for those you have trained. I only ask that you, whose loyalty is famed across the realm, extend it to me for but a short while longer. Then, I promise you, all will be revealed."

  A chair scraping, boots scuffling as a man rose. "Of course, my liege. You needn't even ask it of me."

  "And yet, I appreciate it all the same. Go now, you are dismissed. My guest and I have other matters to discuss, of the sort you will soon be privy to."

  "Then I will bid you good evening, my King."

  "And to you, Knight Emeric."

  A door unlocked, opened, shut, then was locked once more. Sighs and shuffles occurred, King Sporatos adjusting himself on his seating and reaching for another drink, and then he spoke up.

  "What think you, ser? A probable ally to our cause?"

  A crackling, magically-disguised voice responded slowly. "I... think that we should not discuss such things, King Sporatos, in the presence of unwelcome listeners."

  Ketch bolted.