A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

When we return to Higginsville, Sinead is long gone. Loth does not tell me where he went and I do not ask. The Likaean prince did leave a few things for me, the first being a letter.

I resolve to keep the tiny silvery tube around my neck, always. It hangs next to the pendant containing my father's message. Those two are my lifelines, one for the body and one for the soul.

The following months see us fall into a healthy routine. I spend most evenings helping Loth with various tasks related to research, both magical and mundane, as well as metallurgy. I even assist him as a nurse when his hospital sees an increase in traffic. My complete lack of queasiness is put to good use as my dear friend would insist that some of the tasks I am requested to perform will “forge the character”. I soon learn that the expression is a hypocritical substitute for “It is revolting, and now that I have an underling I don’t have to do it anymore.”

Loth also tests the limit of my physical power by, naturally, having me carry heavy loads for him. His final conclusion is that I am “as strong as a gravid troll and marginally better-looking.”

How he manages to sweet-talk all the county’s widows into his bed with that tongue of his, I shall never know.

Dalton adjusts to his new duty with perfect ease. He has a way of appearing unimportant to people unless he wants to be noticed that makes him fit everywhere, and when he needs to make an impact his dark charisma is enough. He quickly endears himself to both the male and female population of our little town. The only issue is the rumors surrounding us, not that I mind much.

We continue like this for a while until I receive a letter from my dear Jimena.

February 1805, Savannah, Georgia.

The Rosenthal Consortium building is fairly small, barely bigger than my childhood home and yet it manages to draw attention from a full block away. I would call the local architecture basic, only because I am feeling generous. The most common adornment is a coat of paint slapped on the ubiquitous horizontal planks, even for public places such as the Town Hall.

The noble institution’s house is orange.

Yes, orange.

Its walls are made entirely of vertical carved white stones and bricks of the fiery color. It stands like a jewel, or a pustule, amongst its prude neighbors. The barred windows and the reinforced gates only reinforce the impression of being an outsider.

Without a word, Dalton fades into the shadows while I approach the guard.

He pretends to ignore me until politeness demands a reaction. He looks quite solemn, dressed all in black with a white shirt, and his pale face sports an impressive beard. I smell gunpowder from him and, quite interestingly, spelled items though he himself is not a mage. I taste it and recognize a specific aura. When the man meets my eyes, my suspicions are confirmed. The protections are designed to ward off influence, which extends to Charm.

Finally, an occasion to practice some of the tricks Sinead mentioned!

The rope between us glances off a smooth shield. I slowly change our bond’s color by matching it to his current mood. He is distrustful yet unworried. In the space of half a second, the string becomes one with the shield and goes through.

I give the man a polite smile with just a bit of suggestion, which he returns.

It worked!

“Good evening sir, is this the Rosenthal Consortium, Savannah branch?”

“Indeed miss, and we would be happy to assist. Unfortunately, we are closed.”

That is fine, I will work on him until he believes me important enough to warrant special treatment.

“That is a shame, I was led to understand that you would operate after sunset.” Or so Jimena claimed.

The guard’s reaction is unexpected. He pales visibly and his pleasant smile evaporates.

“Ah yes, my apologies madam, we were not expecting you.”

He turns to the entrance and bangs a pattern on the door. He then takes out a key from a recess in his coat and manages to turn it in after a few nervous attempts.

The door opens invitingly.

“Go ahead, madam.”

Hum. How queer. Did they infer my nature from one comment? This would not be a trap, would it?

Unlikely. Jimena would not have sent me here without a warning otherwise.

I walk in a beautiful lobby. I thought the exterior gaudy and I was wrong.

The floor is entirely made of polished black stone with a massive white circle five paces across in its middle. Golden runes I do not recognize surround its edge. The walls are of the same black stone at the base, before going up in shades of bronze. The room is narrow and leads up to a high mahogany counter, behind which a teller is hard at work. Apart from the desk, there are only a few chairs and a medieval piece of armor holding a halberd as visible furniture.

Beside the door I just crossed, there is also one on the left, another on the right wall as well as, curiously, a barred window. I also spot a corridor on the far wall as well as stairs going up.

I immediately stop. This place is packed with magic. I already triggered some sort of alarm when I crossed the threshold which could not be avoided. I can also feel a significant amount of power coming from the circle, the suit of armor, the many doors and surprisingly, the counter.

The man behind it stands up, notices me and freezes. The barred window to the right opens to let another frowning man with a gun look through it. Upon seeing me, he also stops in his tracks.

Well, this is rather awkward is it not?

“I am here to open an account.”

I would rather make my intentions clear before the set of armor starts moving on its own.

“Ah, hm, I…”

The man behind the counter is what I would expect an accountant to be. He nervously tries to replace the monocle on his nose, but his trembling hand knocks it out of the orbit and it falls against his chest.

Silence fills the place. I wait.

Soon, footsteps can be heard from the stairs. They are slow and measured.

A moment later, a man calmly reaches inside the room and walks in my direction. He is slightly shorter than me, with combed back black hair and piercing grey eyes. His traits are sharp, aristocratic, and his expression is that of polite respect. His black suit is exquisitely tailored and shows understated good taste. He is also a Courtier, a powerful one. I would place him at the edge of something greater. His aura is also one of the most disciplined and controlled I have ever felt.

A complex set of emotions moves his otherwise unflappable countenance.

I take his invitation and we walk side by side. You could hear a pin drop here as neither of us makes a sound when our feet touch the ground.

He leads me up to the second floor and to his office at the end of an alley. We enter a spacious room lit by a single candle. A large window situated at its back gives us a view of rooftops and the clouded sky. Two comfortable leather chairs are on opposite sides of a large desk that speaks of hard work and obsessive organization. Stacks of folders are neatly arranged in wooden dividers and not a single document is currently out in the open, a necessity when one’s guest can see so clearly. Bookshelves filled with writings on law, economics, and philosophy give the place a cozy feeling.

He sits with dignity and gazes at me for a while then leans forward with mild interest.

I wait for signs that he insulted me before admitting that this is not an unreasonable request. I am not carrying identification papers after all.

He gives me a pointed look.

His expression is solemn.

Isaac’s full presentation lasts an hour and is rather exhaustive. I doubt that I will need ownership of a company transferred between two fake identities any time soon, though it is still good to know that the possibility exists. In the end, I choose to create a checking account and invest the rest of the money I brought in a fund with a high, if volatile return rate. The crafty man offers me access to a strongbox as a commercial gesture which I accept but do not make use of. My most precious belongings all fit around my neck and in holsters after all.

Isaac invites me back up as we wait for my stash to be counted.

Isaac thinks a bit before continuing.

Ah, first question and I already revealed myself as a yokel. Well done Ariane.

Wow. If he lived for that long and fought as much as I believe he did then he must be a force of nature. This is my reality now, something I forgot for not spending time with my kin. Some of us have lived to see Rome fall. Perhaps they even participated.

Do I want to meet someone who would remind me of MastEr?

I hate him and love him and hate him and… And I am being a bAd giRl. I should gather enough money to get a ship, look for his resting place and dig him out So tHat wE… No!

Dammit!

I have no idea if Isaac is offended. The man has as many facial expressions as a marble statue. This would be unnerving were it not for my habit of doing the same to Loth.

Huh?

That is the first time I have seen a real display of emotion from him. Even then it was mild, at most.

How queer! This is unexpected. This man came out as extremely polished and should I say, a bit pompous and now he is talking like a rake about to pull some villainous scheme? I am intrigued!

He looks flustered.

Curiouser and curiouser. The unfazed banker is suddenly losing his composure? All my expectations are destroyed. I follow the odd man outside through the lobby and out the main door with Dalton by my side. The guard gives a surprised look, though he refrains from commenting.

Finally, Isaac takes a deep breath just as Dalton starts to look a bit worried at our unnatural immobility.

My patience is going to be rewarded! I am sure it will be quite a tale.

Ah.