For a man who had just been offered a partnership with one of the most powerful Clans in the kingdom, Valerius looked decidedly unimpressed.
He regarded my demand for an "Alliance" with the kind of cold amusement a scholar might reserve for a talking dog. It was intriguing, sure, but fundamentally absurd.
"An Alliance," he repeated, the words perfectly clipped. He gestured to a quiet, obscenely expensive-looking tavern across the square. "Let us discuss your… grand ambitions in a more private setting. The Clan of the Steel Quill will cover the tab."
I knew a power play when I saw one. He was moving me to his territory. Fine. I'd let him have his small victory.
The private room was all dark wood and hushed tones. The moment the door closed, the air grew heavy. Lyra took a position by the door, her presence a silent, looming threat. Valerius and I sat opposite each other at a polished oak table.
"Let's be clear, Lord Vane," Valerius began, pointedly using my new, unearned title. "You possess fifty Council Tokens. Not just money, but the literal currency of political clout in this kingdom. Fifty is enough to register a Clan. It is not enough to command the respect of one."
He was testing my foundations, trying to see how easily I would fold.
"And yet, here you are," I countered, leaning back in my chair with a laziness I didn't feel. "Because you have a wildfire in the North, and the only person with a bucket of water is the one you're trying to work with."
Before Valerius could form a response, Lyra's voice cut through the room, as blunt as the flat of her blade.
"Forget the tokens. How many of your logging crews are dead, Valerius?"
I blinked. I hadn't expected her to speak. Valerius's composure finally cracked, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes.
"The skirmishes are… ongoing," he admitted stiffly.
"How much tax revenue does the Crown lose every day this continues?" Lyra pressed on, her arms crossed. "We're not talking about situation. We're talking about bodies and coin. Your Clan looks weak, and the kingdom is losing money. That's a problem that needs more than a simple Wager to solve."
I could have kissed her. Not that I ever would, the resulting medical bills would be astronomical. She had bypassed all my clever manoeuvrings and gone straight for the throat of the issue, reframing the negotiation from one of me needing them, to one of them desperately needing me.
She had outsmarted me by being direct. It was infuriatingly brilliant.
Valerius stared at her, then back to me, his expression hardening as he realized he'd lost his footing. "A formal Alliance is out of the question. But we are prepared to offer…"
THWACK!
The world dissolved into a blur of motion. A thick, black-fletched crossbow bolt the size of my forearm shattered the window and embedded itself in the wall, exactly where my head had been a split-second earlier.
My brain, to its credit, performed beautifully.
'Crossbow bolt. Fletching is boar-bristle. Crimson Boar assassin. Trajectory indicates rooftop across the street. Conclusion: I am about to become a Kaelen-kebab.'
My body, however, staged a full-scale mutiny and froze completely.
Before my brilliant analysis could result in my untimely demise, a shadow moved. Lyra didn't block or deflect. In one impossible, fluid motion, she grabbed the edge of the two-hundred-pound oak table, flipped it on its side, and shoved both me and a stunned Valerius behind it.
Splinters rained down as a second and third bolt slammed into our new cover.
"Stay down!" she ordered, drawing her claymore. The sound of it leaving the scabbard was like a death knell.
Two figures in dark leather crashed through the now-empty window frame, daggers gleaming. They weren't master assassins; they were thugs, their movements fuelled by rage, not training. Crimson Boar loyalists.
Lyra met them. It wasn't a fight; it was a demolition. Her claymore was a blur of steel, and the sounds were sickeningly final. I, meanwhile, was huddled behind the table, completely and utterly useless. This was the part of the job I hated. The part with the distinct possibility of being perforated.
I could hear Lyra grunt. She was good, but it was two against one in tight quarters. I risked a peek. A third assassin was climbing through the window, another crossbow loaded and aimed at her exposed back.
I couldn't fight. But I could still talk. And given my magic ability, my talk gives buff to the people!
"Lyra, flank left!" I yelled, my voice cracking slightly. "Their archer is exposed on the tailor's roof! Take him out!"
It was a gamble. The assassins hesitated, their eyes darting toward the window, trying to understand my order. That split-second of distraction was all Lyra needed. She spun, her blade wrapped around mana, catching the first man across the chest and using his body as a shield against the second.
My real audience, however, wasn't in the room. Outside, I heard the subtle thrum of Steel Quill guards moving with deadly speed. My "order" to Lyra had been intel for them.
The fight was over moments later. The assassins were neutralized, either by Lyra or the guards who swarmed the building.
Lyra stood breathing heavily, a shallow cut on her arm but otherwise unharmed. She looked from the bodies to me, then to a suddenly very thoughtful Valerius.
The negotiation had changed. My clean win was gone. He had seen my plan work, but he had also seen me cowering behind a table.
"You are brilliant, Master Vane," Valerius said, his voice now holding a sliver of something that might have been respect. "And you are a magnet for the kind of trouble that requires… cleanup."
He straightened his tunic. "A full Alliance is too great a risk. We cannot tie our Clan to a man who invites assassination attempts into a quiet tavern."
My heart sank. A partial failure. Dammit.
"However," he continued, "your value is undeniable. The Clan of the Steel Quill is prepared to grant you a… Probationary Mandate."
I processed this. It wasn't the partnership I wanted. It was a glorified, high-stakes internship. But it was also a foothold. Time to improvise.
"A Probationary Mandate," I repeated, getting to my feet and brushing splinters off my clothes. "Very well. But my new Clan will require an upfront 'resource grant' to establish its authority. Say, one hundred Council Tokens? And full operational authority. While this Mandate is in effect, my word is law in the North."
Valerius considered this. The price was steep, but the alternative was chaos. He gave a short, sharp nod. "Agreed."
He reached into his coat and produced a rolled scroll tied with a steel-grey ribbon, along with a heavy pouch that clinked with the sound of minted tokens.
"Here is your Mandate and your resources. Your authority begins now," he said, placing them on the splintered table. "And so does your deadline."
I paused. He had never mentioned a deadline. "Deadline?"
Valerius looked me straight in the eye, a flicker of cold satisfaction on his face.
"The annual Timber Baron's Ball is in two weeks. All the syndicate factions will be there to elect a new leader and solidify their illegal pacts. If you haven't brought them to heel by then, the situation will become permanent. You have fourteen days, Lord Vane."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"Try not to get killed before then. The paperwork would be a nightmare."