Tallah

Mertle couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so naked. When she’d worn masks, once upon a time, she had control. Now, with every step, she felt her control slipping. This wasn’t her skin, and it wasn’t her face, and those weren’t her eyes taking it all in. When she spoke, it wasn’t her voice she heard.

She hid under the cowl of a borrowed cloak and hung on Vergil’s arm. Sil ushered them through the raucous crowd. Miria waited for them by the exit, her insurance and potential hostage.

Mertle had walked into the Meadow and she had made herself abundantly visible to every soldier watching the entrances. She had not walked out. Miria was of similar build and height. With a shawl on and her horns hidden, she would be an acceptable match at a glance. If they were concerned only of Tallah, she would pass by without much scrutiny.

The cold shocked her back into herself. Tianna definitely wore things only a pyromancer would feel comfortable in.

“How can she dress like this?” she gasped out to Sil. “These aren’t clothes. This is a sack with holes in it.” Her teeth chattered and she drew tighter against Vergil. The boy shivered worse than she did though she was convinced it wasn’t the cold that bothered him. Still, he walked forward with admirable determination. Tummy’s eye for people was seldom wrong.

Sil said nothing and only offered a grim smile in return.

She shook the snow from her cowl and looked at the darkened alleys ahead. Sprite light shimmered and twinkled as snow kept falling implacably. Tension was almost electric in the air, a far cry from what the Night of Descent normally offered. Furtive glances from patrons and from passersby, shadows drawing back into doorways, windows clicking shut. Frozen snow crunched underfoot.

Her skin itched and her bones hurt, but her heart was calmer than her head. Her mouth talked about nothing at all, filling the silence as she waited for the strike from the dark.

“I know her.”

“Pardon?”

Vergil had spoken low and hadn’t stopped walking. He threw a sideways glance and she followed it to a doorway where a woman was talking to a man under the low rim of a slanted roof, hidden from the weather. Mertle caught the glint of dark eyes under a heavy hood, for the fraction of a moment before they turned casually back to the man. It was enough.

“She’s the one I met,” Vergil whispered. He had stiffened on her arm and walked with the stricken gait of seeing the gallows rise.

Mertle let out a slow breath that misted white in the air, and let go.

“You, there!” she whirled on her heels and strode to the two people talking, holding her dress up so she wouldn’t fall. “Just how long are you intent on harassing me, Storm Guard?”

Now Tianna was armour and her voice became her blade. Mertle understood blades very well and, by the look that flashed over the woman’s face, her opening strike had gone straight between the right ribs.

“A good evening to you, Mistress of Aieni Holding,” the woman replied, voice as unperturbed as marble. Her eyes took in the group with calculating coldness.

Miria had stopped somewhat further down the road and waited patiently. Vergil waited with her.

There was a shuffle further in the alley, the soft crunch of heavy boots scrambling through snow drifts, and the oil slick sound of blades drawn. She felt the gaze of a crossbow aimed at her back.

Tianna’s boiling fury took over. She’d seen Tallah’s anger enough times to know what it should taste like on her tongue and how it should burrow into the gut. Her blade unsheathed and stabbed out again.

“Don’t you dare spout pleasantries at me. I demand an explanation! What is the meaning of this?”

Sil moved closer and opened her mouth for an apology—

“Shut up, Silestra,” she snarled without taking her eyes off the woman. “We’ve put up with all of this for long enough. I shall not be threatened any longer.”

Again the woman’s eyes flickered away. They widened slightly when rested on Sil and on her wooden staff. A moment of confusion and reassertion. The man she had been talking to moved his hand on the pommel of his sword, trying and failing to look calm and politely confused. Eyes of a killer stared from beneath his hood, intently locked on her.

“I’ll admit this is not how I expected things to go,” the woman said. “Are you coming willingly?”

Mertle bristled up with the fury of the storm.

“Coming willingly?! Are you bloody daft, woman? I am asking you to cease your harassment.”

She had moved closer, a step too far. The sword came out and levelled at her throat. She recoiled and stared from it to the woman.

“You threaten me? Do you know who I am?”

“We do,” said the woman with infuriating calm. “If this is the charade you mean to play, know that a hostage will not change matters.”

So far, so good. She leaned harder into the anger, like a cornered animal snapping.

“Charade? Hostage?!” Mertle screamed at the woman. Echoes of her voice bounced off the frozen walls. Her face felt flush with the abject anger of one mistreated. “Your men have been following me around Valen all Winter. Your special liaison came and threatened me out of the blue. For what? What did I ever do to any of you?”

The point of the sword wavered for a moment and she pushed it aside with the flat of her hand as if it weren’t worth consideration. She could have it down the soldier’s throat in less than a heartbeat. She could have it in her hands and shove it through the prissy cunt’s flint eyes in three.

She moved closer again, heedless of the men gathering close with weapons drawn. Snow fell off roofs as crossbowmen rushed into position. No space to run or hide.

“Is this how the Enlightened Empire treats its allies and subjects?” Sil spoke up for the first time. Her voice trembled with fear. “Knives in the dark coming for innocents? This is your idea of enlightenment? On the holy Night of Descent?”

She took Mertle’s hand in her own, squeezing it. It was hard to say if her fearful shivers was her playing the part or if it was all real. There were a lot of armed men closing in. Out of the corner of her eye she could see two of them readying a metal net. Mage killers, but not well-trained ones. Well trained ones wouldn’t have needed confirmation from their superior.

Answer, woman, blast you. I need you to answer. I need you to talk.

A small hand signal from the woman. More men in position. The circle tightened. Soldiers with heavy, pointed shields came to the front and formed a lance head that closed up the narrow passages, perfect to take the brunt of a sorceress's opening salvo.

Mertle felt her insides turn to water as she tried to stare down the woman. It was like trying to intimidate a slab of onyx. If this one thought she was facing Tallah, how could she be so calm about it?

There was a tightness on top of her head and she felt ragged points of pain on her forehead, her horns trying to push out through her borrowed skin.

Mine, not borrowed. She forced her fear to shift focus, to take the shape of anger.

“I would appreciate if you would surrender yourself without further theatrics. I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve but I’m not buying it. I wasn’t born today.”

A rustling jingle of the heavy net being raised. The sound of crossbows clinking against armoured shoulders. Boots in the snow shuffling closer.

An explosion rocked the fragile stillness of the moment. Above it, the spire bell rang out thrice. Another explosion sounded in the distance, followed by a rising cacophony of high-pitched whistles in the night. They sounded a pattern that repeated with frantic urgency.

“Captain?” the man with the sword asked uncertainly.

The woman hadn’t taken her eyes off her, but a flash of reluctance played across her face. She bit her lower lip but her eyes were still and cold as a snake’s.

A flash of light across the sky turned night to day for a moment and threw off long black shadows against the walls.

“Captain,” one of the soldiers on the rooftop called out, “the Guild’s on fire. A bolt of lightning’s just struck there.” He moved further up the roof, slipping in the snow. It fell in sheets all around. “I think the Commander’s there.”

There was a sound like thunder and more explosions bothered the night. Lights lit up in windows and Mertle could see more of the crossbowmen on perches atop the roofs. There were enough of them to fight a small war. They hadn’t lowered their weapons.

Again the whistles in patterns. Some, Mertle recognized. Fire. Not an exercise. Danger to the city.

“I… believe we’ve made a mistake,” the woman said and signalled to the soldiers. Weapons were lowered and hidden from view, disguises redrawn. They dispersed at a hurried trot, ghosts disappearing in the night. “You have my apologies.”

She also turned to leave but Mertle seized her by her cloak, yanking her back.

“I demand an explanation. Who are you? What was this about?”

The man with the sword came forward but the Captain waved him back.

“Gather the men, Vial. I can take nine others with me. Lowest ranks to form fire brigades. Quickly. With the Commander in play, we need to shelter the civilians. Make it a priority.”

She turned her flint-black eyes to Mertle and pressed her hand over hers.

“My name is Quistis Iluna, Mistress of Aieni Holding. I am acting captain of the Storm Guard cell of Valen, second to Commander Falor Merchal.” She licked her bit lip. “And I must apologise on behalf of the Eternal Enlightened Empire. We seem to have made a grave error and mistreated you.”

Mertle gave a slow, nervous laugh. She allowed a manic tremor in her voice.

“I’d say. What is happening, Captain Quistis? What have I done to warrant this?”

Quistis pulled her hand away and held it for a moment. She looked down at it with a raised eyebrow, her touch fire-warm to Mertle’s shivering skin.

“Unless you plan on assaulting me, you are innocent and free to go. I will personally write an apology for this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Don’t bother. I aim to leave Valen. My father will hear of all of this.” She gave a scornful smile. “I had higher hopes for the Storm Guard.”

Quistis held her gaze for a moment longer, then she looked over the others. Vergil had drawn closer to Miria, shielding her from the retreating soldiers. Sil was pale with terror but held herself up with an aelir’s wounded pride.

The captain stared at the healer for a long moment.

Vial gathered up a group of men and they all clustered around Quistis.

“Again, I apologise profoundly for all of this,” the woman said and there was no malice in her voice. She released her hand and gave a short nod to the men.

Vial put a hand on her shoulder, and the others did the same to one another, forming a connected line. Quistis reached into her robe and pulled out a bundle wrapped in cloth that hung on a chain around her neck. When she unwrapped it, the shard inside flooded the alley in blue light.

She closed a fist around it and they all disappeared with a pop of in-rushing air.

Mertle allowed herself a shuddering breath. Sil did too. They looked at one another and embraced with the sudden ecstasy of criminals suddenly spared the noose.

“You were amazing,” Sil whispered, elation in every word. “You were absolutely amazing, my love.”

She hadn’t been amazing. She could have handled the encounter in a million better ways. It had been such a near thing. Quistis Iluna hadn’t been afraid of her in the least. And it wasn’t the simple stoicism of a well trained soldier. No, this was absolute confidence that she had everything perfectly in hand.

Had she decided on more caution, they’d all be in chains.

She shouldn’t have touched the woman.

“We need to go,” she whispered. “It’s slipping.” Already the long dress felt too large for her, too empty, much too cold. Bone ground on bone, anxious to twist back into proper size and shape.

Sil turned to Miria, “I am so sorry you were caught up in this.”

Mertle harrumphed behind her, all wounded dignity and appearance of control.

“Yes, I apologise, Miria. They seem to have had me confused for someone else. I’ve been harassed endlessly since I came back.” She adjusted her cowl and shook snow off her cloak. Her nose wrinkled. “Tonight they came with murder on their minds. Bloody ridiculous! I’ll understand if you’d rather not to come on this errand anymore.”

“No, your Ladyship. I trusted that you had things well in hand,” Miria replied with a slight bow. “It is done. I worry more about what’s happening at the Guild. Those did not sound like celebrations.”

More voices rose in the night. People came out and muttered about an attack. Some scaled the roofs and called down about the fires spreading. Fire brigades formed and organised to intervene. Valen had a long memory. It had not forgotten the great fire that had almost ended it. Drunken stupor gave way to hard-edged determination.

“We’d best get indoors before things get more serious.” Mertle strode down the narrow streets even as they were packing up with the curious and the fretful alike. Tallah’s idea of a distraction went beyond reckless. Soon half of Valen would turn up for the spectacle.

“I’ll need to run off the moment we get inside the shop,” Sil whispered by her ear. “I’ll leave the girl in your care.” A packet passed between their hands, a sleeping concoction to knock Miria out and fuzz up the night. “You know more about these things than I do.”

She did. Away from the danger, she felt a kind of manic elation, a longing ache in her fingers that craved more than the thrill of a disguise. Wisdom warned against her enjoying the moment too much. She’d never been very good at listening to wisdom.

“I’ll handle her, don’t worry. Tummy’s got supplies for you to grab.” Elation turned into an ugly, leaden lump as she realised Sil was going to go to Tallah and into real danger. “I’ll handle the rest. You’ll owe me answers when you come back.” She leaned into the healer and poked her in the ribs, pretending to slip on the ice. “No more secrets, not from you.”

“No more secrets,” Sil agreed, voice tight. “If we survive the night.”

Thunder clapped above and a bolt of lightning streaked the sky on again. It shattered the night into day for an ear-splitting moment.

“Soul of the Goddess...” Sil’s voice was tiny in the silence that settled like snow. “She’s roused him.”