The sun announcing the final hours of the day filtered through the cracks in the shutters of The Velvet Kennel like a blade of cold, grey steel. What silence remained was shattered by the rhythmic clinking of chainmail rings, the creak of tightening leather buckles, and the heavy stench of linseed oil and candle tallow.
The ground-floor hall had transformed into the backstage of a deadly comedy. On one side, the Diplomatic Front prepared its farce. Hector, Rian, Marcus, and Tito sported imposing armour, its beaten iron plates and chainmail rubbed with sand and oil until they shone like the midday sun itself. Over the metal, they wore snow-white linen cloaks decorated with the radiant disc of the Eternal Sun, used to simulate the dignity of the honour guard of the religion based in Aureliana. Tito, in his chainmail fitted over a chest broad as a barrel, looked like a blessed iron statue, though his eyes carried the hunger of a wolf.
On the other side of the room, preparations were of an entirely different nature. Alistair's group dressed not for the glory of altars, but for the invisibility of the grave, wearing light tunics of dark wool, thick felt trousers that muffled any friction, and flexible leather boots without iron studs on the soles, designed to slide silently over wet stone. Their hands and wrists were bound with strips of dark cloth to prevent sweat from making their weapon hilts slip.
Alistair adjusted his leather belt on his hip, keeping his faithful Ferralian steel bastard sword at his side, but made a pragmatic decision: he left his shield behind. In its place, he thrust a heavy, broad-bladed hunting dagger into the left side of his belt, for in the narrow galleries and low vaults of the citadel's bowels, a shield's protection was a bulky nuisance that would bang against stone walls; the agility of two blades and freedom of movement were worth more than any protective iron in the dark.
– Move your arse, Roderick! – roared Hector from the top of the stairs, jamming his heavy hand onto the oak banister. – The Eternal Sun hasn't got all day to bless sinners!
From the room above came a heavy pause, followed by Roderick's muffled voice, full of hesitation and deeply wounded pride.
– If I come down... do you promise you'll keep your composure? I won't tolerate being mocked by a bunch of cutpurses while I bear the word of the gods on my chest.
– A Mad Dog's word of honour – yelled Hector, with exaggerated gravity that made Rian and Marcus smirk. – We'll be as pure and professional as novices in a nunnery! Get down here once and for all, man!
When the wooden doors upstairs finally opened, silence fell over the hall. Roderick appeared at the top of the stairs, and the sight was nothing short of extraordinary.
He wore layered cloaks of white linen and gold silk, with a silver-thread embroidered stole falling across his chest down to his knees. Around his neck, he bore a heavy medallion of the Eternal Sun that gleamed in the light of the tallow candles, and on his head he sported a stiff, crimson velvet mitre tilted slightly to one side. The noble fabric, tailored to rest on the shoulders of venerable Aurelian elders, looked tragically out of place on the veteran's tough body, whose stern face and trimmed beard suggested the fury of a swordsman far more than the piety of a preacher.
The silence on the ground floor lasted exactly two heartbeats, and it was Tito who broke the solemnity. The Isolarian looked at Roderick, blinked twice, and let out a violent snort through his nose. In the next second, Tito exploded into a loud, cavernous laugh that shook the ceiling beams. The giant's laugh was the spark: Rian doubled over the table crying with laughter, Marcus covered his face with his hands to smother his chuckles, and even Alistair himself let out a dry, uncontrollable laugh. The whole hall sank into a chaos of laughter and good-humoured jeers.
– By the virtue of Solarius's virgins! – roared Hector, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he slapped his thigh. – He's the most dangerous bishop I've ever seen in my life! If the Viscount doesn't drop to his knees to beg forgiveness, he'll die of fright!
Roderick turned as red as an ember, the gold necklace trembling on his chest in pure outrage, but before he could turn around and strip off the sacred vestments, the captain's authority reasserted itself. Hector cleared his throat with a sharp hawking sound, choking back the last remnants of laughter and straightening his posture in his polished armour.
– Enough of the comedy – decreed Hector, his tone returning to that of the Brigade's leader. – The time for laughter is over. From this moment on, you're the holy man sent from the capital, and we are your blessed blades. If anyone laughs at the citadel gates, I'll open his throat myself.
The captain gave the signal to move out. Roderick adjusted the mitre on his head with a resigned sigh and marched towards the door, followed by his 'honour guard' – Hector, Rian, Marcus, and Tito –, whose polished armour and white cloaks gleamed beneath the drizzle falling outside.
As the sacred retinue moved off through the muddy alley towards Viscount Lorenzo Verdegrande's citadel, Orlan was already in position on the other side of town, hidden with the ashwood wagons and horses in a concealed ravine, waiting for his moment to begin his part of the plan like a patient spider at the centre of its web.
On the ground floor of The Velvet Kennel, silence settled once more. Alistair, Lucius, Kaelan, Silvio, and Gabriel remained seated at the oak tables, dressed in black with their short iron strapped to their waists, facing the hardest part of the wait ahead.
With the doors locked to the outside world, they killed the hours honing their blades on whetstones, sipping sour wine, and sharing old stories. They often glanced at the cracks in the shutters, watching the daylight slowly ebb away, waiting for the sun to set completely so they could enter the damp Pyrrho tunnels.
When the sun finally set over Verdejante like a shroud of black felt, burying the city's roofs in moonless dark, the group headed into the depths of the underground, guided by Kaelan's carefully measured steps. The damp air of the tunnel, heavy with the smell of slime and dead stone, gradually gave way to the thick odour of dry timber, smoked salami, and cured cheese.
With an almost inaudible creak, Kaelan shifted the cast-iron grate. One by one, they emerged into the gloom of a vast room on the lower levels of the citadel: the Viscount's storehouse and wine cellar. They stood motionless among oak casks and piles of wheat sacks, their ears strained for any sound of iron on stone. Shortly after, the sound of slurred voices echoed from the top of the stone stairs, alerting the group to the approach of two garrison guards, visible in the dark thanks to the flickering glow of a tallow lantern casting their shadows against the masonry wall.
– ... and now the damned holy-joe demands another cask of the hillside wine! – grumbled one of the men, adjusting his worn leather belt over his bulging belly. – Says Verdejante ale gives him cramps in his soul and that he needs four more spears at the hall door because he feels 'insecure' facing the Solterran threat.
– That High Priest from Aureliana is a spoiled noble of the highest order – mocked the other guard, spitting onto the floor. – The castellan is sweating through his shirt trying to please him, while our captains get pissed at his table. If the holy man asks for more wine, we go down and bring him more wine.
Behind an oak barrel, Gabriel leaned into Alistair's ear, a mocking grin cutting across his soot-smeared face.
– By the gods – Gabriel whispered in the gloom. – Roderick is playing a masterclass. The panic of getting caught has turned him into the most demanding cleric in Aureliana.
With the majority of the garrison concentrated in the Great Hall – busy serving the fake priest, listening to psalms, and devouring roast meats – the patrols in the internal corridors were reduced to a mere formality of bored, drunken men.
Alistair made a sharp hand signal as the two guards approached the row of casks, prompting the group to act. Kaelan and Gabriel emerged from the gloom like silent hounds, and before either sentry could let out a scream, two short blades tore through the air: Kaelan drove his iron beneath the first man's ear, while Gabriel sliced the second's windpipe with a clean strike from side to side. The bodies fell without a cry, caught in the arms of Alistair and Silvio before their chainmail could strike the stone.
Alistair knelt beside the corpse of the pot-bellied guard, unhooking a heavy ring of cast-iron keys from his belt that jingled softly in the gloom.
Moving like ghosts in the night, the band left the cellar and went up the service stairs, crossing the main kitchen courtyard while sticking close to the shadows cast by the battlements. From the main hall echoed the drunken laughter of the officers and Roderick's deep voice chanting a tedious prayer on the blessing of wheat.
Reaching the reinforced oak door that gave access to the citadel's private wing – where the Viscount's vaults were kept – Alistair tested the keys on the ring. On the third attempt, the iron mechanism turned with a sharp, heavy click, and the door yielded to the dark interior, opening the way to the financial heart of the region.
The air in the strongroom was thick, freezing, and deathly, drenched in the stench of mould, old timber, and the unmistakable metallic scent of silver and gold. When Gabriel raised the tallow lantern, the dim yellow light tore through the dark, bringing out of nothing what the sword and the pain of so many had funded.
There, laid out on the bare stone floor, rested gigantic chests of solid oak, reinforced with heavy strips of wrought iron and bronze studs. Alistair approached and, with the tip of his short iron, forced the lock of one of the smaller containers. The lid opened with a groan of wood.
The chest overflowed with Aurelian gold coins and silver rounds, piled without order, mixed with garnet stones and signet rings extracted as taxes and extortion. It was wealth enough to buy the loyalty of an army of mercenaries, acquire entire provinces, or ensure a man lived out his final days surrounded by fine wine, roast meats, and fine velvet until it was his time to cross the gates of the Underworld.
The glint of the metal was reflected in Alistair's eyes like glowing embers in the gloom. The swordsman ran his calloused fingers through the coins, letting the gold slide through his skin in a heavy, hypnotic clink. The ease of the job bordered on the absurd – the fake priest in the Great Hall and the shadow steps through the tunnels had led them straight to the heart of Verdejante's power without a single cry of alarm.
Alistair turned to Lucius, an ear-to-ear grin tearing across his soot-smeared face.
– See, Lucius? – exulted the swordsman in an euphoric whisper. – I told you it was going to be easy. The worst is over! If I'd known being a thief was like this, I'd have started stealing instead of getting mixed up in these adventures!
Lucius remained leaning against the doorframe. The lad wasn't looking at the glint of the coins, but rather at the monstrous dimensions of the larger chests and the thickness of the oak beams supporting them. His face, ever marked by an early gravity, twisted into a grimace of sour pragmatism.
– The worst is over? – returned the lad, meeting Alistair's cold gaze like someone already calculating the distance between that chamber and the exit. – Try hauling these chests to the wagons without breaking your back, and then tell me if it's easy.