#zeeda

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It was beyond late by the time Quentin reached his quarters, a bare sliver of a moon wreathed in clouds overhead. Divinity's Reach never slept, but the streets were subdued tonight, the promise of rain driving its citizens to seek shelter before the storm broke. With silent bounds he ascended the steps leading to his front door, counting automatically in his mind as his feet avoided an erratic sequence of stairs: the third, the fifth, the sixth, the eighth... Upon reaching the top he knelt down, running his hand along the frame of the entrance, and nodded as his fingers found the splinter of pale wood he'd wedged into the crack of the door jamb, content that no one had entered. Straightening again, he removed an iron key from his pocket and quietly turned it in the lock, then very slowly pushed the door inward. When it was open but a fraction he stopped and slipped his hand inside, feeling around the back of the door with his face flattened into the wood. His deft fingers found a wire attached to a tiny catch there, and he unhooked it with exceeding caution, moving it aside so that he could swing the door open fully and step inside. Still holding the wire taut, he worked his way hand over fist to the corner where a box was nestled into the shadows, and nudged open the lid with a knee to reveal a cache of oil flasks arranged neatly around an incendiary grenade, the wire coiled around its cocking handle, ready to ignite should the tension suddenly release. With aching care he leaned down to slide the dangling safety pin back into place with his free hand, then slowly let the wire go lax. With no fiery death impending, he began to breathe again in quiet relief.

Crossing the floor, Quentin found his way to the desk by the solitary window, striking a match to light the candle there. The dark receded to reveal a small room that looked almost unlived in, sparsely furnished by only a rickety bed decked in old sheets, a wash basin on a stand below a wall-hung mirror, a splintery closet, and a chair tucked beneath the table he now stood beside. He curled from under his cloak and unclasped his belt, hanging both from a hook on the wall, sword and pistol bumping against the chipped plaster. Then he stripped off his coat and flung it across the bed, followed soon by his tunic. As he stretched wearily, the flickering light of the candle illuminated the myriad scars carved across his dark-haired body: long stripes lashed criss-cross across his back, puckered burns down his flanks, telltale pockmarks of faded bullet holes denting his chest and arms, the pale gashes of a hundred nicks and cuts – a tapestry of the conflict in his life. He began to unwind the bandages on his arms from his most recent adventure, the tiny claw marks of undead horrors already beginning to fade into fresh scabs, uncovering on his left forearm a faded tattoo of an open red hand ensnared by a squid, below a pair of knives silhouetted against a black sun.

Pulling out the chair he sank into the seat, kicking off his boots and baring calloused soles hardened by years at sea. He sighed tiredly, suddenly feeling the wear of the past few days catch up with him, and rubbed his palms against his eyes, leaning back to raise his gaze to the raftered ceiling where the guttering candle cast shadows dancing. As he sat recalling the events recently past – the desperate rescue of Ausra from her terrible fate, the meddling of that damned Reeve, bumbling Dranthium, and lovestruck fool Dominick – he couldn't help his thoughts drifting to Velinae. He let his eyes slip shut, recalling the sweetness of her lips on his, her slender body nestled into his arms, frail yet borne by a hidden strength, her perky bosom pressed into his broad chest. He síghed again, trying to dismiss his stirring thoughts, finding himself smiling in the gloom.

Creak.

His eyes snapped open instantly, head whipping around to the door. Holding his breath, ears straining for the next telling sound, he heard another creak of someone rising up the stairs to his room, the planks carefully arranged to groan alarmingly at any approach. With an acrobatic leap he was beside the door in a flash, drawing his pistol from the belt and flattening himself against the wall, cocking back the hammer with a muted snap. The steps shuffled near the door, and he pressed the barrel of his pistol into the wood, aimed at the midsection of whoever stood beyond.

“Master Quentin?” queried a tremulous voice on the other side of the battered pine door. It was the voice of an old woman, he realised – the shopkeeper who lived below him. By the gods, she must have ears sharper than he did! And, apparently, also never slept.

“Missus Beedle?” he called back, reaching for the handle and holding his pistol behind his back as he swung open the portal. “It's rather late...” On the other side stood a white-haired woman in a pale yellow dress, her tanned face adorned by a pair of silver-framed spectacles. Her eyes wandered down and then turned away modestly, with what may have been an amused smirk.

“Bless me, I didn't know you wasn't decent...” she tittered, lifting a withered hand to her mouth. Despite her age, she batted her eyelids coyly.

Quentin glanced down quickly, realising he still stood half-naked in the doorway, and disappeared back inside, grabbing his tunic from the bed and ditching his pistol beneath the sheets. Struggling into the shirt, he returned to the door. “Uh... what can I do for you, madam? At this hour?”

“Ohh, never mind me, dearie. I just heard you come in, was all. And!” She lifted the wax-sealed paper she had been holding, grinning toothlessly. “I was going to give you this! Some fellow came and meant to leave it with you while you was out. Didn't say who from, though.” She looked at him expectantly, eyes alight at the potential mystery.

He took the letter from her with a grateful nod, turning it over and inspecting the unbroken seal. It was printed with the impression of a sword thrust through a crescent moon. “Thank you, Missus Beedle,” he said, still peering at the mark.

“You're welcome, dearie,” she said. “Was a few days ago now.” She looked at him, beaming innocently. “Could be important,” she urged, nodding toward the paper in his hand.

“Yes...” said Quentin absently, turning it back over to the blank side in his hand. “It could be.”

“I wonder who it's from,” she prompted, gaze still eagerly fixed on it.

He lifted his eyes from the missive finally and looked into hers, flashing her an oblivious smile. “So do I! Good night, Missus Beedle.” He began to swing the door shut ponderously with a friendly nod. “And thank you again. Very kind of you to drop by."

“Oh,” she said, a little crestfallen. “Well, goodnight then, Master Qu-” The latch clicked shut, cutting off the rest of her reply.

He waited until he heard her creaking back down the stairway, then strode over to the candlelit table and slit the seal with a finger, unfolding the paper beneath the light. He pored over it, reading the message inked within:

“Please BE advised that the SUM must be Paid by the Deadline agreed Between Myself and HIM, Furthermore Let me say WE agreed Just to Be Kind and Giving But Not to Really Lend our hard WON Dividends without a Verifiable Knowledge of the Quotients, despite Knowing How Very Generous and Zealous our New friends have been. - EAGLE”

The message was utter nonsense, of course, and Quentin wasted no time decoding its true meaning, taking a quill and scribbling down each capitalised letter except the first onto the empty space below. Then he applied the keyword – which he knew to be WINGS in response to any signed EAGLE – by subtracting each key letter in turn from the enciphered ones of the message, repeating until the text stood plain. Having read it through he sat down again, staring away and mulling over the contents. The directions were brief and unexpected, and that did not bode well at all. He turned back to the letter, checking it once more, then held it over the candle's flame until it curled and smoldered ablaze, watching it char into nothingness with the wax dripping carelessly onto the floor, the words still running through his mind:

“EVENTS UNFOLD. REDHAND NEEDED. REPORT AT ONCE.”