The night was still young when the fights began, barely an hour since Galier had arrived. It was a pity, there was so much more to be had from an evening than could be found watching two pampered soldiers grind their own blood into the sand. Galier was loath to follow the flow of people into the interior courtyard but there was no helping it, perhaps the fashion would pass soon and the dances and music would return to Maerinen parties.

Once through the doors, it was clear to Galier that great pains had been taken to make the inner courtyard into a nearly functional theater. But the frayed edges were plainly visible. The excess sand strewn across the tiles, the lanterns hastily hung from every available point of vantage. It was surprising to see such shoddy work from the likes of lady Nycaeus. Surprising, but welcome. It was good to see even the mightiest of the old blood had their failings, even if they were small. Few seemed to notice, or perhaps they did not care.

Galier watched from as far back as propriety would allow and that meant leaning on a pillar along the walkway. The clustered people were not exactly an inviting proposition, especially tonight. It was unlikely, of course, that anything out of the ordinary would happen. The assassin would not show his face so soon, but Galier told himself it would not hurt to be cautious. Besides, being in such a crowd would increase the likelihood of someone bumping into him accidently, and ruining his carefully prepared courtly visage. He wore nothing so fancy as the night before. He had elected to take a more somber approach. It would give a reasonable facade to those who thought him traumatised and conveniently the looser, dark jacket served well to hide the two knives he carried. He also had simply not had enough time to dedicate to himself after preparing Lana for the party, it had taken much longer than he had expected. Of course he did not want to mock those in mourning or appear too solemn either so he had stopped just short of black, instead choosing a very dark blue, so near black as to nearly appear the same, with enough silver thread to lighten it sufficiently. Worn on top of a loose black shirt and trousers, it was clear enough that he was not a mourner and had taken little time or effort.

At any rate, few would be looking at him. Their interest was all on the dueling ring where at that moment, two brawny lords were frantically jabbing at each other with spears to the delight of everyone in the crowd. Neither of the two seemed to know what to make of the duel. Galier shook his head, these men had no idea what they were doing. Their stances were all wrong for a duel. Perfectly adequate when standing in formation with a legion at their backs but here… Jormand would not even break a sweat to beat them. Rianne as well, as much as it rankled Galier to admit it.

He had been surprised to find her here at all. The last he had heard, she was at her family hold near the Ultrasian sea to the north. Running into her in the entrance hall had certainly not been the highest point of his evening. She had been all too quick with a smile in the midst of others. Too quick with her allusions to some new lord she was stringing along as well. And she claimed Galier was too flippant with his relationships! He scowled heavily, feeling a warm well of anger forming in his chest. He could see her gleaming helmet through the crowd easily. With that she stood well over most old blood nobles and some of the new as well. He would not let her ruin his evening, as much as she no doubt wanted to.

He had found some good information, some from Rianne actually, though he had heard the same from a handful of others afterwards. The reaction to the news had not been at all what Galier expected. He had been prepared for tales of his cowardice or martial failings after he had let the assassin go. But it had been quite the opposite, to his continued surprise. After the initial coldness from lady Ealhold, he had thought they would be embarrassed to be seen with him, but quite to the contrary, his company had been a sought after commodity. He had not developed the simpering train that some of the more powerful lords and ladies did, but he had had a substantial group about him at one moment or another, composed of nobles with surprisingly high standing. They all wanted to hear about his supposed intrepid chase. He had happily obliged, with minor embellishments of course. The general interest did fade over the course of the evening. Now they hardly looked at him twice. He was satisfied with the reaction though. After all, he was not the one leaving the city and it was good to know his reputation would not be harmed.

Thinking about the other reason he was at the party soured his mood a little. He had been able to pretend he was only socializing and searching for information for the most part. He did not like the idea of being left without his only friend in the decidedly unfriendly city, not in the slightest. As much as it made him feel petty and childish, he resented Jormand for it. He understood fully why relocating and regrouping at the family hold up north was necessary, but it still burned him. And he felt ashamed for it. Martim had probably made the decision only hours before Jormand had told Galier, he was in all likelihood the only one to know outside of the family at all, but he had expected more from them. He knew he was not entitled to favors from their house, they had raised him as a burden. A tacked on measure to the blood contract binding his house to Jormand’s. But he had been raised side by side with the other boys and for some reason, he still expected something more from them. He did not even know himself what he wanted. He did not want to leave the city himself, certainly, and there was little else they could do for him. The invitation would have been welcome at least.

Galier forced that line of thinking out of his head. There was still plenty to enjoy tonight and two more still before Jormand left. And there was still information to be found about the assassin.

Over in the ring, the first duel had finally ended and the second was beginning. A youth who barely could handle his spear was cautiously approaching his opponent. Galier did not think this bout would last long and frankly he had little interest in the dueling at all. He would watch Jormand’s when they came along, perhaps Rianne’s as well, if only in hopes that she would be defeated. Perhaps the two of them would face off, that would be one to watch to be sure. The others were about as interesting as a tavern brawl to Galier. So, in search of something else to fill the time, Galier began to walk a circuit around the crowded people. Perhaps there would be a group somewhere with some information he could use and the courtyard really was pretty, in the Maerinen style of tile and marble.

Everyone else, as it turned out, was considerably more interested in the fights than he. Here and there a couple talked off on the walkway or beside a pillar but they all stood a little too close for Galier to want to interrupt them. He did not mind terribly. It felt good to walk about the courtyard. The evening air was pleasantly cool, a rarity for summer, and even though half of anyone of import was in the courtyard, their attention was so focused that it almost seemed that he was alone. It was strangely peaceful. The courtyard was beautiful, the tile mosaics glittered, washed in lantern light and the marble pillars along the edges, shadowed so deeply, gave the impression of pale, severed tree trunks. Even the sounds of fighting in the background did little to detract from the alien beauty. The architectural tastes of Maerin still struck Galier as a little strange. He liked marble well enough, and the sheer scale of it actually made sense when guest lists were as long as they were, but the plain, pale austerity of it puzzled him. So near to the coast, paints and dyes were never in short supply. It was befuddling to say the least that these people chose to forgo the opportunity. There was something to it thought, something that inspired awe and a touch of fear.

Galier continued his tour around the dueling ring. The crowd was so thick on this side that he could see nothing of the current duel but from the erupting of sudden cheers and slow return to quiet, he gathered that it had just ended. Galier felt sorry for that poor boy, he had not stood a chance. At least he would not have to face off against Jormand, he was likely only minorly wounded as it was.

His walk around the courtyard eventually took Galier to roughly the opposite side from where it had begun. There he decided to take a pause by another thick marble pillar. He had a clear view of the ring where the new contestants were taking to the sand. It was time to watch now. He could well see Jormand’s hulking shadow through the crowd, looming over his opponent. Galier looked about himself, the walkway was as far as he could see and nobody turned from the ring. He stepped onto the pillar’s tall base and hauled himself up onto a ledge just wide enough for him to keep his footing. He clung to the cool stone with one hand and leaned with his back on the pillar to watch the rest of the duel. From his new vantage, Galier had a nearly uninterrupted view of the ring. Despite his dislike of dueling, he grinned when Jormand took the ring, he always made the dull duels more interesting.

Jormand presently had his opponent splayed out on the sandy floor with a trickle of blood running from the tip of his spear. Galier laughed to himself quietly. It was already over and he was not surprised, though by the looks of the shocked faces in the crowd, they were. Or more likely offended by Jormand’s brutal tactics. They should have known better than to expect noble decorum from him. Galier knew well that Jormand had never learned the rituals of dueling nor intended to. Galier himself was of a similar mind. When they were being taught at first, nobility had seemed important. That all left the first time they had fought on the deck of a heaving ship. You had to take whatever advantages presented themselves then. Jormand had clearly taken that mindset to hear.

While Jormand’s defeated adversary picked himself up off of the sand and the next set of contestants took to the ring, Galier cast about himself quickly to make sure nobody was watching him behave in such an unsuitable manner. There were none, luckily but he did notice one person, clinging to a pillar much like himself further down the curve of the walkway. He recognized the blue dress and spindly form immediately. It was Lana, he was not surprised. None of the ladies in their elaborate gowns would even be able to even make the step necessary, much less be willing to do so where they could be seen. He smiled. She would not be tamed by courtly ways, he thought, as much as she tried to emulate them.

Galier watched the rest of the dueling bouts from his pillar perch, they went by quickly, as the more skilled fighters tended to favor risky, quick strategies. Surprisingly, the gangly youth from before was still in the running and was only eliminated in the next to final bout by a tiny cut from Rianne’s boot knife. She had looked as startled as the crowds when he disarmed her the first time. In the end, Jormand was victorious. It was as they had planned. Anything to make him seem a more reliable source was a step they had to take and the Maerinen respected power, no matter the form it came in. He won by delivering a nasty gash to Rianne’s leg with his side sword. He had darted in low, using his shield to cover his sudden change of movement, and landed a cut at the end of her tassets through the thick linen trousers she wore. Galier winced as the fountain of blood from the cut hit the sand. She would live, it was not so dangerous an injury as it looked, but watching her pristine white trousers, until then only dusted with beige sand, turn to dark crimson tied Galier’s stomach into knots.

Galier left the party soon after that. He really was quite tired and the effects of a lot to drink and little to eat had him wanting for bed. He made sure to make his leaving obvious, saying more farewells to more people than he normally would have, in order to make it clear for Lana. She would not doubt be itching for a reason to leave. Throughout the whole party, he had only caught sight of her a handful of times. It was shocking, really, given how out of place she looked mingling with the Maerinen nobility, but she did it impressively well. He scarcely caught a glimpse of her as he left, bowing a polite goodbye to one lesser lord or another who Galier did not recognize.

The courtyard outside of the keep complex was nearly empty now, only the guards at the gate remained, the bright light from a nearly full moon gleaming dully on their armor. They barely acknowledged Galier as he passed. They only turned their heads to watch him go. Galier had still not gotten used to the wide gulf between nobility and warriors in high society. In his childhood, he had been taught by men of similar rank to these guardsmen, caraused with them in the taverns, even rowed side by side with them until he was old enough to command a ship himself. Here, were he to speak to one, the guard would not say a word unless absolutely necessary, opting instead to point him towards a lord or lady who could answer his question better. It was no shock that they were treated as little more than property then, when they were not even allowed to speak. They were much the same as the hounds Galier had left back at Derranhall when he had first come to Maerin. Useful, certainly, but as useful as a spade or an axe.

Galier respected the divide as he passed the guards, though. He did smile politely and produce a thankful smile but they did not acknowledge either. Perhaps they knew of the way of things farther north where a soldier was as valued as any artisan but he did not think it likely. They only saw a tipsy young lord who mistook his place due to overindulgence. Galier chuckled a bit to himself at the thought. He was not that drunk. He stopped laughing when he nearly tripped on his own toes as he entered the street.

He stopped shortly after leaving the gate, on the side of the road where closed shops provided a dark shadow blocking out the moon. It was there he planned to wait for Lana to make her exit. He did not have to wait long, which was good as he was beginning to feel a little less stable on his feet, even standing there. He heard her speaking to the guards on the way out but could not make out the words. They did not reply to her either. Soon enough he heard rapid footsteps approaching, Lana left her decorum at the gate. It would be better that way, if she began to think herself truly a lady of the court, it would become more complicated than Galier was bargaining for.

At first, Galier did not see Lana approaching in the night. She blended well with the shadows until she was only a few steps before him. He stumbled back upon realising that the shadow hunkered in the door frame next to him, was actually her. How she made so little sound was beyond him, especially in the hard soled shoes preferred by the court that she wore.

“Good evening, lord Caerest,” She said after a moment of Galier staring into the darkened door frame in confusion. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re quite drunk.

Galier snorted loudly. He had meant for it to be a dignified scoff but maybe there was something to what she said. Of course he would not admit it. She spoke to him like an old friend, something he was not used to from those he hired, but he did not really mind. He lacked friends in the city, one more could not hurt. So long as she acted the same way she spoke.

“Certainly not!” He exclaimed, as pompous as you like. He only spit a little more than he had meant to. “Why, I ought to report you to those guards for even insinuating that!”

Lana laughed good naturedly and left her crouch in the door frame, walking out into the street. She offered a bracing hand to Galier which he accepted in as dignified a manner as he could. His feet did not want to cooperate as well as they should. He was very tired after all. It was good to know that Lana was not too serious, Jormand was good enough company but he tended to be rather dull, a laugh out of that man was as rare as one from a felon on his way to the gallows.

They started down the street at a leisurely stroll with Galier holding a little tighter to Lana than he would have liked to be necessary. The gates were still not far, best to not break the illusion quite yet.

The streets that night were quieter than usual. Even the shop owners and traders were keeping indoors. They may not have known what was upsetting their noble clientele but they felt the effects of it nonetheless. Many of the windows they passed were shuttered tight and many of those lacked the lit halo normally commonplace at that time of night. Galier did not consider it worth noting until, about halfway back to the Captain’s Cat, they passed another inn, one that Galier had frequented religiously upon his arrival to the city. The sign above the door had not changed, though it was a little more weathered. He could still make out the deep blue background and the sinuous red beast posed over it. The words were harder to see in the darkness but he could see the rich gold lettering in his mind’s eye that proclaimed the Serpent’s Call a place of repute and fine drink. When he had first arrived in the city, the wide common room therein had been a haven for Galier. The city could be overwhelming at first, especially to an unimportant person such as himself. At that time, there had always been plenty of lanterns lit, creating a warm, soft, false noon even into the small hours of the morning. There had always been a bard up on a table singing and telling stories, or jugglers juggling all manner of objects. Even on the most empty of nights, in the early mornings when few were left awake, the waitstaff were at hand to bring another round. The Serpent's Call had been no small source of inspiration for Galier when he bought his own inn and was still a fond memory, though he seldom visited anymore. Tonight the door was bolted, the windows shut tight, and not a glimmer of light came from the upper floors. No sound escaped the thick wooden door, it could have been entirely empty for all it seemed. Perhaps it was, as preposterous as that was to Galier. The proprietor was a shrewd businesswoman, she would not have closed her inn if there were riots in the streets or storms strong enough to blow out the expensive glass windows, not if there were customers to be had.

Galier did not stop to knock on that old wooden door no matter how much he wanted to. There must be something wrong for it to be so. But Lana, who he was still relying on to keep him steady, kept walking at a pace just a little too fast for a lady. Her steps were just a hair too high and loud. It made Galier grin to see her trying so hard to imitate a lady’s imperious stride when, only the night before, she had crouched in the gutter with a knife wet with brigand’s blood. It was a grim humor but the juxtaposition delighted Galier more than was strictly proper.

The rest of the walk to the Captain’s Cat was as dead quiet as the porch of the Serpent's Call had been. As they neared the harbor, Galier caught sight of the occasional face in a second or third story window but it always disappeared quickly. The emptiness was peaceful, in a way. Galier was confident in his and Lana’s ability to defend themselves if necessary, they had proven that the night before. And it was refreshing to walk with a woman who did not always want to talk. It felt strange, too. When he had first met her, Galier had made every attempt to converse the same way with Lana as he would with any courtier but she did not have summer estates to discuss, nor frivolous stories to tell. Not even a point of philosophical contention they could debate. She had, accidentally, cut through the niceties of high society and reduced Galier to her level, where nothing he knew was relevant anymore. But he found it surprising how easily he could understand the plight of a guttersnipe whose life ought to have never crossed his. Her stories of hardship carried with them a hard wall that his life would never cross but he could just barely peek over. Perhaps he would never be able to commiserate properly but he empathized with the child she had been, left on her own in a strange world, devoid of family to hold onto and harsh in its every detail. His had not been so common as hers, a childhood spent in the relative luxury of Derranhall could not compare to one spent on the streets but he understood the loneliness of a child far removed from anything familiar. He did not tell her of it of course. He kept tight control over his mouth, no need to give her more information than she needed.

When they did arrive back at the inn, they were greeted by a depressingly similar sight to that at the Serpent’s Call. The windows were already barred and the light from within was dim. No music or laughter could be heard from the street, not even the angry mumbles of drunken men that came with times of famine or disease. There was emptiness here just as there was throughout Maerin that night.

Galier let go of Lana’s hand in favor of the solid wooden banister as he made his way up the stairs to the front door. It was unlocked, the staff would not leave while he was still gone. They were paid whether or not there were customers to serve. Inside, the only person Galier saw was the bartender, Erasmos, who waved a greeting as Galier entered. He was idly polishing a cup that was already shining in the dim light. There had been no customers for some time, then.

Galier told Erasmos to lock the door and return home, even though his shift would usually continue for hours yet. He still intended to pay the man but there was no need for him to stay if there was no one to serve. Erasmos would carry word to the rest of the staff.

The rooms upstairs were as empty as the common room. Dim candlelight shown from under one door but the others were dark. Galier hoped the guests were only turning in early. An entirely empty night could prove problematic.

His own room was empty, of course. The beds had been made nicely and everything tidied up. Saphi insisted on sending someone to do so every day even when Galier expressly told her not not. The maids had other work to do, but she kept at it anyway, personally if necessary. He bade Lana goodnight in the hallway. There would be plenty of time to discuss what they had found in the morning and his eyelids had become quite heavy.

Galier took the few steps to the foot of his bed, the one on the right. There were no differences between the two but he had always preferred the right side of the room. He unbuttoned his coat and threw it onto the other bed and began to unlace his shirt. He gave up halfway through. His fingers had trouble with the knot and he was too tired to care. He would deal with it in the morning. He pitched forward onto the bed faster than he meant to. He was glad for the feather mattress to cushion his fall. There he lay, face down on top of the sheets with feet hanging from the end of the bed, waiting for sleep to come. But blessed sleep did not come so easily. Thoughts came unbidden into his head. Lana’s stories about the nobility, even merchants, but most of all about the Lady of Stars. He had put the previous night out of his mind for the better half of the day but now the memory came surging back with a vengeance, setting his teeth chattering even in his warm room. The memory of fighting to control his own limbs, even his thoughts, tormented him. He took handfuls of the sheets in clenched fists to convince himself they were still his to move. He had been so helpless, hiding behind a flimsy crate. He had not told anyone about it, not even Jormand. It shamed him, but more than that, he feared that nobody would believe him. What he had experienced sounded like magic, there was no explanation for it, but it was like no folktale he had ever heard. He had been sure, in that infinite moment as he had cowered away, that he would not be able to resist the urge to leap from his hiding place and run straight to the Lady. Had the assassin not been out there, he surely would have. The mattress under him that muffled his cries and screams was beginning to become wet from tears he was unaware of.

He could not pull his mind away from that alley by the wharf. His breath came ragged through the musty down of his mattress but he felt like he was still there, the night air slightly cool against him, the wood of the pallets against his skin. His heart beat out of time but he did not notice. In his mind he saw the alley, the dead end wall that towered over him, blocking all hope of escape. All he could feel was the knot of fear in his stomach, both frigidly cold and searing hot. He heard the coastal wind howling as it beat against the stone of the alley, he did not need to hear its anguished cry to know that it was a prison as much as any cage. He rocked with broken sobs, pulled up his knees and huddled with arms wrapped about his legs. He paid no mind to his dirty boots that no doubt dirtied his bed. His room in the Captain’s Cat became the memory. He was in the alley, somehow, though he could still feel his mattress beneath him. His hands no longer grasped at sheets but rough, wooden planks. The tears flowed more freely now, but he did not feel them. All he felt was the salt air of the harbor transported through the memory.

Eventually, slowly, the sobs lessened, Galier’s body began to relax. Tensed muscles loosened, giving way to complete exhaustion. Then, finally, sleep overtook him. But it was not a peaceful sleep. He was haunted by the Lady of Stars. Never did he see her face, not even a hint, but he knew it was her, pulling ropes tied about his wrists and ankles with her fingers, pushing him into a wooden crate where he stayed, obediently. She drifted in and out of his dreams. Some began innocently, a party at a city lord’s manor, a hunt in the forests near Derranhall. But without fail, she would be there, taking the place of a minor courtier or a squire. In those she did nothing, but she was always there, watching where nobody else seemed to notice her. Her shadowed stare followed him from dream to dream until the morning, when he woke, sweaty and sore, to the light of the midday sun blazing through his window.