Annabeth Chase
As she had so often before, Annabeth Chase watched the sunrise from the city's curtain walls. She leaned against the chest-high battlements, gazing out into the pail sunrise from between the crenellations. It was a cold morning, and her breath rose as thick clouds, illuminated brilliantly by the morning sun.
Annabeth loved this spot and had been visiting it ever since her childhood. The city guard, still busy clearing the fortifications of the snow that had fallen that night, had given up trying to stop her from visiting this section of the walls years ago.
Lacking hoardings, this part of the fortification offered a magnificent view of both the countryside and the city of Anthia behind her, with its tall houses and narrow alleyways that stretched almost two miles. At the city's far side was the harbor, where a wide river lazily drifted by, mingling its fresh water with the salt of the sea. Peeking over the horizon to the north would be the mountains, although those peaks, covered in snow year-round, were hidden behind a thick wall of fog.
Annabeth Chase was tall for a woman, with a fair complexion, and long golden blonde curls that seemed to cascade down her back. Her high cheekbones and distant demeanor afforded her an amount of grace and dignity that even women of noble birth would be hard-pressed to achieve. Her cold gray eyes had broken the nerve of more than one suitor her father had sent her way over the past three years.
"You shouldn't be up here, girl!" one of the guards, a gnarly and aging man named Richbeard, grunted at her.
Annabeth glanced over at the man, who after standing watch throughout the night was tiredly leaning against his spear. "It's dangerous in the winter. If you must visit the walls, go to the parts with hoardings. It would not do for you to slip and fall."
Annabeth cracked a smile. "And yet I keep returning."
"Beg my pardon if I speak out of turn, but why do you?"
Annabeth gestured around her. "The view, I thought it was obvious."
"There are better vantage points available to a woman of your standing," Richbeard reasoned.
"My standing? My father is the rich one, not I," she countered and thoughtfully brushed a handful of snow off the edge of the battlements.
"It is not right," Richbeard insisted. "A lovely woman like you should not spend so much time in solitude. Enjoy your life, you will be old before you know it."
"I am eighteen. I have nothing but time," Annabeth said with a laugh. "But your point is taken, I should get going."
Richbeard shrugged and Annabeth returned to the next tower, descending back down towards the city. She made her way through the city, where many of the narrow streets had not yet been cleared of the night's knee-deep snow. The alleyways were dark and imposing, and progress was slow. The only saving grace was that the bitter cold smothered the stench of the city.
However, no one bothered her, and soon she returned to livelier streets, joining the stream of early birds opening their shops or attempting to make early sales. Homeless people and citizens alike huddled around fire pits to escape the elements.
Finally, Annabeth reached her family's residence—a sturdy, large, three-floor building that opened out onto a marketplace.
Annabeth knocked on the heavy iron and oak front gate, and after a few minutes, the front door was opened by Cinda, the maid.
"Ms. Chase," the young woman greeted her respectfully.
"Good morning, Cinda," Annabeth returned the greeting.
"Why, in the name of the gods, would you be out on a day like this? Your cheeks are all red; we'd better get you in front of a fire," the woman fussed over her, ushering her into the short tunnel that led to her residence's inner courtyard with stables, a well, and a small workshop.
Almost chased by the servant, Annabeth hurried back into the warmth of her childhood home with its wide, open fireplaces and elaborate furniture. She joined her father, stepmother, and twin half-brothers Bobby and Matthew, who were already seated at the breakfast table, breaking bread and enjoying a soup hosting a chicken that had until yesterday hosted a particularly quarrelsome chicken.
"Ah, you have finally returned," her stepmother greeted her with her usual cold and distant demeanor.
"I could not let the good weather go to waste," Annabeth lied smoothly, making a show of brushing ice from her hair.
During her childhood, her stepmother, due to Annabeth being a bastard child from a family from the north, had treated her with coldness. So ever since Annabeth had played her cards accordingly every winter.
"In the future, cover your hair. It is not proper for a woman to flaunt her charms like that. The gods frown upon vanity," Helen chided her.
Apparently realizing that what could otherwise be a perfectly pleasant breakfast was about to take a turn for the worse without his intervention, Frederick Chase cleared his throat, cutting off Annabeth just as she opened her mouth for a heated counter.
"Helen, Annabeth, stop it at once. We have a long day ahead of us," Frederick warned.
He was a man of average height, with sandy blond hair and intelligent blue eyes. His voice was low and firm, and even Annabeth bit back a heated reply.
"Helen, the maestro will arrive in a few hours to instruct the boys. You were intending to go out to the marketplace today?" he asked.
"Yes, Frederick. A merchant from the south has arrived with silk and oils. I will try to secure as much of it as I can. If the cold keeps up like this, the harbor will be frozen over by the end of next week, and the coin to be gained from such luxuries will increase greatly," Helen confirmed smugly.
"Annabeth, I remember you had an interest in architecture?" Frederick finally asked lightly.
It was phrased as a question, but he knew she did. She had often begged her father and the master builders residing in the city to let her become an apprentice, but again and again, she had been turned down. She might be the bastard daughter, but her marketable worth was a different matter; she knew that.
"I do," she confirmed neutrally.
"Well, come to my office after breakfast. I would like to hear your opinion on something," he announced elusively.
Annabeth studied him for a long moment, trying to deduce more information from her father's guarded expression, but she could not. Though the annoyed look on Helen's face certainly helped brighten her mood.
"Okay, Father," was all she said, choosing not to say more.
So after helping herself to a healthy portion of soup and bread, she joined her father in his large, cold office.
"So, what is going on? Are you taking a construction commission?" she asked, trying to keep her excitement at bay.
"Not directly," her father admitted. "What I have is a chest full of counterfeit coins I would like to get rid of before they're discovered. One of my agents also acquired a considerable amount of salt. Unfortunately, I learned yesterday that this salt was previously stolen, and now we need to get rid of it."
"So, what does this have to do with architecture?" she asked.
Frederick grinned dryly. "Nothing, but if you find something worth investing in up north, feel free to put the coin to good work," he announced.
Annabeth scowled. "Counterfeit coins?" she asked in disbelief. "Why would you even touch something like that? If anyone catches me with those, I would hang for it. The King's men do not take such crimes lightly!"
Her father smiled dryly. "You refuse to get married and pester me to involve you in my business. This is your chance," he announced.
"I don't refuse to get married," she corrected. "It won't be you who has to lie in an undesirable man's bed."
To her surprise, her father's gaze softened. "Too much of your mother in you," he muttered to himself and returned his gaze to the fire.
"Mother?" she asked. Her father rarely talked about her, and Annabeth had given up asking a long time ago.
"Yes," Frederick admitted and smiled at her. "Sharpest woman I've ever met; pity I couldn't lock her down." Annabeth grinned at her father. "A singularly fine woman," he repeated softly.
"Do not let your wife hear you," she whispered conspiratorially, trying to cautiously maintain this light mood.
Her father became serious again. "Never really told you about her," he noted thoughtfully. "I think I will, but that will have to wait a bit longer. Until then, I have something else for you to do."
She tried hard not to let her disappointment show and forced herself to concentrate on the prospect of finally being able to pursue her own ambitions. "So, you said something about architecture? You want me to design something?" she asked, already mentally going through the catalog of sketches she had made over the years. She had a fondness for the classical Therayian aesthetic and already made a mental map of the logistics required to get white marble and ship it to wherever it was needed when spring came around. Would she have to substitute marble with wood and white paint?
She was getting ahead of herself, she realized, and held back the long list of questions pressing to be asked.
"Nothing really, but I thought it would catch your attention," her father replied and grinned at her.
She scowled at her father but then fell silent. "Rumor has it that one of the largest iron mines in Ashton has run dry. Before this impacts the prices, I would like to send you north while the pass at Castle Hawks Plato is still open."
He rolled out a map on his desk and presented it to her, pointing at the pass in question. Then he traced his finger up the old imperial roads into the north, into vast expanses of mountain ranges and ancient forests that formed the northernmost province of the realm and secured the northern frontiers. The area was sparsely populated. Only a few keeps and villages dotted the terrain, and only one city of note, Lowestoft, marked the province.
He pointed at a keep north of Lowestoft that appeared to be at least a three-day journey up a river that snaked past the city. "Lowestoft is famous for its charcoal burners. There are also multiple iron mines in the surrounding area. We are interested in those."
"I doubt any lord would sell a mine to us," she murmured.
"Hardly," her father agreed. "But we can offer a considerable investment in exchange for becoming the main buyer for the ore."
"You want to invest deeper into the war," Annabeth said. It wasn't a question, merely an observation. One needed those amounts of iron for one thing really: forging weapons and armor to outfit armies. With the contracts they already had with a number of smiths and craftsmen, they could deliver a considerable amount of arms for the holy war. Arms both their own crown, but also the lords of the new kingdoms, would pay a considerable amount of gold for.
"Very much so. With the current stalemate, I think it's safe to say that weapons are a good investment for the next two years. I want you to take those damned counterfeit coins along with another chest of legitimate ones and set up an outpost in Lowestoft itself. Or, if it's more convenient, closer to the mine you choose in the end. The winter months should be enough time for you to prepare our operation and be able to deliver the first ore by mid-April."
Annabeth leaned back in her chair and exhaled deeply, letting her mind mull over the task presented to her.
"Who do I get?" she asked. She would need accountants, experts in mining, men to work in a warehouse, hired muscle, and staff to run the outpost in general. Many could be hired from the local population, she was sure. But for some key people, especially those requiring a high degree of reliability, she would need to bring them along with her—them and their families, which would greatly expand the scale of her task.
She then decided to first take along only a small core group and have the rest make the trip in early spring. That should offer her ample time to arrange for sufficient lodging.
"Hire the usual mercs," her father advised. "You want men who won't turn on you if someone else offers them more than you do. As for the rest, well, you know the crowd we usually work with. Just remember to bring a carpenter along; on my first expedition, I forgot to hire one and believe me, we regretted it."
Annabeth smiled. "I will remember that."
After packing a number of maps from the family library, they took on the tedious task of calculating the budget she would need. For obvious reasons, Annabeth was not willing to rely on counterfeit coins. Additionally, they would travel under the guise of selling a wagonload of salt.
The main problem with her father's plan was, Annabeth figured, that they couldn't use their ships to transfer the iron or weapons the next day. That alone might have made the trip worth it, but of course, Annabeth intended to travel with greater ambitions.
With a growing list of things she needed to complete that day, Annabeth headed back out into the city. For a moment, she pondered which matter to address first and promptly made her choice. She headed toward the city's port, trying to make her way through the now-crowded streets with some semblance of dignity. She could have taken the narrow, far less crowded side streets, but knew better than to tempt the lowlifes of society.
Suddenly, Annabeth slammed into something hard and muscular, stumbling back a few steps. "Hey," she yelled, and then noticed the giant dark warhorse. "Watch out!"
"You alright there?"
The knight on the mount's back had the bearing of the nobility and was clad in a gambeson and a thick wool cloak, with a sword and shield hanging from the side of the saddle. The tall man smiled down at her apologetically, just as a second man—this one with Herculean stature and skin the color of charcoal—rode up to join them. The manservant, she figured. "Forgive me," the knight said.
"Do we have a problem here?" the dark-skinned man asked, his voice quite the deepest baritone she had ever heard.
It was one of those events where Annabeth truly doubted her wisdom. Where a reasonable person would have bitten her tongue, she just couldn't. "Traveling through the streets mounted is banned for a reason. Walk like the rest of us!" she snapped and hurried past them to slip back into the crowd before the consequences for her swift tongue could catch up with her.
Finally, she reached the harbor inn. It was an old but well-maintained two-story building with a green sign swinging over the door. The name, "A Dinky Skeever," was written on the sign in bright yellow paint, though she had serious doubts about the literacy of most of the visitors.
She stepped into the doorway, letting her gaze sweep the crowd, only to find that the face she was looking for was absent.
"The young lady from the Chase family," the innkeeper greeted her. "Looking for a warm breakfast?" he asked.
"I'm looking for Michael Yew," she said.
"Try the Basilica," one of the patrons yelled. "He usually hangs around there this time of day."
Annabeth sighed, realizing she would have to head across the city. "You have my thanks."
She made her way through the increasingly busy streets, ice and snow crunching beneath her shoes. The rising spires of the cathedral, with its gargoyles and statues of saints, drew closer and closer until she stepped into its great shadow.
She found Michael in the cathedral's north transept, kneeling at his namesake's altar. A saint, she figured, who had a less noble heart than the man honoring him. If she recalled correctly, Saint Michael had gained notoriety some two hundred years ago by solving a dispute of faith between two outlanders by slaughtering both for blasphemy.
"Michael," she greeted him, leaning against one of the great polished granite supporting pillars in the wall next to the shrine in a side chapel.
"Lady Annabeth," the mercenary greeted her as he rose to his feet.
"Not a lady," Annabeth corrected.
"Wealthier than most," Michael mused.
Annabeth laughed. "All my father's gold, I'm afraid. However, this brings us to why I sought you out. I find myself in need of a life-ward and mercenaries to guard a caravan for a longer expedition north."
"A life-ward I can offer you," Michael replied, grinning and tapping the short sword and mace on his belt.
"And I might know a few good men who are available for hire," he added cheerfully. "North, you say... it won't be a pleasant trip."
"Lowestoft for now, and then perhaps further inland if the weather permits," Annabeth agreed.
"Sounds like a longer-term gig," the mercenary said thoughtfully.
"And a good deal safer than your usual work, and with fair pay" Annabeth added. "Though I do not see there being much too plunder."
"Oh, you never know," Michael said brightly, earning himself a dark look from Annabeth. "Might be a little town open to pillage or something. Do you wish for me to attend you as of now?"
Annabeth smiled. "Yes, but finish your prayers. I would not have the gods doubt your faith on my account."
Michael made the sign of the faith with his hands, and Annabeth waited patiently as the mercenary went through his rituals. While Annabeth herself was by no means a devout person—a fact she was careful to hide—she respected Michael. The man had, after all, cared enough about his faith to have spent four years fighting for it in the war, and she needed his services more than she needed to air her beliefs. Reliable men like Michael were not easy to come by these days.