The House Tiroste knew its enemies well. Families in their homeland far to the south made open war with them there, and here also at the beginning of their supply line. The Six Houses had been in conflict for almost a year, and it did not take long for Tiroste's three enemies to begin raids on supplies coming out of RhyDin. Some had been stolen from their very warehouses, some even in broad daylight.
Alexander Albion Tiroste IV, old enough for wisdom but not so old for the stunning clarity of his mind to obscure, made the call to transport gunpowder by sloop from Dragon's Gate into the West End under the cover of night. He hired a man to drive a carriage of the House south across the bridge at the same time, in the quarter of an hour before midnight.
The diversion worked perfectly. Spies from House Alorca sent messages into the West End the moment the carriage departed the manor of House Tiroste. The driver was experienced, unwilling to stop for anything, but going down a narrow street, an overturned cart with a woman laying injured nearby overrode his sensibilities. He stopped the carriage and went for a closer look, and a man stepped out of the nearby inn, walked into the street, and shot him point blank with a flintlock pistol. The carriage was then hijacked, taken to an Alorca warehouse, inspected, and found to be completely empty. They had even removed the upholstery before sending it out on its diversionary mission.
The sloop Prometheus had nothing to worry about, it seemed, from House Alorca that eve...
* * *
"The report, Lord-Listener." The voice was scarcely a whisper, and black-clad hands laid a paper on the low wooden table. Bare feet padded backwards from it, almost silently. Even by dim candlelight, he could see rather than hear the tap of a single fingertip, likewise clad in black, on the surface of the paper. "Our contact in the Tiroste Manor penned it eight hours ago."
A long pause; an uncomfortable shift of bare feet.
"Alorca will fall for the ruse, unless we alert them."
The fingers, young in their smoothness but as grey as death, curled around the flame and danced inattentively.
"...I can alert them now, if it pleases -- "
Two taps.
"My lord..." The whisper was excited. Nervous. "Do you think we can really -- ?"
One tap.
"...Very well." Feet shifted again, away from the table. "Our brethren will conduct the raid themselves at midnight." Dry lips were licked, spit was swallowed. "Without House Alorca."
Another tap.
"Lord-Listener. Spirits keep you." Leather creaked with the slow bow... the bare feet padded out of the study, boots scraped as they were collected off of the floor, and light spilled in across the room for only a moment as the door was opened... and shut.
The Lord-Listener's young but sallow face stared over the candle flame, and he let his fingers continue their dance. A grin, painfully constrained, stretched at his lips and tested their boundaries until he could feel warm coppery blood on the tip of his chin. Then two fingers came together, quite suddenly, and pinched the flame.
Plunging the room into darkness.
Alexander Albion Tiroste IV, old enough for wisdom but not so old for the stunning clarity of his mind to obscure, made the call to transport gunpowder by sloop from Dragon's Gate into the West End under the cover of night. He hired a man to drive a carriage of the House south across the bridge at the same time, in the quarter of an hour before midnight.
The diversion worked perfectly. Spies from House Alorca sent messages into the West End the moment the carriage departed the manor of House Tiroste. The driver was experienced, unwilling to stop for anything, but going down a narrow street, an overturned cart with a woman laying injured nearby overrode his sensibilities. He stopped the carriage and went for a closer look, and a man stepped out of the nearby inn, walked into the street, and shot him point blank with a flintlock pistol. The carriage was then hijacked, taken to an Alorca warehouse, inspected, and found to be completely empty. They had even removed the upholstery before sending it out on its diversionary mission.
The sloop Prometheus had nothing to worry about, it seemed, from House Alorca that eve...
* * *
"The report, Lord-Listener." The voice was scarcely a whisper, and black-clad hands laid a paper on the low wooden table. Bare feet padded backwards from it, almost silently. Even by dim candlelight, he could see rather than hear the tap of a single fingertip, likewise clad in black, on the surface of the paper. "Our contact in the Tiroste Manor penned it eight hours ago."
A long pause; an uncomfortable shift of bare feet.
"Alorca will fall for the ruse, unless we alert them."
The fingers, young in their smoothness but as grey as death, curled around the flame and danced inattentively.
"...I can alert them now, if it pleases -- "
Two taps.
"My lord..." The whisper was excited. Nervous. "Do you think we can really -- ?"
One tap.
"...Very well." Feet shifted again, away from the table. "Our brethren will conduct the raid themselves at midnight." Dry lips were licked, spit was swallowed. "Without House Alorca."
Another tap.
"Lord-Listener. Spirits keep you." Leather creaked with the slow bow... the bare feet padded out of the study, boots scraped as they were collected off of the floor, and light spilled in across the room for only a moment as the door was opened... and shut.
The Lord-Listener's young but sallow face stared over the candle flame, and he let his fingers continue their dance. A grin, painfully constrained, stretched at his lips and tested their boundaries until he could feel warm coppery blood on the tip of his chin. Then two fingers came together, quite suddenly, and pinched the flame.
Plunging the room into darkness.