Fencing Academy Pt. 03

"Maybe you're a prince..." said Tom.

What's that supposed to mean? wondered Lyza. But she just said, "Stop it, let's go."

They wandered out of the alley into the streets. It was a busy day, the streets were full of bustle, merchants and women in afternoon garments. In the distance the chimneys of Rotham's arms factories churned with smoke and fire.

Tom lead her. He talked animatedly about stupid things: the foul taste of a meat pie he had, a time he vomited into the Blackwater, a pretty nob girl who looked at him with googly eyes once. He spoke enough for the both of them... which was good for her. Lyza preferred her own company, and if he expected a response from her she'd be forced to tell him that she found his conversation boring.

If she had learned one thing about the man, it was that Tom was not a person of big, profound ideas. Lyza envied that he was so untroubled by existential problems.

"Weepin' Maiden masks! Weepin' Maiden masks!" hawked a street merchant, dragging a display of morbid leather masks behind him. They were hauntingly feminine, white, like chalk, and on their left cheeks were painted a little blue teardrop. Each mouth was curved in a dark, painful grimace.

The smile faded from Tom's face. "It's a bit tasteless isn't? Selling the memorabilia of a serial killer?"

She pretended not to notice the merchant. "Perhaps," muttered Lyza.

The theater was tall and cramped, and throngs of the vulgar and lowborn crowded around it trying to get in. Tom and Lyza's swords became a boon here, as everyone kept their distance. Entry cost a few pennies, though it would have been easy enough for Lyza and Tom to simply walk through. They entered a crowded pit in front of the stage, the pauper's seats. The ground here was packed with dried rushes and the husks of nut shells.

Lyza leaned over to Tom. "I hope it's not boring."

"Have I ever taken you to something bad?" said Tom.

Lyza sniffed. "It better not be a tragedy. I hate tragedies."

"It's not a tragedy!" Tom hissed.

They hushed as an actor ventured on the stage. He wore a black doublet, a dagger sheathed on his belt, and a dark goatee around his lips. He gave his opening monologue.

"Dark deeds are my trade, confident in my work,

That the kings and dukes with whom I make

Deals of death, darkness and deceit, verily,

To remove their enemies, and for their sake,

I have never displeased once, for with these tools;

Swords, knives, bullets, venomous unguents, mandrake;

Problems resolve, kingdoms secured, secrets kept.

This day, like any day, whose destiny I take

Without remorse, for this course I set,

Will lead to another's death, to my greed it slakes."

Tom cooed. "Oooh, this'll be good."

In act one, the assassin, Crispini, is told to kill an Artisian nobleman by the name of Montaug, for reasons unrevealed. Crispini infiltrates Montaug's manor by pretending to be a long-lost friend of the noble, regaling him with absurd stories of valor that Montaug has somehow forgotten over the years. He shares the time they both saved maidens from a horde of Hetmantate pirates and Svandian berserkers, and how they sailed to the Icemarch, and how, when their ship had been wrecked, Montaug had built an ingenious salt-water purification device from his boot, which he had curiously forgotten to patent.

Tom was giggling ferociously. The play was witty, but somehow Lyza couldn't find it in herself to laugh.

"What's wrong? Still hanging over?" asked Tom.

"Nah. Just not funny," said Lyza.

Later, the love interest was introduced. Montaug's sister, the Lady Belladonna, proves herself irresistible to Crispini who immediately falls in love. Even though the Lady Belladonna was merely a heavily made-up teenage boy with coconut tits, the audience still unleashed a torrent of wolf whistles, even Tom.

There is a dinner scene, where Crispini attempts to poison Montaug with some wine. As Crispini eagerly watches Montaug put the cup to his lips, a rival assassin leaps out with a dagger and Montaug throws the wine in his face. The assassin immediately drops dead.

Tom was in hysterics, as was much of the crowd, especially as Crispini awkwardly explains that he poisoned the wine to, of course, give Montaug a lesson in personal security. Montaug seems leery at first, but at the last minute he is overcome with emotion and says he'd always wished for a brother like Crispini, and asks him to teach him to defend himself. Crispini, proudly, takes Montaug on his offer.

It was then that Sona the Spider-Eater walked into Lyza and Tom.

Sona was a strange sight. There were dark-skinned folk who resided in Rotham, but she was dark-skinned even to them. It was so black it actually shone in sunlight. Her hair grew in strange tangled cords, and her body was tall and thin, as tall as most men. Her presence was usually an intense curiosity, but somewhere in a strange part of the world, everyone looked as she did. What made it even odder was her Zachonian dress. Her britches and plain linen shirt were extraordinarily normal.

She smiled, her teeth like pieces of polished ivory. She embraced Tom and Lyza in turn.

"I did not expect you here," she said, with her oddly-rolled vowels.

Tom smiled. "Would you care to join us?"

"Most certainly," said Sona, taking a place beside Lyza.

Sona had a swaddle of roasted chestnuts, which she passed to Lyza and Tom. Lyza removed the shell and popped one in her mouth. It had been cooked perfectly, with a moist and creamy texture, but Lyza did not feel hungry.

The set was cleared for the next scene. It was supposed to be a training hall, with some dummies set in the background.

Crispini and Montaug entered from opposite ends of the stage, wielding foils. Crispini boasted:

"Montaug, today you shall cease being a boy;

Today I teach you to bear the arms of a man,

And on this subject, you could pick no one wiser

As many enemies I have fought in my lifespan,

Men do not rue they day they chose me to fight,

Who're witness to my skill, in spite of death delight

Knowing they spent their last moments with me,

The heavenly sword knows to set souls afree."

Crispini then turns to the audience, and whispers:

"He shall cease being a boy, but be a corpse laid,

He knows not, I hold no foil but a blade

Do not tell him, not that it will spoil this deed,

I shall watch his face as he sees himself bleed."

A strange shame seeped into Lyza as she watched the scene unfold. Crispini made absurd, clumsy attacks clearly designed to kill, while Montaug naively compliments his skill even as he expertly ducks and dodges out of the way. At one point, Crispini attempts to stab Montaug in the back, when Montaug simply pushes him away and laughs, "Crispini, stop it."

Lyza gritted her teeth. She, too, had tried to kill someone in a training fight, but her victim was not a character in a play, she was a real person... and a Duchess.

Tom and Sona were laughing so hard they were on the verge of tears. Lyza couldn't even feign amusement. The scene had driven her heart cold, and kicked up bitter thoughts like dry dust. Lyza frowned reflexively. She tilted her head down, hoping to disguise it from Tom and Sona.

The crowd was in hysterics as Crispini made an especially clumsy attempt. Montaug responded by saying, "Please, Crispini, do not be so easy on me." Lyza blushed. It was something the Duchess could have said when they sparred.

The tone of the scene changed suddenly. In a touching monologue, Montaug revealed he knew Crispini was love with his sister, and he told him that, should they choose to marry, Montaug would give his blessing, exhorting how much he trusted Crispini and how had begun to think of him as a brother. Crispini's sword went limp in his hands. He walked to the audience, and declared mournfully:

"He calls me a brother, and I find myself ill,

He offers his sister, the lovely Belladonna...

I am troubled, can I find it in myself to kill

And finish my dark contract? Perhaps, it is this,

I fail, because, for but once, I lack the will."

She flashed back to yesterday, when Adriana offered her a place of honor in her palace. It was now clear: she was Crispini, and Adriana was Montaug, and this where she was in her own performance.

After her first failed attempt to kill the Duchess, Lyza promised herself she would try again tomorrow. Tomorrow became next week, next week became next month, next month became next year. The excuses were endless: I haven't trained enough, she once told herself, or I need to observe the Duchess more.

Her most recent plan had been to kill the Duchess in a duel to first blood, hoping that Adriana's death could be passed off as an accident. But her scheme evaporated when Sara Sunderland noticed she was passing up easy openings for more lethal ones. Evidently, even a poorly trained swordsman could see through that ruse.

In truth, she had been relieved. The web of lies were heavy, and for what? To kill a girl she couldn't hate? She was angry, yes. Angry at the world, angry at herself, and angry at her father, but she did not hate her. When she had vowed to kill her, she was but an orphan in Arbalea, and it was more to her an exciting way to fill her imagination than it was a deep need for vengeance.

Hatred is like love, she thought, it takes maturity to recognize it. Besides, Adriana did not kill my father. Her father killed my father.

And in that respect, nature was already extracting vengeance for her.

She didn't want to hear what would happen next.

"I've got work to do," she muttered, girding herself to leave.

Tom and Sona looked at her. "How could you not think that was funny?" asked Tom.

"I'm going, I've got work to do," she repeated, then rushed out of the theater, shouldering her way past throngs of townsfolk. When she was out on the street Tom chased up behind her.

She asked him brusquely: "Did you take me here on purpose?"

Tom was befuddled. "Uh... yes."

"That's not what I meant," she sighed. "I've got work. I'm going."

As she turned to leave, Tom nabbed her by her shoulder.

"When are we going to get together?" he asked. His green eyes shone seriously, his mouth flat for once.

Lyza laughed scornfully and shook her head. "You are unbelievable. You think your cock is the only thing with problems?"

"It does, and I do too," he said. "We all have problems. We can help each other."

"By fucking?" said Lyza with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, why not?" he said, taking a step forward. Lyza had expected him to break a smile, but he didn't.

Lyza prodded him in the chest. "You can't imagine what problems I have. You can't imagine the counsel I need. You think your dick is some magic healing stick, and it's not. You're just a man."

He did it fast. Tom grasped her by the nape of her neck and forced his lips onto hers. Lyza couldn't react quickly enough to resist... she let his lips ply against hers, even as her mouth stayed firmly shut and eyes wide open. When Tom stopped kissing her, his taste and smell lingered beneath her nose.

Tom searched her face for an emotion. "Did that do anything for you?" he asked hopefully.

Lyza narrowed her eyes. "If you ever do that again, I'll scream rape."

Tom was taken aback. "I..."

I'll forgive you, but "Don't do it again."

Lyza turned and left Tom outside the theater.

###

Lyza wasn't proud of what she told Tom. She wasn't the sort to threaten to call rape... she preferred to settle things herself. Still, she needed to be firm, to where Tom wouldn't confuse her intentions.

There was an alley that Lyza used to get into Picot's place. The Madam owned many whorehouses, but The Lonely Widow was the only one she managed herself, as it was where the gentle nobs went to get their dicks wet. As Lyza opened the door, she was blasted by music and laughter and fragrant, humid air.

The halls were carpeted a sensuous red, even in the back rooms where customers would never venture. Here, the support staff lurked, and where whores came to be away from work. She climbed a set of spiral steps up to Madam Picot's office.

Picot's personal guard was a Hetmantate eunuch called Berker, fat but stronger than his poor muscle tone would suggest. The eunuch nodded at her.

"I need to see the Madam."

Berker grumbled. "Mistress is busy." Berker's beady eyes glanced at an open newspaper on the chair across from the door.

With comprehension, Lyza took the seat, flicked on the electric wall light, and found a circled article in the open page.

The headline read: "THREE PROSTITUTES STRANGLED; BELIEVED CONNECTED".

Lyza swallowed and, slowly, went over each word. Lyza was still unused to reading... it did not feel natural to her. It was made harder by a story that was far too familiar. She didn't need to be explained that the slain were Picot's girls.

It was then a man took the seat next to her. Lyza shifted her eyes towards him. He wore a guard's armor: a steel cuirass, his half-helm on his lap. His sleeves were a royal purple and his breeches were slashed gold and lilac. He bore a badge with a peacock on his chest. His hair was cropped and wild and black. His face was not as fancy as his clothes: rough-hewn and lined, but not by age, it was exposure to sun and the strength of his features. Some men seemed sculpted, but this was like an artist had cut a rough approximation of a handsome man.

"The famous Lyza Dunwall," he said in a deep, calm voice.

"Some have called me that," she sniffed, burying her head in the paper, "but I didn't mean to be famous."

"You killed Margaret Fey."

"Aye."

The man rubbed his rough chin. "She was one of the Three Furies, you know. Rotham's greatest female warriors. Sara Sunderland, Fiona Nyvall... Margaret Fey. That's quite an accomplishment."

"I suppose."

"...And yet, you have not taken Margaret's place as one of the Three Furies. Why?"

Lyza was annoyed by this man. She reburied her face in the paper. "The papers tell us who the Furies are. 'Sides, I've got no interest in it."

The man seemed to lean towards her. "Why not?"

"I don't need anyone to tell me I'm good, I know it." She briskly turned a page and pretended to read.

"Wrong," declared the man, "The reason you're not a Fury is because some think your victory was a fluke... or that you cheated."

Lyza sniffed angrily. "'Twas a fair fight. Mayhap she was not as good as people say."

"...Or maybe you're just that good," said the man, cocking his neck, "and people can't accept that."

"What do you want?" asked Lyza finally, flattening the paper on her lap.

"Do you not know who I am?" asked the man with a knowing smile.

Lyza looked him up and down, narrowing her eyes. "No."

"My name is John Clay. I'm captain of the city guard."

Lyza twisted toward him. "You're king of the peacocks, then?"

"I am. I'm also a cousin to your friend, Duchess Adriana."

Lyza raised an eyebrow. "You're a Cha-let?"

John Clay blinked thoughtfully. "It's pronounced 'KA-LAY'. And no, not technically." He made a sad sigh. "Do you know woman named Charlotte Moires?"

"Never heard of her," said Lyza.

"You might know her better as 'Scarlett'."

Lyza said nothing, but she could not hide her frown.

John Clay moved on. "What do you do for Madam Picot?"

"I deal with unruly customers," said Lyza.

"When Charlotte Moires was employed as a prostitute by the Madam Picot, many deaths were associated with her. Do you know anything about that?"

"You should ask, instead, why Charlotte draws the most foul and violent of men... if you ask me, 'tis her sweet smile."

"Foul and violent men... who die? Do you draw foul and violent men too?" asked Clay.

"Aye. Even now."

That amused the captain, but he continued: "The guard has composed a list of thirty suspects, and on the very top of that list is the woman who we most suspect to be the Weeping Maiden. That person is your friend Scarlett."

"No. Really? Scarlett? The girl could barely hurt a fly. I have to slap them off her all the time."

The captain leaned into her ear. "I wonder who the second name is?"

Lyza's mouth twisted.

John shifted his weight back on his chair, his armor creaking. "Now, hypothetically, if I were the Weeping Maiden, I would quit while I'm ahead. While I'm unsuspected. I'd figure, I've had a better-than-average career as a serial killer, why not retire?" His eyes flashed. "That's what I would tell the Weeping Maiden... if I knew who she was."

Lyza nodded, but her heart was cold and pounding. "If I see her I'll pass on the message," she said.

John stood up. The man was broad and tall... Lyza would be impressed by him, if his gaze wasn't so dangerous. The captain slipped on his helm and walked away, the peacock feathers which were attached to it bounced on each stride.

Lyza tore out the circled page and left. Her home was not far away, and it was early in the night. When she arrived, she pulled a seat, took out an inkwell and several scraps of parchment, and began to write.

Liam,

How's it going? It is good here.

Lyza spoke the words out loud, and she cursed and ripped the letter up. She dipped her quill into fresh ink and started again on a fresh sheet.

Liam,

My heart burns

The words felt false. She crossed them out angrily, and this time, she refocused. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When her mind was clear, she started again.

Liam,

Would you laugh at me to know I still think of you? I laugh at myself sometimes. We had a few bonny moments, in that week which we shared the world, when the same sun and stars shone on us both. But in my head it has grown to be more than that. I am learning new words all the time, one of them is "tumor". It is an ugly word but it is the only way I can think of to say how you stick to me. Tumor, ha! No one ever called me a poet.

I do not know how it is in heaven, but I will write to you of earth. That's right, I can write, like you can now. I am reading lots too. A few months ago I bought my first book, one about fencing. It is a timeworn thing, the person who owned it last earmarked it and scribbled in it bad, in ways I can't read. But when I put my nose to the page it smelled of knowledge. Sometimes, when I spend a night reading, I go out to the streets afterward ablinking and brushing dust off me like I was a spectacled librarian. I must be getting very smart. Ha!

I work for Madam Picot now. I can't say she keeps me on the straight and narrow, but fed and warm more like. She has me taking over your job, quite an interesting one you had. Picot talks of you all the time so I think she misses you. I hope you didn't bugger her. If you did I might vomit in the Blackwater.

I thought life would get less confusing for me, but I am filled with more doubts than ever before. I wish I could share them with you. There was so much I never told you. My life is one of dark secrets. If you watch over me, you know how I crave blood. I share this with you because you were a killer as I am, though if Picot's stories are told true one more noble. In time, I will tell you all, but it will have to be in person.

I am sure heaven is full of pretty angels, but I hope you still have the sweetest kisses for me. I feel ill saying that, but I also feel it. This world is a cold place but your arms were warm. When I was in them you actually made me feel a girl, your lost touches will not leave me, when I think of them I get hot and sad for you. You, who still makes my heart go aflutter, save something special for me.