Camilla pulled her borrowed dress tightly around her, resolving to buy some warm clothes at the next opportunity. She didn’t have much coin left, nothing but a handful of useless black iron from the chaos dwarves and a handful of copper. Perhaps she might consider singing or dancing to supplement her funds. She supposed she could play the harp if she could find one. The thought made her giggle and drew astonished glances from several of the locals who had come to view the enemy host.

In truth the mass of enemies filtering down from the foothills made her nervous. She accepted that Cydric, Ivan, and the other men knew what they were talking about when they said it wasn’t a large enough force to storm the city, but she wasn’t used to thinking in those terms. In Tilea five thousand condottieri would constitute a mighty host. The horde included many black armored warriors, the kind with which she had crossed swords entirely too many times since coming to the Empire.

“Why is there no snow?” she asked suddenly, jolted by Cydric’s comments about Norscans. A blanket of white frost sheathed the plain but where the army tread, the yellowish brown of mud and winter burnt grass showed. It was like looking at a slugs trail across tile. Dietricha scowled.

“It is an enchantment,” she said tersely. Ivan stiffened, his face growing more concerned at the mention of sorcery.

“Well can’t you … you know, unenchant it?” Camilla asked wiggling her fingers dramatically for emphasis. Dietricha shook her head sadly.

“If it were an ordinary spell perhaps,” she explained, in a slightly exasperated tone, as though Camilla should have known better than to ask such a question.

“But it is bound in an artefact of some kind, something of fire that they carry.” Camilla shrugged helplessly a little concerned to get so much intelligible speech out of the wizard. Somehow that seemed like a bad sign.

With the exception of the soldiers hurrying around there seemed little change in the routine of the city. Merchants still cried their wares in the markets, drunks still staggered into, and were occasionally bounced out of, the Drunken Mare, and people seemed to more or less go about their bussiness. It was almost as if everyone was going out of their way to pretend that there wasn’t a great army of the Ruinous Powers taking up position outside the city. 

Camilla and Cydric walked the streets of the famous city, enjoying the evening after their shift had ended. Cydric’s shift really Camilla was not intimidating enough to make much of a bouncer, and her recourse was aways to sudden and dramatic violence rather than the kind of intimidation which best keep drunken louts behaved. Instead she had opted to help Rosalie and her serving girls, earning a small pile of coins in tips, a number of inappropriate suggestions and several pinches that she was glad Cydric had not witnessed. 

Nevertheless, she now had enough coins to think about buying some clothing that would be more comfortable and practical than Rosalie’s cast offs. They found a well to do pawnbroker at a street atop a small rise near the market district. It was well appointed enough not to make her fear robbery but not grand enough that she would be laughed out of the store. The sign above the door was rendered with an artful golden hand with the word Ilsae, presumably the proprietor, spelled out with a letter above each digit. The store, and several others like it, seemed to be doing a brisk trade. A stream of Kislivites were leaving carrying weapons, either their own, pawned at some point in the past, or new aquisitions. Camilla even saw a gold chased Jezzail that either cam from Araby or was meant to look like it had, its barrel as long as the husky young man holding it.

The inside of the shop was warm and inviting, brass lamps burned cheerily casting a warm radiance over weapons, clothing, tools, crockery and other items that defied easy description. Camilla spied a fine map on vellum that purported to be of far off Ind and wondered how such a thing, authentic or not, had ever ended up at the very end of the Human world. There were also jars of spices and dried fruit, neatly laid out in earthenware pots with wooden tongs to allow the patrons to serve themselves. Behind the counter stood a Kislivite man, rakish and handsome looking, though certainly old enough to be Camilla’s father.

“Lvooking for something in particular?” he asked, his accent drawing out the syllables in particular to a nearly comical extent.

“Jewelry or finery for your lady da?” the fellow asked, fluffing his mustache and winking at Cydric. The shopkeeper made an extravagant gesture to a wood and glass case containing an odd assortment of rings, pendants and brooches. Most of them appeared to be cheap pewter or brass but there were a few pieces of gold and silver.

“Clothing,” Camilla said firmly and headed over two a corner where an assortment of clothing hung and folded. Most of it was far to large but she found a hunting shirt and a pair of trousers that must have been cut for some noble’s adolescent son. It still wouldn’t quite fit but with a couple of hours with a needle and thread she was confident that she could alter them. Even after hard haggling the purchase wiped out the few coins she had been able to scrape together but she reluctantly pressed the copper pieces across the wooden counter, pausing to wistfully admire a pair of fine dueling pistols. As she did so a groan sounded from one of the back rooms. Camilla cocked an eyebrow and the shopkeeper shot her an apologetic smile.

“My son, he vas hurt,” the shopkeeper explained curtly. Camilla nodded sympathetically and muttered some pleasantry and exited the store.

------------

“I’m telling you father, those were the two!” Misha declared urgently as Isale the Pawnbroker stepped into the back room. The youth’s handsome face was disfigured and swollen where Camilla had smashed her mug the day before.

“You are a fool to fight in taverns,” Isale said contemptuously. That his son had been beaten by a pair of foreign mercenaries was an embarrassment to him, but there were more important matters than honor to be considered. Last night Isale had met with a consortium of other shopkeepers. The Brotherhood had began as a social club that provided drink and women. Slowly, so slowly that Isale hadn’t realised until it was too late, the pleasures had darkened. Before he knew it he had felt the claws of the Prince of Pleasure in his soul. Isale had never been a pious man, but when the true Gods had revealed themselves, he had embraced them. Here were gods that answered prayers, gods that didn’t stand by idly when your wife and daughter wasted away. The inner circle of the Brotherhood were committed to the cause of the Prince, newer members were weaned slowly and carefully. Last night they had received a portent that the time of their service was at hand.


“The Prince demands that…” Isale slapped his son hard across the face. His eyes blazed with fury and contempt. It had been a mistake to innitiate his son. Isale had neglected the boys education, he was soft and weak and a fool besides.

“Do not speak of such things, even here!” The boy quavered before his father's anger. Cringing back on the rough pallet on which he lay.

“Focus on what must be done, do not waste time with these foreign trash.” Misha nodded his agreement, but secretly he seethed for revenge. Soon the Prince’s vengeance would descend upon the city. Thousands of armed men would be about the city, scared and drunk. A pair of foreign mercenaries would not be missed. Perhaps the pretty one could be taken alive. That would be a most delicious justice, surely the Prince would reward him for such an act. His father was old and cowardly, without the vision to truly serve the Prince.
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