Disclaimer – I own nought but the plot and some sub-characters
Dark Deeds, Darker Times An AU Fanfic By Dancing With The Dead
Chapter 1 – Secret Messages
Time Setting – Alanna is eighteen; everything else is set around that.
Alterations to History – Alanna went to the Convent while Thom trained as a knight. The Sweating Sickness killed both the Queen and her son, Jon, leaving the King a hollowed man. He leaves most duties to his nephew and Heir, Rodger. Rodger has raised taxes and employs mobs of mercenaries to roam about, keeping the 'peace'. Alanna has recently been called to the capital by her brother, but as soon as she arrives she gets some bad news …
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The Dancing Dove was quiet. There was the usual crowd, yet they were subdued, by Dove standards.
The noise level was still sufficient to make a cloaked figure hesitate as they opened the door. To their credit they didn't tarry in the doorway long, and, after a moments pause, walked to the bar. A slim, white, feminine hand appeared, and slapped the bar top, summoning ale.
A mug slid to a stop before her, and she raised her still-exposed hand revealing three golden coins. As old Solomon tottered to her, George Cooper strained to hear her voice. It was low and smooth, slightly deeper than the usual noble twang, giving a slightly husky effect. "Keep it coming for as long as these hold out." She picked up her mug, and retreated to a shady corner reserved for his spies and the like. This told the Master of the Court of the Rogue something more about her.
He knew she was noble, as her gait was as level and balanced as her words. He knew she didn't want to be seen entering the Dove, accounting for the shadow-shade cloak and almost none-present stop at her entrance. Her shoulders had slumped slightly in relief when the door had closed, before she put her guard up again to deflect three separate attempts at pick-pocket, one when she travelled to the bar, one at the bar, and one when she was headed to the corner table. He knew she carried weapons, but the two he had immediately distinguished were only two medium sized daggers at her wrists. The slight harshness to her voice and the quantities of ale the gold could purchase suggested grief. She kept glancing at the door, as if waiting for someone or for danger to show itself.
George watched her carefully. She didn't remove her hood when she sat, and drank the ale in one without tilting her head back further than necessary. Solomon was there, with three mugs of ale on a tray, "So's I don't disturb Milady for a minute". She rubbed her face with a nod, and Solomon shuffled away.
The lady downed another mug, and pulled a roll of parchment, quill and ink out of an inner pocket. She stopped the scroll from curling by putting two mugs on either end, inked the nib, and started to write.
George shifted in his 'Throne', thinking up a reason to see what she was up too. She had paused in her note taking, and was looking at something round in her hand – a mirror. It was strange, how did she expect to see herself in a torch lit room, with her face in shadow? Then he saw the object warp the air in his Sight, showing the use of magic.
She was scrying.
A minute or so later she impatiently turned the mirror face down on the table, and wrote more.
He no longer felt any reluctance at approaching her, only that he lacked the proper motive. He didn't need to wrack his brains for one.
Lightfingers sauntered up and promptly collapsed in the seat next to her. She stiffened, and lifted one mug to drink from casually – it was well done, 'Fingers didn't notice the scroll rolling itself up, hiding the words. Instead he said loudly, "'ey, lass, what 'r ye doin' all the ways back 'ere? All on yer lonesome, wiv nothing but a drink for company." He reached for her untouched mug, but recoiled as the air around it took on a purple tinge.
George slowly made a signal to the Rogue so not to attract her attention. Hands went to knives, loosening them in their sheaths, two burly men burst into simultaneous laughter, and blocked the door as they held each other up.
She was sharp – she realized she was trapped as her attention slid from 'Fingers to the two fellows bellowing a rude song at the door. In this lapse of concentration, the drunken man reached for her mug, slightly haughtily. The air cracked as a small lash of amethyst fire flicked outwards from the cloaked woman. He yelped, and examined a small burn on the back of his hand. "Leave it," she said, clearly, "I am in no mood to play."
George and several others had stood at the attack on one of their own, and he led the advance to the corned table. 'Fingers made his escape, rubbing his wound, as George slid into the chair opposite her.
She was tapping her index finger on the table rapidly, as if aggravated or impatient, eyes – or hood – turned towards the guarded door. He could practically taste her tension and nervous energy. George leaned back in his chair as he gazed at her steadily till her hood turned towards him slightly. He guessed that she watched him out the corner of her eye, and he began, soft and low, almost friendly, "Now, I wonder what a dainty lady as yourself is doing down here in the city at such a late hour in such a disreputable inn such as this."
She said nothing, but her hood moved a fraction, as she resumed her watch over the door, all her fingernails now drumming out her impatience. The Rouge notice the scroll had disappeared before he had gotten to her table. He started to like her, despite her presumptuous airs and noble manner.
"Come on, lass. Talk. It's much nicer to talk in here than in the back rooms." She stiffened, and he saw he Gift warp the air around her slightly. "None of that, now," he said, sharply.
The woman raised her visible hand to examine immaculate nails. Finally she spoke, her voice un-afraid and strong, none of the huskiness of loss or clumsiness of Solomon's ale was present in her pleasant yet steely cold voice. "What do you want?"
"Several things," he said, patronisingly. She scoffed, he smirked. "To see your face, is one of them. Another is to know why you're here. After that, I want to see that interesting letter you were writing, and who, precisely you were spying on."
She clenched her raised hand and brought it down surprisingly hard onto the table. Loudly, anger splitting her words at the seems, she almost shouted, "Who in all Chaos do you think you are?"
Calmly, George answered, "Well, now, that's not a nice way to ask a cut-throat in his own lair something, is it?"
The Dove was almost silent, and the hooded figures' rage seemed to fill the crowded room. "I think we got off on the wrong foot." George continued. "What do you say to having a drink with me, and we can –"
The stranger let out a strangled cry and leapt to her feet – or tried to, as they had been shackled together by a street urchin while her attention was diverted. She attempted to use her Gift on them, but fell back in her seat, gasping. They had been made to lock magic as well as limbs. George was impressed it hadn't knocked her out, even more so when she surged to her feet, drawing two long daggers from her back. She held them expertly, one overhand, the other underhand, their points quivered slightly as she panted. The man who had come forwards to grab her fell back with a long slash to his arm. George moved in, taking advantage of the awkward position she had inadvertently twisted herself into to attack his man. As she was weak from the magical backlash, he knocked her right dagger to the floor as she turned her torso to face him, pinned her left wrist to the wall behind her, and pressed his knife to her throat, but not hard, as she breathed heavily. The hood had not moved from her head. He tightened his grip ruthlessly on her captive wrist, till he heard her gasp in pain, but she didn't drop her weapon. She writhed weakly, head turning from his face to her hand, her soft "Ah …" was heard by all in the Dove.
George had forgotten about her right hand. He remembered it when it connected violently with his eye. It was a desperate yet idiotic move, as he held a dagger to the lady' throat. Inadvertently it drew across what could only be skin – but her neck like the rest of her was in shadow. He felt the skin splitting on the dagger and cursed himself for his carelessness had cost this woman her life. A second later he was confused – his hand should be coated in thick, hot blood, she should be slumping against the wall as her life pooled beneath her. What she was doing was drawing her fist back for another swing. He dropped his knife with a clatter to catch her fist as it came towards his chin, and wondered at the strength of the punch. It would have near floored him if she had struck him again.
She writhed harder now, throwing all of her strength into the struggle, but id did little good. He outsized and outweighed her. He twisted her round forcibly, pulling both her wrists up behind her, then digging a thumbnail into the tender spot between the bones at her wrist. It made her scream and thrash, but her hand spasmed and her dagger joined his at their feet.
Still attempting to free herself George forced her out of the corner and towards the backroom. Seeming to realize where they were headed she stopped writhing and redirected her efforts to brace her legs before her to try and stop the forward direction. All the Rouge did was to put more pressure onto her wrists till she staggered and went limp in his arms, shaking from the pain.
"Bern! Collect her effects and my dagger. Sergey! Make sure we are not disturbed, and Talick, come with me." The three men jumped to do as he bid, and he felt the lady take a shuddering breath. 'That's right,' he thought. 'Be afraid.'