It is a beautiful city that the man and woman find themselves in, just a little after sundown on a crisp autumn day. The sky is still streaked with the last sighs of the sun. People make their way through the streets, hand-in-hand, heels clicking against the brickwork of the beautifully laid-out roads.
The man sits at a delightfully elegant, frighteningly expensive roadside café, sipping at a cup of something brightly colored and boozy. His hair is curly and brown, his eyes also brown and their smile pleasant. He seems friendly, perfectly normal, save for the fact that he is bundled up, wearing gloves and a scarf when his long-sleeved shirt is really all that he needs.
The woman walks down the street and straight towards him. She is quite tall, taller in heeled boots, holds herself even taller than that. Despite having never seen the man before in her life, there is nothing at all unnatural about the way she takes the seat opposite him.
“Delivery,” she says. Her accent is flawless in such a way that suggests the language is not her mother tongue. “For the man sitting at Matthieu’s, wearing a Lucian shirt gone out of fashion almost a century ago.”
“Oh?” the man beckons over a waiter. “Pleased to meet you. You’re right on time. Would you like something to drink? I know everyone comes to Matthieu’s for their dacquoises, but if you’re looking for something a little less mainstream, their cocktails are pretty good too.”
The woman slides an envelope over the table, then picks up the menu lying on the table. She does not consult it, does not need to, but she does study the lettering with great interest.
“This is Matthieu’s—everything on their menu is mainstream, even the extra shot. This café dictates social life on this half of the continent.”
She orders some complicated spiced tea mix for herself as the man tears open the envelope and skims it. A frown flits over his face, a youthful face showing only the slightest signs of age at the corners of his eyes. The woman watches him carefully.
“I was wrong,” she says, and the man looks up. “Your shirt is from three centuries ago, not one. The quality is sublime, although it’s seen some wear. How did you come by it?”
“It was a gift. My grandfather gave it to me when I turned eighteen, and I’ve brought it with me everywhere since then.”
“Your grandfather has taste. Lucian exports are rare and oftentimes underappreciated. When you identified yourself as the man in old Lucian wear, I did not expect to be as delighted by it as I am.”
The waiter brings the spiced tea and the woman takes a sip. She doesn’t voice her appraisal, but there is the smallest tinge of satisfaction in her voice when she speaks again.
“And your reply?”
The man looks at the letter in his hands, brows furrowed. He finishes the rest of his drink in one gulp, wincing a little. The woman tilts her head as she observes him drink, as if she already knows that she will not get the answer she is looking for.
“I’ve heard of the name Marashian before,” says the man. He raps his fingers against the table, and they make a strange metallic sound. “Yes, I think I’ve heard of a Lord Marashian.”
“It is the name of the current empress of Sarruma,” replies the woman. After a tiniest moment of hesitance, barely noticed, she adds: “Lord Marashian—may he rest in peace—was a great man.”
The man winces.
“Sorry, sorry. I should have known that.”
“The writer of the letter, Eléonore Desjardins, is the current court magician. She is among the greatest magical experts Sarruma has to offer, and that is her recommendation.”
“Ah, I thought her name sounded familiar as well.”
“Well?” The woman seems expectant, or maybe threatening. “Can you arrange a correspondence with Varus the Creator?”
The man hesitates. A moment passes. The woman opens her mouth to speak, but a snatch of motion in the corner of her sight distracts both of them.
The man moves. His arm blurs and he seemingly swats the bullets out of the way, a split-second before they hit the woman, a second before the air around the two hardens and takes on a bluish sheen. The woman is unable to hide her shock, glancing towards her companion even as power streams from her fingertips.
“You—”
“It’s a prosthesis,” explains the man. His gloves are tattered, and he shakes the rags off unceremoniously. Under the leather his fingers gleam pure gold.
“You owe me an explanation…” her fingers flutter through the air and a burst of wind spreads out in a circular form around them. “I do not even know your name, sir. Regardless, there are two belligerents at two and nine o’ clock. I will deal with the sniper.”
The man nods before vaulting over the table, movements swift and clean as he runs toward the assailants, feet impossibly fast.
The woman seems preoccupied as her fingers fly—light streams and curls from their tips as she casts her spell delicately, precisely. Power surges as she brings her thumbs together, sweeps her body through space and deposits her neatly behind the sniper she had spoken of.
“This is all very strange,” she says, clearly thinking out loud. She snaps her fingers and a gust of wind sends the masked figure tumbling, their weapon landing neatly in her spell-free hand. Another quick movement of her right hand shoves the figure right off the rooftop. Moving herself back onto the street, looking over the now-unconscious attacker, she seems to come to a conclusion.
“They were here for you,” says the woman quietly, dusting specks of power from her hands.
“There’s no way you don’t have enemies,” replies the man, who is dragging two other masked figures back to the café. “You’re carrying messages for some of the most powerful people in Sarruma. You don’t get to that point without making enemies. Oh, did you call the guards?”
“I’m sure someone from Matthieu’s has done so already.”
“Good, good. Are you sure they were for me?”
“There’s no way they could have known who I was,” says the woman. She turns to face the man, and for the first time he is able to make his eyes focus on her face. She has a somewhat pensive face, features smooth and free of expression. A light eyebrow arches in a way that suggests the man is daft for ever having doubted her. Her eyes are gray.
“An illusion.”
The woman shrugs. “You didn’t even notice it was there. They definitely would not have. Why were they targeting you?”
The man shrugs right back, shoulders rolling in the very picture of cool indifference. “Not sure. Could be a bunch of things. Maybe they don’t want to kill me, maybe they think I’m Lucian. I’m not, but that would make me valuable.”
“It is not quite nightfall yet,” the woman says, eyes drifting across the street as if envisioning the peaceful passerby who had been there half an hour ago. “Asueres is not a peaceful country, but this is the capital and we are far from the civil conflict down in Zalazak. This especially is an affluent area, a stylish neighborhood in the downtown.”
“I do enjoy this neighborhood very much,” the man agrees readily.
“For someone to try to kill you here—and trust me, they were trying to kill you—they must have a very compelling reason to do so and also possess quite the extensive resources, so that they do not fear the consequences of the assassination.”
“Ah.”
“It is very strange. No, I don’t think it has anything to do with you being Lucian at all.”
“Wait a second, I never said I was Lucian. I mean, I specifically said I wasn’t.”
The woman gives a thin smile, teeth barely showing. “You’re from Lucia. Your coloring, your accent, the way you hold your glass. You do not do a particularly good job of hiding it. In fact, I’m not quite sure why you even bothered, what with you literally wearing a Lucian shirt.”
“I—” The man stutters, his hand darting to his shirt rather defensively. He deflates a little bit, folding into one of the café’s chairs. “Alright, I’m dumb. To be fair, people don’t usually pick up on those things.”
He stares into the distance rather moodily. One of the waiters ventures out to inform them that the city guards are on their way, and the woman thanks him graciously. She is pointedly silent about how the attackers came to be sprawled unconscious on the sidewalk. The waiter soon excuses himself, retreating back into the building.
The man stands up, some light having returned to his eyes. He steps closer to the woman, a determined smile on his face.
“I guess we’d better re-introduce ourselves, then.”
“We never introduced ourselves,” the woman reminds him. The man is undeterred.
“I’m Kliment. Yes, I’m from Lucia. The Professor is my grandfather.”
The woman gasps very, very quietly. An expression of genuine surprise and delight crosses her face, and the man gets the impression that he is currently privy to a sight not many, if any, have ever seen.
“The Professor? Varus the Creator is your grandfather?” she asks, also stepping forward. “Truly?”
“I can prove it,” replies the man, Kliment, holding up his left hand. It is bright and golden in the evening light. He wriggles his fingers and the action is smooth, as if it is an organic hand covered in gold leaf. He knocks his knuckles against one of the tables and the sound is metallic.
“You said it was a prosthesis. It’s not.” The woman stares at the hand in wonder. “That is your actual hand. Alchemy, the basis of all of Varus the Creator’s work. I have never seen anything like it.”
“I’m asking for your help,” Kliment says, a touch of sincerity in his voice. “I’m confiding in you because you seem capable, much more capable than I could ever be. And I can—I think I can get you what you want. Actually, that’s part of the problem—”
The sound of sirens cuts off the woman before she can reply. The city guard has arrived, rolling up next to Matthieu’s and the pile of unconscious attackers. Kliment speaks quickly even as the guards approach the two.
“There’s a lot of things I’m right in the middle of and it’s really messy. I’m not good with that.”
The woman smiles. “Oh, I am. Tell me. I am listening.”
“My grandfather—well, someone asked me to show up here on his behalf. I’m still trying to figure it out. I think the king of Lucia might be trying to manipulate me.”
“King Victorino?”
“Yes. Oh, and I think I’ve pissed off some people in Tonya. Potentially the government. I think they’re the ones trying to kill me.”
“So it is a challenge,” says the woman, somehow cheerful at the news. “Very well. I shall help you, and in return I get to talk to Varus the Creator.”
The man’s grin is bright, broad. He sticks his left hand into his pocket, hiding the shimmer of gold just as the city guards walk within earshot of their conversation.
“It’s a deal.”
ns 15.158.61.48da2
