Chapter 1

As promised, the first chapter is finished and just a few lines below!

I'm still playing with the formatting on this, so expect a few cosmetic changes - and please comment if you find the text unbearable to read, or the colours are off-putting. I'm also going to put the proper, novel-formatted copy up on Google Drive as each chapter is finished, for those who prefer to read it thusly.

For no particular reason I've decided to put up bits of mood music with each chapter-- don't read too much into this, it's just an attempt to liven things up for the blog format. The lyrics don't reveal any hidden meaning and sometimes might only be halfway appropriate. That said:

CHAPTER ONE

It was a foul night in Eastport. Forbidding clouds hung low in the sky, condemning the moon's glow to a barely glimpsed flicker as the skies slowly billowed and buffeted. The rain fell in intermittent torrents, embarking on a grubby journey to the streets below, where through the passing hours it had formed chaotic puddles whose depth and consistency were left as mysteries but to the hapless soul whose step should go awry.

But this was nothing new. Rain seemed always to fall upon the eastern port, where pollution was heaviest and spirits reached their nadir. Most citizens kept their outdoor activity to a minimum, avoiding the worst of the weather and enjoying what comfort they could. Few saw fit to brave nature's trials for any length of time. Amongst these few, the stalwart sailors, the hungry docksmen... and the thieves who preyed upon them all.

That night, in particular, the rain fell upon Alicia de Vries.

The young vagabond lay waiting, crouched in the shadows atop an abandoned manor house several miles inside the city. A thick leather hood shielded her face from the elements, the coarse material sending relentless, filthy droplets cascading away to the cobbles below; but still she cursed inwardly at the twist in her fortune's tale.

Despite her misgivings, Alicia remained focused on the horizon where, just over a catapult's throw from the docks, a small fleet of ships wheeled unsteadily in the storm. She had been watching their progress for hours now, denying her body the rest that it screamed for as fiercely as the sailors denied the howling rain and the tumultuous waves tearing at their bows. This night was too important for such concerns.

“How much longer do we have to wait?”

The sound of that uncouth tongue jarred Alicia from her determined vigil. Pulling her mouth into an oft-worn scowl, she turned with a brisk snort of breath to fix the interloper with a steady glaring of her green eyes.

“We wait until the job is done,” she replied, tone laced with the same lethargic malice so clearly displayed in her expression, “And not a moment sooner.”

“Then Stenman had better hurry up. We've been stuck here since nightfall.”

The complaint drew a sharp hiss from the girl. Biting back an instinctive urge to lash out, she shifted upon the rooftop, leaning closer to the man who stood framed in the highest window of the tall building. He was far taller than she, and muscular. Like the many similar men stationed throughout the city, he was hired for protection should the night's plans fail to reach their desired conclusion. Though he was little more than a glorified thug, Alicia had no doubt that his strength and martial ability outweighed hers. This gave her no pause.

“I don’t care who you are,” she slowly said, “Or what this means to you. Guildmaster Stenman,” she savoured the honorific, mouth curling savagely about those three simple syllables, “Takes his time, but he does the job. Whatever it takes. And you?”

Pausing, she pulled away to settle back into position, oiled boots precariously gripping wet slate. “You sit tight, like the rest of us, and let him do it.”

An uncertain silence overcame the pair of them, only the insistent scattering of raindrops sounding over the distant sounds of drunken merriment from the dockside. Then, the man cursed, the expletive giving way to a throaty chuckle.

“If I didn’t need the coin, I’d throw you to the street for that. See how well you sneak about with two broken legs.”

“Watch your tongue!”

“It’s your back I’ve got to watch,” the response came slick with sarcasm, “Guildmaster’s orders.”

As the ruffian grinned and stepped away, boards creaking beneath his feet, Alicia stiffened. She curled the fingers of her right hand inward, digging poorly trimmed nails into tender flesh. The accompanying spark of pain sent a jarring signal to her brain, awakening the self-control needed to tame a wild temper.

“You shouldn't let him get to you, Ali.” This third voice, placid and filled with a dissonant good humour, came from scant paces away, where a diminutive figure perched cross-legged beneath the eaves. Alicia did not turn as she acknowledged its owner, training her watchful gaze back to that crucial point in the distance.

“I don't want him here. You know that, Kett. He's in our way.”

“You only believe that because you also believe we're untouchable. Faith is a fair thing to have, but this isn't a normal job. If something were to go wrong...”

“Then we'd handle it, just like always. We work alone.”

“And we work well. But we're not soldiers. When this goes off, half the duke's guard could lie between us and home. With two of us, we might make it past maybe three or four, but he,” she nodded toward the silent ruffian, “Is twice our size and a hundred times as thick-headed. I know you respect the Guildmaster, Ali, and this was at his order. He knows what he's doing.”

“I still don't like it.”

“Like it or not, that ox might be the only chance we've got.”

Gustav Estan mopped sweat from his brow as he considered his rebuttal to the king's ambassador who paced calmly by the fireside. His argument would be tenuous, his failure already close to absolute in the eyes of his liege, but the duke of Eastport was an oily man. 

Slipping through the murk of politics like a river-dwelling snake, Estan had ruled the city for many years without losing his station; a feat scant short of a miracle, all things considered. He treated men like base commodities, to be bought and sold by those ranked above them, and even resembled an overfed merchant. He was a short, corpulent creature, habitually draped in silks and decorated with gaudy rings. Not, in summation, a man to trust.

The ambassador knew this, and expected no reasonable reply.

“What you fail to understand,” began the duke, raising a glinting finger, helplessly arrogant in his own defence. He was immediately cut off by the ambassador, who swept about fast enough to fan the flames with his dark crimson cloak.

“I fail to understand nothing!” The fire billowed and roared at his back. “Neither does the king. This is a simple matter, Estan. The economy of this city is out of control. All your wealth disappears into their midst, and you expect us to do absolutely nothing.”

“What would you do, Veilor?” The counter came rapidly, a snivelling edge accompanying the words as Estan reached for his goblet of rich northern wine. “What would His Highness do? This so-called 'Guild' has blighted Eastport for fifteen years, crawling through the shadows and the sewers, penetrating to the heart of the city; why, even invading my own humble home...”

“One more failure piled upon a heap of thousands.”

Shoulders bunching, the effort setting his gelatinous frame a-quiver, the duke merely tut-tutted to this firm, cruelly-accurate conclusion. A gulp of wine stained his lips red in the silence that followed, before that flabby mouth curled into an unexpected smile.

“At every turn they've defeated me, yes, but what you fail to understand...”

A sharp clack punctuated this pointed hesitation, the tall ambassador's expression darkening further as he watched Estan smugly set his goblet down and rearrange his lavish jewels. Solid forearms crossed his broad chest, eyebrows arching in mute, impatient query. The duke remained unhurried, smile broadening until his gimlet eyes all but disappeared into jubilant folds of flesh, uncomfortably piercing as they met the expectant stare.

“Is that tonight, I claim victory over these wretched thieves.”

In spite of the duke's assurance, the fates had not yet instructed Darik Stenman as to his impending failure. The acknowledged master of thieves slipped swiftly along the rain-slick cobbles leading from the docks, his footfalls almost unnaturally soft beneath the scattered drumming of fallen drops. Any onlooker would see a man nondescript in garb and physique, suspicious perhaps due to one small detail; a hood much like Alicia's, disguising from view a mutilated right eye socket sealed shut with gnarled stitches.

Not for the first time, he gave silent thanks to the foul weather for sealing a long and complex deal. Those few unfavoured enough to be outside had spared no second glance for Darik's cowled and harried form.

Reaching the appointed place – a plain corner half a street away from the building upon which Alicia, Kett, and their gruff watchdog were perched – the Guildmaster slowed his step and came to a halt, shifting his wiry back against a shadow-struck wall. Cupping his hands together before his face, he blew against his fingers, harnessing a much-desired blossom of warmth. His single grey eye peered askance, focusing upon naught save the falling sheets, as inwardly he planned the remainder of the night's minutiae.

While the most important step had long been taken, these next few moments had to proceed smoothly. Perfectly. A single miscalculation could cost him dearly. As it was, he risked the one thing in this shady underworld he may still honestly profess to love...

He’d raised the girl almost from birth, a scraggly flame-haired urchin brought shaking but oddly defiant into the dank chamber which served for his home and headquarters. Even then she'd been in equal part determined and unpredictable, unique amongst children who otherwise tended to the downtrodden and desperate. Teaching her – taming her – hadn't been easy, but she'd learned fast, survived first one year and then a full dozen beneath his patient ministrations.

Alicia, his precious alley cat, became more than just a sound investment. Accusations of coddling amongst Stenman's peers were alternately shouted down or murderously silenced. He'd bought his time with the girl in sweat and blood, by the gods, nigh-on fifteen years leading them to this decisive night.

Emotion rose, spitting and bubbling, to send a sharp quiver through the man's gut. Pride mingled with a horde of other, less welcome feelings, setting his teeth on edge. Darik, usually the unflappable counterpoint to his notoriously feisty protégé, failed to bite back a curse.

It coincided with a sudden, violet eruption of light and sound from the seafront as one of the listing ships exploded, tossing jagged splinters of smoking timber high above the thrashing waves.

“That's our signal. Move.”

Alicia's brusque command drew an assenting nod and grunt from her companions, though all eyes remained momentarily fixed upon the skyline. The materials used to ignite their target had worked almost too well; the fireworks would be visible for miles, casting a bright spell across the dismal cityscape.

Beneath the breathtaking display, the trio of rogues remained a sombre shadow as they moved in orchestrated sequence toward the open attic window, the redhead taking the lead – with cautious Kett lingering upon the rooftop, waving the brute invitingly before her.

With him at her rear, Alicia moved through the structure’s three floors, scampering down the ladder from attic to landing then taking both staircases swiftly in the uninhabited gloom. Slowing her pace at the front door, she leaned close, lifting one slender-fingered hand to peel back the sodden leather from her face. Pressing an ear to the painted wood, she listened intently, mindless of the heavy footfalls behind her.

She was far more focused on those beyond.

Their perch had been chosen for its proximity to the nearest guardhouse, and the city watch were not lax in responding to the chaos at dockside; it was mere seconds before the girl's patience was rewarded with the rattle of chainmail and the heavy-laden stomp of boots. She waited just a little longer and then sprung the door, jolting it just wide enough to admit her lithe form.

The confusion beyond made it a trivial matter to follow the noisome group toward the harbour, past banging shutters and the panicked yells of disturbed citizens. Their destination wasn't far – but placed, as it was, uncomfortably close to the guards' route, it had been a prudent move to use their march as cover rather than risk a confrontation coming the other way.

Risking a glance behind, Alicia marked her mismatched pair of allies moving into an alley neighbouring the outermost line of the warehouses lining the docks, a flicker of green eyes shifting her focus from them to the squat coachyard now just a few paces ahead. Quickening her step, she moved inside the waiting gates and took immediate stock of her new surroundings – marking a half dozen loaded carts and half as many confused, bleary-eyed workers. The nearest, a scrawny, bearded youth clad in his best doublet, looked up as she looked across, meeting her with a perplexed stammer.

“Don't just stand there!” Barked the vagabond, cutting him off with substantial confidence as she threw a wild gesture with her left arm, “Fire at the docks! We need to move all this cargo, now!”

“What do we--”

“There's three of you, ain't there? You've enough horses. One cart each, up the lane to the master's place. Park 'em outside and I'll deal with the paperwork later!”

“Who--”

“Someone better capable than you, that's for sure. Get these men doing their jobs or you won't have one.”

Labour comes cheap in a city where most can't find steady employment, and the threat served. Alicia's gamble was scarcely worthy of the term; in all likelihood the poor boy didn't even work here a week ago. As he rushed off, shouting uncertain orders to his fellows and doubtless trusting a fine performance could win him a measure of favour with this brash young woman, she moved further through the yard.

Used to finding a mark in a motley crowd of hundreds, Alicia was quick to locate her desire; a cart already being harnessed to a wet, snorting mare. The youth setting about this one was even younger than the first, and too intent upon his task to pay any heed to the hooded girl. It took but a moment to palm her dagger and cut a thick 'x' into the back of the wooden hitch.

A few minutes later, the cart rode out into the waiting night.

“I have to admit, I'm impressed.”

The ambassador's dark eyes gleamed with a dangerous mirth as he turned, keeping one calloused palm upon the windowsill as sharp eyes roved from the burning skyline to the rotund duke.

“Instead of your city's wealth disappearing amidst your vermin, it vanishes into the sea. Bravo.”

“Ships can be rebuilt,” the oily ruler seemed unfazed, happily toying with his jowls, “It's no matter, Veilor. The cargo is safe, and the masterstroke is yet to come. Would you care for more wine?”

“No. Tell me, instead, how this ludicrous farce might in any way resemble a 'plan'. Where is this cargo, and how do you intend to justify sinking a foreign vessel along with any existing trade agreement?”

“I don't. I intend merely to rid myself of this pestilence, and become... very wealthy in the process.”

That pause was loaded, punctuated by a languid recline as the duke eased further back in his seat. The ambassador's tall form stiffened, fingertips pressing firmly against the stone and sharp eyes narrowing. The blade at the hip of Duke Estan's personal guard chose this moment to rattle menacingly.

“The cargo...?”

“Dealt with. By the same traitor who'll handle this affair, then deliver it to my treasury.”

“This is tantamount to treason.”

“And yet,” Estan paused, clucking his moist tongue against pocked, yellowing teeth. Basking in his perceived moment of triumph, he seemed not to notice the ambassador's hand straying toward his own hip. “It's not, is it? I betray no allegiance. I commit no crime against His Highness, nor any to whom he owes loyalty. Remove your hand, or force me to do it for you.”

Hesitating only momentarily, the ambassador obeyed, straightening his back and stepping away from the window with both hands raised. The same surrender was writ not in his expression; dark and wrathful, if calm. A thousand counters presented themselves, eventualities all leading to more strife than was advisable – or excused by his station. He settled for none of them.

“I intend to take my leave.”

“I suggest you wait until morning. Guard, order the city sealed. Nobody leaves this night.”