Part 3: Warehouse Nine

Lorna was never one for subtle manipulation. In fact, she detested it. Veiled comments, the art of controlling people without sounding like that's what it was. None of it sat well on her tongue. That had been her mother's realm, amongst other things. Thankfully, tonight required no such political maneuvering.

"Forgive me for where I am about to go," Lorna whispered to the sky. As her shoes drummed a heavy beat down the plank sidewalk of the dingy alley, she shook her head in guilt. If the True could forgive her other transgressions, surely He would forgive this.

The Singing Lily.

Aside from the connotations, the name was fitting. Patrons sat around tables laughing and swinging food and drink alike, all while a wave of upbeat tunes drifted from a band inside. Part restaurant, part bathhouse, and like most establishments in this part of Arthan—all dirty.

Lorna kept her eyes on the jovial proprietor as she weaved through the display of debauchery. He finished laughing with a guest, then slowly turned.

"Good evening, miss. Our tables are full, but if you're looking for a man..." He trailed off when he saw her face. "Oh shit."

"Where is Serik?"

"Lorna, I can't. We have a strict anonymity policy."

"So do I." Lorna's face could've cleaved stone.

It only took a few sweeps of his eyes, but eventually he sighed and merely shot a glance toward the back corridors.

"Thank you, Marcus."

"I liked you better when you were a shopkeeper," he mumbled as she pushed past him. "Just don't kill anyone this time."

She shot him a hard glare.

"Please," he said to his feet.

Last time wasn't her fault. Besides, she had no intent on anything but a conversation...mostly.

It only took a few turns of lazily decorated corridors and Lorna saw the bathhouse door ahead. A large man stood in front of it trying his best to not look like a bodyguard. He put up a hand to stop her and she halted, meeting his gaze.

"About time, he's getting bored in there. You better be good."

"I'll keep him entertained," Lorna said with a sultry smile.

The man relaxed and a crooked grin crossed his face. "You know, when you're done, I'm a little bored too."

"I'll be right back." She pulled her hairpins free and shook her head, letting her dark hair cascade over her shoulders. "Can you hold these while I'm gone? From what I hear, I won't be long."

The man snorted and grabbed the hairpins.

The instant Lorna let go, the man's eyes shot open and a surge of blue light flashed through his arms, making his veins glow like a luminescent web. After a few seconds of shaking and grunting, the man toppled like a felled tree. Not dead. Marcus would be pleased.

Quickly, and with a look of disgust, Lorna pulled the hairpins from the man's clenched fists. Stroke by careful stroke, she cleaned them with a cloth pulled from her sash. After careful inspection, she tucked them away and pushed the door open.

"Gerald? Tell Marcus I wanted the blonde one. Where is she anyway?" Serik lay in a brass tub, surrounded by a forest of empty wine pitchers and plates. A warm cloth was draped over his face. The way he was sprawling, face toward the ceiling, told Lorna he was having a great evening. He shook an empty glass. "Oh, and more of this Rose Valley Red, please. It's so delicious."

With a few smooth strides Lorna came up behind him and took the glass. He started to turn, but she cupped his head firmly and hovered her mouth inches from his ears.

"It will be more fun if you keep your eyes covered."

"Will it now? But how will I know you're the pretty one?" His voice dropped into a playful tone.

"I'm everything you asked for," she said, sliding a delicate finger along his jawline. "Gerald mentioned you might need some extra attention. Are you stressed?" Lorna started kneading his shoulders and he groaned in delight.

"Oh, yes. You've no idea. Do you know what it's like dealing with Imperials? Sure, they start with honeyed words and coin, but soon it's 'Serik, do this,' and 'Serik, do that.' What am I, a servant?"

"Well, I'm sure they need you. You're so talented."

"Thank you! Finally, some appreciation." He swatted the air above him and Lorna had to duck out of the way.

"You poor man. Maybe you can ask them for more blood money when you're done helping them execute sick people." Lorna sneered. Then she yanked the towel from Serik's face, pulled it around his neck, and pinned him to the wash tub.

He shrieked. When he saw her face his eyes went wide. "Lorna?!"

"Don't bother yelling, your man isn't coming."

He tried to respond, but all that came out were raw choking sounds. She pursed her lips and loosened her grip.

"After what happened with your mother, I thought you would disappear," he said through gritted teeth. Lorna yanked hard and the choking started again.

"Don't you mention her, you little traitor." Lorna snapped. "Now what are you and Lucien up to? Are you going to put on the black too? I swear if your father could have seen you..."

"What!? No. Lorna, it's not like that. I swear! I didn't know they were smuggling people."

"So just supplies to conquer your kingdom. That's much better, Serik." She shot the words like a spear.

"Will you listen to me, Lorna? Not all of us have the luxury of hiding in the shadows. And you're the last one to lecture me after your—"

Lorna yanked so hard Serik's feet flew into the air kicking and thrashing. After a moment she let him breathe.

"The Marksick—where are they taking them and why?"

"I'm just logistics, they don't tell me anything."

He panicked as Lorna gripped the towel again.

"Warehouse Nine! North District!" He sighed in relief as Lorna loosened her grip, then she grabbed him by the neck and pulled their faces inches apart.

"We need to talk with your father before this gets more out of hand."

"No! Listen, if you promise to keep this between us, I'll get you in. They have the whole area guarded tighter than a priestess' smallclothes, but I have a shipment being delivered there tonight. Meet me behind the Rusty Lantern at Last Bell."

With a shove, she dunked him in the tub and was to the door in a blink. Passing by the still body of Gerald, she froze. Slowly, she turned, leaned down with tightened lips, then straightened his collar before disappearing down the hall with a satisfied smile.

Lorna twisted her hairpins into place as she watched Serik fidget about the wagon. He'd relashed the crates five times and he looked nervous enough to sweat in a snowstorm. He'd always been conniving and selfish, not to mention a coward, but she'd never thought of him as one who'd turn against his family. Whatever his motivations, he was a heartbeat from fleeing for his life.

"Everyone's afraid of the dark."

Her mother had known about motivations and fears. In the end, it was the unknown that moved people most. A dagger was fearsome enough, but not knowing what shadow it was coming from was even worse.

After checking the area, she dropped from her vantage point, slid down a drain pipe, and landed next to Serik like a whisper. He jerked around with a yelp and she threw back the hood of her cloak.

"True's balls, Lorna." He sighed and loosened the death grip on the rope he was holding.

"Don't take His name in vain." She narrowed her eyes and he threw up his hands.

"Sorry, I'm just not used to women leaping from roofs dressed like catburglers. How long have you been up there?" he said, tossing the reins up to the wagon's bench.

"Long enough." She left out her meticulous tailing and backtracking since he left his estate.

"Anyway, I have a plan." After he hopped onto the bench, he launched into a rambling tangle of explanations. When he was done, he nodded in satisfaction.

"So, all those words to say I just sit next to you and pretend to be your accountant?" She leapt onto the wagon and sat next to him with a blank stare.

"Well..." he rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I mean, you were always good with numbers and sounding professional. I thought I'd make it easy for you."

With a flick of the reins, Serik drove the wagon through the back streets of Arthan. The evening crowds had long since thinned, leaving the streets to laborers finishing their shifts and wagon drivers making late deliveries to the docks. Serik nodded to several as they passed while he jockeyed for better position on the rolling cobblestones.

"I thought you were dead. You know...after..." Serik looked over at her then snapped his eyes forward at her glare. "I'm just surprised you didn't leave. Don't you ever think about it? You could be anywhere, living like a—"

"Don't."

"You know what I mean." Serik looked her in the eye and his normal boyish selfishness melted into something serious. "Why do you keep doing this? What's here for you anymore?"

A moment settled between them before Lorna finally answered.

"Hope."

Serik's mouth tightened. Almost imperceptible, but it was there.

Lorna looked back to the streets as they finished the last few turns. The tang of river and fish shifted to smoke and lamp oil as they emerged from the South District, crossing into the North. After a time, Serik tugged the reins, bringing the wagon to a stop at the edge of a dim and quiet square. The warehouse loomed in the center.

"Just let me do the talking," he said.

Two men in dark civilian clothes stepped from the shadows of a nearby alley. Despite their attire, Lorna could see they were soldiers by the weight of their stance and their confident gait. One threw up a hand and nodded to Serik.

"Serik," he said, then craned his neck to see Lorna while the other inspected the cargo. "You're not marked for visitors, and we have men to unload."

"She's my accountant. The loadmasters have started to question the amount of shipments, so I've brought her along to...give them assurance, shall we say. Don't worry, she's trustworthy." Serik's grin did little to convince the man as he leaned closer. She could see the skepticism on his face even in the dim light.

"An accountant?" he said with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, gentlemen. My superiors have noticed a thirteen percent increase in labor costs that are outside expected revenue for Lord Toman's annual supply this season. Especially considering the late growing season, this has caused questions. Questions that I am here to answer for them—and for you," Lorna said. She held his gaze with confidence and avoided boring him with more logistics talk. Slowly his face turned to a wry grin.

"An accountant all right. Bet you're real fun at parties." Both soldiers chuckled. "Have a good evening, Serik."

After they melded back into the shadows, Serik sent the horses lurching forward with a snap of the reins. When they were well into the square he let out a heavy sigh.

"When did you turn into a shipping expert?" he asked.

"My jobs aren't always exciting."

Serik shook his head as he pulled them to a stop in front of the warehouse. He hopped to the ground and grabbed a large sliding door with a quick look back.

"The guard said there were laborers. That door looks heavy," Lorna said with a steely gaze.

"Totally normal. They don't want the extra traffic noticed."

Grabbing the horses, Serik led them into the warehouse—an empty warehouse. The cavernous space was barren but for a few crates arranged in a circle that left an arena-like space in the center of it all.

Serik stopped, then slowly turned around with quivering lips.

"I'm sorry, Lorna."

"I knew you were a coward. But a traitor? You're not worthy to even walk in your father's shadow." Lorna sneered.

Serik shrank as the insult struck, but then his lips hardened and he shook his head in denial. "You don't understand. They're everywhere. Roderick is gone. Leodran is thousands of miles away. Even my father is scared. If I didn't do this, we'd all be dead by now."

Footsteps echoed around them, faint, but closing. Serik's eyes lit up with a final idea.

"Lorna, just run. I didn't tell them who you are. You can make it. Just—"

Lorna ignored him and leapt from the wagon. With a look of contempt at Serik, she walked to the center of the warehouse and waited.

"Why run? I'd like to meet your new masters."

The footsteps coalesced into shadows, then slowly into men, as they stepped into the meager light from the windows above. She expected inquisitors, but when rough-looking brigands emerged, followed by a mountainous man with a grim double-bladed axe, Lorna pursed her lips.

"You stabbed my men. Now it's time to collect the bill," Claven said with a brutish gaze.

Two men stormed from the crowd and gripped Lorna by the arms. With a jerk, one of them ripped her hairpins free. They clattered on the ground in front of Claven.

"Kieran's coin wasn't enough? Who holds your leash? I know you're not the brains."

"You little..." Claven lifted his axe and leaned forward with a sneer.

"Claven, that's quite enough." A small, portly man, albeit well-dressed, stepped forward, flanked by a Knight-Inquisitor. "Serik tells us you're a Metharadan loyalist, causing trouble, just for the sake of it."

Lorna's eyes slid past him to Serik. He opened his mouth, but whatever defense he had died there.

Franz sighed softly and clasped his hands behind his back. "Master Toman, I believe you've done enough for one evening." His tone was polite, almost sympathetic. "You've been very helpful, and I appreciate your cooperation."

Serik hesitated. "I only wanted to explain—"

"Of course you did." Franz smiled kindly. "And I'm sure, given enough time, you could convince yourself of nearly anything. Fortunately, that won't be necessary. Go home."

The dismissal was so gentle that it took Serik a moment to realize it wasn't a suggestion. With a final glance toward Lorna, he turned and walked away. Anger would have been easy. What she felt instead was disappointment, and somehow that stung far worse.

Only when the warehouse doors closed did Franz return his attention to her. He studied her with open curiosity, like a fresh lab specimen.

"Now then, Miss," he said. "Shall we begin again?"

"Yes. Let's start with why the Eternal Order is here and why you're violating the Treaty of Arthan. Then we can move on to what you're doing running a smuggling operation to kidnap the sick."

Lorna held the little man's gaze as his eyes raked her up and down. His lips curled into something close to an affectionate smile.

"I was thinking about starting smaller. Names, perhaps." He walked a slow circle around her. "Mine is Franz. I do indeed belong to the Eternal Order, but no treaty is being violated since we are agents of the Empire operating within our own borders. You see, Metharadan no longer exists, and is now a vassal state under imperial rule according to Article One of the treaty."

"Then Article Three expressly declares the borders of Metharadan as a cooperation zone and forbids the Imperial Legions from operating within it, with the sole exception of defense from foreign threats." Lorna leaned in to look Franz in the eyes. "And before you try it, no, a perceived insurgency does not count as an invasion according to Article Three, Section Two."

"Well. Now we know you're not a simple rebel. You're certainly no spice merchant."

Lorna's jaw tightened.

Franz chuckled softly and folded his hands behind his back. "Tell me, what exactly do you think is happening here?"

"The Eternal Order is kidnapping the Marksick."

"True."

"Then moving them through the city in secret."

"Also true." He inclined his head in admission, then waited.

"To execute them." Lorna's face twisted into a sneer.

Franz paused, giving Lorna a final inspection. Then a hint of a smile flashed across his face.

"Well, thank you for your time, Miss. You've been very helpful." He adjusted the cuffs of his coat and started toward the exit with the Knight-Inquisitor in tow. Then, he nodded toward Claven. "Take care of this, would you?"

Claven grinned.

"Gladly."

Franz left without another word. The warehouse doors slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty building like a gavel. With a blank look, Lorna shifted her attention to the men closing in around her.

"You killed my friend," one of her captors said. He squeezed Lorna's arm and shook her violently as he rounded on her. "He bled to death through a hole in his face!"

"It's a life for a life," Claven said from behind the man. His voice carried a cruel swagger of a predator closing in on helpless prey.

Lorna pulled in heavy breaths as she scanned all sides. Five civilians. Two inquisitors. More in the shadows. By the scuffs of feet, there were two more behind her.

Then her eyes landed on her hairpins.

"What was his name?" Lorna managed to get out.

"What?"

"So that I can say a prayer for him."

The man looked back at Claven, who just shrugged.

"Byron."

Lorna started chanting in an ancient language. Useless, uneducated men like this would have never heard of it. Contempt rolled across her face. "Fioestra. Alunaad. Neolian luron. Kalel..."

"What the hell gibberish is that? That ain't no prayer."

With a flash of light, one of the hairpins seared the man's hand. He dropped it screaming in agony. Then it flew a circle around him before twisting in mid-air to ram into his shoulder.

"I said 'One. Shoulder.'—"

He dropped the second pin. It, too, spun into the air on its own. The other man tried to throw her to the floor. Instead, she spun, and with a twist of his wrist, came up behind him with his arm pinned.

"Two. Ribs."

The second pin flew, ramming into the ribs of the man as they grappled. It flew out the other side of him with a spray of blood and he dropped with a cry.

With a quick word and a whistle, the hairpins returned and she caught them, dropping into a low fighting stance. The other men stood still, eyes darting between Claven and Lorna. Even the two inquisitors were frozen.

"Who are you?" Claven said. The confidence was gone.

"My mother's daughter."

With another arcane phrase, the hairpins flared again. The power in the ancient weapons filled her, warming her to the bone, strengthening her muscles and sharpening her senses. She took a calming breath, then snapped the pins into the air.

"Kill her!" Claven bellowed.

Men rushed her from every direction, shouting as steel flashed in the dim warehouse. She spun and wove through the fray, chanting in the ancient tongue as the pins spun about her like hunting hawks, stabbing through her assailants. It was a symphony of perfection that brought her both elation and joy.

No one had ever understood her. But the pins, the need for absolute perfection and efficiency, soothed her in a way no spotless desk ever could. It was like running on the edge of a blade: one side was total ecstasy, and the other, certain death.

From her right, Claven crashed into the fight.

Men scattered out of his way as he charged after her with reckless fury. Lorna ducked beneath a swing that would have taken her head, then vaulted aside as the axe bit deep into stone. Without breaking her stride, she kept moving, weaving through crates and pillars as Claven and his men closed at her heels. There had to be a way out, she just needed time to find it.

As Lorna whispered commands of directions and angles, a hairpin whipped around Claven's back and buried itself in one of his men rushing in behind him. Another flicked for Claven's knees, buying her just enough room to recover as she slipped behind a pillar.

Her gaze snapped to a narrow catwalk running along the eastern wall. Beyond it, a row of grimy windows beckoned her. It wasn't far. A quick sprint, twenty feet of ladder, then freedom.

"There's always a way," she said, smiling.

As she prepared to charge, an Arcane bolt screamed past and exploded against the wall beside her. Stone fragments sprayed across her face. A quick glance and her smile faded.

The inquisitors were waiting. The moment she committed to the climb, they'd have a clean shot all the way up the ladder.

Claven roared and rounded the pillar, axe coiled. Lorna barely heard him. Her attention had already shifted past the giant and onto the two glowing figures beyond the melee. The catwalk was still the way out. But first, the inquisitors had to die.

As Claven's axe sizzled toward her, Lorna exploded forward.

The inquisitors' eyes widened. They'd expected her to run. Instead, she charged straight through the chaos toward them.

Purple light flared and an Arcane bolt screamed toward her.

Lorna spoke and one of the pins snapped in front of her, intercepting the bolt in a shower of sparks. A second bolt followed. Then a third. The pins became streaks, whipping around her faster than the eye could follow, knocking the bolts out of the air.

The inquisitors backpedaled.

Lorna didn't.

She vaulted a fallen crate and threw herself into a somersault, rolling beneath a desperate barrage. When she came up, she snatched both pins out of the air.

The clash was over in seconds. Panicked blades sizzled on both sides of her, but Lorna spun between them, unleashing a flurry of furious thrusts. One pin found a throat, while she planted the other deep into ribs. She ripped both free and spun away as the final inquisitor collapsed.

Silence lasted all of half a breath.

"Just die, damn you!" Claven's roar shook the building as he charged.

Lorna twisted aside, but Claven spun his axe with shocking speed. The haft slammed into her ribs and launched her across the warehouse. She crashed near the ladder with a pained cry.

Claven stalked toward her as she began to haul herself up. "I don't care who you are. After I kill you, it'll be Kieran and his little wench next."

Lorna's face turned to iron, but she ignored him, clambering up the ladder as more men flooded into the warehouse. By the time Claven closed the gap, Lorna was already hobbling along the catwalk toward the windows. She glanced back, expecting him to climb after her.

Instead, he cleaved a support clean through and the catwalk bucked, nearly shaking Lorna off her feet. He swung his axe again, sending another support toppling with a barbaric shout. The sensation of falling pitched Lorna's stomach, but she didn't look or hesitate.

Shouting an ancient command, she pushed off from the collapsing catwalk, feet flailing over empty air.

A pin sailed in. Using it as a step, Lorna pushed off with a desperate lunge.

Glass exploded outward in a glittering wave as she hit the window shoulder-first. Landing on the rain-slick roof, she tried to catch herself, but her injured ribs gave way. Instead, she slid, clawing for purchase across wet slate as the edge of the roof vanished beneath her.

The fall lasted only seconds.

She slammed onto stone with a crack. Then came the rain of glass.

Shards hammered the cobblestones around her, while others ripped into her flesh, sending a wave of fire and ice through her all at once.

For a moment, she simply lay there, trembling and bleeding. Then she heard shouting from above. The warehouse. Claven. Inquisitors. They would find her. They would finish it. She wouldn't be able to warn him. She wouldn't be able to help Kieran and Elise...or Lilith.

Lorna clenched her teeth until her jaw ached and forced herself onto her elbows. There was only one chance left. One place she could go. Every pull and slide caused agony that threatened to pull her under.

Still, she crawled.

The house was little more than a blur by the time Lorna reached it.

She dragged herself onto the porch one agonizing pull at a time, leaving a bloody trail across the worn boards. The pins never left her hand. Blood slicked the ancient metal as her fingers clenched around them with desperate stubbornness. Her vision swam. The door seemed miles away.

With a shaking arm, she reached up and knocked near the bottom of it. The sound was pitiful. Barely more than a tap.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then she heard the shuffle of slow feet and the door creaked open. Lorna's head hung too low to see more than the hem of a worn dress and a pair of aged legs.

"Well," a hawkish voice said from above, sharp enough to cut leather, "don't you look like the inside of a butcher's trashcan."

Relief washed through Lorna so suddenly it hurt.

Then everything went black.