Ceara and Mostafa pushed through the busy streets of Viarosa, their clothes dusty from the road.  The coastal city was crowded with merchants and tradesmen from every corner of the world, all clamouring to sell exotic wares at the common passerby.  Most natives knew how to shrug the vendors away, but tourists and foreigners were sometimes caught in the haggling.  From the street level, the cliffs were just visible through the gaps in the tile roofing, a towering wall of rock and falling water.  The domed temple to Celestis, god of sea and sky, was sat on the edge of the highest cliff, watchfully looming above the city.  

Ceara quickened her pace as she waved her way through the mobs of traders, commoners, and guarded nobles.  The thief wrinkled her nose at the smell of the city - as beautiful as it looked from a distance, it smelled the same as every large town, and that wasn’t anything to revel in. Viarosa was one of the cleaner cities, but still, the stench that rose from the alleys and trenches was nothing short of incapacitating.  At least, for someone not adjusted to it.  Ceara might have been on the road for a few months, but she had spent most of her life in the poorer parts of cities exactly like this one.  Mostafa looked particularly disgusted, which amused the thief to a certain degree.  He had been silent for most of the journey, stewing in his indignation at being forced to accompany her.  

Ceara turned to make sure that the bard was still behind her.  “We’re going into a poorer bit of the city, so keep your hands on your belt.  Don’t look anyone in the eyes, and try to stay at least an arm away from them.  Got it?”  Mostafa furrowed his brow, smiling vindictively.  “What, will they rob me of my clothes and leave me to die on the street?”

“They’ll cut your throat and leave you in a ditch full of their own filth.”  The thief sighed.  “Look, I said I was sorry when we left the camp.  It was wrong of me, I’m sorry, can’t we leave it at that?”

Mostafa raised his chin proudly, but his hands lowered to his midsection as the pair turned onto a street flanked by ramshackle huts.  “You are a bird of prey, Ceara.  You prey on the weak and vulnerable and cower under the strong.  You have no loyalties except to the shine of gold.”

“Well, here you are, being paid to help me.”

The bard’s expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.  “I am paid honestly!”

Ceara stopped in the middle of the road, turning and glaring at the minstrel.  “I said I was sorry.”  He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued before he could talk.  “I [i]said I was sorry[/i].  If you’re being paid honestly, then do your job and help me.  We don’t have to be friends, but we do have to work together.  If either of us makes a mistake, we’re both dead.  I have friends in this city, but we’re about to steal from one of the most powerful people in Viarosa, and if he catches us red-handed, no one is going to stop him from burying both of us in a shallow grave.  Then you’ll be with me for eternity.”  She paused.  “Let's just get this done, alright?  Then we can go back to glaring at each other.”

Mostafa opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it.  After a short, silent moment of contemplation, he nodded his head.  

Ceara sighed and smiled.  “Good.  Let's go get some old papers, shall we?”  The pair continued to walk through the slums until they came to halt at the entrance of a building marked ‘[i]Lonely Lion[/i]’.  Ceara pulled Mostafa aside and placed him at the right side of the door.  “The person I wrote to is only expecting me.  Doesn’t like strangers.  Stand here, keep your eyes on the ground, and try to look tougher than you are.  I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”  The bard nodded, straightening his stance.  

Satisfied with his composure, Ceara walked into the tavern.  The building was hazy with smoke, filled with addicts, drunkards, and a cheaper variety of companions.  Sitting alone, at the far side of the establishment, was a thinly built man with a mane of greasy black hair and a hooked nose.  His fingers were covered in rings, but all of the criminal patrons seemed to gravitate away from him.  The thief sashayed across the floor, plunking herself in the chair opposite the loner.  The man didn’t flinch, simply lowered his gaze to observe Ceara.  “You’re late,”  he said, speaking with a thinly veiled Narbosi accent.  “Very late.”

Ceara gave him an apologetic smile.  “Incident on the road, that's all.  Had to make camp sooner than expected.”  She leaned forward.  “But never mind that for the moment.  We should catch up, Remy!  Are you doing well?  Healthy, I presume?”

"I've been well." Said the man, waving idly before beginning to clean his dirty nails with a dagger. "You're looking fine, as usual. Anyways, what's this about a job concerning Milo Demetrios? You know he's an esteemed business partner of the family."

“I’m working for a higher power now.  A holy mission.”  Ceara placed her fingertips on the table, leaning forward.  “I’m on quite a high payroll, Remy.  The Order has given me a sack of gold so heavy you could kill someone with it.  Help me, and I’ll make sure you get some of it.”  She stopped talking as a server moved to the table, placing two cups of cider on the rough wooden surface.  Remy nodded, and the barmaid moved away.  “I just need to know where Milo keeps his old documents.  Stuff from the old times.”

Remy laughed. "There's no way in the Infernum that the Order's paying you to steal from Demetrios." He smirked and continued. "Of course, if you really do have that much gold, I don't care if the dwarves themselves are paying you. Your patron can remain anonymous. How old are we talking?"

“The one that was at the front before you and your friends pushed them out.  I think mister Milo was in league with them as well, wasn’t he?”  Ceara pulled her cider towards her.  “He took something from some friends of mine.  They want it back.”

The smirk dropped from the mobster's face and he let out a low whistle. "You've found yourself some interesting friends, [i]petit renard[/i]. If I'm right, you're talking about the stuff Milo took from the Krossavikers after their fellow Bjorn slaughtered most of the folks who used to run this city."

Ceara furrowed her brow.  “Yes, the Krossavikers…  I did not expect you to know them.”  She sipped her drink uncomfortably, silently scanning the tavern with renewed caution.  This massacre was news to her. “I need Bjorn’s documents.  Do you know where they are kept?”

Remy exhaled and drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm going to need to see some of that gold before I tell you that. Neither Milo nor the Krossavikers are to be taken lightly."

Ceara nodded, reaching underneath the table and into one of her boots.  She removed a small pouch, opening it and pouring a few coins onto the table.  “I’ve left most of it with my associate, but once he comes to the city, you’ll have a full share.  Make sure to give some of it to the Patriarch to show him my gratitude, yes?  Now, tell me what you know.”

His spirits seemingly bolstered by the sight of the money, the mafioso eagerly scooped up the coins before speaking. "I will, of course, make sure the Patriarch knows of your goodwill. Now, Milo keeps almost everything in his country estate. He's got about sixty guards around the place and throughout the house. Doors, vaults, those sort of things would be guarded along with a few patrols in the countryside that he owns. Getting in should be relatively easy though. He's constantly got friends, guests, servants, and entertainers of various sorts going in and out. You'd just have to disguise yourself as one of those. Once you're in, you just have to find the room where he keeps old papers. It's on the second floor, third door on the right once you come up the stairs."

“Second floor, third door.  Got it.”  Ceara folded her arms, thinking for a long moment.  “Could you get me one of the serving dresses?  I've got a plan, but it'll only work if Demetrios doesn't know the staff well.  How is he with them?  Loved?"

"Well, [i]petit renard[/i], you've got a bit of a mixed blessing here." Began Remy. "Demetrios does not know his staff, and they don't like him, but he's a tad aggressive in his desires. I can get you a serving dress, but if Demetrios sees you, he'll want to get into it."

“Good to know.”

[hr]

Ceara and Mostafa split up at the forked road that leads to Milo's personal country estate.  The thief had donned a serving dress, a simple black garment accompanied by a headscarf and apron.  The bard, on the other hand, had donned one of his most obnoxious ensembles - a poofy red tunic complete with yellow tights and a ridiculously large feathered hat.  He had turned his lute the night before, while Ceara had been meeting with some of the more rebellious members of staff and scouting the outskirts of Milo's massive country palace.  

While Ceara walked towards the servant's entrance, Mostafa would present himself at the front gate, explaining that he was a travelling bard and eager to play for the 'Lord O' the Port'.  He had rehearsed his music through the early morning, deeply angering the other patrons of the tavern that they had chosen to rest in.

Ceara continued to walk towards the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the complex via the servants quarters, spotting guards patrolling all along the fence line.  The air was fresh and clear, now that she was outside the city, and birds sang and danced to the distant melody of the waterfalls cascading over the cliffs and onto the green meadows that made the grounds of this beautiful property.  Her hands were placed timidly at her sides, and she made sure never to make eye-contact with any of the soldiers that marched across the damp fields of morning grass.  

As she neared the entrance, she curtsied to the guards and presented her proof of employment, which they accepted with bored agreement.  In fairness to the soldiers, the fake papers were incredibly convincing - Remy had forged them himself, glad to help for a few more coins.  When she passed the gates, she was greeted by an older servant, who emerged from the rear building to pick a herb from the gardens.  When she saw Ceara, her indifferent expression quickly soured.  "Girl!  What are you doing out here, waiting for an invitation to get to work?  Come on, then!"  The servant stalked across the gardens,  and before Ceara could voice a defence of herself, she grabbed the thief by her wrist and unkindly dragged her into the serving quarters.  "Where do you work, girl?"

Ceara looked down, feigning a sense of shame.  "I work in the kitchens, ma'am, cleaning them."

The servant cocked her head, frowning.  "Are you the replacement for Sara, after she burned herself?  I thought they already hired girls to replace her."

"I suppose they hired one more, ma'am."

The servant pursed her lips.  "I suppose they did.  Well, we don't need you in the kitchens at the moment.  Come with me, the good lord has decided to entertain some morning guests, and they should like some refreshment."  

"But ma'am, I am to work in the kitchens."  The plan had been to blend into the bustling cooking staff and slip away at the height of their work, but now this woman seemed adamant on placing Ceara in direct sight of everyone she had hoped to avoid.  The thief tried to banish her annoyance with the old woman from her tone, but some of it obviously crept through.  The servant's expression darkened, and she slapped Ceara on the forearm.  "Don't you get smart with me, girl!  You are a servant, and you will go where we need you to go."  Without another word, the woman pulled Ceara by the wrist again, passing squalls of gossiping workers and servants on her way towards the centre of the estate.  They passed the kitchens, great rooms stocked with chickens, loaves of bread, cheeses and fruits all stacked and prepared on rows of wooden tables.  They passed a series of interior gardens and fountains, all filled with blooming flowers and elaborate sculptures of the same man.  Ceara even spotted a mural on one of the passing walls, depicting a massive bluefish grasping a key of the same colour in its open mouth.  If all this was the right wing of the estate, then the only way to get to the left was through the main hall, which looked to be exactly where the woman was leading her.  Suddenly, this encounter seemed to be more blessing than a curse.  

Finally, the old servant stopped at a pair of closed wooden doors, from behind which the sounds of music and laughter were already filling the air.  The servant turned around and looked at Ceara from head to toe.  "You look awful.  Straighten your hem.  Smooth that apron.  Pull your scarf [i]down[/i], on all the gods."  Once Ceara had obeyed her orders to a level of satisfaction, the old woman once again eyed her with a wary gaze.  "Now, do you know how to address nobility?  Lord Milo, especially?"

Ceara looked at her feet.  "I thought I was to be working in the kitchens, ma'am, they never told me I was too-"

"Just quiet yourself, girl."  The servant sighed.  "In this estate, you will address all of Lord Milo's guests as 'My Lord' or 'My Lady'.  You will smile when addressed, curtsy when dismissed..."  She paused.  "You do know how to curtsy, yes?"  Ceara nodded, and the woman continued.  "Lord Milo will be referred to as 'Good Lord' when formality is appropriate and 'Sire' when it is not.  You will not call him 'master', is that understood?"  

"It is, ma'am."  Ceara saw another servant approaching from the corner of her eye, another girl dressed identically and carrying two trays of small pastries.  The older woman hurried her along with a motion of her hand and then turned her attention back to Ceara.  "When presenting yourself with your refreshment you will ask all of the guests if they would like a 'fresh raspberry cake' and smile no matter their answer.  Once you have asked everyone, or run out of cakes, you will return to me and I'll give you another job.  Understand?"

 Ceara nodded as the other girl passed her a platter, which seemed to please the older servant.  She pushed open the door, ushering the younger girls into the dining hall.  The room was wide and long, with a vaulted ceiling covered in paintings and murals of Viarosa and the falls.  The floor was blindingly white marble, the same colour as the columns that supported the massive stone roof.  Guests were milling from one end of the room to the other, dressed in fine clothes and furs that were now in fashion since the winter has arrived.  Ceara spotted Mostafa entertaining a large group of guests, all of whom seemed to be gravitating towards a man reclining across an elegantly carved mahogany couch.  He looked to be at about average height, with well-groomed blonde hair and finely tailored clothes.  His build was fairly soft, but his garments had purposely been made relatively overfitting to counteract this appearance.  His mouth was slightly agape as he watched Mostafa play, who he seemed to be enjoying.  The rest of the nobles looked to his expression for guidance, and so when the minstrel finished his tune and Lord Milo erupted into sporadic applause, the majority of them followed suit.  Mostafa lowered his lute, bowing to Lord Milo and his assembled friends.  He caught sight of Ceara as he bent over, but to his credit, he did not react in any wildly noticeable way.

Ceara decided to move towards this largest group first, but she spoke quietly to offer her platter of cakes and tried to stay out of any notable sights.  While she silently handed out the raspberry cakes, she heard Lord Milo begin to speak.  "You know, I used to import spices and oversee ships from the scorched coast."  His words were obviously in reference to Mostafa's homeland, but he seemed to be speaking to the nobles rather than the bard.  "We would get all sorts of strange goods rolling into our warehouses.  Strange goods, strange people, strange tales!  Cathion still readily accepts the trade with the East, did you know that?"

The nobles murmured amongst themselves, mostly coming to the conclusion that they did not.  Milo seemed pleased with their response.  "Yes, well, not many people do.  You see, we would get all sorts of Eastern merchants coming into Viarosa on a weekly basis.  Even during the crusade, which I sponsored wholeheartedly, I might add, this swarthy bunch would roll through the streets with talk of their silks and swords.  Several trading stalls were set up in the great market, selling their smelly clothes and disgusting food.  When one of the hooded priests came sauntering off a merchant ship, I knew something had to be done.  I gathered the city guard and put an end to it all, I say!"  He leaped from his couch in excitement, his expression becoming more animated as he prepared to finish his story.  "When we rounded them all up, they all gravitated towards the priest like a herd of goats.  I was having them all shipped right back to Cathion, but before I did, I wanted to draw posters to sure they never came back.  When we came to the hooded one, they all started to panic!  Told me it was unholy to remove the veil without the presence of a purified fire.  I did it anyway, as was my dedication to the law, and they all wailed like lamenting women.  The priest [i]WAS[/i] a woman, it turned out."  He waved his hand.  "I put them all back on the ship, sent them back where they had come from.  I heard that the priest choose to burn herself alive as soon as she reached dry land, so great was her shame."  He laughed at this, and the nobles all realized their cue and chuckled with him.  "I suppose all they had to do to win the crusade was unmask a few idiots!  Ha!"  He threw back his head and laughed harder, causing a few more bouts of forced laughter among his friends before the hall began to settle again.  He wiped tears from his eyes, and then raised his hand to the air.  "Now that everything has calmed down, I've let a few back in.  Mercy is a virtue and all that.  Still don't like them, though."  He paused.  "Servant?  I was told there would be cake.  Hello?  Servant?"

Ceara emerged from the crowd of nobles, carrying a platter sparsely populated with cakes.  "My Lord."  She stated, offering the plate outwards.  

Milo frowned, turning his attention from the cakes to Ceara.  "Are you new, girl?"

Ceara realized her mistake as soon as he finished his sentence, recalling the old woman's words of advise before she had been ushered into the hall.  "Yes, Good Lord.  I've just replaced one of your other staff."

Milo looked her up and down, his gaze lingering in a few noticeable places.  "Good help is hard to come by these days, I suppose."  He paused.  "You [i]are[/i] a pretty thing though, aren't you?  I shall have to get you a smaller dress!  Ha!"  He began to laugh once again, prompting a circle of chortling from the nobles that surrounded him.  Ceara formed a few choice words in her mind but decided that the look on his face would be better when he realized that he had been robbed rather than insulted.  Instead, she gave him a smile and nodded her head.  

Milo yawned, looking around at his other guests.  "Where is that bard that had been wandering about?  Now seems like a good time for a song, doesn't it?"  Mostafa appeared at the edge of the nobles, strumming his lute and smiling vicariously.  He began to sing as Ceara backed away, leaving Milo with her platter of remaining cakes.  While the bard had distracted the room, she was free to slip away.  However, the thief wasn't about to report back for round two of serving duty - now it was time to find those documents.  She spotted the doors where the older servant would be waiting and walked through the pair on the other side of the room.  

She closed the doors quietly, blocking the sounds of laughter and music once again.  The corridor was empty and dull, without a single torch burning.  The series of doors seemed to be an elegant bunch of living quarters, for guests or for Milo himself.  Since all the guests were assembled in the centre of the estate, this wing would hopefully be completely clear.  If the maps that Remy had given her were to be believed, this would be the left wing of the estate.  On the second floor, on the other side of the third door on the right, the documents were supposedly ripe for the taking.  Again though, if Remy was to be trusted, there would be two guards watching the door.  She would have to distract them from picking the lock and stealing the papers. 

Ceara walked briskly down the hallway, trying to carry herself with a sense of purpose.  If anyone was under lingering in this section of the palace, perhaps she could talk her way out of suspicion.  As she moved, she tested the locks on the doors.  All seemed to open fine, which was a clear relief.  

The thief made her way to the stairs, ascending the stone steps and peeking around the corner to make sure the halls were empty of guards.  Seeing nothing, she padded into the upper corridor, passing two doors before she came to the one that was supposedly her target.  It looked fairly plain - almost exactly the same as any of the other doors in the hall.    She checked over her shoulders, still not spotting a single guard.  Pleased with herself, she bent down to check the lock.  Ceara removed her tools - several picks and a twisted hairpin - and went to work on the door, checking one final time to make sure there were no guards.  The thief placed her hairpin inside the lock, applying some delicate pressure while she gently scrubbed with the pick.  After about a minute and no broken picks, the pin slid to the right with a satisfying click.  Ceara opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it again.  

The first thing that she noticed was how disorderly the room was if you could call it a room.  It was larger than she had expected, dimly lit through several tiny windows at the back of the library.  Shelves lined each wall and the space in between, overflowing with books, scrolls, and unchecked piles of paper.  The thief went to the first shelf, removing an older tome and getting a face full of dust.  She coughed and blew the particles away, reviewing the title of the tome in the dim light.  The title was longer than anything she'd ever seen before, and as always, she couldn't read it.  Ceara groaned in despair, putting the book back in it’s messy home.  She had thought the papers would be in some sort of strongbox, not a room full of paper.  This was quickly turning into a bit of a wild goose chase.  

[hr]

Mortirmir stretched idly, his back popping in a most unpleasant manner. He made one final mark with his quill on the log he had been working on, blew on the ink to make it dry, then shut the tome with a huff. He looked about the room with undisguised disdain; books and scrolls of all sorts lay about in various states of disarray, covered in copious amounts of dust. It seemed to him that he was the first soul to venture into this so-called "library" in half an age. When he had offered his services as a scribe to the Baron, he had expected, surely as any other academic of his reputation would, to be utilized for more than mere [i]bookkeeping[/i]. Honestly! The renowned master Mortirmir, magister maximus of the University, perhaps the greatest scholar of his generation, keeping tally sums in a dusty logbook! The very thought drove him to clench his teeth in fury. He had expected restoration work at the worst, or perhaps the creation of a new family tree. Nobility loved to trace their lineages, and he had illuminated more than one illustrious bloodline before. But no, here he was in some dank, stuffy room keeping track of which peasant had the most pigs this harvest!

Mortirmir sighed elaborately. It couldn't be helped - he was almost out of funds. And frankly, the Baron paid quite well for such loathsome work. [i]Still,[/i] he thought to himself as he spun his quill idly over his knuckles, [i]I could use something to break the monotony. Something exciting perhaps, or at least less tedious than simple mathematics.[/i] He sighed again. If only...

Suddenly, the silence of the library was shaken by a loud series of tumbling crashes that ended with a heavy [i]smack[/i].  Some choice curses followed almost immediately, and then the study was silent again.

Mortirmir started, his hand jerking against his inkwell and spilling its contents all over the cluttered table. He swore, leaping up from his chair and desperately grabbing an ink-stained clothe which he promptly threw on top of the mess. After a few seconds of inneffectual wiping - which only served to spread the ink further around - he paused and peered nervously around the corner. "H-hello?"

A young servant stared back, her hands full of books and loose paper.  Tomes littered the ground around her, and it looked like one the decaying shelves had broken in half and spilled its contents all over the ground.  Upon seeing Mortirmir, the servant’s eyes widened.  “Hello!  Gods, I didn’t know Lord Milo had someone in here.  Sorry about this, the, uh, books just came down.”

Mortirmir frowned, the expression looking somewhat comical with his heavy spectacles and recently ink-stained robes. "I see." He gestured disparagingly around the library and said, "Well, it is not exactly tidy in here. Have you come to perhaps fix that?"

The servant looked confused for a brief moment, but quickly regained her composure.  She set the books down on one of the shelves, making sure the wood wasn't rotten this time.  “Ah, no, sorry.  I’m here to retrieve something for the Lord, some papers.  He needs them for his gathering.”

Mortirmir frowned even more severely than before. He did not relish having to sift through this mess. Adjusting his spectacles, he glanced about the room dejectedly. "Did he happen to say what kind of papers, exactly?" He asked, a hint of despair in his voice.

Ceara smiled uncomfortably, looking down at the books at her feet.  “I’ll help you with these, of course.”  She began to gather the volumes, waving the scholar over while she continued to speak.  “Milo said he wanted some documents.  Things that belonged to a man from the north, from Krossavik.  The burned village.  Do you know where that might be?  I don't know how to work with books.”

He paused, tapping his teeth with his finger. A bit of residue ink blackened his teeth - a terrible habit. "Krossavik, hmm... Perhaps, perhaps..." The magister mused, stepping delicately around the stacks of books. He sifted through one shelf, then another, before at last pausing and turning to consider a third. "Ah! Yes, yes, I remember looking at these a few days past," He said triumphantly, pulling a sheaf of documents from the decrepit shelf. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Ceara's lockpicks. Mortirmir paused halfway to handing the documents to Ceara. "Say," He begins suspiciously, "Who did you say you were again? You aren't the normal maid that usually helps me around here."

Ceara shifted in place, eyeing the papers that he held in his hands.  “I’m a replacement.  Sara burned herself in the kitchens.”

The magister narrowed his eyes. "Sara? The normal maid is Alice." He drawed himself up to his full height, all geniality gone. "I think I'll bring these to the Baron himself. I could use a break," He said, moving towards the door.

The thief watched him for a few seconds, and then sprung forward without warning.  She pressed a dagger to his back, tapping his arm with her free hand.  “No, we’re not going anywhere.”  Ceara pulled the scholar backwards, away from the door.  “I’m not going to hurt you if you do as I say.  Drop those papers gently.”

Mortirmir gasped, his eyes widening in alarm. "I-I [i]demand[/i] you let go of me this instant!" He cried, his left arm cartwheeling about as he is yanked backwards. 

“Shut up.  Next time you demand something, I’ll take one of your fingers off.  See how much ink you get on yourself then.”  Ceara pushed Mortimir into his desk, keeping her blade levelled at his midsection.  “Give me the papers.  Don’t say a word, just give me the papers.”  The thief thought for a moment.  “Actually - you got any rope in here?”

He looked aghast. "You simply are [i]not[/i] tying me up! In fact," He paused, and then suddenly the sheaf of documents in his hands were shrouded with a burnt orange color. "You will release me this instant, o-or I'll turn these to ash!" 

Ceara’s eyes widened, but her dagger stayed up.  “Unbelieveable...  If you burn those pages, I’ll stab you right in your stupid mouth!  Are you gonna die for some old papers?”

Mortirmir [i]harrumphed[/i]. "I'll only burn them if you, ahem, stab me." He says, his eyes briefly goggling at the dagger. "If you lower that blade, perhaps we can talk like [i]civilized[/i] people, y-yes?"

Ceara narrowed her eyes.  The library was silent for a few moments, and then she sighed.  The dagger came down, but only just.  “Alright.  Two civilized people, me and you, talking this out.”  She paused.  “Give me those papers, please?”

He adjusts his robes self-importantly before speaking. "I'm afraid that would put me in a great deal of trouble with Lord Milo," The magister says dryly, one eye still on the rather sharp-looking blade. "And although I bear no great love for the man, he does pay well."

The thief gripped the dagger tighter in her hand, sighing again.  When Mortimir began to adjust his clothes again, she lashed towards him, striking his chin squarely with the grip of her blade.  Ceara moved forwards, crashing on top of the scholar and wrenching the documents from his hand.  He protested weakly for a moment, hazily voicing his concerns, but soon the papers were free from his grip.  Ceara backed up, tucking her prize into her apron but keeping her dagger close to a pained Mortimir.  “Hows that, dickhead?”

Mortirmir pressed his hand to his chin, mouth agape. "Y-you, you... [i]hit[/i] me." He said faintly, his tone edged with disbelief. 

“Yes, I did.  Remember that the next time you start getting some bright ideas.”  Ceara pulled him up by his collar, pressing the dagger against his throat now.  “I’m going to tell you exactly what’s going to happen, and you’re going to believe me this time, right?”

The magister's eyes were clouded in shock, but the dagger to his throat cleared them. "Ah...yes. Yes I shall."

“Good.  Because if you screw me, I will make sure you come crashing down with me.”  Ceara kept the knife at his throat, but her expression somewhat softened.  “We are going to take a walk now.  Out of here, down the stairs, and through the hall.  You are going to carry these documents, and I am going to carry this dagger near your spine.  We’re going to walk right out of this place, you’re going to hand me the papers, and then we’ll just go our separate ways.  Alright?  Nobody gets hurt, everyone goes home tonight.”  She paused.  “Unless you stab me in the back.  Then I’ll kill you.”

Mortirmir paused to consider all this. On one hand, the thief's proposition was abjectly humiliating for a magister of his status; on the other, the dagger was very sharp. And pointed in his direction. He cleared his throat. "That would be agreable to me, madame."

Ceara grinned.  “On your way then, my friend.”  The thief pushed the papers into his hands, pointing to the door.  Mortimir started to walk, with Ceara following close behind him.  The pair descended the stairs, travelling through the silent corridors as quickly as was possible.  The sounds of the party began to reappear as they reached the centre of the estate, and soon, the two were at the doors to the gathering.  Ceara opened the door, pushing the scholar through first.  She pocketed her dagger, making sure that Mortimir couldn’t see that the knife was away.  She made eye contact with Mostafa as soon as she spotted him, silently gesturing to bard to start playing his role in the robbery. 

The minstrel stood up, strumming a single cord on his lute.  “Attention, everyone!”  the guests turned their attention to him, looking away from Ceara and her hostage.  “Attention!  I shall now sing a song I have written for our dear host, Lord Milo, himself.”  He launched into a tune, singing about the bravery and shrewdness of the great lord of Viarosa as loudly as humanly possible.  Milo, and in turn the nobles attending his morning party, seemed enthralled by his rendition - or at least interested enough for Ceara to slip by them.  She lead Mortimir past the gathered guests, through the servant’s quarters, and out into the gardens.  Once she was through the iron gates, the thief began to relax.  She turned Mortimir around, holding her hand out politely.  “Please?”

"Well, I'd say my employment with the good Lord Milo is officially severed, thanks be to you. He'll undoubtedly think that [i]I[/i] stole those papers." Mortirmir complained, handing over the documents. "Pray tell me what I shall do now, that I have no income. How am I supposed to travel without coin?" He continued heatedly, his voice growing in volume. He threw up his hands angrily. "And further, this damages my reputation amongst the nobility in his circles!"

“Technically, you [i]did[/i] steal it.” replied Ceara, grinning as she reviewed the papers.  She looked up, her smile fading when she saw just how angry he was becoming.  “Look, buddy, we all have problems.  You look like a guy that’s put together, I’m sure it’ll all work out.”  The thief grinned again.  “Besides, those nobles seemed like a bunch of pricks.  Now, off you go.”

The magister scowled, then sighed as he looked around. He paused, chewing his lip idly. "You knew the bard. This was all planned, yes? So," He gestured with one hand, as if struggling to make a point. "There are others."

“There might be.  There might not be.”  Ceara took a step backwards, ringing the collar of her apron in an attempt to remove it.  “That doesn’t really concern you, does it?”

"I take it you are no band of petty robbers. Few criminal bands would break into a wealthy Lord's castle simply to steal some papers, especially ones such as these." He tapped his teeth, which were still partially blackened from earlier. "I wonder what your purpose could be, hmm?"

Ceara pulled her apron above her head, smiling as she folded it across her arm.  “I’m a damn good petty robber.  Unfortunately, I’m the only one in the little group.”  She wiggled her eyebrows.  “Or am I?  Misinformation.  First rule of warfare.  Second.  I’m sure it’s on the list, eh?”  She waved the though away.  "In any case, it's not really any of your business."

Mortirmir knit his eyebrows in confusion at the rules of warfare comment. "Misinformation is the fourth rule in Attaliates' [i]Gladiatoria[/i], and seventh in Walpurgis' [i]Kriegsspiel[/i]." He waved the quibble aside. "Regardless, I happen to be a scholar and magister of...some renown." He says, with a haughty sniff. "And I'm now seeking employment." 

Ceara regarded him with an unimpressed expression.  "I bet.  My boss seems to be a fan of deadweight, so I'm sure you'll fit right in."

Mortirmir gaped at her. “Deadweight!?” He cried incredulously. "I am the [i]magister maximus[/i] of the Imperial University! I mastered two schools of the hermetical arts by the time I was eighteen! Why, I could-" He paused. Considered. Then, he abruptly said, "None of that means anything to you, does it? Very well," Mortirmir adjusted his robes, smoothing out his wrinkled ink-stained sleeves. "My things are in an Inn not far from here.  If you'll accompany me, madame...?"

"My name is Ceara, and that's that."  Ceara squinted at the sky, checking the position of the sun.  "Yeah, I'd say we've got a bit of time before Mostafa finishes his little poetic rounds."  She smiled, extending her arm.  "I'd just absolutely adore accompanying you.  Let's talk about history and magic till the sun goes down, shall we?  Oh, even better, perhaps you could tell me more about your titles and achievements!  Those made me shiver, no lying!  First, you should tell me your name.  Add a couple middle ones, I won't know the difference, truly."

The magister looked down his nose at her. "I do not appreciate being mocked." He glared at her for a bit before relenting and taking her arm. "I am Master Mortirmir. A...pleasure." 

"Master, eh?"  Ceara raised an eyebrow.  "Like the Eastern title, or the one they give to spoiled little noble children?"  She grinned from ear to ear.  "You know what, I think I know the answer to my own question."

He refused to be baited. "Neither. It's an old Imperial title. Κύριλλος or Kyrilos, in their tongue." He pulled at his rather unimpressive beard. "So, tell me about this party of yours. How many of you are there?"

Ceara smiled ruefully, patting Mortimir's arm.  "Oh, we're a wonderous band.  Crusaders and thieves, soldiers and heroes, minstrels and nightstalkers! They'll be writing songs about us for years!  Oh, I’ve got a friend called Nima, he's a walking history book.  Loves talking about it, too.  Well, I mean, he sounds the same, but I know he's enjoying himself."

Mortirmir perked up a bit at the mention of Nima. "A fellow historian you say? I would love to make his acquaintance..." He began, as they entered the town proper. "Ah! There is my Inn, across the way." He said, pointing to a somewhat worn down three-story building. A sign hanging above the door proclaimed the establishment as [i]The Laughing Fiddler[/i].

"Get your things quickly, then.  Don't want to leave our musical friend hanging high and dry, do we?”  Ceara followed him through the doors, looking around.  It wasn't a nice place, but it was better than the ones run by the mafia.  "Do they sell anything hard here?"

"Ale, mostly. And some wine," He called over his shoulder, as he walked up the stairs. He returned a few minutes later in a fresh set of robes indistinguishable from the previous ones besides the ink-stains, and wearing a large backpack positively bulging at the seams. A satchel rested at his hip, a large tome peeking out of the cover. Mortirmir paid the Innkeep - an oily middle-aged man with a large gut - and turned to Ceara.

"Travelling light, are we?" remarked Ceara with dry amusement.  "Mostafa will be getting out within the hour, and I think he'd appreciate my not being late.  Follow me, if you can make it through the door."

Mortirmir snorted in indignation, and followed Ceara outside.