Midnight and the streets of Derc’s were completely emptied, save for it’s northern quarter; this was the city’s entertainment district. Packed tight with taverns and theatres, as well as the occasional brothel; masterfully disguised as a respectable gentleman’s club.
Viero drew his hood up, keeping a tight grasp on it to secure its position, as he bobbed in and out of the groups of drunken revellers that filled the streets. The light from the windows of the public houses that lined the street cast grotesque shadows on the crowds of intoxicated faces.
Viero swooped into an alcove where he discreetly slipped his coin purse into his trousers; he couldn’t afford to be pick pocketed tonight. For there were no guards out on patrol this evening to keep the peace; they too were enjoying the state sponsored festivities. Tonight was the official celebration of Dercia’s latest conquest, and the Imperial council of Dercia had arranged for every place of merriment in the Northern quarter to provide free drink and entertainment for the citizens of Derc. Enchanted lanterns and Imperial banners, that proclaimed the glory of the Empire, were strung from the store fronts for as far as the eye could see.
He pressed on through the sea of roisterers, eyes fixed to the end of the high street. Rain had begun to drizzle, and the heavens above cracked and groaned- the clouds were ready to burst.
As he continued the crowd began to thin, as the saloons and bars made way to arcades and residential buildings.
Viero had reached the end of the high street, which broke off to the left and the right. He regarded the buildings this filled street to his right. They were not squalid but they were much less grand than the opulent Arcades and private residences that lined the street to his left. These were simple dwellings no more than two stories, with no extravagant masonary on their facades.
Proceeding down the street on his right, he slowly unsheathed his dagger and hid it up his sleeve – gripping to the hilt with white knuckles.
There were no illuminations down this street; only the moon’s glow lit the narrow street, which barely penetrated the gloom.
Viero spied the bookstore “The Archive”, he groped the lining of his coat pocket and retracted a piece of paper. It was sealed in wax, and the words “Open at The Archive” written in a delicate hand.
Viero slipped his finger underneath the folds in the paper, and broke the wax with a single clean jerk. He unfolded the paper, but could barely make any of the markings out in the dim light. He once again ventured into his pocket and retrieved a small silver instrument, heavily ornamented with floral motifs. Flipping off the cap, a small glimmer of light shone from within the instrument.
It was a map. It had markings of the streets and main landmarks, there was a dot on “The Archive” and another dot deeper into system of alleyways. There was also an arrow, right next to The Archive’s dot; the arrow trembled in response to each movement that Viero took, the further he walked from The Archive, the further the arrow moved from the dot.
Magic! Viero hadn’t ever suspected that the resistance would have access to mages. An icy sweat ran down his back. If they have Mages at their disposal… Then they are more of a threat than we’d anticipated. If they do have mages, then they must be skilled enough to hide their presence from us. Viero knew that such skilled Mages would easily be able to read his true intentions.
However, being ever the gambler, Viero pressed on into the labyrinth of passages and alleys.
The light was now nearly expended from his silver instrument; it gave off little more than a faint glow. This was perhaps for the best, there would no doubt be people watching him, it would be best not to make his profession completely obvious. With that thought in mind, he snapped the cap back into place and stowed it hastily into his coat.
He was here now anyway, before him stood an iron door. He sheathed his dagger, and pulled back his hood before rapping at the door. It sang out into the night, with a sharp tone.
******
Griffin had summoned a council meeting the council was made up of the leaders of the fractious groups that ran the Loe-Town. Very rarely did councillors ever agree on anything, cooperation was not often on the agenda of the gathered gang leaders.
The council chamber was dimly lit and lavishly furnished in rare fabrics, perfumes hung in the air creating a haze that only further muted the feeble light.
There were cushions lining the floor, on which the gathered gang leaders were reclined. There was only 1 chair in the room, it sat up against the wall at one end of the room; akin to a throne, it was ornamented with rich inlays of exotic woods and precious stones. Two brass lanterns flanked it on either side they hung uncertainly from a low ceiling emitting a heavy mist and a meagre light from the embers within.
Griffin shifted in his mass of cushions awkwardly propping himself up against his elbow. He was always irked by how long the praetor took to arrive from meetings and why a parlay could not commence without him. His frustration began to quicken, his blood, the tension made his hair stand on end.
He looked over to the doorway in anticipation, his eyes fixed on it and time seemed to drip by. Soon the door opened and in came a small old man aided into the room by a young woman whom he had scantly dressed in a shimmering silver mail bikini.
She lowered him to the floor, arranging him into a comfortable position. The Troll Don, one of the most influential of the council, and co-founder back when the senate began their mission of purging the Loe-Town from the Empire. Many believe that the people of the Loe-Town would have starved to death if it were not for him and his gangs smuggling efforts.
Griffin had always had a great deal of admiration for the Troll, a sentiment shared by most in the council.
To Griffin’s right was a portly man, his face red with excess, he was garbed in robes styled on bows worn by senators. He was chewing on a stalk of sugar cane and attending to his copious beard with a silver comb.
Don Wyrm, self styled prince of the Loe Town, he was the newest member of the council yet lorded himself as if he were sole benefactor. Having now finished with his sugar cane and tossed the husk cavalierly to the side of the room. He than began talking to a trio of councillors who were already engaged in their own heated conversation.
Griffin hated these waiting games, his gaze bore into the doorway once more bidding it to open. He visualised the door swinging open and the praetor emerging from it. Over and over again, as if it might have some effect on what was to come.
All of a sudden there was a sound of muffled screams coming from behind the door. The door trembled in its frame as light pierced through the cracks in between; spewing out dust after each pulse.
The shouting continued, along with the sounds of a struggle, until all at once everything was silent, everything was deafly quiet, the sound of nothing seemed to steal away Griffin’s breath. The room was hollow, safe for the settling dust that let out a feint snap as it contacted with the floor.
All eyes were on the doorway now. Griffin’s heart skipped a beat, the muscles in his body tensed, stretching out his tendons to breaking point.
Then the doorknob rolled in its socket and the door, followed it, inching open, creaking with its rusty hinges. A mousy man emerged, his back crooked with age, his midnight hair was tied back with the simple set of bone combs. He regarded the congregated council for a moment before proceeding to the chair at the end of the room.
An attendant crept into the room, his brow well soaked with perspiration. He took hold of the doorknob and gingerly closed the door behind him as he left.
Griffin gawked at the praetor, who had finally and extravagantly arrived. His slight feelings of terror began to subside as he observed the praetors absolute composure. The old man sat assuredly in his pseudo throne.
“Welcome my good friends. Pardon me please for my lateness…I was occupied by urgent business” a rye smile stretched across the praetors face. Cutting deep chasms in his heavily furrowed face. “We all know why this parlay has been summoned. Griffin apprentice has been severely and gravely injured. We have no means of treating him…” the Praetors lips curled into a sickly grin. “That is to say we had no means…I have acquired a mage”. He regarded the gang leaders awaiting their rebuke.
An unsettling silence commenced, eyes filled with shock and fear stared back at the old Praetor.
Until the Troll Don broke the tension with his slight gesture. The Praetor turned to him.
“Yes?”
“Begging your pardon, but is it wise to be drawing attention to our cause when the senate has paid little interest in us for so long. Would you risk the security of all the souls in the Loe-Town by kidnapping a mage?” the old Don’s lips quivered with anger, he hoarsely continued “We keep the Loe-Town alive simply because the empire does not care, mages invariably come from families with some connection to the senate. Am I to think that the senate will not tear our community apart to find this mage” the Don’s eyes shook in their sockets; eyes staring fierily into the Praetor.
He stopped for a moment and composed himself. With his aids assistance he set back into his pews. Chatter and murmurs rose steadily among the council until all words were indiscernible; massed in an acoustic frenzy.
What should I do Griffin thought to himself, the image of Dan lying in his daughters bed burned from neck to knave was fixed in his mind.
Before long the Praetor had become weary of the rabble that the parlay had become, he gestured slightly to an attendant at the far end of the room who nodded with compliance before disappearing behind a silk screen into the corridor beyond.
If I don’t try and convince the council to use this mage’s craft, a cold sweat ran down Griffin’s spine. Dan will perish… Yet. The Troll is right. His heart jumped up into his throat with the very thought. The Senate will tear the Loe-Town apart to find their mage, killing unthinkable amounts of innocents.
The council’s racket died away all at once, breaking Griffin’s train of thought. He turned toward where all of the other gang leaders were looking. Kneeling before the council, at the Praetor’s feet was a figure bound in chains; blood gushing from his brow.
