It is said that the opening night of a play will make it or break it. In the case of the tale of Renard the Black, The Drowned Man, not only did the success of the play hinge upon the opening night, but also the success of its playwright and director Ditler Strach’s career. After a set of critical and commercial failures he had fixed upon Renard’s story as a last ditch attempt to bring in the crowds and repair his reputation as an artist and actor of great merit. He had personally taken on the role of Sigismund, the play’s nefarious villain and the brother of Renard himself.

Ditler had been a terror on set, strict on his actors and demanding with his crew. It was his singular goal to make sure that everything went perfectly and woe to anyone that stood in the way of that goal. The mammoth of a man’s wobbling jowls and moustache had become a common sight at the Mildenhall Playhouse and the bellowing of his outraged voice just as common a sound.

As tyrannical as Ditler may have been, the effect it had on the opening night was exactly as the director had hoped. Absolutely everything went off without a hitch. The audience laughed when they were supposed to, gasped at the shocking twists and turns of the plot, and he even noticed a woman crying in the front row during the death scene of the tragic Sigismund - he made a mental note to introduce himself afterwards, she looked wealthy.

The truth however was that he hadn’t needed to worry about the play at all. After the affair at the Du Vogare estate Renard had hardly been out of the prints. There was currently a war on the streets between the Evening Standard and the Vatan Inquirer. The former paper claimed that Renard’s actions had been a type of mythical justice dispensed upon traitors to the Empire and corrupt, decadent nobles. Every other evening it seemed to have found a new ‘highly trusted source’ which claimed that he and the crown heir, Heliot Phyrian, were the closest of friends and both intent on solving any problem one could imagine within the Empire. The latter had taken the opposite approach. The ‘Vile Necromancer’ Renard was, in their editors eyes, the greatest threat currently facing the Empire. Every day, new tales of his strange sorceries and forbidden tastes reached the public eye, and his apparent influence over the crown heir - and thereby his ailing father, the Emperor - was to blame for each and every problem and injustice within the Empire’s borders.

Suffice to say, everyone had an opinion about the man, and a great deal of newspapers were being sold thanks to his controversial nature. Which in turn ensured that the play’s showings were sold out up to a month in advance before the opening night had even gone ahead.

The truth - an item which graces the front page of a newspaper only in the direst of circumstances - was something altogether different. After he and Vespia Larue had saved the crown prince both had been awarded. Vespia had seen herself promoted to the rank of Captain of the Watch, and given a very generous stipend as well as a Medal of the Prophet, one of the highest honours the Empire could bestow upon one of its servants. Renard had been given the title to a small farming estate in the southern provinces and had been offered the position of magical tutor to the crown prince. Given the fact that his now incarcerated brother had been the previous holder of that position he had politely declined.

The farming estate offered a modest income that allowed him to rent a room of his own in the city and seemed to manage itself well enough, a steady stream of eager letters from the estates majordomo had made it clear how much they looked forward to him summering there and he hadn’t had the heart as of yet to explain that his work kept him all too busy within the city.

Said work was an intense investigation into the nature and powers of the Fae. The promised access to the Imperial Libraries restricted section had not materialised, and when he had managed to grab Tyla Veich, commander of the Scarlet Robes, she made it quite clear that his official story should mention absolutely nothing about her or her order on pain of…well. Pain.

But even the small amount of knowledge he could gleam from the rest of the Imperial Library caused Renard’s concern to grow. The Fae were immortal, incredibly powerful, and most importantly they held a grudge. All of this weighed heavily as he watched the opening night performance of The Drowned Man from a seat at the back of the Emperor’s box.

Red velvet curtains flanked each side of the ivory white inlaid with gold box, ready to be drawn together at a moment’s notice if the Emperor - or in this case, given that he was bedstricken, the crown heir - required privacy during a show.

He sat upon a wide, high backed and well cushioned chair of the finest teak hardwood. In front of him sat Vespia Larue herself, wearing a green dress uniform that was all braids and expensive furs. To her right was the crown heir in a fine silk frock and a coat of light blue, though Renard couldn’t help but notice that the young man’s head turned to take in her reaction or leaned in to make a murmuring comment more often than he seemed to watch the play. A trio of well groomed, extravagantly dressed advisors filled the rest of the chairs, and Renard was well aware of the dirty glances they shot at him when they thought he wasn’t looking.

The wizard himself was wearing his usual attire - one of the benefits of wielding such magical power was the ability to ignore the traditionally restrictive dress conventions of a black tie event, among other things - a black doublet of silk and a white furred cloak of the same hue. A new set of red tinted spectacles sat upon his face, obscuring the emptiness of his left eye socket.

He had been distracted the entire night, the only thing which had woken him from his reveries had been moments when the crowd gasped or shouted or otherwise reacted and the twangs of pain in his left hand every so often, a hand the Thin Man had healed in only the most superficial of terms.

Before he knew it the performance had finished to a shower of standing applause, the cast had come out to bow, and curtains were being drawn over both the stage and the Imperial box.

“So? What did you think?” It was with a start that he realised Vespia had asked him a question, and that the crown heir and his advisors were eagerly awaiting his response.

“It was…inaccurate.” He answered, truthfully. “As you’re well aware. I’ve never engaged my brother in a swordfight, nor did he ever cut my eye out during one. And I can assure you, if I were ever to be in a duel with the man he would triumph, his skills far outweigh mine. It should be noted also that, despite the climax of the play, we did not engage in a magical battle within the Cathedral of Undine while throwing ribbons at one another.”

The Crown Prince offered a few words. “I believe the ribbons were intended to represent something a tad more exciting, my friend. Fire, or lightning perhaps.” There was a moment of silence, and he could tell that the others had thoroughly enjoyed the play and were perhaps a tad disappointed to hear his review.

“However, ahem. As a play and a story? It was fantastic. Ditler, what an actor, no?” Renard rubbed his hands together as he spoke, wincing only slightly at the pain in his left hand, and was pleased to see the group's positive reaction.

“One of the best, I say! This is the first time I’ve been to the theatre in years, you know.” Vespia had mentioned that quite often throughout the night, such was her giddiness at the whole affair. Her usually stoic personality seemed to give way when it came to the theatre, in all its glamour. The abundance of champagne certainly didn’t hurt either.

“And in a few minutes you’ll be able to speak to him. The cast and some of the theatre’s sponsors are having an after show event at the playhouse gallery. I’m sure he’ll want to hear both of your opinions on his performance.” Heliot clapped his hands together and strode out of the booth, the door held open by a pair of white wigged attendants for him. “Actually, Vespia, did I ever tell you I’ve acted a little myself?”

The corridor it opened out into was filled with the Empire’s most eminent individuals, and each of them paused the moment they saw Renard trailing slightly behind Vespia and the heir. The mental image of the man leading a horde of vicious undead which they and some of the Empire’s finest knights had been completely unequipped to handle still loomed large in many of their minds. Wizards were always viewed with a slight apprehension, one never knew what kind of secrets they might have uncovered, what spirits they may have in their service, or what otherworldly schemes they may be playing against one another. Indeed, it was often said in jest that much like crows, a group of mages was known as an argument of wizards.

“Ah! Renard.” Heliot turned to face the man, his features lightning up as he motioned down the corridor. “Your mother, I think she’s waiting for you.”

That made Renard freeze and his left hand ball up into a fist. She was part of the reason he had declined each invitation to an extravagant party or an intimate little upper class soiree. Svenja the Sorceress. Even the mention of her brought back memories of his training under her, of how she had ignored him in favour of his brother. Of how one of her servants had once beaten him so hard that his eye fell out of its socket. And there she was at the end of the corridor.

But he was no longer Renard the Acolyte, he no longer had to rely on her for his fortunes in the world or act as her errand boy. So he took a deep breath, fiddled with his spectacles and nodded at Heliots words. “I think you’re correct, my Lord. I’ll meet you at the gallery in a few moments.” He offered the young man an incline of his head and then marched his way up toward Svenja.

She was still as youthful and beautiful as ever. The magical glamour she vainly conjured ensured that she was all lucious black hair, plump lips and enticing curves, but as Renard grew closer he realised he was starting to see cracks appear, his power had grown enough that he could almost see past the illusion. Crows feet around her eyes, cracked lips, greying hair. He wasn’t perceptive enough to completely shatter the illusion, but it no longer held the power over him that it used to.

“Son. You don’t wear the glass eye I gifted you any more?” Her voice was still as smooth as honey though, and she was still followed by a gaggle of tittering noble sycophants, eager to gain access to even the smallest magical trinkets, or a love potion that would allow them to ensnare the match of their dreams. “That’s good I suppose, it wouldn’t go with the doublet. A little out of fashion, no? Vitgulian too, by the looks of it. I’ve always thought them dour.”

Renard cleared his throat as her followers smirked at his attire. Svenja, of course, wore the most exquisite, expensive dress of green silk the city had to offer. If the Empress had still been alive, she would have found herself often upstaged by the city’s preeminent sorceress. “No, Svenja. I don’t. After all -”

Just as he had been about to launch into the admonishment he had just worked up the courage to attempt she cut him off. “Svenja? Renard, you can’t call me mother? Have I been so horrid?” She came forward, placing a hand on his shoulder and speaking low enough that only he heard her. “We’re a family, after what happened to your brother we should stick together, we’re all we have. I mean, if it wasn’t for you, he’d still be free. But you didn’t love him enough to save him that fate.”

Renard’s features contorted into one of pure fury. How dare she speak of his brother like that, when it was her teachings that had driven him to murder a man in an attempt to please her, her vanity that had seen him paraded around every event of import in the city just to increase her own reputation. Cradled against his chest, within the folds of his doublet, was the mask he had saved from the fires of the Du Vogare estate. The mask of the Thin Man. He was sorely tempted to place his palm up against it, to allow the Fae’s power to flow through him, and to see Svenja writhe in pain on the floor like he once had. But the moment passed and instead he leaned in close, speaking loud enough that Svenja’s followers heard him.

“I can see your wrinkles, you old hag.”

Even the most powerful of illusions wouldn’t have been able to hide the shock across her face. She looked as if Renard had just slapped her. He offered her an exaggerated smile and incline of his head, then he turned on his heel and followed after Vespia and Heliot.

He found the pair within the playhouse’s lavish art gallery in deep conversation with another. A tall middle aged man with short black hair streaked with grey, a blue navy uniform and a bicorne hat tucked under his arm. His face was marked with laugh lines, and it was clear that the grin plastered across his face came easily to him. The grin only grew wider as they noticed Renard’s approach, and with a booming voice that carried around the whole gallery the navy man spoke. “There he is! The man of the hour! Well, outwith the cast and crew of our wonderful tale of course.” In a flurry of movement the man turned, doffing his bicorne to the various cast around the room - as well as Ditler himself, stood opposite the wealthy woman who had appreciated his performance so much - and then tucking it back under his elbow. “I’ve wanted to meet you for some time! I hear there’s no better wizard in the city.”

The man grabbed Renard by the hand the moment he was at arm's length, shaking it with such vigour that the wizard was almost jumping up and down at the motion. “Uh. Hello, thank you, mister?”

“Jean Delafose. A pleasure!”

Vespia smirked at the way her friend was bobbed up and down like a ragdoll at that handshake, Heliot offered a more helpful response. “Grand Admiral Jean Delafose, to be exact. He was just telling us all about his planned expedition.”

“Oh?” Renard tilted his head to the side, attempting to feign interest. He had never seen the sea himself, and couldn’t claim to know much about seafaring matters, or admit to much interest. “What sort of expedition?”

“An expedition is the diplomatic way to put it, the young Lord is far more adept at such things than I am. What I’d call it is putting the fear of the Empire into a rogue upstart!” The Admiral’s fist hit his open palm with a loud thump. “We’re heading to the west. We’ve heard there’s something afoot there. One of those barbarians is uniting the fiefdoms. Killing and burning his way through the whole place. It’s just a matter of time until he has the whole place under his fist, and then he’ll turn his gaze to us! Mark my words.”

Renard knew of the Petty Kingdoms. They had once been part of the Chandthiran Empire, but with its collapse they had fractured into a hundred constantly competing kingdoms, duchies and city states. It was common for the third or fourth sons of wealthy nobility to venture there as mercenaries, seeking wealth and glory. Darker rumours swirled there too. That it was the haven of brutally barbarous warbands, that vampires and half mad hedge sorcerers established their own decadent domains within it. The Empire was protected from such anarchy by the spine of a set of massive mountain ranges, but a united Petty Kingdoms would nevertheless be a political threat.

“I’ve gathered a great many noble warriors under me. We’re going to sail to the west and assist the locals in putting this upstart in his place. Which leads me to why I was so happy to see you, Renard.” Finally, he released the wizard’s hand. “I’d like to ask you to join us. From what we’ve heard this man is a canny, and crafty sort when it comes to magic. We could use someone like you, your Empire could use someone like you.”

He must have noted the apprehension in Renard’s face, for he put up a white gloved hand and offered him a grin. “You don’t have to answer now. Think it over, and if you need to find me just head to the admiralty’s quarters.”

“Thank you, Grand Admiral Delafose.” He sent an apologetic look around the group, motioning toward Vespia. “Do you all mind if I grab my friend? I’d like to have a word with her.”

“Of course they don’t mind.” Vespia passed her glass of champagne off to the nearest servant, motioning for Renard to lead the way. Once they were out of earshot she spoke, “I think Heliot might have a bit of a crush on me.”

“I think you know he does. Thinking of becoming the future Empress?” He asked as they strode past painting after painting.

“Of course not! But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the attention and company of the Empire’s most sought after match, is there? Besides, I think he’s actually quite nice. Not what I expected the Crown Prince to be like at all.”

“You mean a petulant brat?”

She snorted, nodding. “Yes. Exactly. You know, if it wasn’t my favourite thing about you I might tell you to work on all those straight forward answers sometime. What was it you wanted to discuss, anyway?”

The pair stopped in front of a particularly beautiful painting of the river Vat which offered the fantastical view of the grand river running through the city, completely devoid of the pollution reality offered.

“I wanted to give you something.” Renard dipped a hand into his doublet, offering forth a necklace made of an iridescent blue and silver metal. It was a small rectangle, and completely without adornments. “This.”

“Renard. It’s…” Vespia took the necklace into her hand, looking it over. “I’ll be honest, it’s not very nice.”

“It’s not meant for fashion.” He explained, motioning for her to put it on. “What I’ve given you is a very powerful artefact. One that I was only able to get with the help of the crown prince, I should add.”

Vespia placed it around her neck, tucking it inside her dress uniform and motioning for him to continue. “It doesn’t feel any different from a regular necklace.”

“The Thin Man is a Fae. And the Fae hold great grudges, Vespia. What I’ve given you is from the Emperor’s personal vault. It hides you from magical divination. It should protect you from the Thin Man, if they were to turn their attention toward you.”

“And what about you? Have you got one of these? Or Heliot, what if the Thin Man tries to possess him again?”

“Heliot has more than enough people devoted to protecting him, some who are far greater mages than I am. As for my own protection?” Renard offered a nervous little chuckle, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve been studying. The necklace isn’t a permanent solution. I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to protect us from the Thin Man is to have someone just as strong as an ally. I’m going to look for Syrenki.”

Vespia arched a brow at that, “I don’t like the sound of that. How do you even know he’s still alive? And how do you plan on finding him?”

“He’s a Magician. If he was dead, I think we would all know it by now. As to how I plan to find him? There are ways to try and commune with people like him, Magicians I mean. There was a book on it in the Imperial Library.” Renard paused, grabbing a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing servant and taking a long, long gulp. When he was done, nearly half of the glass was empty. “It wasn’t there. I spoke with the librarian and their records say that it was last taken out by Sigismund. By my brother. So…I’m going to go and speak with him.”