Chapter 11 Thessia
Thessia
Hugh’s hand in hers, Thessia departed the Vestriyan palazzo late the next morning with the excuse of wanting to walk along
the river running through the city’s heart in romantic seclusion.
The Skyshade River flowed powerfully within constructed stone channels. Thessia understood the name—in the Vestriyan morning,
the reflection on the water made it seem as if the sky itself flowed through the metropolis.
When they reached the riverbank, she dropped Hugh’s hand.
Not far from the palace, the serene statues and white-flowered trees changed to outlandishly sculpted facades of clubs and
bars from which dance music hummed, even in the early day. Vendors of questionable commodities lingered on street corners.
Couples who’d clearly passed a sleepless night lounged in each other’s company.
Thessia and Hugh knew exactly where they were going. When they located the tavern, they slipped inside.
The queen of Mythria had not often ventured into her homeland’s establishments for the casual purveyance of liqueurs. However,
she had experienced enough to notice the differences in Vestriya’s. Mythrian pubs were homey places, wood-paneled and warm,
intended to welcome the lonely or weary.
Not here. Small windows set in stone let in only enough light to leave plenty of shadow.
Over the ebony surface of the bar were stacked shelves of dark, glassy liqueurs.
The room’s rectangular proportions and high ceiling indicated it once was a warehouse or craftwork facility.
The place was sparsely populated, as if no one wanted to be there unless they were seeking sanctuary for elicit dealings or a very strong drink.
Thessia moved swiftly to Galwell, who occupied one of the few booths, clearly visible with his perfect posture and memorable
auburn hair. Celine sat with him. Neither had touched their drinks.
“Where’s River?” Thessia asked as she slid onto the seat next to Celine.
“She wished to come separately,” Celine replied quickly.
Thessia caught the new stiffness in her voice. Should I inquire further? What is the etiquette with questmates?
She looked to Galwell for guidance. Before either of them could speak, however, a thud in the rafters drew their gazes up.
River had magicked suddenly onto a long beam. In surprise, she wobbled until, with fast, spider-like movements, she righted
herself. Gracefully, she flipped down onto the floor in front of her compatriots.
“I wouldn’t think an assassin would be so fond of making an entrance,” Thessia remarked when River seated herself next to
Galwell—the farthest seat from Celine.
“I can choose where I go,” River explained. “I just can’t control where I land.”
Hugh, who’d watched her entrance in silent interest, climbed into the booth, looking boyishly fascinated. “What happens if
you’re twenty irons in the air?” he inquired.
“I’ve gotten very good at landing on my feet,” River replied.
Grabbing Galwell’s drink, she sipped deeply from the sparkling green foam. Then she eyed Thessia.
“By the way,” she returned, “why is the king here?”
Now this, Thessia had plenty of etiquette and experience in. Assembling questing parties was something of her royal specialty. “Everyone, my husband, Hugh, is joining the quest,” she informed them.
Hugh straightened up, having evidently forgotten his own novelty. Squaring his doublet with proud propriety, he grinned.
“Very glad to be here, folks. It is an honor. Love your mission, and I can tell that you all are a formidable party,” he started.
“I’m thrilled to offer my own humble skills. I’ve actually been rather a ringer for questing parties, if I do say so myself.
Joined late on my previous one, too, but proved myself in the end. Would love to be the horseball player drafted in the first
round one day instead of the last member to join. But either way, I’ll certainly give it my all!”
His pronouncement left everyone perplexed, if amused. Even River and Celine, hiding smiles, seemed momentarily to have forgotten
their discord.
“Hugh, we’re delighted to have you,” Galwell welcomed him. “And what a weight off my chest that this quest won’t be taking
Thessia away from you on your honeymoon.”
“I thought you said this was a no-romance-allowed questing party,” River grumbled with what sounded like wishful wondering.
“They’re married,” Galwell replied. “That’s different from romance.”
“I think romance can only get stronger in marriage, actually,” Celine ventured primly.
River scoffed.
Uncomfortable with the discussion’s direction for several reasons, Thessia interjected. “Hugh and I won’t derail any of this
quest with romance, worry not,” she promised. “We’ll have plenty of time outside the quest for that.”
At this pronouncement, Hugh caught her eye in surprise. A glint of accusation shone in his gaze. You don’t wish to tell your own questing party the truth?
Thessia didn’t.
“Hugh is proving himself to be Most Valuable Questmate of our team,” she hastened to say. “Tell them, Hugh.”
She nudged him proudly. The judgment vanished from her husband’s eyes. He beamed, facing the party.
“Being only recently a member of this commendable crew, my background is probably unknown to many of you,” he said. “We haven’t
had the chance to swap stories around the campfire yet.”
“Hugh Mavaris,” Celine cut in, with gentle incredulity. “You’re one of the most famous men in Mythria. Everyone knows how
you survived a sledgeling bite when you were younger under mysterious circumstances. You prefer to play first defender in
pickup horseball matches. In your Mythria Magazine coronation cover story, you described the rocky shores of your Paramar Bay hometown to be the ‘closest place to the Ghost’s
Gate in the realm itself,’” she rattled off. “You were a foot soldier in the queen’s army who has risen to the rank of king
and the hero who slayed Myke Lycroft alongside Elowen, Vandra, Beatrice, and Clare in Vermillion Vale.”
Commonplace knowledge or not, the recognition flattered Hugh. “Thank you, Celine,” he replied earnestly. “That’s very nice.
Your memory is exceptional.”
“I have a head magic gift. Perfect memory,” Celine replied.
“That must be marvelously useful. Especially for a scribe. Yes”—Hugh nodded vigorously—“I was a foot soldier. Which means
whenever I go somewhere new, the routine that brings me comfort is meeting other foot soldiers and guards. I’ve gotten pretty
close with some here already. Delightful fellows. Impressive Drinking Swords competitors.”
His smile went mischievous, and Thessia could not help mirroring his expression.
“Impressive,” Hugh went on, “but no match for your king. With enough games of Drinking Swords, one can get men to divulge their closest guarded secrets. Like,” he elaborated slowly, “which tavern the royal spymaster frequents midday.”
Galwell, whose eyes had wandered to the few other patrons as if he feared confrontation, snapped his gaze forward. “Midday
is in mere moments,” he pointed out.
“What does the spymaster do here?” River inquired. “Meet informants? Clandestine intimidation tactics?”
“Shall we find out?” Thessia rejoined. “Perhaps he’s outside?”
No further invitation needed, everyone stood eagerly.
Especially Thessia. Exhilaration danced in her chest, her fingers practically itching with excitement. She was really doing
this! Part of her own quest. The scribe of her own story.
And she was in possession of a lead that could spell their victory—one she’d procured! Well, Hugh had helped.
What should we call ourselves? she nearly asked her questing party. The New Five? No, that sounded like a musical group. Thess and the Best? Rhymes were chancy. She needed to consult with one of the Grandharts, she concluded. They were good with self-promotion.
Their unnamed cohort spilled onto the street corner outside and scoured the Vestriyan scene. Thessia searched for someone
who looked—well, spymasterly. Cloak? Dagger? She remembered Ezio’s grim warning. The realm’s most dangerous man. No one stood out, however. Until—
While Thessia watched, a handsome yet inconspicuous carriage stopped near the stone curb. A man stepped out purposefully,
hood drawn, while guards, similarly hooded, fanned out to observe from peripheral posts.
The hooded man continued to the street corner and cleared his throat.
“May I, with poems most florid,” he declared in an enthusiastic oratorical mode, “deliver thee from daily dullness most horrid!”
He whipped off his hood. Dashing off an expensive hat that he, for some reason, wore underneath, he revealed perfect silver
locks and sparkling gray eyes.
Thessia recognized him instantly. Or recognized the description he matched, for they had never met.
Into his hat he dropped several silver coins, like he expected tips. Instead, instant furor greeted his revealed identity.
People jeered and shook their fists.
“We told ya never to recite your loathsome stanzas on our block again! Find another corner to torment,” a passerby hollered.
“I’ll give you a poem for free, good sir!” the dauntless poet offered. “Merely render me a word to compose around!”
“You’re awful,” the passerby muttered.
“Awful! Very good!” the poet cheered. “As struck with awe, I seek to rend you awe-ful. The poems I dare to gift will leave your jaw full”—he winked upon the rhyme—“of idioms indulgent in verse. Perhaps it’ll inspire ye to donate a coin from your purse.”
Thessia winced.
“What’s he doing?” an onlooker wondered loudly.
“He’s just rhymed awful with jaw full,” his friend replied gravely.
“Horrid!” the other man protested, then vomited profusely onto the street corner. In its mother’s arms, a baby wailed.
“I’m taking money out of your hat for that one,” the indignant mother chastened the poet, who watched cheerfully while she
extracted the coins he’d dropped in.
“You can’t abuse alliteration this way,” exclaimed a sweaty man lying in the gutter. “Poetical devices should serve only to