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Chapter 8: Lurker

Primrose took a few long, calming breaths as she limbered up in the quiet side-passage outside the Falkshire guest house. The caffeine-rich tea extract she had drunk was working its way into her system to fight off the fog of fatigue, and the haze of alcohol, as the dulled edges of her nerves sparked back to life. She also double checked her equipment, then triple checked every pouch and blade. There was nothing worse than going into uncharted or dangerous territory without knowing every piece was in working order; their failure was your death.

With her tools in order and her mind sharpening by the second from the extract, Primrose focused inward and psyched herself up. She recalled why she was taking this risk; this was a rare opportunity to gather information on Gathard while he was away from his guest residence.

This man, who was pursuing raothaar artefacts and burning them, was also seeking a raothaar shield of legend which Primrose hadn't heard of before, or so claimed Bantam. Prim had no reason to doubt the old crowman; he had been a close ally, if a frustrating one, since their chance encounter around fifteen years ago, and he had never steered her wrong. Gathard was an obstacle.

Primrose also needed to try and find out if Gathard had any information about the limping man. They were in cahoots, which meant beyond doubt that, since Primrose had won the remnant, he was also going to try and steal it before morning.

She was going to succeed. Even if she held no lofty opinions about herself otherwise, she had her pride solely in this profession. A profession that had taken her whole life to learn. She was a lurker of the dark, with hands quicker than the eye and a mind to match. Primrose was a thief, and a damn good one. She often wondered where she would be if she never married and kept at the second oldest profession after bartering sex for coin.

Thievery was an art. Similar to the best artists, the most legendary thieves only became famous after they stopped, either by their death, being caught or retiring after one final job. This is why calling cards, like leaving trinkets or messages in place of valuables, became a thing. Everyone would know who accomplished deeds once thought impossible, and you earned notoriety the likes of which were still discussed across the city decades after the deed. Notoriety was the currency you earned through hard gamble and exposing yourself to weakness.

It wasn't just romanticism, either. There's no profit in being perfect, because nobody would believe you if you pulled off an equally perfect heist without exposing your identity in some way. If notoriety was the currency, then every key to every door, every combination to every vault, every private word spoken in every darkest corner of the farthest tavern about every man of importance was merchandise in the great marketplace of the underworld.

Truly talented thieves were far and few between. A handful became legends, most others burned twice as bright and half as long at the end of a rope. Most career criminals generally got by from day-to-day work for the big criminal bosses and earned a nickname or title. That or either rise to take over or create their own guilds and clubs or wasted away in the crown's darkest prisons.

The terrible ones were a sad lot. Again, like art, anyone could sculpt clay or take charcoal or ink to parchment. Just like any idiot could break a window, enter a building and grab a few valuables and run long before anyone saw you. People often did, and likely could earn a meagre living right up until the easy victims and marks took notice and redoubled their efforts in protecting their property by hiring guards.

Sure, you scrape by, but the noose would tighten as people got wise to your methods and your options narrowed. Then, when nobody would look at you without waving down the bluecoats, you become one of them thugs that are hired for a ten lile a week to break bones for someone looking for dumb muscle.

You never got any worthwhile notoriety. All the fear was sent to your boss while you took home that banking stick of lily's each Garegsday, ready to be dumped from the group when it was convenient. Your employer would just deny they knew you when the law started breaking your fingers with a chair leg and you tried to squeal. In the end personal notoriety, born of rumblings and rumour about your skills, was the best policy for someone with a good head on their shoulders.

Primrose never built a reputation, and it cost her. She told herself to never to be tied down to any one club or gang because she'd already been party to two 'bosses' already, namely the orphanage madam and a foster father. So she subsided on petty theft while she refined her skills to perfection.

The sort of perfection that had been caned into her by Madam Henswick and overachievement beaten into her by Quinn Shelby, her foster father, and his never ending greed. Every day, new locks and pockets were picked, new and more complicated security devices bypassed. Every day, she followed people in all types of weather and any hour of the day to test how close she could be before being noticed. Every damn day, she pushed how fast she could be, mentally and physically.

It culminated in the perfect heist. Primrose became the proud owner of a flatbox of hound-eyes, ten sticks of ten fifty lile coins in a banking case. Five thousand lile, no witnesses and no split shares, lifted from a moneylender after two weeks of careful watching and learning. Enough money to rent a property for months and eat heartily for just as long. Enough time to find stability, find a better way of life.

The dirty look she received as some scrawny raothaar street urchin trying to pay for food with a fifty lile coin told her everything she needed to know. They locked her up for forgery, but she was lucky when a more honest officer checked the coin and found it was legitimate. They decided to kick her out and didn't return the coin.

By the time Primrose got back to her hideout, someone had taken it over and the flatbox was gone. She was left her penniless and without shelter. That was when she got desperate enough to start casing the passive, friendly borough of Hitherby, the well-to-do, everybody's family raothaar and their well-off church. She was especially desperate enough to fight over a dry alcove and receive a shiv in the ribs and a life threatening infection for her troubles.

Primrose learned two things from those experiences before Hitherby: that she was really good at burglary and overachievers were as the tallest flower in a bed; you got clipped for ruining the view.

Tonight, once more a thief, she couldn't leave any identifiable traces and she couldn't be seen. She needed to be perfect. The irony wasn't lost on her.

Primrose whispered to herself, “no pressure."

Sufficiently mentally focused and physically loose, she studied two guards protecting the front gate of Gathard's guest house. Jasper's earlier digs at them being fodder and cheap hires didn't hold much water; each looked disciplined and skilled, both had well kept suits of steel chainmail and breastplates. Both were alert and only indulged in the occasional bit of banter, and none of it especially distracting.

She had to get behind the house, but that wasn't a short trip. The guest houses were two rows from the front gate up to the central manor, with gates in front and back and fenced side by side with no passage between, and the road was fully lit and patrolled. She had no choice but to climb the back fence of Falkshire's guest house, run all the way around the manor through the overgrown grounds, and behind Gathard's property.

Besides the two guards on the front gate that she had already studied there was also one on the back gate, with another patrolling the house grounds with a lantern for the dark side-paths. Nearby was Lord Gathard's carriage, which rested beneath a thick waterproof cover to protect it from the elements. With the front fully illuminated as well, Primrose's considered her options with the windows; the carriage could even get her to the upper floors.

Except every window was securely barred with iron.

“Oh, crackers," Primrose breathed and chastised herself by tugging her ears. “Of course they are; they're the same as all the others. Focus, Prim."

She observed the wandering guard as he rounded the side of the house. A key ring hung from his belt, as well as a longsword and a few belt-pouches. He also had a fancier hat with a small pin attached to the headband; likely a sergeant, officer or some other superior.

Primrose twirled her whiskers with her finger as she planned her entrance. As nice as those keys would be, they were well fastened too well to be filched with ease, but that didn't mean they were useless.

She crept up to the next house on the row, the bosun's property, since it had less guards. Primrose climbed the fence, dipped into the dark side-path, then clambered over into Gathard's grounds. There was no practical cover besides Gathard's carriage, so she climbed on top of one of its wheels so her legs wouldn't be visible underneath from the passing guard, but also so she wouldn't disturb the elliptic suspension springs. Once she had a good grip, she covered herself with the blanket and waited.

She took a cursory glance inside the carriage, but saw nothing of interest. Then, realising she was on the personal carriage of a man she detested, she also spat on the door-handle of the carriage. Then she snorted, coughed up some phlegm and spat on it again. Then she waited for the guard.

Prim saw the creep of light beneath her, and as it turned down the darkness beside the house, she dropped down and walked up behind the guard, matching her footfalls with his.

She looked at the keys as they jingled and swayed back and forth; two small, two large. With a claw-tip, she lifted one of the larger keys away to hold it steady for a closer look.

Recently cleaned, scratches and traces of rust around the stem and pin, slight bending of the bit. That was an outdoor key. Primrose could envision someone heading to unlock the gate in the heavy rain, their shaking hands trying to insert the key into the lock, scraping and fiddling while not wishing to get drenched. The lock likely jammed with rust at some point and took some force to unstick, which would explain the bending of the bit.

The next one looked the part. Cleaner but more worn; the gates likely remained unlocked during visits, but the doors were designed to lock automatically when closed unless a catch was turned on the inside, so the keys saw a lot of work. Tamford brand; good locks. Hard wearing and complicated. They had a major flaw where if you jammed a narrow blade or spike, like a metalworking chisel, deep inside and toward the deadbolt, then struck it with a hammer, you could lever the bolt and door open. You would obviously ruin the lock and the tool, but it's useful in a pinch.

Prim nodded to herself and slowed to let the guard move ahead, then waited for him to pass by the back door, then moved in to work. She took out a simple hooked pick and felt the tumblers inside in sequence. Well greased, tight springs. She finally put gentle pressure on the door handle to test the action.

It opened. It caught her by surprise. “Really?" she mouthed, shook her head at the sloppiness of the guard, held back a giggle and peered inside.

The low crackle and warmth of a fireplace greeted her, darkness besides and nobody was around, as expected. Gathard's carriage was of the same size as Jacob's, so it stood to reason it carried himself and the older lady dining with him with the guards on the outside. She assumed between three to six guards rode atop the carriage roof, rear step and drivers seats, and unlikely to slow the carriage by having any walk.

With four already accounted for, and assuming she wasn't lucky enough for no guards inside, Prim slowly scouted the ground floor to confirm her suspicions. The layout was identical to Jacob's guest house, and likely was the case with all the guest properties. The guard bunk-rooms were on the ground floor, so she checked inside.

One guard sleeping, one reading by candlelight. A strange glass sphere rested on top of a fixture on the wall in front of the reader. Within was a thin piece of wire which held two springs, a couple of metal tubes and a lens at the base that capped the fixture stem. Primrose didn't know what it was, but her instincts told her to keep it in mind.

Satisfied with guard threat, she crept upstairs. The same setup again, with two larger rooms and an open bathroom. The larger rooms were about the same size, so she had no choice but to guess which one belonged to Gathard. She also guessed about a lack of any overt traps.

Primrose stopped and considered the sphere downstairs again; a lack of traps, but experience told her not an absence. She pushed a simple probe through the lock, rotated it to make sure nothing was about to shoot her in the eye, then removed it and peered through. Her night vision saw nothing unusual, but something wasn't right. Something intangible, but... what was it? Her whiskers were somehow itchy and her fur stood on end.

She rapped her knuckles on the wood with a feather's force. The door reverberated just fine, so she put her ear near the handle and tapped it again. Nothing unusual. Primrose smoothed her whiskers down and sighed, satisfied she was just being overly cautious, pressed the handle and opened the door.

A gentle creak, a waft of perfume on the air. Lavender and clary sage. Not Gathard's room. Primrose peeked inside all the same. The same furnishings: a solid, goose-down bed, a chest of drawers, a cabinet and a simple dresser with a chair. A well polished oaken staff, wrapped in fine chains and topped with a glass or crystal prism, was leaning against the dresser. An identical sphere as the one in the guard bunk-room downstairs rested on top, along with a set of smaller lenses, tiny mirrors, delicate clamps, polishing pumice and cleaning cloths. A small workshop to construct another of those devices.

Curiosity sent her inside, and her reflexes shot her back outside as the room glowed. The light faded, and Prim's second attempt at entry caused the stone on top of the staff to flicker and flare. Magic. She also saw the light catching on some of the lenses, and as the glow passed through, it seemed to grow brighter.

She knew a little common arcane knowledge from her old studies at the orphanage and had done a bit more reading when bored as a married woman with Antoine away at war, but truly knowing magic was something that took decades of hard study.

Primrose at least now knew was that Gathard's assistant was a wizard. With only a handful of exceptions, true wizards only learnt one fundamental 'domain' of magic. Pyromancers could manipulate existing flame and conjure their own. Aeromancers, such as in Isaac's story of the Bite of the Wrong could change the properties of air, make it thinner or thicker and alter the weather. Gathard's companion must be a photomancer, based on this creation of light.

What Gathard's assistant could do with light was beyond Primrose's experience, but it was information worth remembering. She doubted this woman just used it to light her room, and it may be crucial in dealing with her if she ever became a threat.

Still, this wasn't where Primrose needed to be, so she closed the door and checked the other bedroom. What must have been Gathard's door was locked, and once she was satisfied it wasn't trapped with the same tests as the wizard's door, Primrose made short work of the pins and tumblers.

Inside was different, with finer fabrics on the furniture, a few paintings of modest worth, a full and expensive writing set on a desk that clashed with the décor. It drew her gaze and pulled at her instincts. On the desk lay a few documents that were written but not signed or sealed. Ship names, cargo and crew manifests, destinations all across the Ondressan continent and those Vliechoven settlements designated by the current peace agreement to be open.

The ink was a unique brand that dried quicker and resisted smudging. It came from from one specific boutique shop in the marketplace. Nothing too useful, but Primrose knew too well that all information has its uses.

She traced her claws around the edges of each drawer. The top and bottom ones were loose and opened to more paper, ink, candles and cloths and other basic sundries. The middle drawer was thickly padded on the rim with velvet, as well as locked. Primrose's whiskers stood on end and a shiver ran down her spine and through her tail. Something wasn't right.

Primrose re-examined the room and considered everything she knew: the presence of unique furniture and blankets where Gathard stayed here so often, he employed a photomancer, there was the duplicate spheres in the wizard's bedroom and in the guard bunk-room. He ran an influential ship building business tied to the crown and Bralranian military and he liked curios and antiques.

She left the drawer for a moment and examined other parts of the room that were unusual. The blankets and quilts, while of very fine quality, weren't exceptional, neither were the paintings. They were commercial duplicates, the sort you find in taverns and businesses all over the city.

Comfort was one thing, but why would he settle for such typical paintings? The man liked finery better than decorations that cost, at most, ten lile per copy, housed in five lile frames.

A scene of ships in dry-dock. A daytime landscape of the capitol from a nearby place, possibly Dewsigh. A lighthouse in the fog.

A glint drew her eye to... the capitol painting? She studied it closer.

The frame was scuffed, as if something had been placed on top without care. The painting was nice, but simplistic, even crude in parts. Especially around the sun. It wasn't just canvas. She angled herself to try and catch some moonlight across the picture

The glint was coming from behind the sun, which was a coloured mesh. A yellow lens. It was curved, convex, like a telescope. A closer look showed a tiny flickering light, perhaps a candle. Not likely to be used to spy, but...

The amplifying lenses, the glass spheres with complicated metal components. Light detection of some sort? Almost certainly. Her keen raothaari dark vision had saved her where a human, even moving by lamp-light, might have been caught. But she wasn't safe yet, so she took some precautions.

Primrose smirked and removed her cloak, then tucked it over the painting. She then returned to the peculiar drawer, unlocked it and, with a final glance at the covered painting, squinted as she opened the drawer.

White light erupted from within. She reached inside, tapping at the contents blindly. She felt a glass bead and the light flickered from her fingers. It was cool to the touch, so she clenched it in her fist, tucked it into a pouch, tied it off and let her eyes re-adjust to the dark.

Within was a journal and a lockbox. Primrose would have loved to have pilfered both, but reminded herself she couldn't do anything so obvious. She took out her own writing materials and settled for taking notes from the leather-bound book.

The first entries were dated from the start of the year, with mentions of Gathard meeting a number of noble households for Winterpass festivals. Normally names would be useful, but men like Gathard were involved with almost every family out there. Page after page of banal details. A mention of a Matilda, involved with rigging up lighting apparatus in a few of Gathard's properties and extending the service to his business partners.

The name of the photomancer. Excellent. All true wizards were party to official registration and known only to the crown and the sanctum of all esoteric arts, the St. Zoeli church. Very useful. It was the lowest of hopes that Matilda was an illegal wizard, but if she could find out more about her, it could prove a chink in Gathard's armour. She nodded and continued through the journal.

A few pages later, something caught Primrose's eye. Emperor Firaegin's name. She took a closer look.

34th of Tearful Sky, 1570

My Friend continues to wonder why I keep a journal, but I know my cause is just. If I can avert the disaster encroaching from across the sea, be it man or drake, I would like to keep the details of my intervention so I can better remember the road to protecting Bralran.

When I sleep, however soundly, my mind diverts more and more towards the self-styled Emperor Firaegin. A dragon who seems so far away, yet I can feel it in my soul that he will come for this great land. Their greed is as plain as day and this fiend will be no different; how could he ignore such a jewel of a nation?

In fact, My Friend has witnessed his poisonous influence first hand on an official visit to our former colony, Goshev. A beast of his size proclaiming peace, because nobody could dare argue against such a monster. A tyrant beyond all measure who need not even raise a scaled fist in anger to get everything he desires.

To think that when My Friend first mentioned the ratfolk prophecy, I scoffed. Yet everything has come to pass, with or without our influence. All-Six knows that I must now seek the solution the ratfolk seem reluctant to pursue, or certainly seem to only be taking half-seriously. If this prophecy is true, then I pray their solution is just as true.

If the vermin act as they always do and hide, rather than stand by humanity's side to safeguard our country, I shall take what I need at any cost.

I just need to find the shield first.

Primrose stared at the words. She knew Gathard was working on finding raothaar relics and more, and had been for a season and a half at least. He knew about this shield before Primrose had considered it important, which meant any record Gathard had of it would be at his home. His 'Friend' also gave Primrose pause for thought, but he was careful to not mention anything beyond likely being a noble if this individual was part of an official visit to the Vliechoven vassal nation of Goshev. Someone else to chase up, especially if they knew about the prophecy as well.

The worst part might be what Gathard meant by aspects of the prophecy happening 'with or without' his influence. Just what had he done?

A thump on the stairs. Primrose's ears pricked and she hopped to her feet before a second footfall even as she cursed her hazy mind; she should have locked the door behind her.

She couldn't flee, and not only because the way was blocked and the windows barred. She still had to find out whatever she could about the limping man, if he was a risk to the remnant, and Gathard was almost certainly involved. The clues were here, she just needed more time.

Primrose replaced the brightstone and the journal in the drawer with dazzled, blind fumbling. Once closed, she had to let her eyes adjust and she didn't have time to lock it now. She bundled her notes in her scroll tube, grabbed her cloak, moved by the door and drew her knife.

Primrose considered who it could be. It was unlikely to be Gathard; it was too soon. It wasn't close to midnight yet. She prayed it wasn't Matilda. The footsteps grew louder, she could feel the vibration through the floor. Heavy strides, thick boots; a guard, doing the rounds. They would check Gathard's door was still locked!

She quickly took a gear-jammer, wrapped one end around the handle, hooked the other on the frame and tightened it as much as she dared. She then pressed her foot against the door and held her knife at the ready.

The handle turned and she felt a little pressure. A pause, a few steps away from Gathard's room. Matilda's door opened, then closed.

Primrose sighed with relief as she heard the footfalls move back down the stairs. She retrieved the gear jammer, repositioned her cloak over the painting, closed her eyes to once more stow the brightstone in a pouch and opened the journal.

A few pages covered small developments on Gathard's dreams, how he located a few raothaar trinkets, symbols, books and more and burned them. It made sense; it wasn't spite, at least entirely. More likely just brute-force testing for true Sibling relics. He didn't value these items beyond their use in finding the vault, the raothaar 'salvation' mentioned on the map inside the Hitherby charity box. All for seeking those fireproof pieces of the map, now cleverly divided up into less obvious objects tied to worship of the Siblings.

Primrose skipped to the latest entries. References to the party, expectations in purchasing the storybook remnant.

Ah, mention of a partner in attendance well before the party even had a set date. She paged back a few more days.

5th of Sighing Mountain, 1570

Everything is ready. 'H' found employment as a serf for Randell, who took my recommendation without question. 'H' also informed me that the book passed its trial by flame and he evaded notice while someone else took the fall.

He can now remain cooperative in Randell's estate until our next meeting, where I can procure the piece and then he can end his employment. Money well spent. I'll have to look into Westjack's services again.

That was all she needed. It also meant the likelihood of the Westjack planted serf was all but guaranteed to steal the relic tonight, thanks to Primrose's victory at the game of saints. Her course was clear.

If she wasn't already too late, she had to break into Randell's manor and steal the remnant first.

* * *

It was a quick exit; familiar settings, the interior guard had done his rounds and was back to reading and the officer's lamp made him easy to spot through the window. Primrose even had time to lock both the drawer and the bedroom door, and once out and over the fence, sighed with relief.

Now came the hard part.

Primrose gave the manor a wide berth and made a slow approach near the stables for more cover. She watched for gaps in the patrols, but found her gaze drawn to the kennels. They made her twitchy, even beyond the tea concentrate fighting off the waning alcohol in her blood, so she focused on the wine cellar door.

Three locks in an exposed, well lit area. Most wouldn't consider it a viable entrance, but Primrose was confident, she just had to trust herself. The exposure meant cloak was useless; if anyone saw a figure by the wine cellar, the place would be locked down and she wouldn't be able to outrun the dogs. That would be it; Jacob's assistant was a thief and she was torn to pieces by those vicious monsters. She bundled up the cloak and tucked it into the back of her belt for easier access to her picks. She was ready.

Or was she?

A black cloud filled her mind; this was foolish! What was she doing? She was going to break into Gathard's estate at some point. She could just steal it back then, rather than run the risk of being discovered now.

She weighed her options as the largest gap in the patrol drew near. Gathard wasn't just going to have raothaar artefacts in plain view, of course. He likely hid them in one of his shipyards. Shipyards protected by all manner of magical defences, courtesy of Matilda, and dozens of guards. Tonight was the lesser risk.

Yes, she had to break in. Right damn now. Primrose had to at least locate and ensure the remnant was safe and hopefully spook this 'H' fellow from Westjack's gang from trying to purloin what was rightfully hers.

Primrose breathed in and out, slow and steady, to ease her nerves. A guard with his dog vanished behind the corner and she sprinted to the wine-cellar doors. Her eyes wide, her mind abuzz with catalogues, schematics, broken and discarded parts of locks. This was no time for subtlety, just speed and pragmatism worthy of angering St. Dastor.

A padlock. Kelton industrial. Weather resistant. Nigh unbreakable. Tiny, simple keys. Primrose pulled the slimmest zig-zag raking pick she had alongside a tension wrench. Four rakes, four pins and click. Done.

Fifteen seconds.

A deadbolt. Vanosti. Old, worn. Likely the reason for the padlock. Basic keys, but the springs were probably too weak for her to feel accurate tension or pressure for anything quick. Primrose took out a bump key, designed to rattle and jiggle the pins as it was inserted, and attacked the lock. Again. Again.

Twenty nine seconds. Prim clenched her teeth.

A loud laugh from a guard echoed around the corner. It made her freeze. No! No hesitation. She imagined the cane or hurled glass bottle for a mistake. Perfection or failure.

Two more passes with the bump key. The lock was badly worn, even worse than first assumed. She took out a pair of pliers and used them to grip the key. She then took a small rubber mallet. Strike, sudden twist. An ugly click. Done, finally.

Forty four seconds.

The heavy footsteps of armoured boots and the puff and pant of a dog in her left ear; they would be around the corner in moments.

A newer Vanosti. Six pin. Well looked after but still worn and tired. She took out a larger rocking rake and a longer, tougher tension wrench and took as long as she dared. A steady rhythm of clicks. Clear.

Sixty eight seconds. Sloppy, but a success.

Primrose pocketed the padlock, opened the doors, entered and closed them behind her. Once sure she was alone, she took a gear-jammer and used it to secure the doors from the inside; at worst, someone would assume the padlock was missing up but the others were still set. It would only take a determined pull to pry it free from the tightly fitted rope, but she might need a rapid escape.

Primrose took a moment to breathe. She stroked the thicker fur on her head to calm herself as she looked around. Cobweb covered bottles and racks, shelves, barrels surrounded her. A lantern hung from a fixture near the only door that showed recent use. No doubt used to find the right vintage for the party, but they had to be winding down and pleasantly drunk by now.

She moved through into the storage room beyond, with shelves filled with jarred and canned foodstuffs, and found her goal. The dumbwaiter hatch. It could only be here; the kitchen and pantry were on the third floor and weren't big enough to contain all the food for guests and guards alike. So far so good.

The passage was going to be a bit of a squeeze, but the top panel was only secured by a few simple bolts. She unscrewed them and tucked the metal plate to the side, then climbed up the shaft by bracing her hands and feet against the walls. Dust, brick fragments and mortar smothered her, but she reached the top and pried open the door to the kitchen.

The once busy room was empty and she could smell it had recently been cleaned, with the air thick with lemon and vinegar. Primrose knew her route from here and made her way out the staff exit to get around the banquet hall.

Hushed conversation pricked Primrose's ears but, while she was curious about what was being discussed, she skulked the hallways towards the stairs. The corridors had nooks and crannies that overlooked the grounds, and many held lesser display pieces that would be perfect for a quick hiding spot.

Thankfully, with their employer having his secretive discussion, the guards for the floor were clear of the entrance hall. It wouldn't do to eavesdrop, so they were quietly having a conversation of their own in an alcove and enjoying the view outside. As she passed, and much to Prim's chagrin, they joked about the cheese incident from earlier.

At last, she crept up the stairs to Isaac's hall of curios, but she froze and winced. The door was closed. but the mechanism for the locks and alarms were held in place by a shoddy, but custom-built set of clamps on a crude wire frame. This 'H' fellow no doubt had plenty of time to perfect such a countermeasure, but even so, the gears ticked and clicked as it tried to resume its task. Even the door's locking mechanism could be seen twitching. Time was against her.

Primrose drew her knife and crept inside, gently closing the door behind her. The inside of the doorframe was lined with vault-like bolts on top of a standard lock. If they extended, there would be no escape. She bit her lip and continued on.

All seemed quiet as she made her way to the raothaar exhibit. Primrose saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary, and even the remnant was cosy within its glass case. Something didn't add up. Then she saw the dim bullseye lantern off to the side, lit but pointed against the wall. Primrose's hackles rose and she dipped her empty hand into one of her pouches by instinct as she raised her knife.

A waft of air. Movement. Warmth. No sound. An arm around her neck. A blade pointed at her eye.

“Shh. Not a peep, rat," a raspy male voice said. “Drop the knife."

Primrose didn't move except to release her blade with a loud clatter, then became still. She asked, affecting a shaky, frightened tone, “H-Hempley Knock-knee, right?"

“Clever, but I said shut it, whore." He reached down and unclasped Primrose's belt, then took away her tools.

Primrose shook her clenched hand to get rid of the excess dust just before he bound her hands together with a ball of thick twine, then anchored it to a wall fixture holding an old shield and he cut off the spool. She had a bit of slack, enough to reach several of the displays, but not enough to escape the gallery.

Hempley grabbed Prim by her collar and with him as he put her belt and knife with his lantern, turned the lamp toward the relic and said, “can't say I were expectin' company, but I'm just plum giddy that you are. You're gonna break the glass on that case for me." He pointed at the remnant's display. “Then I'm gonna take the book, and you're gonna take the fall. That way, you get to live and I get what I want. Am I clear?"

Primrose thought for a moment, about as long as a fearful woman might hesitate, then nodded. She was released, and she stole a glance at the man.

Middle aged, big brown eyes, clean shaven but covered in old scars. He was dressed in a simple outfit befitting a servant, but he also had a belt full of tools and a scabbard for his keen-pointed shortsword. She looked at his legs and watched his awkward steps; the reason for his title, Knock-Knee, complete with a metal brace around the knee joint just visible through his trousers. How he kept silent when he walked was anybody's guess.

He growled and repeated, “Am I clear!?"

Primrose smirked. “Crystal clear." She approached the case slowly and used her free hand to pull the razor from her vambrace then began sawing the twine until loose. She passed a wide-based pedestal for a gaudy, ugly, feathered raothaar helmet which she ducked behind.

“Oi! Quit pissing about, rat! If anyone comes in, I might get in trouble, but what're'ya gonna say to the old prick when you're found in the gallery?" He approached with his lantern, but stopped short and Prim cussed under her breath.

Primrose tried to think of her next move when she felt her arms being tugged by the twine, then a firm pull. She let herself forward by his feet and dropped the razor.

Hempley snarled and dived for it, and Primrose took a deep breath as she rolled over, closed her eyes and hurled a fistful of powder at his face.

Talcum, pepper and roughly ground quartz crystal, courtesy of the paperweight she had been given by the bank.

Primrose scooted away and opened her eyes. Hempley clutched his face and cried out as tiny fragments of natural glass clung to his face and embedded in his eyes, caked in drying talcum and stinging pepper. Every rub just worked the shards in deeper.

He lashed out wild and low with his blade, but Primrose kept a wide berth. She crept around him, trailing the twine around his feet, then lifted it and pulled the cord against his crooked knee. He stumbled and dropped his sword as he fought to stay upright but fell head-first into one of the displays with a ear-splitting crash. An ominous ratcheting sound filled the room and a set of metal rods rose from the pedestal, but they clicked and froze in place.

Primrose could feel the vibration through the floor; the mechanism had added to the strain on the blocking clamps. She snatched up her knife, razor, Hempley's sword and her toolbelt. She then took the padlock from the wine-cellar and tossed it on the floor near Knock-Knee as he stumbled about, and for good measure, she flapped her cloak over him to get more dust and brick fragments on him from the dumbwaiter shaft. The tiny traces of her passing were now all on him.

With her alibi more secure, Primrose sprinted for the door, but it was now locked. Only the deadbolt from the main lock was in place for now, but the others were creaking against the mechanism and threatening to seal the door completely. She fought off the panic and studied the lock for anything that could help. What brand was it? Maybe she still had time?

Tamford! She held up Hempley's fine tipped sword with a wild grin and stabbed it inside, then took her rubber mallet and hammered it into the deadbolt. With a hard pull, the lock slid out and pried the door open just as the rest of the vault-pins thrust from their housing.

Primrose then dashed out and pried the clamp free from the mechanism, which clicked and whirred. A series of ticks, a clink and a deafening alarm bell chimed through the house, but Primrose was already halfway down the stairs and into the banquet floor corridor.

She ducked into a shadowy corner and brought her cloak around her, with just a tiny slit to peer through, and waited as footfalls approached. The guards she had passed earlier rushed through, then Jacob, Isaac, Gathard and the other guests. More guards arrived from downstairs.

“Fenton!" Isaac squawked and thrust his stick toward the stairs. “Give Jacob your sword and get everyone back inside their guest houses! Then release the hounds and get men on the arbalests! Once all guests are secure, I want you to shoot any conniving, limp-cocked bastard you see moving that isn't flying my colours! Jacob, to me! We'll gut this thieving pus-drinker together!"

Fenton handed his sword to Jacob and escorted everyone else away.

Once the coast was clear, Primrose darted for the kitchen, back down the dumbwaiter shaft, through storage and the wine-cellar as footfalls and shouting filled the halls of the main building. She peered outside, checked side to side and darted for the foliage of the grounds, but almost froze dead as she heard a deep, booming bark from a guard-dog.

Primrose got as deep as she could as lamplight started darting between the flowers and hedges. She crouched low and slowly moved farther into the hedges, but not fast enough. Someone was close by; the dog's handler.

“What'd you see, boy? Go on, sniff'em out," he said, then called, “stand up and surrender, whoever you are!"

Prim bit her fist and started shaking. Not now! This was it, she had messed up at the last hurdle! Damned dogs! Stupid, ugly, kobold hunting, magic sniffing...

She drew Noran's Tooth and her trembling eased as she squeezed the grip. She eyed the crude blade, then the hedge. She balanced the knife on a few of the thicker limbs deep inside and slinked back to the next outcrop of long grass. Then she prayed and waited.

The muscular hound sniffed at the bush, rounding it and wagging its stumpy tail as the guard first looked confused, then angered. “Sander! Heel! Now's not the time for a piss, come on!" He tugged Sander away, who whined and resisted but eventually obeyed his master.

Primrose exhaled the stale air in her lungs. She realised she had held her breath for a couple of minutes and her vision was fuzzy. She staggered to the bush, retrieved her knife, and sprinted for Falkshire's estate before the guests were all secure and she risked being speared with an arbalest bolt.

Primrose climbed the fence, then the wall up to her room. She scrambled inside, secured the bars back on the window, washed her hands, stowed her tools and got undressed down to her small-clothes as if she'd settled in for a good night's sleep. She finally felt safe and her muscles relaxed as she collapsed onto her bed.

Not that she was going to be able to catch a wink. She was still buzzing from adrenaline and tea concentrate. She fiddled with her fingers and half expected Isaac's guards to come kicking in the door. An hour came and went when Primrose jumped at a gentle knock.

“Are you alright, Primrose?" Jacob called. “There's been an incident, but it's been dealt with. I'm just checking you're alright."

Primrose sniffed and coughed loudly, approached the door then mumbled, “just fine, Jacob. The commotion woke me up and I've a bit of a hangover, but I'm just fine."

“Oh, good. Try and get some sleep. I'm sure Isaac will discuss it with everyone at breakfast."

Primrose climbed under the covers, fully smug, and took out a book to read until fatigue took her into a blissful slumber.

It was a good night.

* * *

Breakfast was a bustle of hearsay and rumour until Isaac entered, red faced and sweating. He didn't even say a word until he guzzled down a large mug of coffee blacker than his mood, took a few deep breaths, then he explained the events of the previous night about the attempted burglary.

Being an old commander, Isaac held his own trial. The Westjack burglar swore blind he was just cleaning, but being found covered in glass (and apparently having scratched his eyes on the shards) alongside the wine-cellar padlock, the lock-breaking sword and the alarm clamps outside the door were damning. He tried to accuse Primrose, but nobody had seen her after she entered Jacob's guest house.

Isaac saw the accusation at a now respected guest as the deepest insult against Primrose, let alone the cheese incident, as a personal insult. His pride being so besmirched sent the brigadier into such a fury, Jelka had to have his guards hold him back from beating Hempley to death with his swagger stick.

Once calmed, Isaac found Hempley guilty of petty treason. His property was forfeit and he was to receive thirty lashes, to be administered until he passed out. Once conscious, the lashes would resume.

Then he would be sent under the care of the constabulary for charges of burglary, fraud, insulting an officer of the crown, trespass and a list of other minor charges that Primrose suspected would mean Hempley would be a very old man when he served his sentence.

The grisly details put off the other guests around the breakfast table. All except the bosun, who had seen and heard such punishment at sea, Jacob, who had witnessed worse at war, and Gathard, who didn't react at all, but kept stealing dark glances at Primrose.

After breakfast, and while the other guests made polite conversation elsewhere, Isaac had the remnant brought in, bundled in a silk sheet.

Primrose could barely contain her excitement as she unbundled and opened the old wood panels. Inside were more traced lines, more parts of the map, more clues to the raothaar vault. She couldn't guess what they revealed without the charity box, to see where the panels would fit, but it was wondrous thing to finally feel it in her hands. History secured and another step closer to success.

Isaac asked, “are you sure you wouldn't rather have something more impressive? I still don't think much of raothaar armaments but there's a sturdy helmet with genuine peacock feather plumage that would suit someone as prestigious as my nephews aide-de-camp."

Primrose's ears pricked up, as did her tail. That awful thing? Her feathery uniform hat was already bad enough. “This is perfect, Isaac, but thank you all the same," she said and admired the piece and took a heavy swig of her breakfast tea; she was still tired from last night.

Jelka tittered. “Don't mind Izzy. I'm sure he just wants to make sure he hasn't sent you away with something that might damage his reputation. Half the things in his gallery are just dreadful to look at."

Her husband looked like a kicked puppy. It looked so out of place, Primrose almost spat out her beverage as she stifled a giggle.

Isaac grumbled, “harumph! And what do they know? Anyone with a lick of sense knows the damage gives things character and tells a story. How else do you explain marrying a man more scars than skin?"

Gathard finished eating and interrupted. “I'll be off. It was good to see you as always, Sir Randell. My thanks for the hospitality. It was also nice meeting you all," he said and nodded to each guest, except Jacob and Primrose who only earned a cold glance. He finished with a smile at Isaac. “I shall be returning to the city."

“Oh, don't be a sore loser, Philman," Isaac grumbled. “I was planning a hunt today. You could earn back some pride with that keen bowmanship of yours."

“I'm afraid I have business that needs immediate attention." He glanced at Jacob with a forced smile, “I hope you enjoy gallivanting around the wilds with your uncle. I really hope you take your time and enjoy the great outdoors; I know all too well how stifling the city can be sometimes."

Jacob offered a hand and a wry grin. “Naturally. And no hard feelings about last night I hope, Lord Gathard?"

The noble's brow creased, but he shook Jacob's hand. “Of course not. Unlike your genteel self and your endless accolades, and despite my title and humble station, I am ever pleased to be bested. It keeps one sharp, and one certainly has to be when in service to the crown to ensure our navy remains insurmountable in the face of Vliechov or dragon alike. I also like to make sure each task receives a personal touch. Now, if you will pardon me; good day to you all."

Primrose watched Gathard leave, then tugged Jacob's sleeve. “I don't like this. We should head back as well." Jacob didn't look convinced, so she gave her most pleading stare.

Jacob finally sighed. “Uncle, I forgot I have an important project that shouldn't be delayed. Forgive me."

Isaac rubbed his pointy chin and huffed. “Oh, fine, everyone leave the old fart to his lost glory. Don't humour him or anything... bah, alright." He slapped the table then jabbed Jacob's chest with a finger. “But next time, you'll stay for a full week! I damn well insist! We don't do this often enough, and it's always a pleasure, nephew." He turned his gaze down at Primrose and gave her a wink. “You too, rodent. You're welcome here any time."

Primrose almost curtsied, but instead looked down her snout at him. “Alright, but remind me to bring plenty of handkerchiefs and perfume. I fear it wasn't the alcohol that sent me away last night, but the smell of dog-love on your arse turning my stomach."

Isaac chuckled, and patted Jacob on the shoulder. “I always wondered why you gave any of those dainty, willowy trollops from the bootlicker nobility the time of day. I was getting worried you were going to get stuck with sticking an heir into a woman you'd go to war just to avoid. Then, rodent or no, you bring this lass with you? There's fire there that will rouse the heart, wit that will sent the spirit soaring, and by Vanterre's fiery pubes," he cackled and cupped his hands over his chest, “a heaving great prow that'll will raise the mast! That's a real woman!“

Primrose's ears flushed and folded down as she crossed her arms over her bust.

Jelka gave Isaac a slap on the shoulder.

Jacob's face was bright red when he glanced at Prim. She looked back as he shrugged, trying to diffuse the awkward topic, but the gesture gave way to a held stare. After an uncomfortable pause, both looked away, face and ears even redder than before.

With farewells and hugs, as well as fresh travel supplies, Falkshire's guards prepared the carriage and before midday, they were on their way home.

* * * *