《Dust and Silver》


 I. The Bookkeeping Night

    The lock was stuck, again. Myrt crouched by the lattice wall, her lockpicks trembling in her hands. The ancient mechanism fought her at every turn, its innards stiff with rust and neglect. Her nerves weren''t helping¡ªnor was the nagging feeling that this job was different from their usual fare.


    "Just break it already," Varin growled, hefting his truncheon. His voice echoed through the abandoned library hallway like a temple bell.


    "Quiet!" Myrt hissed, throwing him a sharp glance over her shoulder. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she worked the picks, muttering a silent prayer to whatever god watched over thieves. The lock finally surrendered with a reluctant click.


    "Could you be any slower?" Varin muttered, but Myrt was already slipping through the gate.


    The room beyond was a maze of leaning book stacks that seemed to defy gravity. Decades of dust draped the spines like funeral shrouds. Something about the stillness made her skin crawl¡ªthis wasn''t their usual smash-and-grab. The client''s intensity when describing the book, that barely concealed desperation in his cultured voice, suggested deeper waters.


    "Let''s find it and get out," she whispered, pushing the thoughts aside.


    They combed through the titles with methodical haste, disturbing centuries of accumulated knowledge. Myrt''s fingers brushed faded leather bindings, but her mind focused only on their quarry. When Varin''s voice broke the silence, she nearly jumped.


    "Got it." He held up a black leather tome, its title embossed in worn gold: A Study in Noble Houses Forgotten.


    Before Myrt could reach for it, Varin tossed it toward her. She caught it with both hands, surprised by its weight. The brittle leather felt unnaturally cool against her palms, and a faint, sickly-sweet smell wafted from its pages¡ªlike flowers left too long on a grave. Varin had already turned away, scanning the shelves again with unusual intensity.


    "We''ve got what we came for," she said, tucking the book under her arm. "Let''s¡ª"


    A cascade of falling books shattered the silence. Myrt flinched as the crash echoed through the library''s empty halls.


    "Damn it, Myrt!" Varin hissed.


    "It wasn''t me!" she shot back, but the damage was done.


    The distant clink of metal-toed boots rang out, faint at first but growing louder. Myrt''s breath caught in her throat as the sound multiplied. More than one guard¡ªmuch more.


    Varin grinned, his truncheon resting casually on his shoulder. "Guess we''re doing this the hard way."


    Myrt''s stomach churned. She wasn''t a fighter, and Varin''s reckless confidence made her want to scream. Her fingers found the blackjack at her side, the familiar leather wrapping grounding her as she forced herself to focus.


    A shadow flickered at the corridor''s end. The guard who appeared was in his forties, streaks of gray threading through his hair. His gambeson bore the red-and-yellow colors of the University, and his eyes widened at the sight of them.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    "Hey, what the¡ª"


    Myrt moved before he could finish. She darted forward with practiced grace, her blackjack swinging low. The guard barely had time to shift his weight before the weapon cracked against his knee. He let out a strangled groan, stumbling.


    Varin followed through without hesitation. His truncheon connected with devastating precision, breaking the man''s nose with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed as the guard crumpled, unconscious.


    Their victory was short-lived. Shouts erupted from multiple directions, and the thunder of approaching boots grew louder.


    "Windows!" Varin barked, already moving.


    Myrt turned to see him smashing the latch of a stained-glass window. With a heave, he shoved the frame open, sending shards of colored glass raining to the floor like broken jewels.


    "Are you insane?" The words barely left her mouth before Varin grabbed her arm and leapt through the opening, pulling her with him.


    The ground rushed up to meet them. Myrt landed hard on the manicured lawn, pain shooting through her legs and spine. She gasped, momentarily stunned, as Varin hauled her to her feet.


    "Move!" he ordered, dragging her toward the shelter of the city streets.


    Every step sent daggers through her joints, but adrenaline kept her moving. Behind them, the guards clustered at the shattered window, shouting orders but making no move to follow. Their hesitation spoke volumes¡ªwhatever this book was, they feared it more than they wanted to catch its thieves.


    When they finally ducked into a narrow alley, Myrt yanked her arm free and rounded on Varin.


    "What the hell was that?" she demanded, voice low but trembling with fury.


    "We got out, didn''t we?" He flashed that infuriating grin, but something darker lurked behind it.


    Myrt wanted to scream, to hit him, but the sound of distant bells cut through her rage. The alarm was spreading through the city like wildfire.


    They wound their way through the labyrinth of streets, taking the long route to throw off any pursuit. The city''s shadows wrapped around them like a cloak, but offered little comfort. Every step reminded Myrt of their violent exit, and every corner held the threat of discovery.


    The Bull and Baron appeared ahead like a lighthouse in a storm, though its welcome was questionable. The tavern''s weathered sign hung askew, its paint so faded that only the vaguest outline of a nobleman astride a bull remained visible. Perfect for their purposes.


    Varin entered first, shouldering through the door. The sour reek of cheap beer and unwashed bodies assaulted Myrt''s senses as she followed. She nodded to the barkeep, a wizened man whose rheumy eyes had seen too much to care about what transpired in his establishment. Her abused muscles screamed as she sank onto a rough-hewn bench, but at least here, she could breathe.


    Three rounds of watered ale and countless anxious glances later, their contact arrived. He wore a merchant''s coat gone threadbare at the elbows, but three days'' worth of stubble couldn''t disguise the aristocratic cut of his jaw. Myrt''s palms grew slick against her mug as he approached.


    "Fine night for a stroll," he said, his affected common accent slipping around the edges. The precise consonants of a university education leaked through like water through a damaged dam.


    "Fair enough," she replied, letting her natural Lower City drawl thicken slightly.


    The exchange happened with practiced casualness. The book vanished beneath his coat while a cloth purse materialized in her lap. Silver clinked softly against her leg, the weight of it substantial but somehow hollow after the night''s violence.


    "A pleasure," she said, the lie bitter on her tongue.


    "Indeed." His smile was pleasant and empty as a porcelain mask. "Let us hope our paths need not cross again."


    He melted away into the tavern''s shadows, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive soap and too many questions. Myrt turned to Varin, who''d been uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange, his usual bravado conspicuously absent.


    "Well," she said, studying his face, "at least we won''t go hungry." She raised her hand to catch the barkeep''s attention. "Another round."


    Varin''s answering grunt might have been agreement. She didn''t press him. Some jobs were better left unexamined, especially when they involved men who played at being common while wearing boots worth three months'' rent.

 II. The Wayward Son

    Olgard sprawled along the shores of its namesake bay, a city blessed by fortune. Its temperate climate and navigable river had made it a natural hub of commerce, with wealth flowing through its gates as steadily as the tides. The city grew fat on tariffs collected from the web of trade routes that converged at its docks, both from seafaring vessels and river barges laden with inland bounty.


    A line of hereditary counts ruled from their hilltop palace, their authority woven from centuries of dynastic marriages, vassal contracts, and carefully cultivated alliances. Though blood had been spilled over inheritance disputes in generations past¡ªfamily turning against family in brief but bitter struggles¡ªthose days were long gone. Now, not even Olgard''s eldest citizens could recall enemy armies beneath its walls or trampling its renowned orchards. This rare peace had allowed generation after generation of artisans, traders, and farmers to build their fortunes, each contributing another layer to the city''s prosperity.


    As Olgard flourished, it burst free of its old town walls. The overflow created the bustling Outer City, a maze of streets and crowded neighborhoods where ambition rubbed shoulders with necessity. Beyond these newer districts stretched endless farmlands and grand estates, fading into the horizon like a painted backdrop.


    On the city''s outskirts stood The Last League, an inn where merchants gathered before entering Olgard proper. Its common room buzzed with traders hunched over tables, calculating tomorrow''s tariffs and debating which city guards might be amenable to discretion. But in a private chamber above, a different sort of calculation was taking place.


    Edmer sat alone, his rough appearance at odds with the fine wine he sipped. With scholarly reverence, he turned another page of the decaying manuscript before him, absorbing its knowledge like a sponge. This was the final piece of his puzzle. Setting aside his empty glass, he began updating a sprawling family tree diagram.


    His pen traced a line from himself¡ªthe last of a wealthy smith guild lineage¡ªthrough his late father Aemin, and back through generations. With each correction and annotation, a story emerged. The life of a guild member could provide comfort, even wealth to pass on to one''s sons, but Edmer found it suffocating. It was a life bounded by invisible walls; no matter how wealthy a merchant became, aristocracy would always look down upon them. Edmer had drops of noble blood where impoverished aristocracy had met upstart merchantry, but not enough to break free of his social stratum.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    So Edmer did what he always did¡ªhe gambled. His late father would have been horrified to know that his son had sold all the inherited smithies, converting his birthright into a hefty sum of gold. He''d spent a year gathering every scrap of information about his heritage, collecting facts where he could and drawing conclusions where he couldn''t. Now, finally, it was time to act.


    Donning worn merchant garments, he joined the crowd hurrying to reach the city before the guards closed the gates for the night. The Trade Gates rose before them, twin whitewashed towers topped with the Ravenod dynasty''s banner¡ªa red ship on a white shield. Edmer kept his head low as he passed beneath them, but the guards were more interested in extracting "fees" from peasants with produce-laden carts.


    Once inside the city proper, he wandered the cobbled streets in seemingly random patterns to shake any watching eyes. His first stop was a shop displaying silk dresses and fur-trimmed doublets that cost more than most burghers earned in a lifetime. When the shop guard moved to throw him out, Edmer''s response was a purse heavy with silver landing on the counter.


    "I have an order," he said quietly. "A discreet one."


    The shopkeeper and guard exchanged wary glances. For a moment, Edmer considered bolting. Then, with a subtle price adjustment, greed won out, and from there, everything proceeded smoothly.


    It was the first door of many that would open to the clink of coin that evening. He swept through the Upper City''s finest shops making bulk purchases, placed bets in the Lower City''s fighting pits, and loosened tongues in the Outer City''s taverns. By nightfall, his inheritance was significantly lighter, but he was transformed. Fresh-shaved and elegantly attired in a hooded doublet, he cut a different figure entirely. A dueling sword hung at his belt¡ªas fashion demanded¡ªand hired bodyguards flanked him. Even more was agreed upon and waited for right moment.


    All that remained now was an opportunity and a presentation.


    Myrt couldn''t make sense of what was happening on the streets lately. The regulars at The Bull and Baron had split into two camps: those in the loop and those out of it. She belonged to the latter, watching as the insiders grew increasingly tight-lipped while somehow having enough coin to drink through endless nights.


    Even Varin, who usually got along better with the "rob-you-on-the-street" crowd, couldn''t get them to talk. Now here he was, joining their revelry, his rich voice carrying a profane song across the tavern. He loved to sing¡ªhad a gift for it. Everyone knew how his mother had warned him against joining the Bard College, claiming it beneath a god-fearing honest worker.


    When he finally returned, Myrt nearly leapt on him.


    ¡°What did you get from them?¡± she demanded, her voice edged with impatience.


    ¡°Still nothing.¡± He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. ¡°Same old ¡®you¡¯ll see¡¯ nonsense. But whatever¡¯s happening, it¡¯s big. Biggest job of our lives, and we¡¯re not in on it.¡±

 III. The Flower of the Bay

    The stench of raw meat and blood from Butchers¡¯ Square clung to Edmer like a shroud as he ascended the creaking wooden stage. His bodyguards¡ªKarel and Ryn, hired for their silence and steel¡ªflanked him, their black gambesons stark against the roughspun tunics of the crowd. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the crisp autumn air, each bead carrying the weight of his gamble. He could still turn back, abandon this mad scheme before it consumed him entirely. But no¡ªthe die had been cast. His inheritance was gone, converted into coin that now lined pockets across Olgard. Today would decide whether he became a legend or a cautionary tale.


    "Brothers! Sisters!" Edmer called out, his voice cracking on the first syllable but gaining strength as faces turned toward him. A butcher paused mid-stroke, cleaver buried in pork; fishwives ceased their haggling, baskets dangling forgotten at their sides. "I bring you truth¡ªa truth long buried beneath lies and gold!"


    He scanned the sea of faces, searching for signs of doubt or hostility. Instead, he found curiosity, anger, even hope. These were people who had lived under Ravenod rule for generations, their lives shaped by its prosperity but also bound by its chains. They hungered for something more than bread and ale¡ªthey craved justice.


    "Many of you have heard whispers," Edmer continued, his voice rising like a tide. "Whispers of betrayal, of murder cloaked in shadow. Let me tell you the story of Count Alden and his daughter¡ªthe Flower of the Bay."


    An old woman near the front nodded vigorously, her gnarled hands clutching a basket of onions. "My grandmother spoke of her! Said she fed hungry children from her own table!"


    "Yes!" Edmer seized upon her words, weaving them into his tapestry of truth and fabrication. "She was beloved by all, highborn and low alike. But Count Alden¡¯s nephew, Davard Ravenod, coveted what was not his. On a storm-black night, he led armed men onto the ship where father and daughter slept at anchor in our bay. The loyal crew fell to their swords." He paused, letting the horror sink in. "Count Alden died defending his child. And the Flower? She was cast into exile, left to die in poverty and squalor."


    A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing louder with each passing moment. Some shouted curses at the Ravenods; others whispered prayers for the lost countess. Four guards pushed through the throng, their polished badges glinting like predator''s eyes. Edmer saw them but pressed on, raising the black book above his head like a sacred relic.


    "And I have proof!" he cried. "Proof of their treachery, their greed, their blood-soaked legacy!"


    "That¡¯s enough!" The guard captain¡¯s voice cut through the square like a blade. The crowd parted reluctantly as the officers advanced, their hands resting on sword hilts.


    Edmer felt Karel tense beside him, ready to draw steel if necessary. But open battle wasn¡¯t part of the plan¡ªnot yet. Still, the guards¡¯ approach sent a tremor through him, a reminder of how precarious his position truly was.


    Myrt loved market square commotions. They were easy money after all ¨C a perfect opportunity to cut a few purses and to disappear into the crowd. So, she went to work, Varin on her side, acting as cover and a muscle, if need would arise.


    She moved through the unusual people¡¯s gathering like a snake through the grass. Varin, a keen eye, slightly nudged her, pointing to a small game merchant with a hefty purse on his side. Her partner moved so his wide back would leave their target hidden from other people. Myrt in one move slashed the laces by which the purse was strapped, softly catching the prize in other hand and making no sound. The weight of coins settled into her palm, a small victory for today. Yet even as she moved deeper into the crowd, her attention drifted back to the man on the stage. There was something familiar about him, though she couldn¡¯t place it immediately. It wasn¡¯t until he raised the black book that realization struck her like a blow.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    That damn book.


    She¡¯d hoped it would vanish into obscurity, gathering dust in some collector¡¯s library until another thief came along to steal it. Instead, here it was again, thrust into the heart of a rebellion she wanted no part of. Myrt had survived this long by staying clear of politics, by avoiding fights that didn¡¯t concern her. But fate had other plans.


    As the guards closed in, Myrt¡¯s mind raced. If the speaker talked¡ªand he looked like the kind who wouldn¡¯t stay silent under interrogation¡ªit wouldn¡¯t take long for questions to lead back to her. Cold stone cells awaited those who crossed the Ravenods, and she had no desire to see one from the inside.


    ¡°Let him speak, you bastards!¡± someone shouted. A rock arced through the air, striking the guard captain squarely in the temple. Blood streamed down his face as his helmet clattered to the cobblestones. The attacker bolted, weaving through the crowd with desperate speed. To Myrt¡¯s astonishment, she recognized him as one of Varin¡¯s drinking companions from the night before¡ªone of the ¡°insiders.¡±


    ¡°Hey¡ª¡± she started, reaching out instinctively, but he slipped past her like smoke.


    Pandemonium erupted as the guards charged after him, truncheons swinging. Merchants scrambled for cover, shouting curses and prayers alike. Amid the chaos, Myrt spotted Varin several paces away, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met briefly, and in that moment, they shared an unspoken agreement: this job had just become infinitely more complicated.


    Varin hated crowds. Too many bodies, too little space to maneuver. When the rock struck the guard captain, Varin knew trouble was coming. He glanced at Myrt and closed the distance between them in seconds.


    The first guard lunged toward him, truncheon raised high, but Varin met the blow with a deft parry, steel ringing against wood. His opponent stumbled backward, caught off guard by the resistance, leaving an opening for Myrt to capitalize on. She struck with her blackjack, catching the guard under the jaw with a brutal efficiency that sent him sprawling. His head snapped to one side, and he collapsed onto the cobblestones like a puppet whose strings had been cut.


    The remaining guards were already unsheathing their swords, their faces twisted with rage or fear¡ªor perhaps both. Varin didn¡¯t wait to find out. "Myrt," he hissed, grabbing her arm. "Time to go."


    They dove into the chaos, using the surging mass of panicked citizens as cover. Bodies surged past them, some fleeing, others converging toward the commotion. Varin expertly navigated the melee, pulling Myrt along behind him as they slipped through gaps in the crowd. When they finally broke free, they sprinted down a narrow alleyway, their boots slapping against damp cobblestones.


    The alleyways swallowed them whole, shadows wrapping around them like a second skin. Myrt¡¯s breath came in ragged gasps, her legs burning from the sudden sprint. Varin was already several steps ahead, his silhouette blending seamlessly with the darkness.


    ¡°What now?¡± Myrt asked, her voice barely above a whisper.


    Varin stopped, turning to face her. In the dim light, his features were sharp, almost predatory. ¡°We lay low. Figure out what¡¯s going on. That stuff¡ªit¡¯s trouble, Myrt. Bigger trouble than we signed up for.¡±


    Edmer vanished the moment the fighting erupted. Karel and Ryn did what they were paid to do¡ªhold off the guards with steel in hand while he slipped away. Now, alone and moving like a shadow through the labyrinthine backstreets, Edmer felt every step as if it might be his last. The plan relied on the city guard reacting predictably: descending heavily upon the commotion at the market square, leaving few men to chase after stray escapees. For now, it had worked.


    He stopped before an unremarkable wooden door tucked into a narrow alley. Two knocks, firm but quiet. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a man with a blade already drawn. He scanned Edmer briefly, then dipped his head slightly.


    "Welcome, Lord Edmer."


    The safehouse was cramped, its air thick with the scent of oil and sweat. Inside, a dozen armed men¡ªformer street thugs turned soldiers¡ªsat around a battered table littered with weapons. Swords, daggers, clubs¡ªall gleamed dully under the flickering light of lanterns. Most of them were cleaning or inspecting their gear, their movements efficient and practiced. On the wall hung a large black banner bearing a single silver flower at its center, stark and unmistakable.


    Edmer took in the scene, his gaze lingering on the banner. It wasn¡¯t just a symbol; it was a promise¡ªa declaration of greater ambition. But where will this ambition lead?


    "Is everything ready?" he asked sharply, cutting through the murmured conversation.


    One of the men stood, a wiry figure with sharp eyes and a scar running down his jaw. "We''re ready," he replied. "The arms are accounted for, and everyone knows their role. Word hasn''t spread yet¡ªwe''ve kept our heads down."


    Edmer nodded, though unease gnawed at him. Trusting these men was a gamble, but there was no turning back now. The weight of command settled over him, heavy but familiar. If this was to be his final stand, let it be on terms he chose.


    For now, the game continued.