Winterstone

1.

Rafi Winterstone was feeling good. It’s possible it had something to do with the Dragonsbreath Whiskey warming his belly on this cold Therran night. Or, it’s possible it was something else.
Luck. Some nights, you just knew things were going to go your way.

No, not luck, thought Rafi. Luck was too fickle a mistress for his tastes. Skill – now that was something you could rely on.
The thieves that avoided an early death – or just rotting in prison for the rest of their lives (pretty much the same thing in Rafi’s book) – had three things in common: Planning. Preparation. Practice. The meticulous refinement of the craft and the careful assessment of potential hazards and solutions was far more important than being a wizard at improvisation. The thieves that told the best stories of brazen heists with miraculous escapes always elicited a condescension from Rafi. They were already two feet in the grave.

“Better to be boring than dead,” he muttered.

Still, this particular venture might make for a good tale. He crouched on the eve of the Lord Rathsbone’s three-story estate and pored over the plan he had created in his mind.
The take was simple. Not so small as not to be worth the risk, but not so big as to have dedicated security measures beyond the norm. Just the way he liked it.

The Crown, in all its infinite waste, commissioned a new tiara or diadem for the royal children when they reached adulthood. The old one, bequeathed on their twelfth birthday, was then presumably tossed in some chest, where it would sit for several years until a some maudlin handmaiden fished it out and exlaimed, “Remember when you were small enough to wear this!” And then it would go back in the bin and never be seen again.

Of course, this wouldn’t be a problem for the crown – they were swimming in gold, oozing with it. It was just another forgotten trinket in their vast collection. To a thief like Rafi, though, it was a decent haul. He had seen the youngest princess Adara’s tiara only once, but the image was emblazoned in his memory, excellent as it was: incricately wrought in silver, with a sapphire nestled nicely in the center, and several semi-precious stones studded throughout.

Worth a fortune? No. Well, perhaps to a pauper, but not to him. But enough to live comfortably on for awhile? Yes. Plus, it was an easy fence, and lightly guarded, if at all. In short, a perfect target.
Lord Rathsbone was vacationing in his winter home at Everglory and her manor was manned by a skeleton crew. It had been easy enough to clambor up the south side and onto the roof undetected. Now, across the narrow cobblestone street, the manor of Lady Fimri – Adara’s childhood friend – loomed in the darkness.

Rafi had tracked the princess’s movements carefully in the days leading up to her coming-of-age party, when she was “crowned” with her new tiara. She had been seen entering Fimri’s home with it on two weeks ago, and then leaving without it. She had gifted it to her – as he had predicted.

Rafi looked down the eastern alley for the signal. A lantern blinked once, twice, three times.

“Time to act,” he said to himself. He scanned the street below. Quiet as a churchmouse. “Thanks, Surgil,” he whispered fondly to the air, thinking of his unwitting accomplice. He saw the lights of Surgil’s Taphouse burn brightly in the distance, and heard faint notes of raucous laughter echoing down the block.

Then he ran. Four heavy footfalls, thump, thump, thump, thump and he launched himself into the air, flying across the gap between the buildings. He was nothing more than a shadow flitting by the moon. He hit the second-story balcony of Fimri’s estate with a loud thud and gracefully rolled to his feet.
He heard a muffled exclamation of surprise from inside the building and cursed silently, but he was already moving. He signalled with three fingers across the street and then leapt over the side of the balcony and hung underneath.

The Fimri’s were guests of the Crown. They would be joining Princess Adara on her first royal hunt, or wine-tasting, or whatever the hell it was royals did. He hadn’t anticipated a guard on a second story, unoccupied bedroom. Still, it didn’t matter: he had prepared.

Seconds later, leather booted feet stepped onto the balcony. “The hell was that?” said a voice. A guard? No… slightly slurred. Young-sounding. A noble perhaps. The feet lingered for just a moment as Rafi hung, barely daring to breath. Then, sure enough, he heard the squealing. Perfect, he thought to himself as his fingers began to burn.

A pig dashed out from the dark of a neighboring alley, covered in what appeared to be blood, emitting wretched, high-pitched peals as it dashed haphazardly through the street.

“There’s a godsdamned, bloody pig in the road!” he heard the voice say dumbly. Then, from seemingly nowhere, a rotten tomato appeared flying out of the dark and struck the owner of the voice with a satisfying splat.

“Ahh!” the voice cried out.

“Now ya smell as rotten as ya are, ya bag of rotten carcasses!” cried a young boy’s voice across the street.

“You – why – argh!” the voice spluttered. “You’re dead, you cretin!”

“A bit of red does you good! You’re paler than my arse, you spoiled pot of rotten eggs!” Rafi sighed to himself. Tolvi’s aim was good, but Rafi would have to help him work on his insults.
The voice spluttered and fumed, but, surprisingly, did not call for any guards. Curious, thought Rafi. Perhaps it was because he knew Tolvi had already disappeared into the shadows of the alley. He was long gone by now. Rafi didn’t pay him enough to put himself in any sort of risk.

The footsteps receded with a muttered string of curses and complaints about needing to change. Rafi soundlessly lifted himself back on the balcon in time to see the retreating figure through the balcony door.

Ah, he thought. Makes sense now. The man was swaying slightly and was dressed in livery. A manservant raiding the Fimri wine cellars while the nobility were away. Not a welcome development to Rafi. Drunk people were easier to distract, but more unpredictable. They avoided routine, and you never knew if they would cower, run, or fight when threatened when a blade. Sometimes liquid courage was just that. Rafi abhorred violence – it was the sign of an inferior thief – but sometimes the threat of it was necessary.

As the man disappeared out the room’s door, Rafi padded silently into the room. Now, it was time for haste. Where the man had turned left, he turned right, stepped swiftly, but pausing to listen at each corner. No servants on the second floor – their quarters would be in the basement, and it was too late for anyone to be cleaning. No guards either. What for? There was no nobility here, and the local taphouse was running a special tonight, thanks to a generous donation of Dragonsbreath Whiskey from an ethusiastic trader. Why stand guard over nothing when you could drink? Plus, what thief would be scaling walls in the middle of the freezing winter?

This one would, thought Rafi.

He found the room he was looking for on the southern end of the manor. The youngest Lady Fimri’s room was adorned with rich silks and cushions of every shade of pink and purple scattered throughout the room and lain atop her four-post bed.

He found what he was looking for laid next to the mirror and powder station in the adjoining walk-in closet. Age had not dulled it; it was still polished to a shine, and the sapphire gleamed in a shaft of moonlight piercing the window. Around Rafi were hundreds of beautifully-tailored dresses and pairs of shoes lining the four walls of the closet. You could sell them and feed a village for a month. He shook his head in disgust.

Too bad he didn’t have some sort of magical bag of holding. But no matter. The tiara was enough.

He snatched it and tucked it safely in his belt pouch, before exiting the closet and moving towards the southern window. Now for his escape.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. “I don’t believe that’s yours.”
Rafi turned to see a young woman silhouetted in the room’s doorway. A maid – must be. He casually drew the short blade at his side.

“Listen closely,” he growled. “You owe nothing to these worthless milksops. You’ll say nothing too, and the both of us shall live. I cannot guarantee that otherwise.”

The woman stepped into the light. “Actually, the Lady Fimri treats her staff very well. And I’m afraid if you kill me, my father will not stop until you and all of your friends are purged from this earth,” she said matter-of-factly.

Rafi felt his mouth go dry. Maybe there was such a thing as luck. Bad luck.

“Princess Adara,” he said stupidly. What was she doing here? Why had she – but no. Those thoughts were useless. He had contingencies. He had to act, act now or he was as good as dead.

“I must ask you to set down the tiara,” she said calmly. “Do so and you will not be hurt.”

He scoffed dismissively and turned towards the window, thinking through his options. If he ran, what could she do to stop him? Burst through and risk a laceration from the glass and a sprained ankle if he hit the ground wrong, not to mention the noise. But Adara was seconds away from calling the guards as it was.
Once he hit the ground, it was a straight sprint to the south eastern corner of the manor’s high fence. He couldn’t vault it, but he had weakened two of the posts two nights past. He could shatter them and climb through.

And then what? The guards would be hauling after him. It was a dead sprint down to the docks. Lose them in the alleys until he reached the canal, and then long, slow, frigid swim back to his hiding spot. Hence, the Dragonsbreath Whiskey to keep him warm. Just in case, he had thought. It was all about preparation.
It would be a miserable escape, but entirely feasible, he thought, sighing inwardly. He shouldn’t complain. After all, it was exactly these types of situations he had spent countless hours planning for, and he couldn’t dally any further. It was time to act.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he said. “But I’ll be taking this off your hands. He tensed his legs and readied them to sprint towards the window, but before he left, he glanced back towards her. “I hope for my sake we never cross paths again. But I must say, your company was charming.” He smiled and winked at her.

“I’m sure,” she said yawning lazily. “And I’m sorry I have to do this.” She casually lifted her hand up and pointed it at him.

“What-” Rafi began, before he heard a crack and a beam of white-hot energy erupted from a ring on her finger and hit him square in the chest. His body catapulted through the air and he slammed in the side of the room with an agonising thud.

“Argh!” he cried.

Danger! The feeling burned through his blood like fire and every one of his senses flared. DANGER! his mind screamed.

Deep beneath his calculations and cool demeanor, there was a primal part of Rafi that he rarely accessed. It was a savage place that had allowed him to, as a teenager, slay the man who had been choking the life out of his mother. It was the cunning place that forced his mind into a rapid, unfeeling calculations of life and death. And it was the place that created unbelievable stories of miraculous escapes.

Two feet in the grave, thought Rafi.

He rolled to his feet, shaking away the dizziness. His left hand whirled at the same time as right one did. Hundreds of ball bearings scattered across the floor as a razor sharp dagger plunged towards the Princess’s shoulder. He doubted it would hit, but he didn’t need it to. She ducked to the left instinctually and cried out as her foot caught the ball bearings. She slipped and slammed against the floor, gasping in pain.

“Bastard!” she screamed.

Not very princess-like, he thought.

She raised her hand to blast him again, but he ahead of her. He darted nimbly through the scattershot ball bearings and leapt on top of her, placing a second dagger hard enough to draw a line at her throat.

“Don’t move!” he hissed. He noticed the green glow from a pendant at her neck. Too late. A spike of fear shot through him. Magic. Sorcery, wizards, witches. It was tales and legends. Rumors. Myths.

The vine that burst from the floor and began squeezing the life from him felt very real. The dagger he was holding clattered uselessly to the floor. He wheezed as the entangling creeper began constricting further. Distantly, he heard the heavy, pounding footsteps of several people in armor approaching. Guards.

It was over.

He was dead.

“Now,” said the princess, heaving, a single angry red-line glistening on her throat. “That hurt.” She felt at her neck. “But we don’t have time for complaints. The guards will be here in seconds, and I think I could use you. In fact, I think I like you. So let’s make a deal.”

Huh, thought Rafi. Some nights, you just knew things were going to go your way.

2.

Things were not going Rafi’s way.

“A thief. It’s a bit of a lowly profession, don’t you think?” Princess Adara mused aloud as she paced up and down the cell floor, tapping a finger to her lips. Rafi just looked up from his spot shackled to the wall. This was a low point in his career, he decided.

As far as cells went, this one wasn’t too bad. It was dry – that was good for his lungs. There weren’t any rats – that was good for his blood. And, finally, the sunlight streamed in from several gaps in the stone, high up the wall. That, at least, was good for his soul.

The problem was that it was cold. No, cold wasn’t the right word. Frigid, rather. Freezing. An icy tomb. He stared at the strange girl, knowing he would not survive a week, much less a day or two. It’s not really a cell, he realized. It’s an executioner’s block – without the blood.

He glanced past the princess towards the far wall, where a single door lead into the outside corridor. He was loosely familiar with all of the prisons within the city, even if he hadn’t been inside them all, yet he had no idea where he was. After the princess had offered her “deal”, the vines had vanished, and Rafi had fell to the ground, dazed and breathless. Moments later, the princess was crying out for help and several manor guards were beating him into near oblivion. It was a miracle he hadn’t been killed. He had to settle for mild concussion.

As he lay on the floor, hazy half-conversations had floated through his addled mind.

“Princess, Adara, we did not expect— What are you— I mean to say, are you, uh, hurt, my lady?” A trepidatious guard.

“I w-w-want him gone!” The Princess, blubbering inconsolably. “I just came to retrieve m-my tiara – I had left it here.” No mention of why she would be there past midnight. No questions asked.
He had felt a kick that sent a shooting pain through his ribs and left him groaning a new. Then spit hitting his face.

“Of course, my Lady. Get the vermin out of here,” the man said, not bothering to disguise the venom if his tone. “Take him to Brimval. He swings threatening royalty.”

“No,” said the princess.

“Pardon, my Lady?” asked the guard.

The crying had abruptly stopped, replaced with an equally rapid onset of rage. “I want. Him. Gone.”

“Y-yes of course, my lady, that is why—” the guard began uncertainly.

“My Father has a special way of dealing with creatures like this. Hanging is too good for them – don’t you see? That is what they want: attention. To be seen and admired by all their treacherous comrades.” Her tone had a kind of mania to it. She sounded more zealous than a Merishite priest. Rafi thought he had seen the guards edging back from her. “He needs to die in a hole. Yes, that’s what he needs to do. He needs to die in a hole, but first, he needs to feel pain, the pain that he has inflicted upon me!” And at that, she began sobbing again.

After that, if his scrambled memories could be relied upon, it had been a mixture of whispered instructions, promises, and threats, and then was being Rafi bagged, bound and tossed into the back of a cart. It was so… strange. Were she any other teenage girl of lesser nobility, he was sure such an order would have been acknowledged, then ignored. She was royalty, but even that was not enough for grown men to obey the whims of a girl. Perhaps… perhaps she had a reputation. Perhaps they knew on some level the power she possessed. Perhaps they feared her.

Yet, it was unfathomable that such a secret would be known amongst manor guards and not spill out into the general populous. Guards had notoriously loose tongues (at least in Rafi’s experience) once they had been properly primed with libations. There would have been gossip: “Odd things happen around Adara.” “The youngest royal has a strange bent.” “The Crown consorts with nefarious forces.” A lot of tripe pointing to a singular truth. At least, there would have been something. Rafi was thoroughly intertwined with the talk of the common folk; his profession demanded he parse vast amounts of gossip for potentially lucrative jobs. But he had never heard even a single iota about this. Nothing.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since the manor. Once they had stripped him of everything but his underclothes, put a bag over his head, and shoved him into a wagon, he had simply passed out. He only knew now that his fingers and, well, the rest of his body if he was being honest, were on the way towards numb – only the whiskey was keeping him warm – and it was still dark out.

That, and that while he was here, he hadn’t heard a single “normal” prison sound. No whistling guards. No opening and closing doors. No groaning from other inmates. He supposed this should have chilled him further, but instead, it only set the wheels of his mind tumbling into further questions – questions about his captor.

She fussed at her fingernails as she paced in a pale white dress and fur overcoat entirely unbefitting their surroundings. Her curly, red-blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders in tiny ringlets, and she had a pouty, contemplative look on her face. She was a pretty thing, if not beautiful, but all Rafi saw was an obstacle – and a threat.

“Well?” she said. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He stared blankly at her, then blinked. “Pardon me, princess, but I was lost in thought. What was the question?”

“I asked if you considered your profession to be quite vile. Perhaps the most vile. I certainly would imagine it to be,” she drawled at him, one eyebrow arched.

Rafi decided to ignore her question. Thieves had no time for philosophy. “What do you want with me?” he asked bluntly, relieved the Dragonsbreath prevented him from shivering.

She stepped lazily towards him and slowly leaned down until her face was eye-level with his. “Compliance. Obedience. Discretion,” she said.

Rafi just stared at her. There were dozens of questions running through his mind; he settled on one of the obvious ones. “Your father doesn’t have his own lackeys you can tap?”

“Are you really so daft as to think my father knows anything about this?” She gestured around her grandly at the empty cell.

Rafi just stared back blankly. “Forgive me, princess, but I was just pummeled in the head repeatedly,” he said politely.

“A common occurence in your line-of-work, no doubt,” she said dismissively, before returning to pacing around the room. “Even if my father did know of this little excursion, do you believe he would. allow his dearest, sweetest little pumpkin access to them?” she continued.

Rafi remained silent.

“If you need a morsel to feed on, then have this: to survive in Therran politics, you must have a wide array of tools in your arsenal. You will be one of mine. Perform well and I will ensure you are well cared for. Do anything else and, well…” She winked at him and extended a perfectly manicured pinky finger, waggling it. The chains began to glow white-hot. The glow began travelling steadily along their length towards Rafi, and he felt a sudden panic rising in his chest. The heat was immense: the frozen, winter air was shimmering, and he could feel it getting closer and closer until his eyebrows began singing and his face felt like it might burn away. He tried to scrambled away, but there was nowhere to go: it was approaching from both sides. The white-hot heat crept further; fear tightened his vocal chords. He was sure he was about to be incinerated. And then, just as suddenly as it had came, it was gone.

He sucked in air and breathed out shakily while sweat streamed down his face. When he finally looked up, the princess was gone. In her place, she had left two things: a note and a key.

“Ash,” he cursed. “Thunder and ash.”

3.

It was over too quickly. That was how Rafi felt as he used the key to unlock the manacles and padded across the cell floor. It had not been a matter of days or weeks or months for his life to turn upside down. It had taken only a few hours. No – perhaps it had happened the moment he had set foot in that room. It was to be expected in this profession, but he still felt almost dizzy from the implications crashing against him. Or maybe it was just the cold.

He needed time to think, and a place where he could think. There were too many disparate puzzle pieces, and he had to sort them out. That was the only way he was escaping this situation in one piece.

There were many questions he had, but they all orbited around the central mystery of why? Why was she in that room, during that time? Pure happenstance? Why “choose” Rafi for her schemes? On a whim?

He refused to believe this was some elaborate setup. Magical powers or no, the Princess was still just a teenage girl. Teenagers could be reckless and impulsive. They made decisions on the here and now without thought for consequence.

He exited the cell to find he had been locked in a ruined tower adjacent to an equally dilapidated cemetery, surrounded by a copse of snow-covered conifers. Some lost corner of the city, he mused. His body ached as he stumbled amongst the tombstones, trying to order his thoughts. A wriggling worm of panic kept invading his senses, and he would pause, breathing slowly and steadily until the anxiety had passed.

Think it through, Rafi, he thought. Think it through one step at a time.

He had to fall back to basics.

The first step was to make it back to safety and organize the facts. He needed to make sense of everything that had happened to him. And he needed some clothes.

The Sun was well into its afternoon descent by the time Rafi completed the cross city trek – easily several miles, avoiding any patrols that might have an itch to arrest any vagrants – stumbled into his safehouse in the lower city. The alcohol had long since left his system; his fingers and toes were numb, and he was shaking with hypothermia.

It was a mark of his state that he did not notice the shadow lingering in the corner, lounging amongst a haphazard stack of wooden crates.

“Rafi! You’ve made it. Sure took you awhile. Thought you were going to stiff me. My aim has improved – you saw that, right?” came a voice in a rapid, excitable cadence. It belonged to the shadow, a boy of eleven or twelve named Tolvi.

Rafi didn’t say anything as he grabbed a cloak from a nearby rack and wrapped it tighly around himself, shivering all the while.
“N-no take,” Rafi shivered out hoarsely, trying to shake himself to warmth.

The boy stiffened immediately, growing paler than he already was. “What? You’re joking!” he exclaimed. He paused for a moment, looking uncertainly at Rafi. “Pigshit. You are joking, right?”

Rafi just shook his head. “Language, Tolvi. I’m not joking. No take. But your aim has improved.”

A noticeable silence settled over the room as Tolvi took in the myriad bruises covering Rafi’s body and his state of undress. He hopped off the boxes and continued staring wide-eyed at Rafi, as if struggling to accept his words. “But you never…I mean, truly? You’re not lying to me?”

“You’re too cheap a hire and I’m too expensive a liar,” Rafi said automatically, reciting the old adage. “Put on a fire, would you?”

Tolvi nodded his head solemnly at the maxim, as if he were a man three-times his age. He hopped up obediently, all the bravado and incredulity gone from his face. It was replaced with something else. Disappointment, perhaps. “What was it? Guild interference?” he asked while grabbing logs and stacking them in a small wooden stove.

“No,” Rafi said, shaking his head.

“Bad intel?”

“No,” Rafi repeated.

Tolvi thought for a moment. “Third party?” he finally queried.

Rafi’s silence was enough of an answer.

“Knew it,” said Tolvi matter-of-factly.

They settled into a familiar post-heist routine [write further]
The hours ticked away and wax candles burned low as Rafi and the boy chattered back and forth in tradespeak. There were few people that he felt he could connect with in this business, and for some reason, Tolvi was one of them. The boy regaled him with his ventures of conning every last poor sod in the slums, culminating in the hours leading up to Rafi’s heist. “And so then I nabbed old man Marsden’s piglet while he was sleeping off the Dragonsbreath. Squealed like a banshee and he slept right through it. You know that stuff tastes like oil mixed with manure. It’s disgusting! I don’t know how you drink it.”

“Me either,” Rafi confessed.

“Anyways, I bet it was that bastard Meekil, right? he’s been tailing you – I told you he was! he come in and out-sneak you? Why, I ought to give him a fine tomato-ing when—”

“It wasn’t Meekil – I told you it wasn’t guild interference.“ Rafi interrupted. He had been carefully dancing around the central mystery all night as Tolvi made repeated attempts to glean more information about the failed heist.

“Come on! Can’t you tell me anything?” he whined.

“I like you too much for that,” Rafi said, taking a sip of some mulled cider. The hot drink and warmth of the fire had finally abated the last vestiges of cold and had begun to soothe his aching muscles.

Rafi’s caginess wasn’t a new experience for Tolvi. Their business relationship was built on a mutual trust and a healthy respect for secrets. Still, he didn’t know if the boy’s curiosity could be deferred this time.

“It was someone very dangerous. More dangerous than anyone we have encountered before,” he said carefully.

“Ooh! A duke? Royalty? Or…” Tolvi began.

Or a witch, Rafi thought. He only smiled in a way that signaled that was all he would say on the matter.

Tolvi looked put out. “You’re really going to stay lip-sealed, huh? Pigshit,” he groused.

“Language, Tolvi.”

“Sorry.”

4.

The next morning, Rafi stared at Adara’s mysterious note as he climbed the long, winding way toward the high city. A single line was written on it in curling script:

Eddard’s. High city. Midday, tomorrow.

The temperature had warmed, mercifully, and many citizens traversed the cobblestone road bundled in light furs and leather, heading to the markets or temple before they became too crowded. In the distance, the colorful Raishlin Towers looked down across masses, flying the Therran flag next to the royal family’s coat-of-arms: a dove, a sword, and a wreath over a blazing sun, surrounded by stars. Rafi stared at the second flag, wondering what it was supposed to mean. Was there some hint of magical ancestry in the ancient symbols? Lost in thought, he did not notice the figure eyeing him from a nearby crowd. As he passed by, the figure peeled away and fell in step beside him.

“If it isn’t Winterstone, himself,” said the figure – a man – thumbing his nose at Rafi. He was quite tall – perhaps a few inches taller than Rafi himself – and exceptionally thin, with lopsided sneer plastered over his features and the thin makings of a mustache. He looked something like a bald scarecrow, if Rafi was being honest.

“Otis,” said Rafi, nodding to the man.

Otis Meekil sidled close to Rafi, tapping his finger to his lips and musing aloud. “Heard you was hitting up a fancy manor last night. Big, fat gemstone at the Grimaldi estate. Appreciable take.”

“Hello to you too. A fine wintermorn, isn’t?” Rafi replied.

“Your little rat squealed on you,” said the man, ignoring Rafi. “Barely flashed my blade at him and he was piping up. You shoulda seen it. Half-expected him to wet himself!” He seemed to be particularly entertained by his own story.

Rafi tried to put on a ruse of annoyance at the boy, but his heart just wasn’t in it. “And what else did he tell you?” he eventually asked.

“Enough to know he was spinning a tale you paid him to so you wasn’t getting no competition,” Otis continued.

“Did you figure that out from staking out Grimaldi’s all night?” Rafi replied.

Otis gave Rafi a gaptoothed grin and tapped his forehead. “I’m smarter than I look. Ma always said I had to have something going for someone as ugly as me. Same can’t be said for you.”

“Would that it could,” said Rafi.

“I let it slide this time, but might be that your rat lies to me again, I’ll have to cut off his little tail,” he said. He tapped an area on his leather jacket – likely where a dagger was hidden inside.

Rafi shrugged indifferently. “Do what you want. I care nothing for the boy.”

Otis made a sour face. “That’s your problem, Winterstone. You’re a cold bastard who doesn’t understand loyalty like I do. It ain’t smart to keep stiffing the Guild. I’m just looking out for you. The family always gets what they want – you know that, right?”

“And they want me?” Rafi replied.

Otis only grunted, but that was good a confirmation as any.

“Are you so eager to recruit me, Meekil? There’s only so many mouths the Guild can feed. They might have to make cuts.”

“Ha! You’re funny, Winterstone. They’d sooner cut off their own arms than cut me loose. Anyways, Master Brem sends his regards, and congratulates you on your slipgrab last night. Manor staff all nice and quiet. You have some devil’s kind of luck, you do. Or maybe you’re just so unremarkable, no one pays any attention to you.” It was always this way with Otis. Despite the overt insults, his words held a grudging kind of admiration, as if he couldn’t quite resist giving respect to Rafi’s work (if not he Rafi himself). As well they should: a slipgrab was a break-in with no witnesses – a tricky proposition for most guarded estates.

Still, his words gave Rafi pause. Otis may have looked like a doofus, but he was as clever as the rest of his guildmates. There were lies within lies and games within games. Last night, there had been a pig, hurling tomatoes, a drunk servant, and a screaming princess. The first and most likely possibility was that someone had said something, Otis had heard, and was just playing the usual games. The second possibly was more chilling: everyone was being silent for fear of someone. This had implications about the scope of Adara’s power.

Can’t overthink this, thought Rafi, shaking his head. A witch that powerful wouldn’t waste her time extorting a criminal like himself – would she?

He briefly considered lying to Otis, but really, what did he have to gain? He’d kept on the Guild’s good side by studiously avoiding their marks and occasionally paying small “tributes” in coin or or other favors. Not his first choice, but it beat a knife in the back. The truth would keep them from pestering him for anything from this heist, and would also obscure the darker ways in which his fortune had shifted.

“It wasn’t a slipgrab and there wasn’t a take. Drunk servant, guards, the whole nine-yards. You see this bruise?” He shifted his hood and hair, showing a purple discoloration along his jawline. “Blunt end of a sword. It was a botched job all around. Barely escaped with my life.”

Otis eyed him suspiciously. Thieves were notorious liars. Stories of blunders were fairly uncommon, and outright failures even rarer. This, plus the fact that Otis probably considered Rafi to be his rival, made Rafi’s admission all the more surprising. He stroked his wispy beard thoughtfully. “Sources didn’t utter a word. Don’t know why you’re lying, but you’re lying, Winterstone.”

Rafi stepped into a side alley and gestured for Otis to follow.

“Uh-uh. No thanks,” protested Otis, putting up his hands. “Not getting shanked today ‘cause you don’t want to give a few coppers to the family.”

“Get over here, you oaf!” exclaimed Rafi in exasperation. “I haven’t got all day. If I wanted to kill you I’d tie a coin to a donkey and send it over a cliff.”

“I’d never fall for that,” Otis muttered to himself.

Rafi sucked in his breath as he gingerly pulled up his tunic. His muscled torso was layered with bands of black and blue bruises spanning from armpit to waist, where the guards had kicked him after he had fallen. He looked Otis in the eye and repeated, “There was no take.”

“Ash,” cursed Otis. “How’d you escape?”

“A bit of luck and a bit of magic,” Rafi quipped.

Otis snorted. “Of course. Too good for us to share details, much less join the family. Anyways, I spoke true. Sources was mute,” said Otis.

As Rafi had feared. He grimaced. “Maybe your sources have a new master.”

“Maybe,” said Otis, staring off into the distance. Then he hocked a loogie and the brief moment of mutual understanding was gone. He looked Rafi up and down as the latter put his tunic back on, and the usual sneer crept back over his face. “Always knew you was not as good as Brem thought you was. Don’t know why he’s so keen on you. Mess up a job in the guild and they cut your balls clean off,” he said, brandishing his smile again.

“Seems like you lot have an unhealthy fascination with removing body parts,” Rafi remarked.

Otis didn’t seem to have a clever reply, so he just snorted and barreled on. “If we ever need a choir boy, I’ll be sure let you know. Until later, Winterstupid.” And with that, he promptly strode out into the street and disappeared into the passing crowds.

Rafi let out a deep sigh. Guild antagonism was just what he needed. Charming as ever, Meekil, he thought to himself. Charming as ever.

— —

Panishin Eddard lounged on a barstool behind the counter of his quaint shop, humming to himself while he filed his nails. He sighed. It was a rather slow day.

“La da dee, la da da, la da dee, my sweet Isabella… Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, he he he, Isabellaaa…” he crooned to himself, leaning on one hand and waving an imaginary wand through the air with the other.

His doorbell chimed as a customer entered.

“U-uh oh, hello. A customer! Welcome to Eddard’s Clothe Shoppe, the finest assortment of dresses, suits, cloaks – oh. Oh dear.” Panishin’s usual introduction trailed off as he stared at the figure who had stepped into the shop.

The man had a slightly foreign look, with tan skin and dark hair hanging to his shoulders, dressed in dark leathers, a single blade hanging at his belt. He would have been handsome, except for the somewhat hunted aura he carried, for lack of a better description, and the dark rings under his eyes.

Panishin briefly considered that he was about to get stabbed and stuffed into a closet or somesuch, but he just spread his arms wide and took a slight bow. What else was there to do? The sale must go on.

“W-Welcome, friend, to the finest collection of clothes in the high city! You’ll find no better selection, no more expansive a curation than my exquisite tastes have selected for you. Why, I can already see you prancing about in some Merishite reds, what with that dark, brooding thing you’ve got going on. How about an emerald green cloak with gold-pattern stitchings along the edge to complete the ensemble. And we have a lovely selection of hats over here. Hm, yes, this flat cap with a peacock feather would do nicely.”

The shopkeep instinctively shrunk back as the menacing man came further into the shop, but then paused uncertainly as he stood amongst the hundreds of brightly-colored articles of clothing. Befuddled by fashion, no doubt, thought Panishin. The man looks like dreams in black and white.

“Um,” the man said, after a long beat. “I think I am supposed to meet someone here… maybe? Is this… is there more than one Eddard’s?”

“You’re the special order?” asked Panishin incredulously. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.” He sighed heavily. “She does not pay me well enough for this.”

The man sighed heavily. “And what exactly did she pay for?”
Now Panishin had stepped back and was sizing up the man. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. He could cut a fine figure with enough work. With substantial work, he thought.

“Come here, Mister…?”

“Winterstone. Rafi Winterstone,” replied the man.

“You will be reborn, good Sir Winterstone,” Panishin said.

“Great,” said Rafi.

Panishin leveled a look at the man. “She already paid me, so I don’t owe you the pleasantness of my sterling company, yet still I will grant it, because I am nothing if not generous. But you must meet me halfway. None of this moody and mysterious attitude. Come on, now.” He took his two fingers and drew up the corner of his lips. “Smile!”

He withstood the withering look the man shot him. So long as looks never became swords, he could withstand any amount of indignities from difficult customers. He ushered the man back to the dressing stool, then looked at the man. “Now. It’s time to work some magic,” he announced.

——

There were only a handful of times that Rafi had truly felt fear in his life. This was one of them. The man called Panishin Eddard was giving him a hungry look that made Rafi want to shrink and disappear.

“Hm. Yes. Royal purple doublet with silver cuffs? No, no. Too much. Perhaps a sheer white to contrast his dark features. No, no, he looks like a messy eater.” Panishin tutted and fussed while Rafi sat stock still on a stool; he rapidly came to conclusions and discarded them.

“We have to address your, uh, monochrome ensemble…” he gestured up and down with his hands.

“I wear it because it’s practical…” Rafi protested weakly. He trailed off as Panishin looked at him like he was a child trying to explain philosophy to an adult.

“Isabella!” he suddenly yelled. “Come hither, darling!”

A fat woman emerged from the back of the shop, dressed in elegant silks and makeups.

“Good Sir Winterstone, meet my darling wife, Isabella. Isabella, meet this man.”

“Darling,” said Isabella as she pirouetted on two feet and planted a kiss on Panishin’s lips. The sight of her next to the reed-thin, mustachioed man was quite the contrast. Rafi noted the man’s cheeks were flushed a bright red. True love, I guess, he thought.

“Hm,” she tutted. “I heard Eddy’s complaints from the back. They didn’t do you justice,” she said, looking Rafi over. “You have nice features, dear. You could be quite handsome – with a little work, of course. Here, put this on.” She swirled a towel over Rafi’s shoulders, then suddenly produced a razor.

Rafi’s eyes grew wide. “What are you—” he started, but she was already lathering some sort of minty foam on his cheeks and dragging the blade through it.

“When I am done, you will look immaculate,” she said.

— —

I no longer recognize myself, thought Rafi. He stared at his figured in a standing, oval-shaped mirror. When all was said and done, he was dressed in a forest-green silk doublet, complete with intricate patterns and brass clasps (mercifully, he had managed to parlay away the neck frill). His face was clean shaven, his hair was trimmed to the nape of his neck, and they had even insisted he clean himself in their private bathhouse. That part, he had to admit, had made it all worth it.

“Oh, darling. He looks so handsome. You’ve done it!” exclaimed Isabella, gazing with adoration at her husband.

Panishin flushed a deep, bright red. “I could not have done it without you. Your bladework is exquisite. You are the muse to my creations, my dear Isabella.” he declared grandiosely.

Rafi was beginning to feel like something of a fly on the wall, but in truth, it did not matter. He felt… better. The weight he usually carried in his shoulders, amplified tenfold by recent events, had diminished. He felt refreshed and, remarkably, happy.

“Oh! Is that a smile I see, good Sir Winterstone?” said Panishin with a mischievous smirk. “A bit of a color does you wonders, my dear boy.”

“Thank you, Sir Eddard,” said Rafi, bowing deeply. “You and your wife are master craftsmen.”

Panishin beamed with pride. “And you are a much more delightful customer than I first anticipated. I assure you, that is a high compliment.”

Rafi paused, unsure what was next. Clearly the princess had paid for this, but to what end?

“Uh, Sir Winterstone,” said Panishin. He glanced over at his wife. She was distractedly dusting a corner of display rack. “Come over here a second, won’t you?” He beckoned and guided Rafi into a side room that appeared to be an office of some sort. When Rafi had followed, Panishin produced a letter from a desk drawer and handed it to him.

“Listen, my boy. I may know something of what you’re going through.” He held up a hand to forestall Rafi’s questions. “No, don’t say anything yet. What’s between you two can stay that way, at least for now. All I can say is… tread carefully. Be cautious. And know that if you ever need a friend, you can call on us.”

It was a strange feeling that overcame Rafi, just then. For so long, he had only himself to rely on. And others he knew… they relied on him as well. To have someone else to lean on was a foreign concept.

“I am, um… I am unused to this kind of generosity, Sir Eddard,” he said awkwardly. He didn’t know what else to say.

Panishin smiled slightly. “Blame Isabella. She’s taken a shine to you, and that’s a rare thing. Said you don’t talk enough, but she found a kind face beneath all that stubble. Farewell, good Sir Winterstone. Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” said Rafi, feeling some of his old confidence coming back. Life was easier with friends – he had known that once. He flashed a cat-like grin. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s surviving. See you, Eddard.” And then he left, stepping out to the snow-strewn streets of the high city again.

“There goes a brave fool,” he heard Panishin mutter as he left.

— —

His good lasted all of five minutes, until he broke the wax seal and flipped open the note.

Although he had never been a member of the Guild, he had had the privilege – or misfortune, depending on how you looked at it – co-authoring a heist with them.

The winds were high as he left the barber-tailor shop. He broke the wax seal and flipped open the note. Swirling eddies of snow gathered around him like fey missives from Winter herself. He trekked through the street, heedless of the crowds around him, staring at Adara’s curling script on the crisp parchment.

It read:

The Fitzweather Ball, tonight.

You are a visiting Merishite noble. I will introduce you to the court.

Lady Besame of House Susurra has a secret. You are to use this opportunity to introduce yourself to her. Gain her trust over the next few weeks and discover her exact plans.

I trust you will not dissapoint. ❤︎

It was like many a note he’d seen penned by Brem, himself, except Adara had ended it with little heart.