Chương 235: Arc 4 - Chapter 37

Amathea had had enough, and her brother was nowhere to be found. She paced the halls of her estate as she quietly bristled with enduring irritation. She knew he wasn't in bed convalescing. That was but a lie that both servants and his team of Climbers perpetuated and held to staunchly. They'd been doing so for some days before she grew curious, then worried for Francis.

She had been in his empty room, had seen the clean sheets and perfectly made bed, and when she inquired to the staff about his absence, they were silent on the matter and his whereabouts. Even the ones that weren't mute met her questions with little more than variations of: "It is not my place to keep account of the Lord's comings and goings." Which was true; they were here to keep the rooms and halls tidy, not watch over her wayward brother. The servant who couldn't speak knew more, Amathea was sure of it.

That maid, while diligent and proficient, was a poor liar. Her guilty face and fearful eyes were far too obvious to miss, but she, too, wouldn't confess any knowledge as to Francis's location or preoccupations. The same was true of the Climbers who lodged in the east and west wings. They forwarded plenty of excuses and reassurances for her brother, though they all knew far more than they would let on.

Even the tutor, Sir Needle, whom she had respected, and not just for his previous ties to her father, claimed Francis was likely fine and would "Come back when he's ready to." It was infuriating. It was maddening. It made her want to pull out her hair. And worse, Elliot didn't seem to care either. Or he did, but their stupid feuding compelled him to dismiss Francis's disappearance as a dalliance down in the districts, or worse, some sneak-thief scheme.

Amathea had quarrelled with him for his uncouth accusations, though she couldn't help but silently suspect his assumptions were correct. Francis didn't act like a Lord. He barely acted as though he had any honour or propriety to maintain. Least not when in the company of his team. It was a shame. Though he'd returned strong, he'd also come back strange and scarred. There was a coldness in his gaze; it bordered on cruelty and crossed over into something vicious when he fought. As she had witnessed during his duels.

She hadn't known he was capable of such violence, such wanton bloodshed. The sight of her older brother, who had always seemed so flighty and cheerful on his visits, slicing and cutting at his foe, paring him down as if he were scaling a fish, had unnerved her. And remembering it still made her shiver. Amathea discarded her worries about his safety. Her brother was powerful.

Francis really was likely gallivanting in the districts, just as his 'blood brother' Bert did on occasion, along with that disgrace of a merfolk, Rosie. It was a terrible, dangerous habit. And that wasn't even to mention the scandal their family would face if such a thing were discovered. She feared he'd found a lowborn lover while he'd been 'exiled', and that he visited them now, as he'd done for her and Elliot.

It was a common enough story, a noble entangled with those of lower station, which she could admit had a certain rough, completely reckless appeal. Amathea would never indulge in that herself, though. Never. Not once. Through a window, her eyes caught on the man tending the garden. One of the Climbers, the one with dark hair and kind, grey eyes. He had discarded his mud-stained shirt and went bare-chested about his work.

His back rippled, his shoulders strained and his arms bulged as he tore stubborn weeds from the soil. She bit her lip absently, watching for just a moment longer before turning her head away sharply. The fool will catch a cold, she chided silently. Serves him right, though. Indecency should be punished. Indecency, impropriety and common decadence had become rampant within the estate. She'd never had such troubles at the place she had previously called home.

No, at the orphanage the tutors, servants, assistants and other children treated her and Elliot with the respect they deserved as nobility. Even the friends she made there would never dare speak to her with the familiarity that these Climbers would. Nor would their bouts of obvious rudeness be tolerated. It was as if they'd been picked up right off the street, or out from a gutter. Amathea resumed stalking down the hall, her dress rustling in her haste while her heels clacked against the floorboards.

She focused on her mission and malcontent, putting all thought of her brother and the man in the garden out of her mind and redoubling her effort on seeking out the women who were set upon ruining her life. There was an insipid giggling and shrill, stupid voices echoed down one of the passages leading to her library. There they were. The usurpers. The conniving harpies who had somehow wrested the stewardship of House Hightide from its rightful regent.

Fury bloomed within her, made all the more bitter by the sting of betrayal and the recently rooted thorns of isolation. Amathea narrowed her eyes and hastened her pace, quashing any apparent anger and schooling her expression with regal rigidity. She swept open the door to find the two women lounging lazily and chatting without any care for appearances. Ms.

Nearshore was draped in an armchair, and she coiled a strand of her wavy brown hair around a finger listlessly as she read from a heavy book that sat upon her lap. She wore a delightfully designed dress of burgundy, though it was too short, nearly a foot of her calves could be seen, and it also showed off too much shoulder, displaying her prominent collar-bone proudly.

Jess was more dignified, if only just, sitting at a reading desk by the wall and peering over the yellowed pages of a ledger while scribbling notes in a new one. Her auburn hair was in its usual braid, but her manner of attire was bordering on shameful. The long, blue skirt was fine, but her loose white blouse was baring too much skin. Almost a full three inches of her bosom was open to the air, invitingly. It was unbecoming of a young woman, and she never used to dress so wantonly. Ms.

Nearshore was a bad influence, and not just on Jess, whom she had regarded as a dear friend and who had been stolen, but on the whole household. Through her wiles Ms. Nearshore had captured, no, subverted, no, slithered her way into the administration of the House's affairs. She was a villain, every bit the evil vizier from the stories, wielding power from the shadows of the sultan's throne. Whispering deceits as potent as any viper's venom. Just looking at her made Amathea's stomach roil.

Both turned their heads at her sudden entrance. Jess smiled, and Ms. Nearshore gazed up at her with a sly quirk of the lips that could not be considered polite. It looked more like a challenge. Amathea returned it, razor sharp.

"Amathea," Jess greeted gladly.

"How goes the day? Are you well?"

"Ms. Redoubt, my proper title is Lady," Amathea warned sweetly. The two women shared a conspiratorial glance. Ms. Nearshore raised one eyebrow, while Jess raised both.

"Is something amiss, Lady Amathea?" Jess asked, cleaning her quill nib with an ink-stained rag, then setting it down and standing. She bowed her head. Too shallow. Likely to save her breasts from tumbling out from the indecent choice of blouse.

"Have I done something to offend you?" Amathea remained silent, letting the woman stew, then turned her gaze to Ms. Nearshore expectantly.

"Lady Hightide?" The woman inquired.

"Have you also forgotten your station, Ms. Nearshore?" Her green-yellow irises gleamed with a circle of orange-white for a moment, then she blinked, letting out a slow, soft breath. Setting aside the book, she rose gracefully and bowed to her waist.

"My apologies, Lady, I hope you will forgive my rudeness." While the due deference was agreeable, it didn't assuage Amathea. The respect had only come when she had all but ordered it.

"I will overlook your vulgarity for now," she allowed.

"You may lift your head." Ms. Nearshore did so, though the motion was stilted. Her smile had vanished, and her brow was ever so slightly furrowed. She was clearly displeased, like a cat rubbed the wrong way. That also was agreeable.

"May I inquire as to why you've graced us with your presence this fine afternoon?" she asked.

"Do I need a reason to make use of my own library?" Amathea asked in return.

"Of course not, Lady," Jess answered quickly.

"In truth, we would welcome your company. Isn't that right, Lauren?" Ms. Nearshore's eyes glowed again, though she smiled and nodded.

"Quite right."

"Well, I have no need of your company at the present moment," Amathea rebuffed.

"Rather, I desire to collect from the vault."

"The vault, milady?" Jess asked, clasping her hands in front of herself hesitantly.

"I did not stutter. Is your hearing ailing or is it your mind that is slipping?" Jess frowned, then lowered her gaze.

"Where's the key? Hasten, for I am in no mood to dally," Amathea ordered.

"The key is secreted securely," Ms. Nearshore provided.

"Only myself and Je- Ms. Redoubt are privy to its location. As the Lord requested."

"Bring it forth," Amathea commanded, frowning ever so slightly. It was an expression she'd practised well, full to the brim with all the piercing poise a noble's demeanour demanded.

"I cannot," Ms. Nearshore stated. Amathea frowned further, displaying her displeasure.

"And why is that?"

"Lord Hightide entrusted us with the management of his estate. That includes the vault and the wealth within," she explained, meeting her frown with one of her own.

"My House's vault," Amathea argued.

"As you say, Lady. However, not only Hightide's fortune lies within," Ms. Nearshore said.

"Spoils from our previous Climb, and subsequent windfalls account for much of what is stored."

"Subsequent windfalls? You mean the wagers you so callously placed upon my brother's duels? He risked his very life, and rather than protect or dissuade him from impetuous action, you profited," Amathea accused. Her eyes stung as she spoke, and her breath quickened. She was about to clench her hands into fists, but knew she couldn't show anger. That would mean that they had won. Instead, she hid her hands behind her back and clasped them, squeezing tight.

"Confidently, not callously," Ms. Nearshore said. Her voice was moderated, but there was a heat to it, simmering just beneath the surface.

"And you know that the Lord keeps his own council and will not listen to reason once his mind is set. I suspect only Bert has the power to sway him surely, and even then, I have yet to see that occur."

"That matters not. None of this does. Let me into the vault. At once," Amathea demanded. Ms. Nearshore's smiling lips twitched, and her eyes danced with embers.

"I refuse. Lord Hightide charged me with a duty, and I will do it."

"And if I call the Scale Guard and name you a trespasser, and a usurper, along with the accomplice you've inveigled yourself with, will you still refuse?" Amathea threatened, glaring at both women.

"Accomplice? Who? I?" Jess asked, somehow surprised.

"You," Amathea nearly hissed, her eyes hot, though her anger was hotter.

"What?" Jess asked, again feigning ignorance and innocence, and laying a hand across her chest. Ms. Nearshore didn't move at all; she was perilously still, and a fiery ring had flared around her irises again, burning.

"I would still refuse. My duty is to Lord Hightide, not his spoiled sister," she said in a low tone. The room began to warm perceptibly, as if a fire had been lit. It wasn't just the heat of anger, Amathea knew; it seemed to be emanating from the fire mage standing across from her. A chill slipped down her spine and coiled her stomach. That cold thawed quickly, though, replaced with a boiling indignation. She would not be menaced in her own manor. She wouldn't stand for it.

Even if she were immolated, she would never take a step back. Not when she was in the right.

"You would deny me what is rightfully due to a Hightide?! How dare you! How dare you!?" Amathea said, raising her voice.

"Amathea!" Jess interjected, aghast.

"What has possessed you?" Seething, Amathea bit down on her rage, her hurt and her lip. After she collected her wits, she said, "I ask you the same. Why won't you listen to me? Why do you take this viper's side and not mine? Have we not been friends for years, Jess? Why throw away our friendship for this interloper, this... temptress."

"Temptress?" Ms. Nearshore scoffed.

"You have her dressing like a slu- I mean a well... like a woman of loose morals," Amathea expounded.

"Who knows what vile things you have in store for her?"

"Amathea," Jess said sternly.

"There's nothing untoward about Lauren, or her intentions. She's well trusted by the Lord and by myself."

"My title is Lady Hightide. I told you once already," Amathea bit back.

"And if you do not treat me with the respect I deserve, I will call the Scale Guard and have you both tossed out of the Palace Ring and into the districts where you belong." The threat of invoking King's lawmen landed heavily this time, and both women glanced to each other and conversed through eye contact alone. That closeness infuriated her further, but she pushed the ache down.

"What exactly is it you desire from the vault? An allowance? With which to purchase some new dresses? That can be arranged," Ms. Nearshore offered stiltedly.

"What do I desire? I want what I'm rightfully due. I want to see my friends. I want new shoes. I want to wear a fashionable dress that isn't six years out of date. I want to have my own things, my own books and some silver to spare for pastimes and pastries," Amathea said, and like a dam bursting, she continued in a torrent. Tears threatened to spill from the corners of her eyes, but she bore them no heed.

"I want a carriage. Or a horse. Or a boat. I'm the only one who has to walk. It's embarrassing, it's shameful. I'm a Lady, not a pauper. Why can't I have a carriage? Even Charlotte, whose father merely owns an enchantment service, has one. And I have to walk, in old shoes, in old clothes. I have nothing to make myself look nice, no powders or perfumes. I worry I'll never be courted. I'm scared and tired, and my feet are sore, and I want Jess back! You stole her! You stole everything from me! Give it back!

Give it all back!" Her voice had climbed to a shriek, and when she had finished, her chest heaved, and her breath came raggedly. Ms. Nearshore stared at her. Gone was the ember-lit glare and the thin line that was her cruel smile, and instead she looked down on her with a deep pity.

"Don't you dare pity me, I'm a Lady, you're just a- just a commoner! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" Amathea cried. The tears flowed in truth now, hot and wet and crawling over her cheeks.

"Oh. Oh, Lady Hightide, I am sorry," Ms. Nearshore said with a sad smile. Her stance had loosened, all her stiffness had melted away, and she stepped forward and swept Amathea into a hug. With a weeping yelp, she tried to fend off the woman. It was a feeble, flailing attempt that was thwarted easily. Ms. Nearshore's arms wrapped around Amathea with a comforting, surprising, strength.

She was held gently while she squirmed for a moment more before succumbing to the softness and the peculiar warmth of the woman's touch. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"All will be fine," Ms. Nearshore whispered.

"It will be fine."

"No, it won't," Amathea groaned, squirming again.

"You don't understand."

"I do. Trust me, I do," she said sincerely. Amathea didn't want to believe her, but she did. It was something in the way she was being held, the reassurance of the embrace. She hadn't been so honestly heard in years, but still, she waited expectantly for the barbs or sly mocking that would always come after she spoke of her troubles. This time, though, not an unkind word was spoken.

"It won't be fine," Amathea mumbled stubbornly, still attempting to resist the kindness and comfort.

"Hush, we'll make it so. Won't we, Jess?" she said, raising a hand to the back of Amathea's hair and stroking it delicately. Something broke, and she buried her head into Lauren's shoulder and wept openly, ugly and loud.

"Yes," Jess said, approaching cautiously.

"We will find you what you need." When Jess was within reach, Amathea lifted an arm and pulled her close. Though hesitant, she joined the embrace, adding her own warmth. They stood there for some moments, maybe even a minute, as Amathea grasped hold of her emotions and she ceased weeping. With a sniffle, she pulled away, then glanced nervously between the two women.

"Better?" Jess asked. Amathea nodded, though she felt numb and weary she was glad of the release. There was also some shame, but it couldn't dig its hooks in her.

"Better."

"Let's go then," Lauren said, dabbing a handkerchief over her tear-streaked shoulder.

"Where?" Amathea asked.

"The vault, let's get you an allowance," Lauren said.

"And enough gold for some new dresses, shoes and all the other things we women need. Also, a carriage shouldn't go amiss. I, too, have had enough walking. We're well-to-do, and so we should present as such. Lead the way, Lady Hightide. I'm sure you know the way." Amathea smiled, turned and set off into the hall. Lauren and Jess followed, they, too, were smiling.

Grunt. Swish. Grunt. Swish. George, sweating, straining, swung his greatsword. Again and again, the coppery blade cut through the air. His arms ached and his shoulders burned, but he still struggled, attempting to refine his skill, ingraining the mighty, arcing movement into his muscles. He needed to be able to call upon the power of his Peak Splitter Technique at a moment's notice, otherwise it would be ineffective in a real battle. As Sir Needle had warned.

"Too stiff, too slow and too predictable," he had cautioned.

"The stance is solid, but the wide cuts and the Technique's innate rigidity make the weakest points in your armour easy to target. Against idiot, lumbering beasts that may be enough. Against the cunning and the quick you'll fall like a tower built upon mud." George knew Sir Needle was right; his spars with both the tutor and Fritz had taught him so. They both fought swiftly and deftly, and his blade couldn't seem to touch them despite the advantage of his sword's reach.

They could slip under or around his large blade no matter how fast he swung, then they would punish him with flickering ripostes. Half seen, though fully felt as they poked under the plates of his armour. The difference between him and Fritz had been less stark before the man had learned his Inevitable Blade Technique. But after, rising above him felt insurmountable. To say George was frustrated would be an understatement, though he preferred not to speak at all.

He'd been granted a great opportunity by the nobleman, and he wasn't about to complain about feelings of inferiority or a sense of futility. Not out loud. Still, it was irritating. He trained so hard, yet gained little in the way of true skill. His only Technique had languished at the Novice level of mastery, and he hadn't felt he was anywhere close to raising it. Nor had he learned the Inevitable Blade, despite his intense study. Fritz, however, had soared ahead of him in less than a week.

George had wondered if it was himself that was lacking, or if it was perhaps the tiles over which he pored over, or the tutor's obvious favouritism. In the end, though, he had to blame himself. He grunted and swung again. His sword nearly fell from his hands. They were shaking. Thankfully, his Sure Grip Passive stopped the hilt from leaving his grasp.

Panting, he decided to halt his practice, unclenching his fists, stretching sore fingers and propping his blade against the wall of the estate's training hall, before sitting heavily. George pulled off his helmet and wiped his face with a towel. He sat there for a while, resting and letting his mind wander, as it did after such exertion. The hall was quiet and it was well-lit with oil lanterns and had wide windows.

It was smaller than the one they used in the mornings, down in the Upper Ring, and it had no Treasure lantern to ease his fatigue, but it was convenient and had a calming air. When it wasn't occupied, which was most of the time. He found he was the one who made the most use of the hall. The rest of the team had other pastimes, duties and, dare he say it, dalliances. While he himself had indulged in a, what he now knew to be an unwise, entanglement, it hadn't lasted.

Leon had cared more for his own glory than George's company. That and the admiration and affection of a few others. The braggart didn't have the same love for swords or swordplay he had either. Few did. He didn't regret, but it stung.

"You're here, just as I thought," a barking voice declared. George looked up, pulled out of his own thoughts. He saw Sir Needle striding across the hall, the floorboards barely creaking under his bulk. Some trick of Grace, he had once explained.

"Sir Needle," he greeted as he stood, then tilted a bow.

"George, I've told you no need for the bowing and scraping. I'm not a Lord," the man said, coming to stand before him. George smiled and didn't speak.

"I'll get straight to the point," Sir Needle said.

"No time for small talk." That suited George; he wasn't too fond of small talk. He didn't see the point.

"There's a Technique being sold," Sir Needle continued.

"You should trade for it. Or buy it, if you can."

"A Technique?" George asked.

"A sword Technique?" Sir Needle shook his head.

"Not a sword Technique, no."

"Oh," George said, fighting to keep the disappointment from his voice. Then he sighed.

"Even if it was, I'm not likely to be good enough to wield it." Sir Needle frowned at him, and his eyes sharpened. George was worried he'd made him angry; he didn't want that.

"What's that? What did you say?"

"Sorry, Sir," George said.

"No sorrys, explain why you said what you said," the tutor barked. George hesitated, then nodded once.

"I haven't been able to raise the Peak Splitter Technique to Journeyman. I've been practising for months."

"And?" Sir Needle asked irritably.

"Isn't that slow?" George replied.

"Not at all," Sir Needle said.

"What's put that in your head?" Again, George hesitated, but stubbornly pushed through his doubt.

"Fritz, I mean, the Lord Hightide. He boasted of his Journeyman mastery, and he achieved it so swiftly. Before my very eyes."

"Ah," Sir Needle said. Then he smiled slyly.

"Don't compare yourself to him. He cheated."

"What?"

"You heard."

"I hear, but I don't understand,"George admitted. Sir Needle sighed.

"Time is pressing, but I suppose we have some minutes to spare. Come, I'll explain while we walk." George nodded, then asked, "Should I remove my armour?" Sir Needle, who was already striding away, glanced back, "No. Keep it on for now. You'll be better received in armour." George nodded and followed.

"Where are we going? The Treasury, is it on auction?"

"Private seller," Sir Needle said, not slowing his pace.

"A foreign Climber down on his luck and late on a loan."

"And you're taking advantage of that?" George asked pointedly. He didn't consider it rightful to abuse such a circumstance." We are," Sir Needle said.

"And don't feel too bad for the sorry bastard. He should know better than to bet all but his blade in a foreign city. He likely thought he could set sail and flee his incurred debt. You can get away with that in other places. Not in Rain City, though." George didn't like the sentiment, but he kept that to himself. Also he was excited to learn more about the Technique. It must have to be useful for him, otherwise the tutor wouldn't have sought him out.

They were almost at the door when Elliot entered the hall, training blade held loosely in one and whistling a dull tune.

"Lord Hightide, just who I wanted to see," Sir Needle greeted. Elliot's eyes widened, and his brow rose.

"Is that so? What are you in want of, Sir Needle?"

"Your name and nobility," he replied bluntly.

"Is that all?" Elliot said, scowling, then schooling his face.

"Ha, not at all," Sir Needle said.

"Your company would be appreciated too, and I think you'll want to take part in our expedition."

"Your expedition," Elliot repeated.

"We're going to bargain for a Technique," Sir Needle said.

"I see. Something potent or precious for a swordsman, I assume?"

"Both potent and precious," Sir Needle agreed.

"A metal-aligned Technique." Elliot smiled eagerly at that.

"Well, I suppose I could accompany you," he said.

"Though I wonder how you'll afford the Technique. Aren't your own funds direly stretched, Sir?"

"Shrewd as ever, Lord," Sir Needle said, which caused Elliot's chest to puff out a bit.

"But I won't be buying it. Mr. Anchor will."

"George?" Elliot said, peering around the mightily muscled tutor. He smiled blandly when his gaze alighted on his armoured figure.

"Really?" George bowed shallowly. Though the two of them were cordial with each other and sparred occasionally, there was no friendship between them. The gulf between their stations spanned like a sea, and really, they just didn't speak often. George liked to think they had some mutual respect for one another, as Elliot didn't demean him nor speak any unkind words. There were no kind words for him either, though.

"I'll have to see the Technique for myself first," George said.

"But if Sir Needle recommends it, how can I refuse his wisdom?"

"Ha, well said," Sir Needle chuckled.

"What say you, Lord Hightide, will you come with us?" Elliot pondered a moment, then said, "I will." Then they were off, striding into the garden, into the estate proper, then out into the Palace District. As they walked in the rain, George cleared his throat and addressed Sir Needle, "You were saying something about how Fritz cheated."

"My brother cheated? Cheated what?" Elliot asked.

"With the Inevitable Blade Technique," Sir Needle said.

"Oh..." Elliot said, then he sighed.

"Can we speak on something else? It feels as though we're always speaking about my brother. It's always: Fritz did this, Fritz did that. It is constant. You do know his real name is Francis, don't you? And he's not the only Hightide who's worthy of attention."

"No, indeed," Sir Needle placated.

"However, I have a duty to put my students' fears to rest."

"You fear him, do you?" Elliot asked George.

"No," he replied quickly, maybe too quickly. Do I fear him? George wondered. Perhaps. Though he also trusted him completely. And he admired him, especially his skill with the sword. And he was perilously handsome. He didn't know how he truly felt beyond that.

"It's not that kind of worry," Sir Needle said.

"I see," Elliot said, then remained silent.

"So how did he cheat?" George asked.

"Hmm, firstly, his Advanced Attributes are well-suited to the style. They allow him to feel minute differences or discrepancies, which would, in turn, hasten his comprehension and aid in quick correction. Secondly, he was prepared for the Technique in his youth. By Tomas, his father. And thirdly, the worst cheat of all, he's bloody talented," Sir Needle said.

"That's it?" George asked, not sure if the explanation made him feel better at all. Sir Needle nodded grimly.

"It's galling, but it's the truth. He has an uncanny sense for swordplay. I've seen its equal in only a few others so young, and none of them were in Rain City. Well, save for King Rain's son, the one who's missing." Elliot scowled and scoffed.

"Ha, I know how you feel. It's not fair, is it?" Sir Needle said.

"A younger me would have burned with envy. Honestly, the current me smoulders with it. To have so much potential, truly, then to choose to be a Scout. What a Striker he would have made." He shook his head, lamenting, then took a sip from a hip flask.

"So he cheats by being born better?" George asked. Sir Needle's face soured.

"No. Not entirely. No one's really born better, just born in better circumstances. That's the truth. And though he has a small gift, no denying, it can't bloom in Rain City. Nothing can." Elliot looked at Sir Needle askance, and George chose to stare at a tree swaying in the distance. The tutor often had dark moods, and although he mostly kept them clear during training, they would swell like storm clouds when one touched upon a sore subject. Which could be anything.

Sir Needle drank again, then continued to speak, "And it's not as though you can't catch up. Us less talented folk have to struggle through, day after day, honing our edges. We will be stronger for it. I believe that." They lapsed into silence, plodding down the pristine streets. The quiet was broken by Elliot's refined voice, "Why is this private seller not willing to trade through the King's Treasury? Surely an auction for a Technique would earn him more than a..."

"A suspiciously sneaky deal?" Sir Needle said, finishing the question.

"Quite so."

"Secrecy. He likely has a master or an order who would punish him severely if his debt or this sale came to light. There could be another reason, too. The Empire forbids some Techniques. And although Rain City isn't aligned wholly with the Empire, we are allies of a sort, so the King might not allow the trade or sale of such a thing."

"You think it's a forbidden Technique?" George asked, unsure if he wanted to learn something outlawed in the Empire. Despite its distance, if he travelled away from Rain City, he would certainly pass through Empire lands and seas.

"No, I don't," Sir Needle said.

"I think it's the former. A secret Technique from an order of metal-aligned warriors. Though I only heard rumours, and those third-hand from a friend I've asked to keep an ear out for such things. We'll see." Again, they ceased speaking, and it lasted for the rest of the journey, the rain's light drum only punctured by Sir Needle slurping the contents of his hip flask. George wanted to say something about the drinking, but held his tongue. It was Sir Needle's business, not his own. Still, he worried.

It took at least thirty minutes to make their way to the private seller's, a man called Kaeville's, room, which was located in a busy inn in the Upper Ring. It was an obviously fake name, Kaeville being a renowned swordsman who was one of the goddess Alestria's team members and had Climbed the Final Spire with her. Never to be seen again. If George was in the same situation Sir Needle suspected the man was in, he'd present with a fake name, too. Though he'd pick something simple, like Iron, Guard or Hilt.

Or perhaps he'd pick something exotic, like Khopesh or something fearsome, like Cutlass or Sabre. Sir Needle took the initiative in the negotiations, leaving George with little to do but stand behind him, awkward and armoured as he ever was. That was a good thing. He didn't know the true worth of the Technique, though he had an inkling, and would likely have been swindled by the seller. Kaeville was a large man, not as big as Sir Needle himself, but well-muscled, long limbed and tall.

His shirt and pants were of decent make and were a dull grey and beige, respectively. The Climber's arms were covered in long, straight scars, ones inflicted by a sword, no doubt, and he wore a flat iron mask with slits for his eyes. The eyes were hard, but also watery and bloodshot. The bartering went on for almost an hour; others, shady sorts also wanting to purchase the Technique, came and went.

They either found the price too high, in both risk and triads, or discovered the Technique itself was unsuitable to their needs. Through it all, Elliot and George mostly listened. Though the Lord did interject at times, offering him access to the privileges he held as a noble. Unfortunately, the masked man wasn't interested in anything of the sort, much to Sir Needle's annoyance.

"Six hundred gold, a healing potion, a stamina potion, and an oath of secrecy. My final offer," Sir Needle said sternly. Kaeville hesitated before sighing.

"Very well. Bring them on the morrow." His voice was deep, angry and sad. From its timbre, George suspected that the man wasn't much older than himself. Kaeville held out a hand to shake, and to George's surprise, Sir Needle pulled him forward to shake it and seal the deal.

"You'll be buying it, remember," Sir Needle whispered.

"Right," George said before clasping hands with Kaeville. They were strong and warm, then there was something beneath the surface of the man's skin. A hum that could not be heard, only felt.

"No, grasp the forearm. It is proper where I come from," the masked man corrected, and so they did. Both the warmth and the hum redoubled, and George stared into the mask, then into the eyes behind it. Kaeville's grip tensed, his fingers like a steel trap, and they pressed into his arm. It was painful, but nothing so bad as to voice it. George replied in kind, squeezing hard. They stood there for some moments, crushing each other, before Kaeville relented.

"Good. You have steel in you. The knowledge won't be wasted on the soft. May I ask your name?"

"You may call me..." George trailed off. For a moment, he thought about giving out one of the previous aliases he'd mused upon, then the fancy fled.

"George." And George was just right. He couldn't see it, but he suspected he saw a smile behind the mask; it was something in the way the man's thick neck moved. Then they left, returning to the Hightide estate. There, George allowed his thought to drift away from the warrior and the finger-shaped bruises he'd left on his forearm, and to the more important matter at hand. How was he meant to pay for the Technique?

His share of the Sirensilk profits couldn't amount to more than two hundred gold, and he needed thrice that and the potions besides. Before he left the side of Sir Needle, he asked, "How am I meant to afford six hundred gold?"

"Ask your team. I'm sure they'll help you," he replied.

"Speak to Lauren first, I think she has a soft spot for you."

"She does?" George asked.

"We barely speak."

"Perhaps that's why," Sir Needle chuckled.

"She's a contentious one. A born firebrand. And you keep your own peace and don't pester her without good reason. Which would be endearing, for her anyway." George nodded. That was true enough; he had little need to bother the woman. And so he took Sir Needles' advice and sought her out. He found her chattering amiably with Jess and Lady Hightide in one of the tea rooms where they were, unsurprisingly, drinking tea and eating small pastries.

The Lady of the house seemed to be in far higher spirits than she had been this past week, and she was wearing a new dress. Lady Hightide laughed while she told some tale, and the other two women listened with interest. George was loath to interrupt, but he had a Technique to fund, and dallying would do him no good. He stepped forward and, after clearing his throat, directly asked for what he wanted.

To his astonishment, Lauren was more than willing to lend her own funds to help him, as were all the team he spoke to after.

"Yeah, go ahead, take a hundred gold," Rosie had said.

"No trouble, George," Cal had agreed with a smile.

"Take anything you want," Bert had offered.

"It's a worthy cause," Lauren had asserted.

"And you are nothing if not worthy." He nearly shed a tear, but was able to keep strong. After less than an hour, he had all he needed to trade. Then came the waiting. George slept early and was up earlier. He showered, ate a small meal and set off before sunrise. He almost broke into a run, as used to pre-dawn training as he was, but stopped himself. He didn't want to barge into Kaeville's room, panting and all sweaty. The well-muscled man wouldn't appreciate that. Or maybe he would. Still, it wasn't a good idea.

The dawn rose, then passed, and he met the seller in the inn. Kaeville was pacing and muttering in the common room and hastily approached when he saw George.

"You have it?" he asked. George nodded, jingling one of the pouches on his belt.

"Good, come to my room." Without another word, Kaeville turned and led him up the stairs. There, George handed the pouches of gold to him, then followed with the potions. Kaeville sighed, then nodded his head.

"All here."

"And your part of the trade?" George asked, keeping any nervousness from his voice.

"Just here," Kaeville said, gesturing to his bed.

"One moment." The man got on his hands and knees and crawled under the bed-frame, then he dragged a steel box into sight and heaved it up. It was quite the sight. Setting it on the mattress, he unlocked it with a key and opened the lid. Within, there were dull, iron plates. They were of varying size, from the span of a palm to the length of an arm. Some had a slight curve, while others were as straight as a sword. Kaeville removed the plates and put them into a sack where they clattered and clinked.

Then he closed the box. George frowned. The pieces of metal didn't look to have anything carved or painted on their surfaces. The masked man handed him the sack. George immediately put his hand in and pulled out one of the plates, then inspected it. It was just a hunk of metal, complete scrap. It wasn't even smooth. Kaeville was attempting to cheat him. George's frown stretched into a scowl.

"What's this?"

"It's the Technique," Kaeville said, and again George thought the man was smiling under the mask. This time, it seemed smug.

"Where?" George said, clenching his fist.

"That, in your hand, is the breathing pattern, if you can read it. And all the foundational knowledge you need is in that sack," Kaeville claimed. The man sounded so sure, so George returned his gaze to the plate. He turned it slowly, attempting to glean something from it. There was nothing; it was just poorly forged metal, judging from the bumpy, rippled surface.

"I can't see it," George said.

"There's nothing to read."

"Teaching you to read it wasn't part of the deal," the man said. Now George could hear the self-satisfaction in the man's tone. George bristled, his buried frustration bubbling into a real anger. He wanted to draw his sword and split the man, but restrained himself. In that moment, when he was holding his will firm, he felt a tremor. To his surprise, it was emanating from the plate he still clutched. His eyebrows rose, and he ran his finger over the rough metal.

His surprise deepened when he could feel glyphs, faint, enigmatic, right under his fingers.

"Oh," George said. Then his worry and frustration lifted, and he grinned. Kaeville crossed his arms over his large chest.

"You didn't? You have Essence of Metal?"

"I may have," George said, his smile widening.

"Rust and ruin," the masked man cursed.

"Just my luck to run into a metal mage in the middle of a water-aligned city. Dull edges and dented helms!" The man grumbled for some moments longer before slouching, then sighing, resigned.

"I'll have your oath now. That you will keep the Technique, and my part here, secret."

"You have it," George said easily.

"I swear on my sword that I'll keep the secret." Kaeville stilled at the proclamation. A statue for a whole three seconds. Then he nodded solemnly, as serious as steel.

"I hear your sword oath. May it never rust." George guessed the oath he offered had struck a chord and earned him respect from the man. It was nice. They stood there quietly for nearly a minute. George began to turn, the bargain done.

"Before you go, I have a proposal," Kaeville said. George stopped and nodded once.

"I'm leaving by ship in a few days, but I have some afternoons to spare," he continued.

"Would you be interested in some guidance?"

"Only guidance?" George asked, feeling bold.

"For now," the man said, then chuckled.

"We could attempt a friendship."

"That would be nice," George replied.

"Tomorrow, noon," Kaeville said.

"I'd like to stroll the markets, speak a bit, and take your measure before I teach you anything. Meet me in the inn."

"I'll do that," George agreed.

"Farewell, until then," Kaeville said.

"Farewell." George made his way to the door, but had a thought and turned.

"I forgot to ask. What's the Technique named?"

"The Anvil's Trials, and the Mysteries of Metal."