Chapter 451: Rolling Low

Sweat dribbled down Two Knives Tessa’s face.It was a sight rarely seen. 

As an experienced spell thief, she was a mistress of subtlety, favouring always silence over the flamboyant. While many of her associates would be better labelled as barbarians than thieves, she was a true artisan of her craft, and that meant few situations warranted her sweat. 

Especially with a knife in hand.

She handled blades so well that if the Cirque du Sable knew who she was, they’d lock her in a cage with a manticore and never let her leave until she signed a contract. 

With just the lightest touch, she could shave the whiskers of a cat, peel the skin from a grape or trace her name onto a coin purse even as she emptied it. 

… She could also graze the skin of a girl just fine enough to allow the paralysing poison to seep past, ensuring that neither blood nor a gargle would escape before she was motionless as a statue. 

Just not this one.

“Grrrn … Hnnn … Uhgnnn …”

Instead, this one was a problem.

There was no subtlety here. No finesse.

Only heavy breathing, a swiftly growing sense of panic … and a knife desperately going side to side against the girl’s neck.

Still cupping the girl’s mouth, Two Knives Tessa grimaced, her usually steady knife shaking with effort as she sawed like a lumberjack with a feisty tree. And absolutely nothing was falling down.

Something was very, very wrong.

There was a weight to the girl’s skin. Like cowhide boiled in wax. 

There was no sense of indentation. No give. Even as Two Knives Tessa furiously chiselled, hacked and raked her blade against the girl’s neck, the familiar surrender of flesh against sharpened steel evaded her.

After several moments, she lifted the knife away.

She saw only the untouched skin beneath it, pale and pristine, without even the slightest graze. Except there was no sense of magic at work. 

After all, she’s already checked.

Repeatedly.

“Haaah … haaah … haah …”

Two Knives Tessa swallowed a gulp of air.

Overwhelming concern ran through her … and yet her instincts didn’t allow any thoughts of flight. 

It wasn’t over an unwillingness to doom her fellow rogues. 

She simply knew that turning her back was the worst of two very poor options. There was a very concise list of creatures with the ability to mimic human appearance with skin also highly resistant to damage, and all of them could outrun her. And outfly her.

Fwip.

Two Knives Tessa tensed as the girl turned a page in her book.

Utterly unbothered by the knife pitifully massaging her neck, she was engrossed by the boldness of Donnis the Gallant as he confessed his love for Princess Katarin before the eyes of a gasping court.

In fact, she was so engrossed that for a brief moment, Two Knives Tessa dared to consider escape. 

“Mnnfh mrfh mhrm mhf?” 

She bit her lips instead as the girl’s muffled words broke the silence.

Two Knives Tessa slowly released her palm.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again … ?” she asked, her tone exceedingly polite. 

“This scene here. What do you make of it?”

The spell thief blinked.

She slowly glanced down at the page again.

“I … well, I don’t really have any context for it.”

“Good. You’ve an unbiased mind. You only need to read the lines. What do you make of such a highly public confession?”

Two Knives Tessa wondered if this was the sort of thing evil beings asked before eating their victims. 

“It’s a nuisance,” she answered honestly. “It’s tiring for everyone who has to watch and it puts undue stress on whoever is being confessed to. There’s no reason why these things can’t be done in private.” 

“Do you not think such theatre is appropriate regarding royalty?”

“No. I think it’s awful. And a knight should know better. He has a duty to protect a princess’s reputation as much as the rest of her. This sort of thing is wildly inappropriate.”

“Hm. Then we’re in agreement. But do you not think it’s entertaining?”

“... I suppose depending on my mood, it might be mildly interesting.”

The girl nodded, all the while scribbling on her scroll of parchment.

Seeing an opportunity for escape, Two Knives Tessa began to slowly walk away.

“Please bring a chair,” said the girl. “There’s no reason for you to be uncomfortable. I desire a second opinion and notice you’re not busy. Shall we review some literature? We can begin with A Court Lady’s Indiscretion and then The Ashen Maiden’s Journey. The authors of both have recently released new continuations. I suggest you find a pillow for the chair. We’ll be here for quite a while.”

The girl finally looked up.

She offered a smile complete with the hint of a fang.

Two Knives Tessa could only stare, wondering if the dungeons were perhaps a kinder fate.

“W-Where do I find a pillow … ?”

***

A high-pitched scream pierced the corridors of the Royal Villa.

Desperate and wailing, it was a call to arms more effective than any horn or trumpet. 

Like bees rushing to a blossoming flower in summertime, every knight leapt from their beds, their posts and even the privy, rushing to save whichever maiden was in distress.

“No, no, no, nonononononono … !!”

What they found instead was a full-grown man, unshaven, slightly balding and with a nose that always pointed in the direction of the last fist to strike it.

Paying little heed to the shocked faces of the servants, Brambles careened like a drunkard escaping the wrath of a barkeeper, crashing into side tables, cabinets and suits of armour. The sound of priceless vases breaking into a thousand pieces was joined by a crescendo of clattering steel.

But as the first knight raised his arms and stepped before the screaming rogue, it wasn’t to apprehend him.

After all–

“Good sir! Please wait! … What has happened?! Are you harmed?!”

They all thought him a victim.

Which he was.

Brambles stumbled as his bag of thieving tools snagged at the corner of a pedestal. He twisted acrobatically on his heels, then practically flew through the air before landing at the boots of a stunned knight. 

He shot a horrified look behind his shoulder at once, but it wasn’t to watch the wobbling bust. He swallowed hard, then crawled on his hands and knees.

“Y-You gotta help me!” said Brambles, grabbing onto the leg of the knight. “The … The others! I don’t know where they are … what it’s doing! You have to help!”

“Sir?” The knight tried stepping away. He failed. “What are you speaking of? What has happened?”

“A thing! A … A demon!”

“A demon?”

“A demon! A horrific demon! It’s … oh gods, it’s there! Do you feel it? Do you hear it? It’s right there, coming from behind the corner! You need more guys! Where’s the rest of you?!”

The knight looked at Brambles with wide eyes. 

He was utterly bewildered. But how could he understand? How could anyone who hadn’t seen what he did?

It was terror incarnate.

First there was the beautiful maid. Then there was a circle of doom. And then … the thing.

A demon of the hells. A herald of death. A knight wreathed in fire. 

Even now, he could barely see the moonlit corridor. The darkness had been swept away. In its place was the flaming visage of a nightmare come to life. And although it spoke no words, Brambles knew from the flickering enmity in its eyes that a swift demise was the kindest fate he could ask for.

“Sir? Are you saying there’s a monster in the Royal Villa … Are you certain?”

“It’s more than a monster! It’s some burning knight of the hells! It was … It was in the kitchen! Now it’s following me! I can tell! Please! You have to help!”

The knight, despite his confusion, looked ahead with concern.

He exchanged glances with a servant by the corner. A brave peek and a shake of the head later, the knight leaned down and sniffed, his expression wrinkling with one of obvious distaste.

“I see. Rest assured, we will scour the kitchens for any signs of this demon … in the meantime, I believe it’s best that you return to your guestroom. I would offer a reminder, however, that the use of saltleaf is strictly prohibited in the Royal Villa. You also appear to have had much to drink.”

Brambles shook his head. 

It was right there, watching him now. He could feel the gaze prickling the back of his neck.

The knight’s eyes suddenly narrowed upon a faint glimmer on the floor. A small set of lockpicks had been thrown from his bag of tools during the fall. 

“... Forgive me, but may I inquire as to which guestroom you’ve been assigned, so that I may escort–”

Brambles shot to his feet. 

The knight instantly drew his sword, and yet far from needing to repel a dagger, he instead watched with alarm as Brambles held out both wrists.

“I’m … I’m not a guest! I’m a robber! I’m a dangerous and armed thief! I’ve even a bounty in every town! … Take me to a dungeon! A dungeon as far away from here as possible! Surround me with your best guards! You have to watch me every moment, otherwise I swear I’ll escape!”

The knight leaned back, clearly wary of a ruse.

He only relaxed when he was joined by his fellow knights, all of whom wore the same look of alarm.

“I see … then if someone so famed desires the kingdom’s hospitality, I believe something can be arranged. Her Royal Highness, Princess Florella, happens to have an island for those of a certain ilk. There is little hope of escape from there.”

An island. 

That meant it was surrounded by water. Beautiful, quenching water.

But it wasn’t enough. Not against a demon.

“... Does this island have a chapel? Are there any sisters there?”

The knight hummed in thought.

“As a matter of fact, I believe there is.”

Brambles broke into a relieved smile. That’s all he needed to know.

Now he just hoped the others could be saved as well.

***

Deep within the heart of the Royal Villa, a decorative guard chamber stood before a highly impressive vault door.

However, while Dorian had expected to see knights yawning away the night shift while playing Dragon’s Tail, what he found instead was this.

A troll scratching his back.

His blackened armour somehow absorbed the light from the nearby torches. Enough that despite his size, he’d practically ambushed his group from the shadows.

Dorian was too stunned to speak.

There was no hint of a troll in any of the information that Lord Roston had provided. If there was, he never would have bothered. He was willing to try his luck against a dozen guards or a handful of knights, but a troll was a troll. 

They were mercenaries for hire, despite how they portrayed themselves. Except that unlike normal mercenaries for hire, they rarely idled away in the quiet hours of the night.

If he could, he’d curse Lord Roston into an early grave. 

It was obvious from the first word he spoke that his influence was less than what he cared to admit. That was always a risk. But this? 

That was a lapse of knowledge that was going to see him in a dungeon. As flattened pulp. 

“Ah, my apologies,” said Dorian, fixing his posture just as Silver Thumb Raul and Ragged Quinn rescinded. “I was taken aback by your fine club. Could you please repeat that?”

“Certainly, monsieur. I offered a cursory greeting and inquired over your invitations.”

Dorian’s mind worked overtime. 

Every lie he’d told, every betrayal he’d orchestrated and every drop of experience he gained at the expense of someone else did the rounds as he worked on an escape plan.

The current leading candidate … was to run very fast.

“An … invitation?” he asked, feigning surprise. “To where, may I ask?”

“The Royal Vault.” The troll scratched his back again. “This is where the royal family’s private collection of valuables is stored, as prominently marked by the 17 different signs located at eye level, written in bold lettering and entirely in capitals. An invitation is needed to peruse the exhibit.”

Dorian turned to the side at once.

“Good gods, Edgar! You told me that this was the way to the public veranda! I wanted to admire the lake, not the king’s taste in paintings! We all know how I feel about them!”

“M-My apologies, my lord,” said Ragged Quinn, his back only stooping further. “I was certain this was the way. I believed someone had placed the signs to play a tasteless jest on you.”

“Well, it’s clear you’re not as sprightly as you appear. Your memories are growing worse by the day!”

“It’s … been several years since we last visited the Royal Villa. It’s possible that rooms have also moved around.”

“Do you hear this?” said Dorian to the troll. “My retainer now claims that rooms have moved around! How likely is it that this fine vault has magically relocated in the past few years?”

“Quite unlikely, monsieur. The Royal Vault is an integral part of the greater villa. I believe it’s one of the oldest structures.”

“Well, I’d imagine so. The Contzens are nothing if not prudent. I should take some of their advice. If I’d built my home around the vault, perhaps I’d get less undesirables attempting to sneak a look through the window. You’d probably hate it.”

“I’m afraid I’m unable to comment. Advice regarding household security is reserved exclusively for my employer.”

“Of course, of course. Well, it seems the king has done quite well to hire you. It’s proof this vault is worthy of being guarded. I shall not distract you from it. Where is the veranda?”

“The public veranda can be found by following the main hallway. It will naturally reveal itself to your right. If you are ever uncertain, then you may ask any guard or member of staff.”

“Why, thank you very much.” 

Dorian turned to the wide door behind him.

He did his best to hide his sigh as the troll coughed.

“My apologies, monsieurs, but I must ask that you briefly remain in the chamber.”

“Excuse me?” Dorian returned his attention to the troll, smiling politely, but his eyes hardening in the way only noblemen could do. “For what reason?”

“It is necessary to confirm the identities of every visitor to the Royal Vault. This applies regardless of whether or not you have come here accidentally. I must therefore ask that you remain while I summon the head steward.”

Dorian’s mouth widened with indignation.

“That is preposterous! I am Lord Godfrey Telmere! Do you mean to say you do not know who I am?”

“Regrettably, I do not. I am unfamiliar with the names and faces of the kingdom’s nobility. I therefore leave such matters to those who do.”

“That is inexcusable for a royal guard! I am not just any nobility! I am a direct sponsor of the very vault that you guard! If word spreads of such a slight, you shall shame your own employer!”

The troll scratched his back.

Then, after showing no other reaction, he pointed at a sign behind him.

Royal Vault.

Please ensure you have your invitation ready. 

“I apologise for the inconvenience,” he said, his tone steadfastly polite.

Dorian wrinkled his nose.

Then, with a flick of his hand, he turned around once more.

“Very well. I shall summon the head steward. He will explain to you in no uncertain terms who I am and the consequences of not recognising this.”

Poomph.

All of a sudden, the doors to the exit slammed shut.

“The head steward has been requested,” said the troll, his foot pressing down on a patch of the stone floor. “This tile is connected to a bell in his private chambers.”

Dorian nodded.

A moment later, he clicked his fingers.

“Ah, would you look at this? … I believe I do have an invitation, after all.”

“Oh? May I please see it?”

“Certainly. I believe I have it on hand.”

He reached into his satchel, before drawing a small, glass orb.

The troll reacted with astonishing speed.

Despite his size, he closed the distance between them in less than a breath. But it wasn’t just his legs that were impressive. 

As Dorian threw the orb, the club swung up to meet it, shattering the glass into innumerable fragments–just as he hoped it would.

The enchanted frost covered the troll at once, spreading across his chest, arms and helmet. His movement halted with eerie suddenness as icicles formed around him where the magic had bounced.

That was worth as much as anything in the vault.

A vial of pure winter taken straight from the inner stash of the Thieves Guild. Nothing else would work. And given that the troll immediately shuddered like a wobbling statue, it wouldn’t for long, either.

“No time to waste!” said Dorian, gesturing at his two companions to move. “Acid flasks. All of them.”

“On the door?”

“On the troll.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

For a moment, Dorian almost said he was. 

Wisdom and prudence told him to make a hasty retreat and not look back.

Instead, he paid heed to the call of opportunity. 

It was to the Kingfisher what gold was to a dragon. He planned every move, but when push came to shove, he’d gamble high. And unlike the Dancing Rat, he always won. 

That’s why he was alive and his rival wasn’t.

“We can still do this,” said Dorian, reaching into his satchel for what he’d reserved for melting through the vault door. “Now’s our chance. Use everything on him. We can pick the lock later.”

Dorian the Kingfisher readied a throw.

In the end, the troll was only as good as his armour. And as thick as it was, it wasn’t nearly as sturdy as the vault door behind him. If it existed, it could melt. 

Fwoooooooooooooooooooooosh.

That’s why, to Dorian’s horror, it wasn’t just the ice that faded to the plume of flames sprouting from the tip of that mahogany club.

It was also his luck.