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dolevalanAnd they probably don't read this journal. But hey, that's all right. I'll post it anyway.
There it sat. Bleating at her. A tangible, living thing that proclaimed that she was a monster. A prisoner of the room, of the invisible moon, of her own damn stupidity. Anya stared at the sheep, which was a little blurry around the edges, but obediently remained one sheep and not two. Damn. She was not nearly drunk enough.
She breathed in and out deeply, trying to remain as calm as possible. Knowing it was coming was better, she tried to persuade herself. No one was in danger this way. Except the sheep, but the bastard deserved to die because IT KEPT STARING AT HER.
Anya realized her hands were clenched into fists so tightly that she was cutting her palms with her nails. She examined them. No, still plain fingernails. Anya forcefully flattened her hands, and resisted the urge to pace. At least the wine had made her slightly sluggish, if not calm. She caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing mirror and managed a half smile. She looked very out of place among the lavish furnishing. Out of place and very small. Each scar on her arms, on her face, seemed to pop out at her. She hoped she would smash the mirror when she was strong enough to do so.
There is one upside to the situation, Anya realized. I can destroy one of Angelique’s rooms. If she cared, it would be perfect. The damn sheep was still looking at her. Maybe she should kill it before changing. No. She shouldn’t risk getting the sword down – she might injure herself if she started to change. Overconfidence was what had landed her in all of this, after all.
She closed her eyes. A scene appeared before her, in its clarity and freshness much like the horrifying vision in from Rostenstein’s lab. But this was familiar, comforting. It was not the part of herself that saw things that weren’t there. It was the part that painted memory as vivid as life. The part that kept her company on nights when she needed calming.
Anya bent over the anvil, curly hair coming out of its braid as always. The heat from the forge made beads of sweat appear over her face and neck, but she licked her lips and focused. The blade was almost ready for cooling. She raised the hammer, and with a few expert strokes, corrected the few flaws that were left. The blade glowed orange-yellow, tinged with red. Putting down the hammer, she lifted the sword, roughly testing the balance, though she already knew it would be right. As she looked down the blade, she noticed someone standing, watching. Satisfied, she grunted “A minute,” and walked over to the ready barrel, where she gently inserted the glowing metal. She would not touch it again until it fully annealed.
Finally allowing herself to mentally leave the sword, she turned to face her observer. “Evans,” he said, observationally.
“Willoughby,” she returned. “How long have you been there?” She would have blessed her gods, had she believed in any, that she had her own forge. This would have been the moment Richard would have walked in a year ago.
He gave a small, unreadable smile. “It is always interesting to see you make a blade, Evans. One expects, well…”
“Richard Johnson?” she supplied. He nodded. “Quite.” She started putting her tools away. She had a feeling she would not be starting another weapon this afternoon. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here? Or did you just come for the ample pleasure of my company?”
Ambrose chuckled. “Not reason enough, eh? All right, Evans, I came to see if you’d be interested in helping me out a bit.”
Anya removed her gloves and apron. “That depends, sir, on what you need helping with.” He watched her put her jacket on, seeming to consider how to phrase the question. It was that annoying Zherisian look – the one that warned you they were choosing their words in order to get their own way.
“There is a case that requires, how shall I put this…more delicacy than most regular members of the watch can supply. I’ve found out quite a bit, but I need someone who would not look so out of place in the, shall we say, less appealing parts of the city.”
“Or someone who looks equally out of place everywhere, right?” Anya sighed to herself. Going unnoticed was both harder and easier in Paridon, but why Ambrose needed her help evaded her. It seemed he could talk anyone into anything; what she would hear that he didn’t, she wasn’t sure. “Well, I won’t promise anything, but shall we go somewhere to discuss the details?”
Anya thought, with a bit of a sting, that there had been a time when Ambrose would tell her fully what was going on. Or, when he hadn’t, she had been oblivious. Oh, to be 18 – had she ever really been that cocky, that fearless? That stupid?
The pub was clean, full enough for comfort even at five in the evening. They sat down with the drinks Ambrose had fetched for them. “The affair involves a certain prominent socialite. She has been rather indiscreet, I’m afraid,” he appeared to be suppressing a smile, “and naturally, the watch must set it right.”
Anya took a swig, and said nothing. He would tell her all she needed to know eventually, although it seemed like all of Paridon was conspiring to test her patience. Perhaps everyone else here was psychic, and that was why they never said what they were thinking.
“The unfortunate woman has had a bit of a fling with a lower-class ruffian of some sort, and he has in his position, in addition to some compromising bits of correspondence, several valuable pieces of the lady’s jewelry. So,” Ambrose shook his head, “we are, of course, expected to get the jewels back intact, destroy the correspondence, and not charge the man in any way.”
Anya half-smiled. “I bet Wortle is thrilled about that.”
“Oh, ecstatic. That’s why he gave the case to me.” He gave her that piercing look of his, as if continually deciding how much to trust her. “Which is where you come in.”
One eyebrow raised, she finished her drink. “And what did you have in mind, Willoughby?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but got up and fetched her another drink. As he sat down again, she caught his eye. What was it about this man? She had never worked this well with anyone, ever. They had known each other less than a year.
Finally, he said “Having another pair of ears and eyes has been useful, in the past. And some extra weapons, in certain cases.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “I’ve gotten used to you. It would be helpful if you would come.”
What else could she say, but yes?
She could have said no. At that point, surely. But even then, she respected Ambrose. It was the time of her life where she could regard everything as an adventure. All 18-year-olds are immortal.
The next evening, they headed into the slums. Anya knew which bar they were going to – she had been there often enough. She knew the bartender by face, if not by name. Ambrose looked scruffier than usual, although it would take some effort to hide his breeding. Though she seldom knew the right thing to say, her often guttural, slightly accented Zherisian would serve to get them drinks and to threaten anyone who got too nosy.
The lights were low, the noise subdued. Several men were about the business of getting seriously drunk, while a high-stakes but low-profile card game was underway in the far corner. She got them a couple of drinks, and turned around to find Ambrose already deep in conversation with a man she didn’t know.
As she approached the table where Ambrose had invited himself, she could see the man was very young. Probably only a year or two older than she was. He was pretty, if you liked that sort of look: blond, blue-eyed, reasonably clean. The man was prettier than Anya, to be quite honest. When he looked up at her, there was a hardness in his eyes that was a little frightening, and didn’t fit his face. Anya didn’t trust him. But then, that was nothing odd. She put down the drinks and slipped into the vacant seat. The man turned his attention back to Ambrose.
Nausea yanked Anya back into the present. She fought to remain conscious, but as the pain became progressively worse, it was a losing battle. The transformation continued, and Anya slipped away into blackness once again. The sheep was huddled in corner.
There it sat. Bleating at her. A tangible, living thing that proclaimed that she was a monster. A prisoner of the room, of the invisible moon, of her own damn stupidity. Anya stared at the sheep, which was a little blurry around the edges, but obediently remained one sheep and not two. Damn. She was not nearly drunk enough.
She breathed in and out deeply, trying to remain as calm as possible. Knowing it was coming was better, she tried to persuade herself. No one was in danger this way. Except the sheep, but the bastard deserved to die because IT KEPT STARING AT HER.
Anya realized her hands were clenched into fists so tightly that she was cutting her palms with her nails. She examined them. No, still plain fingernails. Anya forcefully flattened her hands, and resisted the urge to pace. At least the wine had made her slightly sluggish, if not calm. She caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing mirror and managed a half smile. She looked very out of place among the lavish furnishing. Out of place and very small. Each scar on her arms, on her face, seemed to pop out at her. She hoped she would smash the mirror when she was strong enough to do so.
There is one upside to the situation, Anya realized. I can destroy one of Angelique’s rooms. If she cared, it would be perfect. The damn sheep was still looking at her. Maybe she should kill it before changing. No. She shouldn’t risk getting the sword down – she might injure herself if she started to change. Overconfidence was what had landed her in all of this, after all.
She closed her eyes. A scene appeared before her, in its clarity and freshness much like the horrifying vision in from Rostenstein’s lab. But this was familiar, comforting. It was not the part of herself that saw things that weren’t there. It was the part that painted memory as vivid as life. The part that kept her company on nights when she needed calming.
Anya bent over the anvil, curly hair coming out of its braid as always. The heat from the forge made beads of sweat appear over her face and neck, but she licked her lips and focused. The blade was almost ready for cooling. She raised the hammer, and with a few expert strokes, corrected the few flaws that were left. The blade glowed orange-yellow, tinged with red. Putting down the hammer, she lifted the sword, roughly testing the balance, though she already knew it would be right. As she looked down the blade, she noticed someone standing, watching. Satisfied, she grunted “A minute,” and walked over to the ready barrel, where she gently inserted the glowing metal. She would not touch it again until it fully annealed.
Finally allowing herself to mentally leave the sword, she turned to face her observer. “Evans,” he said, observationally.
“Willoughby,” she returned. “How long have you been there?” She would have blessed her gods, had she believed in any, that she had her own forge. This would have been the moment Richard would have walked in a year ago.
He gave a small, unreadable smile. “It is always interesting to see you make a blade, Evans. One expects, well…”
“Richard Johnson?” she supplied. He nodded. “Quite.” She started putting her tools away. She had a feeling she would not be starting another weapon this afternoon. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here? Or did you just come for the ample pleasure of my company?”
Ambrose chuckled. “Not reason enough, eh? All right, Evans, I came to see if you’d be interested in helping me out a bit.”
Anya removed her gloves and apron. “That depends, sir, on what you need helping with.” He watched her put her jacket on, seeming to consider how to phrase the question. It was that annoying Zherisian look – the one that warned you they were choosing their words in order to get their own way.
“There is a case that requires, how shall I put this…more delicacy than most regular members of the watch can supply. I’ve found out quite a bit, but I need someone who would not look so out of place in the, shall we say, less appealing parts of the city.”
“Or someone who looks equally out of place everywhere, right?” Anya sighed to herself. Going unnoticed was both harder and easier in Paridon, but why Ambrose needed her help evaded her. It seemed he could talk anyone into anything; what she would hear that he didn’t, she wasn’t sure. “Well, I won’t promise anything, but shall we go somewhere to discuss the details?”
Anya thought, with a bit of a sting, that there had been a time when Ambrose would tell her fully what was going on. Or, when he hadn’t, she had been oblivious. Oh, to be 18 – had she ever really been that cocky, that fearless? That stupid?
The pub was clean, full enough for comfort even at five in the evening. They sat down with the drinks Ambrose had fetched for them. “The affair involves a certain prominent socialite. She has been rather indiscreet, I’m afraid,” he appeared to be suppressing a smile, “and naturally, the watch must set it right.”
Anya took a swig, and said nothing. He would tell her all she needed to know eventually, although it seemed like all of Paridon was conspiring to test her patience. Perhaps everyone else here was psychic, and that was why they never said what they were thinking.
“The unfortunate woman has had a bit of a fling with a lower-class ruffian of some sort, and he has in his position, in addition to some compromising bits of correspondence, several valuable pieces of the lady’s jewelry. So,” Ambrose shook his head, “we are, of course, expected to get the jewels back intact, destroy the correspondence, and not charge the man in any way.”
Anya half-smiled. “I bet Wortle is thrilled about that.”
“Oh, ecstatic. That’s why he gave the case to me.” He gave her that piercing look of his, as if continually deciding how much to trust her. “Which is where you come in.”
One eyebrow raised, she finished her drink. “And what did you have in mind, Willoughby?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but got up and fetched her another drink. As he sat down again, she caught his eye. What was it about this man? She had never worked this well with anyone, ever. They had known each other less than a year.
Finally, he said “Having another pair of ears and eyes has been useful, in the past. And some extra weapons, in certain cases.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “I’ve gotten used to you. It would be helpful if you would come.”
What else could she say, but yes?
She could have said no. At that point, surely. But even then, she respected Ambrose. It was the time of her life where she could regard everything as an adventure. All 18-year-olds are immortal.
The next evening, they headed into the slums. Anya knew which bar they were going to – she had been there often enough. She knew the bartender by face, if not by name. Ambrose looked scruffier than usual, although it would take some effort to hide his breeding. Though she seldom knew the right thing to say, her often guttural, slightly accented Zherisian would serve to get them drinks and to threaten anyone who got too nosy.
The lights were low, the noise subdued. Several men were about the business of getting seriously drunk, while a high-stakes but low-profile card game was underway in the far corner. She got them a couple of drinks, and turned around to find Ambrose already deep in conversation with a man she didn’t know.
As she approached the table where Ambrose had invited himself, she could see the man was very young. Probably only a year or two older than she was. He was pretty, if you liked that sort of look: blond, blue-eyed, reasonably clean. The man was prettier than Anya, to be quite honest. When he looked up at her, there was a hardness in his eyes that was a little frightening, and didn’t fit his face. Anya didn’t trust him. But then, that was nothing odd. She put down the drinks and slipped into the vacant seat. The man turned his attention back to Ambrose.
Nausea yanked Anya back into the present. She fought to remain conscious, but as the pain became progressively worse, it was a losing battle. The transformation continued, and Anya slipped away into blackness once again. The sheep was huddled in corner.
