When Heroes Die

“Well, well, things just became interesting. It seems that those heroes of Judgement also have the right idea.”

— Dread Empress Massacre the First

“Are you certain that you are unwilling to purchase these trinkets?” Esme inquired, gesturing towards the assorted oddities she had taxed from the wizard’s apprentice.

They were arrayed before her in neat lines atop the pawnbroker’s aged counter top before her.

The bald black man in a grey robe behind the counter shook his head and affected a consoling expression.

“Miss, I apologise. These reagents are too dangerous, never mind the notes. I’m not willing to accept the risk. Try pawning them off somewhere else.” The man paused, his lips puckering as his wrinkled hands reached towards one of the vials as one would towards a venomous snake. “This vial you should take to the priests. I don’t know what creature this blood comes from. I put it under a few detection sorceries, and they all suggest that keeping it around is a bad idea.”

Behaviour: Closing off of posture. Lightening in pallor is indicative of dread. Defensive.

Speculation: Unwilling to retract his position.

Esme had to veil her disappointment once more as she pondered what she had learned. Gazing into the soul of both this man and all the wizards she had attempted to peddle the apprentice’s tools to had only ever yielded the same catch of fish.

None of them had been open to purchasing either the reagents or the notes. This was the third wizard she had consulted — the first of which she suspected to be an infiltrator from Praes — and even he was unwilling to deal in her confiscated merchandise. Negotiating with one of these eastern savages disgusted her almost as much as talking to the clergy. It was a travesty. They would not be allowed across the border if Esme was in a position of leadership. Esme refused to consider their opinions as trustworthy. What could an apprentice wizard possess that would haunt even Praesi sorcerers?

“I appreciate your candour. I will search for another sorcerer then.”

Once Esme had gathered her possessions and slung them in the bag hung over her shoulder, she then turned towards the door and traipsed past the rows of plants lining the wall beside the exit. The thirty-something year old guardsman beside the door did not deign to open it for her.

Esme struggled not to scowl in distaste.

She strolled past the unmannered guardsman — taking care to remain out of his reach — then pulled her yellow wool coat and mittens off the hook on the opposing wall and carefully slipped them on. Her clothes did not suit her tastes — she would much rather be clad in dresses and silks — but all suffered under the tyranny of winter, even one such as herself.

At last, she was prepared to depart.

Turning the brass doorknob, she let herself onto the street. The cold bit at her heels like a school of angry piranhas.

Her lips dropped like an anchor once she had stepped beyond the threshold.

Another turn of the hourglass gone to waste.

She peered left, then right, then left again, examining the road to either side. Tall, narrow buildings lined the path on either side like masts reaching up into the sky. Her mother would have claimed that such brazen attempts to scale the heavens was a sign of blasphemy. Her mother had many such daft beliefs — the pretentious twit. The streets were deserted. Satisfied, she hiked up the road towards the setting sun. The lone ray of hope that peeked through an otherwise clouded sky.

The back of Esme’s neck tickled. It felt as if something was awry, but she could not lay a finger on what. She turned around. It appeared that nothing was out of the ordinary. The pond of peasantry continued to throng about their duties. A skeleton of a man with a bald head buried in a coffin of dark silks turned away from her as she examined the crowd. Esme was not one to allow minor details to trip her up. Her mother had called her paranoid, but it was the only sensible method of sailing the perilous waters of life among the nobility.

Esme vivisected the man with her gaze.

Appearance: Little to no musculature. Early fifties. Skin is pale, unused to spending time outdoors. Perhaps he is sickly?

Behaviour: Muscles are relaxed. Eyes are unfocused. Looking for something or someone, but not immediately hostile.

Esme dismissed the man, not considering it worth the time to speculate further. The man had not set his sights upon Esme, and thus the matter did not appear to concern her. She embarked once more on her journey. There was time to consult with one additional wizard before she needed to return to her current port of call.

She was navigating through one of the less reputable districts within the Upper Yearning, and it was best that she remained alert. While even the least skilled of wizards were wealthy, there was a stark difference in means between a lady of her breeding and those who peddled cheap sorceries. Esme considered this part of the jewel of the west to be unsafe.

She weaved her way between the few others on the streets, followed the road past a stand of poplars, then entered a section of narrow alleys. Esme was not pleased to have to venture into this part of the city. If the previous environs had been unsafe, then these were perilous waters. An uneasy silence pervaded the area. Ramshackle buildings with broken windows in a state of utter disrepair surrounded her.

A loud noise echoed out.

Esme tied a knot around her urge to shriek and turned towards the sound.

A shaggy dog.

It was only a dog.

Esme let out a foggy breath in relief.

A dark coat haunted the edge of her vision.

The figure was hundreds of feet away in the distance. They shouldn’t have concerned her, but they did.

The back of Esme’s neck prickled once more.

She turned towards the figure. Something about him was familiar. Her eyes narrowed. Anyone else would be too far to garner any detail. Esme was not so limited.

Appearance: Identical to figure from earlier. Additional details — Grey eyes, narrow facial features, left hand never strays from his side.

Speculation: The man is hunting Esme.

A chill ran down Esme’s spine.

Something — more than merely the possibility of being hunted — concerned her about the figure. His face stirred the still waters of her memories. Esme’s attention wavered as she attempted to dredge up what she could recall.

His identity came to her after a handful of heartbeats. Far too long, once she realized who the man was.

Louis de Sartrons.

Esme reached towards the rapier at her side unconsciously, then dismissed the folly of fighting the man from her thoughts. Esme doubted her schooling in the weapon would hold up to one such as him.

She had been much younger when she last saw the man.

The de Anouilh family had sailed into stormy waters ever since the dawn of the civil war. Their fortunes had waned to such an extent that they had needed to resort to more mercantile means in order to remain afloat. Trade with the seagulls that ruled over Mercantis had proven humiliating. The periods of extended land travel followed by time over the open waters had ruined any hope of accruing a reputation as a proper landed noble. It was whispered in the more popular salons that others among the Salia nobility mocked their house. They were heralded as nothing more than puffed up merchants, not fit to share bread at the table of the other nobility.

They had only just returned to Salia after their last voyage to Mercantis when the omen that was Louis de Sartrons first darkened their door.

She did not know much about the man beyond what her father had seen fit to divulge. He was a member of the Circle of Thorns — the arm of Procer’s government that dealt with foreign threats — and it was dangerous to court their attention.

Those that came under their scrutiny often vanished soon after.

Should she risk a direct confrontation with the man? No. She doubted that even the cutting edge of her wit would spare her from the harsh scrutiny of his steel.

Esme’s heart raced like a boat in river rapids. She glanced around. The streets were deserted except for the two of them. The man would not dare to assault her in open view of others. Esme’s pace accelerated, her legs swallowed the ground like a whale feasting on krill.

Esme passed an abandoned vegetable stall, several derelict buildings, then came to an intersection. She took the path left. That way lay her destination. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

The man still trailed behind her.

The distance between the two of them had halved. Louis was no more than a hundred feet away. It would not be much longer until he caught up to her if she maintained her current pace.

The sight of the spectre trailing behind her was enough to put wind in her sails.

Breath quickening, Esme broke out into a sprint. She felt the apprentice’s pouch loosen and drop as she attempted to lose her tail. She cursed within the security of her own thoughts. Left, right, left. Down one road, then another, then another. She needed to find a crowd to lose herself within.

Where were all the people?

Should she scream? No. Her reputation could not suffer the blow. Furthermore, none of the unsavoury individuals that would frequent this area could be trusted to offer assistance. She looked over her shoulder once more and noted with relief that the distance between them had grown. Louis de Sartrons had taken the opportunity to claim possession of the pouch.

Esme berated herself for not examining the man further while the both of them were still swimming in a sea of people. Actually, why had he not seized her earlier? The Circle of Thorns did not need an excuse to conduct their investigations. Perhaps the man was acting outside his duties. It would not surprise Esme if the Circle of Thorns was as rotten as every other Proceran institution. Would she need to purge them as well?

Esme’s attention wavered while she considered the matter.

She turned and the alley she was in began to open out. She heard the cries of voices in the distance. It served as additional motivation to run. She sailed past the last empty residence and entered into an open market as she took a right at the next intersection.

Large crowds thronged between stalls. Louis called out, but none listened over the cries of the merchants hawking their wares. Esme let out a sigh of relief as she lost herself in the crowd.

Safe.

She was safe.

Esme felt like the bilge of an aged ship that had not been properly maintained. Dirty, crusted, coated in barnacles.

Three days had passed since the Circle of Thorns had begun haunting her every step.

Esme had returned to her current abode, only to discover more agents of the enemy skulking outside the door. She had tried to find a new port of call, but every place she considered triggered her caution. A fog of paranoia had slowly crept over her senses, veiling every part of her mind in stark panic.

One of the members of the Circle of Thorns trailed behind her.

Esme panted as she attempted to put more distance between herself and the devil breathing down her neck. Her nails were chipped, her clothes were filthy. She looked no better than a wild animal.

Please, please, please allow me to escape.

Tear stains marked her cheeks, dark rings circled her eyes, her hair was in tatters and blisters punished every step she took. Were it not for the terror she felt, she would have allowed herself to limp.

Deep, empty sobs wracked her frame.

The first night she had spent sleeping on the streets huddled beside a flame in the snow had been miserable. A lady of her breeding should not need to subject herself to such indignities. She had swallowed her pride and allowed herself to huddle beside the other street vagrants. At least they had known better than to take advantage of her poor state.

She was certain that it was only the rapier by had side that had kept the dregs of the street from moving on her.

Even her dreams were shadowed by monsters as she searched for a route to escape.

She turned into a narrow alley and let out an undignified grunt as she stumbled into someone unaware. A heartbeat later and her behind was buried in the snow. She looked up, glaring at the broad shouldered blond above her.

“It appears as if fortune favours us. I suspect that we have stumbled into our fox, Blaise,” the man above her said. His wide chin turned to the right as he addressed another figure.

Appearance — Blaise: Almost all exposed skin shows signs of scarring. Young, no older than twenty summers. Scars appear to be the work of a sword. Suggests extensive combat experience. Pale skin — either burns or does not spend much time outdoors. Bulging muscles — hard physical labour. Attire — stark white robes. Unfashionable.

Behaviour — Blaise: Hand ready to draw, eyes narrowed in focus on Esme. No, focused on the figure beyond Esme.

Word Choice and Behaviour — Unknown: “our fox,” glances towards Esme. Implies that they were searching for Esme. Tone of voice amused.

Speculation: Robes chosen for practicality and not appearance. Skilled duellist. Scarring is from repeated spars indoors. Son of a rich merchant or a member of the nobility, the latter is more probable. Searching for Esme. Not hostile.

“Quite right-right, Michel.” The pale, amber eyed mountain of muscle stammered out a reply.

Vocalization — Blaise: Stutter is not intentional. Speech defect.

Esme breathed in and out, calming her racing heart.

“She matches the description our client gave us of the girl we were hired to locate.”

Word Choice — Michel: locate, not capture or kill.

Speculation: Evidence suggests someone wants to speak with Esme, but does not want Esme harmed.

“Would you two gentlemen mind leaving me alone with my dear friend Adele de Anouilh? She and I have some outstanding business to conclude.” Louis de Sartrons inquired.

The devil who had made her every waking moment a misery turned up once more. Esme’s eyes darted from one figure to another, her broken nails scored marks into her otherwise filthy palms.

He kept the tone of his voice light. Esme was not fooled. Anger roiled within her as the trappings of her old life were called upon through the mention of her discarded name.

Behaviour — Louis de Sartrons: Eyes move between their hands and their face. Hand on weapon, prepared to draw. Muscles taut.

Speculation: Recognizes both individuals. Wary of them. Does not believe he can match them in a fight.

“I would rather not be left alone with him,” she rasped. “I fear for my own safety.”

Michel stretched a hand towards her and gave her an open smile. She took it and hoisted herself up, grateful for the assistance. It was a pity that only the nobility maintained proper decorum. They were flawed in every other perceptible way.

“Our apologies, good sir, but we will have to deny your request,” Michel shook his head.

“The lady-lady has given her opinion on the matter.” Blaise added.

Esme’s eyebrows rose. It was uncanny how the two duellists appeared to be completing each other’s thoughts.

“I am afraid that I am going to have to insist,” the walking corpse replied, smiling affably at the duellists. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a badge with the symbol of the Circle of Thorns on it. “This is a matter of foreign security.”

Four more men stepped out of the shadows and stood behind the sea snake.

The two duellists stepped to one side, placing themselves upwind of where she currently stood. She could not blame them, although the reaction stung.

Behaviour — Mob: All of them are prepared to draw blades. Combat ready. Extensive experience with killing. Wariness despite their numerical advantage.

Speculation: The two men are superior fighters. Can win if the situation devolves into a fight. Unlikely to fight with the Circle of Thorns.

Esme could feel the noose slipping around her neck.

“It appears you have business with the lady after all,” Michel began.

“This falls outside-outside of our client’s request.” Blaise finished.

Hands clammy, throat tightening as her thoughts steered towards the reef, and her breath quickened, Esme tried to find an out. She was certain that the two duellists offered her a method of escape, if only she could find a safe passage to sail between the rocks.

She reached out, but grasped at smoke.

Esme was exhausted. The last of her strength had long since sunk to the bottom of the ocean. She knew that if she were more alert she could find an out, but in her current state it was an effort to Connect the clues.

Connect — Louis de Sartrons: Evidence suggests he desires Esme’s capture and not death. Motives unknown. Suspect it’s related to family.

Connect — Duellists: Circle of Thorns are cautious of them. Implies an exceptional level of skill. Not cheap to hire. Strong emphasis was placed on keeping Esme unharmed. It is plausible the employer can afford to offend the Circle of Thorns.

Unharmed. There lay the key to her escape. She did not know if the mysterious employer was any less dangerous to her than the man who had pursued her, but the rumours surrounding the Circle of Thorns charted the course that Esme intended to follow. She would rather trust her safety to strangers than with the organization rumoured to make problems disappear.

Esme licked her lips.

“Your employer has no wish for me to perish, which is what will occur if you were to leave me in this man’s care.”

“What do you think-think, Michel?”

“Our client insisted that she remain unharmed.”

“This is all a bit off-off the beaten path.”

“She insisted that we were not to talk to you at all.”

“S-She cautioned-cautioned that your words were poisonous.”

“I give my word that I have no fell intentions towards Adele de Anouilh at this time.”

Behaviour — Duellists: Shared current of thought. Easy to extrapolate.

Word Choice — Louis de Sartrons: at this time — phrasing is deliberate. Leaves open the possibility of harm at a later date.

Speculation: Duellists talking themselves into leaving Esme to the Circle of Thorns.

“I am not prepared to trust my own safety to an oath vaguer than maps of the eastern ocean. If you do not wish to fail at your commission, then I suggest that you deliver me to your employer. There is nothing preventing me from conversing with Louis de Sartrons at another time.”

“You-you know, Michel, the girl raises a fair argument.”

“An argument that neither of us can find fault with.”

“This falls outside our-our commission.”

“But we have already gone beyond the call of duty.”

“Then we will follow and speak with dear Adele once her business with your employer concludes,” Louis de Sartrons smiled like a shark during a feeding frenzy.

The two duellists turned towards each other. A dozen heartbeats passed where no heartbeats were said. An unspoken agreement appeared to have been reached, since they both nodded to each other not long after.

“This compromise is acceptable.” They both declared at the same turn of the tide. There was an awkward pause as Blaise stuttered partway through their performance.

Esme felt as if a hole had been bored into the side of her ship and water was flowing in. How much longer, she wondered, until she finally sunk.

The duellists led the way towards the kind of establishment Esme would never frequent herself. She was prepared to tolerate the wooden board outside the entrance with a carving of a snake slithering into a cave. However, the imagery on the banners ventured beyond the suggestive into the obscene.

“Are you certain that your employer resides here?”

“We-we are indeed at the correct location.”

“Our boss is not one for putting on airs.”

Esme’s eyebrows scraped the ceiling when the duellists confirmed that the courtesan’s house was indeed the correct destination.

She swallowed her pride.

Finding refuge in a brothel would still be better than another night spent out in the cold. Besides, the odds were longer should Esme refuse the opportunity before her. Esme’s eyes bored holes in the ceiling as she was escorted towards the second floor. She was not prepared to taint her memories with the indiscretions of those in attendance. While such behaviour had been commonplace on the journeys she had undertaken, she had ensured to remain out of sight and uninvolved. Bedroom acts belonged behind closed doors.

Discomfort gnawed its way through Esme’s gut. It took her a scant few moments to realize, but her unease came from more than just the indecorous behaviour she had witnessed on the lower floor. Esme felt spiritually unclean, as if she was not deserving of setting foot within the confines of these walls. The very thought was ridiculous, but it led her to examine her thoughts in more detail.

Emotions — Esme: Not natural, influence imposed from the outside. Suspected wizard or priest.

Esme’s hackles rose. Had she fled from one foe only to land in the lair of another? The Circle of Thorns had hunted her as if she was nothing more than a wild beast, but it appeared as if she was entering the abode of one of her sworn foes.

The duellists led the way towards one of the suites and rapped thrice against the door.

Louis de Sartrons trailed behind her like the portent of doom that he was. His cohort chose to remain downstairs.

A red haired woman stepped into the hallway. She was clad in a rag so offensive to Esme’s sense of taste that she was not even prepared to allow her servants to repurpose it as a dish cloth.

To Esme’s dismay, it was still in a better state than the woollen rags that she currently possessed.

Hands on hips, eyes narrowed, the walking wardrobe blasphemy addressed Esme’s guides. “When I paid the two of you to find our troublemaker, I happened to lay down a few rules. What were they?”

“You instructed us not to engage with her and only to locate her.”

“That-that we should not come under her scrutiny and sh-should not converse with her.”

“That she was not to be invited to this place.”

“But-but considering-”

The two duellists continued to lay out the extensive list of rules their employer had set. Rules which they had summarily ignored. Esme felt sympathy for the woman, even as she watched her ship veer further off course with each rule that was explained.

The woman knew far too much about what Esme was capable of.

“Who is it, Song?” a voice called out.

“Y’know how y’told me not to bring your fox here?”

Esme’s eyebrows scraped the sky as the woman’s behaviour transformed from one moment to the next.

Behaviour — Song: Shoulders loosened, hands opened, eyes softened. Other rapid changes in posture, her speech impediment is affected.

All of this woman’s behaviour was an act. Her brown eyes twinkled knowingly as she examined Esme like a bird that had caught a worm. If Esme was not already emotionally wrung out, her mouth would now have run dry.

“She’s here anyway?” the voice replied in anger.

“She is. Y’know, she looks kinda pitiful like this. I’ve seen less miserable kicked puppies. Y’sure she’s dangerous?”

The sound of footfalls approaching heralded the arrival of the unknown host. The feeling of discomfort grew. The harsh corona surrounding the walking candlestick was the first detail that Esme took note of.

Appearance — stranger: Dark hair, too wide jaw, tall, young. Late teens. White robes, robes non-standard for a priestess. No visible signs of damage, unnaturally clean, four badges on one side, one on the other.

Behaviour — stranger: Clenching of fists, measured breathing. Upset, doing her best to mask it. Creases in clothing are anomalous. It appears as if something imperceptible is hugging her. Stranger’s movement is unimpeded by the anomaly, she considers it normal.

Speculation: Stranger matches the description of the hero of compassion.

At long last, a priestess who upheld the beliefs she claimed to have. Unlike Esme, there was also little doubt she was a hero. It made her an effective shield against the corrupt clergy, the hostile elements of the law, and the nobility.

While Esme doubted there was much the girl could do to aid her — those who followed Compassion were known to be an ineffectual lot — she was also not one who would ever wish Esme or her brother harm. It was a pity that she would be no more use than as a shield from unearned consequences, but Esme had always been aware that there would not be many she could rely upon.

The burden of avenging her brother — of exacting justice upon all who had wronged her — was hers alone.

The teen looked at Esme for the span of a few heartbeats. Her gaze softened, the fight seemed to drain out of her.

Behaviour — stranger: Working herself up to doing something that makes her uncomfortable. Unhappy with her decision. Believes it to be the correct one.

Before Esme knew it, she had been swept up in a hug. It was most improper.

Esme flinched.

“I’m so sorry,” the teen whispered.

Why was Esme crying?

Why was the hero so uncomfortable to be around?

Esme was a hero as well…

Wasn’t she?