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Chapter 6: Silver

Primrose felt like a child again as she anticipated the lush Bralranian countryside; to watch it roll by for the first time in years, to escape the city and its doublespeak, backstabbing and politics. The clop of hooves on the dirt road, the clink and clatter of metal armour from Sahir and Jasper rode up top and Gretchen held the reigns; these sounds grew in prominence as the bustle of the city fell away, and soon she could even hear the wind and the rustle of leaves in the few trees that lined the main road.

It was a fair trek ahead. The plan was an overnight stay at an inn before nightfall, the Unshorn Post, then it was a shorter distance from there to the Randell estate. Considering the distance, and the risk of highwaymen, the comfortable carriage interior was armoured and there were weapons stowed. Otherwise they had little to do but talk and pass the time; Primrose had brought some books but for the moment she was captivated by the world outside the carriage.

A mere hour later, the view was spoiled as she saw the broken, twisted husks of the former village of Dewsigh, the village where Madam Henswick's Orphanage resided. As the carriage passed by, she even saw the cracked brick walls around the property that seemed so insurmountable as a child. The home that formed Primrose's earliest memories, scorched by Vliechoven soldiers during a night time raid.

“Are you alright?” Jacob asked.

Primrose realised she was scowling. “It... it's nothing, Jacob.”

“I know that look too well to believe that. Nothing fades the eyes into darkness like that than being caught in regrets. I'll not press the issue, but I'm willing to listen if you want to get something off of your chest.”

Primrose considered the offer. On the one hand, secrecy was her oldest shield, yet Jacob's ongoing kindness made her feel uneasy keeping such things inside. She had already spoken to him about her past with Antoine, and it always made her feel better for it, so she cleared her throat.

“They're not regrets, exactly. Just... listen, it's a long story and not terribly interesting, and I'm sure compared to facing down Vliechov over two conflicts, it will certainly make me seem incessantly petty.”

Jacob just smiled. It melted Primrose's resolve even before he said, “every wall we encounter in life may seem grander or lesser than your own, but it's still your wall to scale and climb over to get ahead in life. How we deal with these obstructions speaks volumes about one's character.”

She nibbled on her pinkie-claw as she wondered whether to broach the subject, but finally nodded.

Primrose spoke of everything she could remember about the orphanage. The more she went over it again, and with the benefit of age and experience, the more things seemed clearer about who she was deep down; the orphanage had sculpted her, even if she resented a great deal about those years, and telling Jacob let her restructure her memories and re-evaluate what the place meant to her.

Madam Henswick's Orphanage was like her career as a criminal; useful lessons and skills threaded together by pain and regrets. Primrose earned a decent education, not just from the lessons given by the Madam and her staff, but because books were the only way to pass the time and playing was restricted to half an hour in the afternoon.

She learned about decorum, etiquette and manners as well as odd skills like dancing, sewing, even conversation for entertaining lords, the goal of their upper-crust upbringing. Skills which would have been lost over her years in poverty were it not for the fact Madam Henswick was a miserable, obsessive sow who beat these lessons into her charges with her cane should they not catch on at a pace that satisfied her.

Due to this, she was confident in attending this party. Even if the host himself was an old salt who earned his way to the upper class, much like Jacob, through victory at war, Prim would adapt. Since the rest of the guests were likely the typical snooty busybodies who would place Primrose on the bottom rung of society the moment they saw her. As such, she would play their games better, out-snide their snobbery yet never stop being polite.

There were other aspects of the orphanage that she would never forget; the way the bigger girls would bully the smaller ones when the adults weren't around. Nothing major by itself, stealing toys and, later, food, but it meant that Primrose had to remain on edge at all times. It was telling that the only time she was exempt from full studies, and left alone by the bullies, was the time a stray dog nearly tore her arm off and scarred her for life.

All of these paled in comparison to the hardest lesson of all; betrayal at the hands of her old friend, Prudence. Her bed-neighbour due to bunking in alphabetical order. A tall and skinny raothaar girl whom Primrose trusted and confided in, and in turn, they became dearest friends. They agreed to always fail whatever tests Madam Henswick proposed when foster parents arrived to peruse the children. The plan worked time after time.

More than that, Prudence was the feisty, protective soul Primrose needed. Always short and timid, Prim seldom stood up for herself until she snapped at her abusive foster father. Before that moment, that's where Pru would fight tooth and claw for Primrose, no matter how big or scary her attacker.

In return, Primrose knew Pru was lonely. She had a speech impediment where she struggled to articulate words with 'R' and turned them more into a 'W' sound in vocalisation which made her an easy victim for bullying of her own, and even further abuses from the teachers and Madam Henswick herself. It took Pru years to control it, and where everyone else would look down on her for this flaw, Primrose was the only one who would help coach her with kindness instead of the cane. Like true siblings, they were inseparable.

Right up until Pru abandoned Primrose when she curried favour with an adopter. Primrose distinctly remembered the kind-eyed man speaking of Prudence as if she were a new saint with her manners, glibness of tongue and depth of knowledge.

It taught Prim the most important lesson to carry over into a life of crime; not only keep aware at all times, but expect betrayal and harden your heart. A lesson that had grown soft in her time as Primrose Cathrop, but even so, she had to keep wary. Not so much to betray others, but to anticipate betrayal and make preparations to counter them.

She kept this part close to her chest; the fact she never reported the broken attic window to give her an emergency escape, nor the fact she had even made duplicate keys.

Jacob had listened intently, but after a few more moments and a sweep back of his light-toned hair, he cleared his throat. “As I said, everyone has their struggles. Some people weather war as easy as they make conversation, others lose their nerve at the sight of their own swords. I doubt half the men I've served with would have dealt with that sort of betrayal. In the thick of it, it was our reliance on one another that brought us victory. Brothers and sisters in arms to the end.”

Jacob sighed and watched the scenery for a time, lost in his own thoughts.

“I may not know treachery, but the more I understand you, the more I see how your strength has grown in just this past month. It's... intriguing.”

Primrose shook her head. “It's survival, nothing more, Jacob. Every day I wonder why if my journey across the Six-Fold path is stuck on that of struggling Vanterre, yet I was supposed to be motherly Phoebe by now.”

“Debating Saint reincarnation, are we? I was wondering if you would teach me more about the Siblings.”

Prim tittered and said, “that's a question as long as the day and wide as the year, Jacob. You may want to narrow that down a little.”

Jacob opened his mouth to answer, but both flinched as a heavy knock on the front viewport, which he pushed open and peered through.

Prim could see the wooden leg of Gretchen on one side and the armoured leg of one of the men on the other, but was too short to see anything else.

“What's that...?” Jacob mumbled.

“Looks to be a blockade, sir.” Gretchen replied.

Primrose looked out the side windows, to the high hills that funnelled the road in a narrow, overgrown pass with thick grass, shrubs and a few trees; a classic ambush spot.

“Brazen of them, this close to the city,” Jacob mumbled and took a sword from beneath his seat. “Let's see if we can't keep things civil, though.”

Primrose opened her bag, produced her vambraces and tool belt, buckled them on and moved beside Jacob as the carriage slowed.

“What ho, travellers!” A voice from farther down the road, a loud and flamboyant female. “Rather small guard contingent you have. Perhaps you're unaware that this road is simply awful with brigands and ne'er-do-wells?”

“Sir?” Sahir asked from the viewport.

Jacob stood, rolled his broad shoulders and said, “I'll deal with this. Keep ready.”

Primrose stood as well, only Jacob put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Prim. Observe, listen, but stay here.”

She scoffed. “I'm not some drip-nosed child, Jacob. I'm one of your guards; I should be out there, with you.”

“True, but you're also better at opportunism. I feel you might make yourself more useful out of sight and waiting for that right moment.”

Primrose's tail slapped the seat, even if she didn't show any other emotion. She then sighed, stood on the seats and peered out at the crowd as Jacob fastened the belt of his sword around his waist, opened the door and stepped out.

From Prim's concealed position, she saw ten figures ahead; eight humans and two raothaar, five horses and a two-horse cart positioned across the road, which had shields strapped on the sides for cover and protection.

The group themselves didn't wear a uniform, but Primrose recalled the reports of Lady Lile's gang were seen recently and each bore a silver stud in one ear. Otherwise it was an eclectic group; piecemeal armoured clothes, all patchworked and muddy, with spears, polearms and axes in hand. Only the swords on their hips were the common trait, identically crafted and likely from a caravan raid on a military wagon supplying one of the outlier countryside forts.

The mouthpiece of the group, a human woman and clearly not the famed raothaari highwaywoman herself, stepped up to Jacob's approach. “Now, now, good sir! We were just wondering if you would be willing to part with a modest sum to hire our services?”

Jacob stood straight and proud as the bandit got in arms reach, and started looking her over. She seemed surprised at his lack of reaction and increasingly annoyed at his silent study.

He finally tutted and responded, “you offer your services, but have you even held a sword? Vanterre's fiery hair, most of you look like you've never trained or drilled with any weapon, let alone those ill-kept lumps of iron you have strapped to your waists. Now get out of the road before I make an example of the lot of you.”

“Cocksure git, aren't you?” the bandit snarled, “and I'll have you know I've run more people through than you've had hot dinners, you silver-blooded tosser.”

Jacob flinched at her, a feint despite not holding a weapon, and she took half a fearful step back; a mouthpiece and nothing more. He growled, “better than the baying of mange-ridden mutts who would suckle a shit-covered bone to get what's left of the marrow.”

He then stepped towards her, and she retreated again as her fellows started taking out crossbows and blades. Jacob still seemed at ease, despite his imposing aura. “Now all of you listen! Let's not draw this out any further; if you believe any of your number are more than meritless curs, send me your best.”

“H- hey, that's not how this works,” the mouthy bandit said and plucked up some courage. “You don't get to insult us and walk-”

Jacob gave a mocking laugh. “An insult? Then face me in single combat, if you've the spine. Our safe passage against... Saints breath, you can take the whole carriage. No excess blood spilt, the victor gets what they want.”

Still high on her recovered bluster, the bandit scoffed. “Piss off. I could take you.”

Jacob sucked a harsh breath and barked, “you face a Bralranian Knight! Perhaps you have your heads filled with flowery tales, noble deeds, flights of fancy, daring-do and honourable duels? Pull your collective heads from your arses; we earned our knighthood through grim slaughter, not pomposity or lineage. Vliechoven's child-murdering best died by the dozen on my blade alone, and my soldiers here must have slain no less than fifty men each!”

He stepped to the side of the woman, ignoring her as he addressed the other bandits. “Now, I ask again, who's your best? Quickly now, before I cleave this loudmouth harlot's neck as easily as St. Valarie sailed the waves! Then I'll set upon you with more fury and rage than the dragons of old and make you all jealous of the brevity of her death!”

His words shook Primrose to the core. There was little of the humble, kindly gentleman Primrose knew, but it reminded her of Antoine; such a pure and kind heart, but a dark and vicious demon rested within, chained but ready to be unleashed on demand. The sort of evil that one brandishes to survive wars.

He gave them a few seconds before several turned to one of the raothaar, who bared his teeth and stepped forward. A grim, scarred but muscular white and brown furred man with half an ear missing as he brought a warpick to bear.

“Good. Now your second best!”

There was a murmur amidst the bandits as a tall, shaved headed human woman stepped up with a two handed blade as long as her muscular, six foot frame.

“Excellent. I'll take you both.”

Sahir and Jasper backed up a few steps as Jacob, the raothaar man and the burly woman dominated the road.

Jacob drew Hellion, his personal blade, and held the weapon firmly with both hands. A simple seeming longsword that lacked any embellishment but it caught the eye for just that reason; the surface was dull with it seemed to absorb the light. Prim hadn't seen the blade before, but she had heard about it from the other guards, especially those who fought with Jacob in defence of Bralran.

Genuine half-alloy starmetal. For the first time in a long time, Primrose had no idea how to value such a unique weapon.

Jacob lowered his sword into a stance that Primrose knew as The Fool, with the point in front and at a downward angle towards the road, as he watched his two opponents sidle around him with obvious concern.

The raothaar kept his warpick raised and ready to swing as he approached, and the female bandit encroached from the side, blade thrust out and towards the knight.

Jacob didn't wait for them to reach their positions; he feinted towards the woman, who flinched and hopped back. The raothaar man lunged with a mighty swing at the opening, but Jacob danced to the side and spun his sword in a sweep, which gashed the ratfolk in the side. As the raothaar reeled, Jacob lunged back in with a swift stab to the gut that brought his foe to his knees.

The other bandit growled as she swung her claymore wide and wild. Jacob hopped back, then her counter-swing came harder. Too hard; she overextended.

He stepped in and wrapped an arm around hers, then slammed the crossguard of his sword into her brow and brought his leg behind hers as he pushed. She stumbled and he brought Hellion's point up to her face, grasped the blade such the tip was still exposed and jammed it into her collar bone.

She screamed as she grabbed the wound, then Jacob slammed a knee into her belly, and before she finished falling, he unleashed a full kick to her face.

“You fucker!” one of the other bandits screamed and charged at Jacob with a raised axe, joined with a short man with a spear.

The axe man flopped to the floor as an arrow buried itself into his eye.

Gretchen nocked another arrow as she hobbled forward. Sahir and Jasper also moved to cover Jacob, but the spearman reached the knight first and sent out a savage thrust.

Jacob cleft the speartip off, stepped forward and aimed high on the counter-swing.

The bandit's head struck the floor, then the body continued for a few shaky steps, blood spraying like a sad, ghastly fountain from the wound. The body then collapsed.

Sahir and Jasper reached Jacob and all three braced for further attackers, but none moved to advance. Most had even taken a few steps back.

Jacob pulled out a handkerchief, flicked off the excess blood from Hellion and calmly cleaned his sword.

The loudmouth bandit gawped a silent scream, fell on her backside and scrambled away as she squeaked, “h- help me!!”

Jacob didn't move to pursue as she managed to find her feet and start running to the remaining five bandits, then stopped as they glanced at one another, turned tail, climbed on their horses and galloped away as fast as they could.

The loudmouth just stared, dumbfounded, as they fled. She only snapped out of her stupor as the raothaari bandit cried out in pain as he clutched his side, fur and armour crimson from his wound.

Jacob finished wiping down his blade, discarded the handkerchief, sheathed his sword and started back for the carriage. He said, over his shoulder, “collect your fallen and get out of my damned way.”

* * *

They made it to the tavern by nightfall, not even behind schedule despite the bandits. The Unshorn Post was famously well protected, so Falkshire and his guards relaxed after a full day on the road, while Primrose mingled and involved herself in a friendly game of Saints Path, the Bralranian darts game of choice.

After a few mediocre rounds she set some wagers and stopped throwing intentional blunders, notably once a dozen drunken travellers got involved. She may have been barred from many establishments back in the city for pulling the same scam, but it was nice to see she hadn't lost her edge with darts.

Once back on the road the next day, Primrose was occupying herself by playing with her winnings. Sixty lile, mostly in fives. She glanced through the large round holes of the singles and the smaller triangle gaps of the fives with a giggle.

Jacob, like his men, seemed wary after the bandit attack, but he kept stealing glances at Primrose as she finished her inspection of each coin and formed small piles on the seat beside her.

She finally asked, “I don't suppose you keep any banking sticks, do you? I've got ten jewels that it would seem a shame to just thread together.”

“Jewels? And I'm afraid not.”

“Oh, it's just a nickname for five lile coins. I don't mind using a pouch or string, but there's nothing quite like the authority of slamming a full stick of coins in front of someone.”

Jacob shook his head. “I don't usually handle money, let alone when on these trips. Promissory notes are more secure and my auctioneer, Cradley, just deducts his share and puts the rest in the bank each month.”

Primrose pulled out a sturdy cord of red string, knotted it at one end and began threading the coins while singing a little tune.

“I went to market yesterday, and this is what I saw,

Said, the milkman, 'lily a bottle', delivered door to door.

And farther still, a carpenter, with carvings I'd adore,

'They're yours but for a jewel, madam, more inside the store!'”

“Next street over, a watchmaker plied and hawked his trade,

'second hand pieces, low as a punch, the finest ever made!'

Inside shop, across the way, smith hammer strikes a blade,

'safety for you and your bonnie lass! Masterworks all, a grade!'”

“Finally, out stepped a foreign man, with treasures from the west,

'Oils for health, forever more, a hounds-eye for my best!'

'Said I, 'a one, a lily, a jewel of five, a punch of ten at best,

Not a twenty grade or fifty for a hound', as over hill I crest.”

“You have a lovely singing voice, Prim,” Jacob said.

“Ah? O- oh!” Prim stammered and tugged her reddening ears. “It's nothing special, really. We all had to learn various forms of entertaining the gentry back at the orphanage, so it's only basic coaching.”

Jacob smiled at her, but soon his gaze returned to watching outside the carriage. The attack had made them wary, so very little else was said as everyone kept on alert.

While everyone was silent, and having finished organising her winnings, Primrose's took to reading. Her time homeless meant she knew how to distract herself still keeping alert. The trip flew by as she found herself buried in a soppy love story between a female albino raothaar brawler with a serious chip on her shoulder and a blithe and inoffensive, if well meaning and talented, human male serf of a noble.

It wasn't the worst drivel she'd read, and the raothaar was highly vulgar, brawny and abusive, and it wasn't immediately obvious why the servant liked her since he was milquetoast but somehow a devil in the bedchamber, but it was at least competently written.

Primrose was divided between reading two translated Vliechoven novels: one about a man stealing a young dragon, then entering a romantic relationship with the creature. The other book, which claimed to be based on a real story, was about a kobold clan in the far east of Vliechov who adopted a human some years back and the he went on to become a powerful wizard, but Jacob waved at her to grab her attention.

“We're here.”

Prirmose put her books back in her knapsack and peered out the window, ears perky with excitement.

The Randell estate was, as simple as she could put it, a military compound with a fort for a manor. High stone walls with rusted spike fencing on top, the gate was protected by men in full plate armour and holding functional yet decorative halberds.

There were naval arbalests on both the walls and on top of the estate as well. Each was a massive crossbow that heralded from the times when dragons roamed Bralran. They still saw use in Vliechov where such beasts continued to flourish, but Prim recalled old tales of the weapons being salvaged from Vliechov's vassal state of Goshev when Bralran conquered it over a century ago. The weapons were reverse engineered to defend Bralran's coasts and arm her ships. Goshev had long since been recovered by the Vliechov motherland, but these weapons still saw frequent use on both sides of the Coghanalev ocean.

The carriage turned towards the gates and began to slow.

One of the guards strode forth and called, “in the name of Lord Randell, hold!”

Primrose whispered, “really? You would think they would recognise you, or the carriage or even your men.”

Jacob smirked. “My uncle likes his official procedures and grandstanding. Don't worry, this just means we'll be meeting him at the gate instead of at the door.”

Some brisk banter occurred between Jasper and one of Randell's guards, but Primrose was watching as the gates opened and a figure emerged.

The human walked with the swagger of a younger man, and indeed he even had a swagger stick under his arm. This was Lord Isaac Randell, and Primrose's instincts would brand him a major threat. This was in spite of him being an otherwise grey haired, wrinkled man in his seventies.

A large burn scar swept over the corner of his brow and along his temple which gave him a squint, but his build was difficult to discern beneath his patched and worn naval greatcoat. Military honours, badges, even epaulettes on his shoulders made him look like he'd just stepped off a Bralranian warship or an official visit to the royal palace.

“Where is the little shit?” he squawked. “Get your pox-ridden arse out of that limp-wristed flower-box you call a carriage and stand apeak, you whelp!”

Jacob chuckled and disembarked with a gesture for Prim to follow.

“There he is!” Isaac marched up and gave Jacob the look of a man about to beat someone senseless. He cocked his head to the side and said, “Keller! Does he look thinner to you? As if he's been spending too much time bagging silver than doing his Queen-sponsered duty to the crown and wringing Vliechoven necks? What say you, man?”

Keller, one of his guards, shrugged. “Looks more scullery maid than knight of the crown, sir!”

Isaac swatted Keller across the brow with his swagger stick, although it mostly just knocked the visor down from the guard's helmet, as the old man roared, “and who are you to judge your betters, you sop-biscuit gumming shit!?”

Isaac thrust his baton up into Jacob's face, slowly traced the tip down the knight to his boots, then up again. The old bastard then cackled and wrapped his arms around his nephew.

“How in blazes are you, my boy?”

Jacob returned the hug with a broad smile. “I'm doing well, uncle. Glad to see you haven't started drooling or shitting yourself yet.”

“Be a cold season on the seventh day, deep in a bed of drake-shit before you catch me senile, you rascal!”

Isaac released the hug and looked at Primrose, back at Jacob, then at her again and finally Jacob once more.

“... and what is this thing?” he said with a vague point of his swatter stick.

Primrose could think of twenty insults to hurl at the old man, but bit her tongue. Instead, she curtsied and said, “my name is Primrose, your lordship. A pleasure to meet you.”

Jacob added, “uncle, she's my aide-de-camp, counterspy, logistician, member of the guard and a friend as well.”

Isaac snorted, nodded in a rough approximation of a greeting, turned around and waved at them to follow. The country path passed by several guest houses, all either very well kept or seldom used going by their immaculate appearance. They were all walled and gated, closer to a guarded community than anything else. As they drew near the fortress-style manor, the nearer houses were occupied by armed guards, each complete with other carriages within their fences. Five groups were attending the party besides Falkshire's own.

“You'll be staying in this one, Jacob,” Isaac said and pointed his swagger stick at the guest house nearest the manor.

“I knew you had a few other guests, uncle, but who's else is in attendance?”

“A few friends of the wife, you don't know them but they're tolerable company. Also my old bosun and Lord Gathard-”

“Wait, Philman Gathard?” Jacob chuckled. “Funny coincidence; I had him arrested for attempting to steal from my estate a little while ago.”

“Aye, well, he's been a great source for my hobby. He attends frequently so we can trade exotic bits and bobs, so I extended an invitation.”

Primrose cleared her throat. “To that end, your lordship, there was something I was interested in procuring from-”

The swagger stick whipped at her snout and stopped an inch away from her nose as Isaac eyed her like a recruit. She felt the waft of the shifted air brush against her whiskers.

“This is neither the time nor the place for business, girl. First you will disembark and scrub yourselves deep enough that the All-Noticing Zoeli herself won't sense your passing from tracking dirt in my home. Oh, and on punishment of my wife, which is worse.

“Then I will give you a tour of the house until it's time to make merry, which will be,” he paused, produced and glanced at a pocket watch, them replaced it as he continued, “two hours time, so we begin at four bells in the aft 'til dark. We shall tour my gallery between courses, and only then shall I permit that sort of talk. Am I understood?”

Primrose gulped. “Yessir!”

Isaac sniffed, placed his stick back beneath his arm and nodded to Jacob. “Good. Get your arses going and we'll see you in the house.”

Once the brigadier was far enough away, Primrose whispered to Jacob, “that complicates things.”

“What, Gathard?” Jacob shrugged and opened the gates for the guest house. “Forget about him. I'm sure we can win over my uncle if you're worried about the book remnants.”

The carriage was led through by Sahir pulling the reins as Gretchen climbed down and joined Jasper inside the small square of land that would be their home for the next few days.

“Don't like this,” Gretchen said with a low hiss. “The other guards outnumber us two to one.”

Jasper snorted. “Relax, Grett. Look at them; most of them are wet behind the ears types who've probably seen a drunken brawl or two in their day and only have half a brain between them. Besides, I know Big Nob's guards personally and they're good folk.”

Primrose snickered, “big what now?”

“Big Nob? Isaac Nobrethan Randell.”

Jacob cleared his throat and Jasper corrected, “beg pardon, m'lord, Sir Isaac 'Big Nob'rethan Randell.”

Jacob nodded. “That's more like it. Right, well, I want Gretchen's eyes on night watch. So Jasper, go get Sahir, secure the compound. I'll give the place a once over with Primrose and prepare for the party. Gretchen, go get clean and catch some shut eye.”

“Sir!” Jasper and Gretchen said with a click of their heels (and wooden leg) as they hurried after Sahir behind the guest house.

“Walk with me, Prim. Let me give you a quick guide around the main estate. I'm sure you're itching to... what's that term?”

Primrose took a moment to realise what he meant. “Oh, 'casing' the place? I shan't need to, with luck, but I suppose a quick glance of all the external windows and doors wouldn't go amiss.”

Being eyed by the collective guards besides, they walked the grounds. Many acres of land stretched on all sides, filled with haphazard wildflowers and hedges from afar that became more organised as they drew near the house. The comparison to a fort was well founded, as even the house had reinforced walls, the windows were braced with narrow port holes and had no visible mechanism for opening from the outside.

A stable and a greenhouse were the nearest buildings, though too far to act as a way to climb to the higher windows, but there was a well secured wine-cellar. Three locks, to boot! Primrose might need to take a full minute to get through them, so she made mental note of it for later. Otherwise it was just heavy front and back doors, both of which were almost certainly manned at all hours.

A booming, unsaintly noise made Primrose's heart stop. She screamed and ducked behind Jacob as a vast, muscular, toothy beast rushed at them, snarling and bellowing as it did.

Jacob cheered, “Clancy! How are you, boy?”

The fiend leapt up at the knight and set upon his face with a meaty, pink tongue. Standing on his hind legs, they were even in height.

“Alright, down Clancy! I'm happy to see you too, but heel! Sit!”

The monster obediently stopped, stepped back and sat with a light jingle from the metal hoops on his thick leather collar.

Eyes bleary from tears, Primrose tried to control her shaking as she looked at the beast; a purebred kobold hunting dog, called a Khobrasvilisok. She had done plenty of research on them as soon as she discovered the Randell's owned a pack of the fiends.

Thickly built with dark brown, chunky, scab-like skin over his shoulders, chest, back and deep, brow hooded eyes so as to ward off little claws and teeth. A wide head with short, leathery ears and powerful jaws to crush scale and bone alike. What fur he had (largely on the haunches, flanks, short tail and skirting the underbelly) was black and sleek to blend in with minimal light. Even in the bright daylight, his red eyes glowed; repeated consumption of magically imbued blood had long since imparted a little magic that was crucially and selectively bred into this race, and their vision at night rivalled that of the drakelings they hunted. They could even smell magic.

“Clancy, this is Primrose. Come say hello, Prim.”

Muffled from where her face was buried in her hands as she peered through her fingers, she said, “h- he can damn well bugger off! I'll not lose fingers petting such a thing!”

Jacob couldn't help but laugh and, with a whistle, the dog heeled and sat with perfect obedience and an expectant look on his grizzled face.

“You realise if you want to get over your phobia, peaceful interaction is a fine way to start. Like I mentioned before about seeing people broken by warfare, I'd like to think I have a knack for bringing people out of their shell.”

Primrose gulped, slowed her breathing, gulped again and forced herself from behind Jacob. Every step felt like she was trudging through mud, but she somehow found herself beside the knight, and facing the brute of a dog. She was still shaking like a leaf, but it was the most neutral she had been in the presence of these beasts in as long as she could remember.

His glowing red eyes looked over her, and he sniffed the air as his peculiar, stubby ears wiggled. Then Clancy tilted his head, slowly stood and panted smoothly as his stubby tail wagged.

Jacob whispered, “slowly bring your hand out. Trust me, he won't bite. I stake my life on it.”

Primrose forced her arm out in a jerky, sluggish motion.

“Gentle,” Jacob ordered.

Clancy sniffed Primrose's hand, then leaned in to take a deeper whiff.

Primrose could feel her heart hammer, but it was slowing. She began to relax.

Then Clancy barked and Prim dived back behind Jacob with a whimper. The hound moved in pursuit, but not with any aggressive motion. Instead he began sniffing at the scabbard on her hip, where she kept Noran's Tooth.

“Clancy, heel!”

Jacob waited for him to obey, and once it was plain that the dog was too deeply engrossed in the knife, he grabbed Clancy by the collar and tugged him away. “Bad boy! Go on, get!”

The dog whimpered, dropped his head, and trotted away.

Jacob turned to Primrose and put a calm hand on her quivering shoulder. “I suppose that confirms that knife has something special to it... are you alright?”

Primrose said, light as the breeze, “... I think I almost wet myself...”

The knight led her back to the guest house and ran her a bath.

* * *

Primrose had finished her bath and was in her room, brushing her fur while Jacob got cleaned up as well. The copper bath of hot water, aromatic soaps and oils cleared the tension away from her encounter with the monstrosity outside; one of ten dogs, as Jacob explained, much to her displeasure.

If only it were that easy to wash away her concerns with Gathard. If he was here, that meant there was every chance he was here for the same artefact; the remnants of a raothaari book of children's stories. Stories were the very backbone of ratfolk legacy, and even tales for infants often possessed veins of truth to their history amidst humans.

She had no reason to doubt Bantam when he said that Gathard was trying to procure whatever raothaari treasures he could find, though for what purpose escaped her. As frustrating as the old crowman craftsman was to deal with, he had never led her astray with his insight and information. She made a mental note to do a deeper look into Gathard when they got back to town, perhaps even plan to infiltrate his home and search for any more such items.

For now, she finished grooming herself and got dressed. A fine, well fitted dress with a plunging neckline. Ordinarily such a scandalous outfit would be the last thing she would wear, but when one seeks to dissuade people from staring and when polite human society considered raothaar to be disgusting, one might as well take advantage. Or, of course, if the display drew the eye instead, Primrose could always apply some charm.

A knock on the door brought Primrose out of her thoughts.

She called, “come in!”

Jacob entered, wearing a fetching ballroom coat bearing the ivy-shrouded 'F' on the half-cape over his right shoulder. His fair, backswept hair was smoothed further with scented oil and he had shaved his rugged stubble. He looked stunning.

Primrose hoped her ears weren't flushed too much.

“It's nearly four bells; I know 'fashionably late' is usually how the nobility enjoy their soirées, but I fear uncle will put us to a maritime tribunal for such an act.”

“Not to worry, Jacob.” Primrose pinched and adjusted her dress, then clasped her hands before her belly; every bit the true lady. “Let us attend.”

Jacob smiled and offered his arm, and Primrose was taken aback.

“Are you sure that's wise? What of the scandal?”

Jacob's smile deepened. “Don't make me insist, Lady Cathrop.”

Then he winked. It struck like a knife to the heart.

She stammered, “I- I suppose I don't have any choice if you intend to extort my employment, Sir Falkshire.”

The pair locked arms and made their way to the manor.

A willowy, well dressed woman emerged from the door as the pair approached. She had hair like silk spun from snow. Mature, though younger than Isaac by a score of years and striking to look at with her hazel eyes.

Jacob offered a bow, and Primrose quickly offered a curtsey in response, as he said, “how are you, Aunt Jelka.”

Jelka offered a curtsy back and said, in a strong Vliechoven accent, “Jacoby! You are looking well! And who is your friend?”

“This is my aide-de-camp, Primrose.”

Jelka smiled but shrugged. “I may be married to a military man, but your terms... they sail over my head with a dragon's indifference.”

Primrose couldn't help but feel at ease with the woman, and replied, “I'm his assistant. I keep his affairs and estate in order while keeping everyone within safe.”

Jelka giggled, “you sound like you would make a good wife! It is a pleasure to meet you. That is fortunate, because... well, forgive my springing this on you, Jacoby, but we have a theme in mind for the party. All couples are to be as the saints and their significant others.”

Jacob cocked an eyebrow and looked worried.

She continued, “and since you are last to arrive, I'm afraid the other guests have already been given their characters. The only ones left are St. Valarie and Felnis.”

Primrose's ears folded back; pretending to be the greatest sailor in the known world was a challenge. Though she supposed affecting Valarie's business acumen wouldn't be too bad.

“This isn't like uncle,” Jacob said as he thumbed his chin, “what's the purpose?”

“A contest! As soon as I knew Lord Gathard would be attending, I insisted this evening wouldn't just become another boring trade meeting, so I convinced Izzy to make it a themed party!”

Jalka clapped her hands and led the pair inside a well decorated foyer, and brought them to an open jewelry display case. It was mostly empty, save for two simple pendants, each depicting Valarie's symbol of a ship atop the waves, with a set of scales as its sails.

“If you make a convincing couple and demonstrate the virtues of your saint and her husband, you get your pick of my husband's treasures.”

Primrose and Jacob glanced at each other, nodded in silent concord, and the three made their way into the banquet hall.

* * * *