ONLY STORIES

by RS Mason

A friend of a friend put me in touch with a woman with a keen interest in acquiring some things that did not rightfully belong to her. This sort of thing wasn't particularly uncommon since the discovery about ten years prior of ruins scattered throughout Markham. Scholars and collectors scoured the wilderness for trinkets, and stories circulated that every vase or necklace found was in fact a talisman wrought by a powerful wizard--but they were, of course, only stories. Scholars fussed over the meaning, and collectors proudly displayed them in their cabinets of curiosities, but as near as anyone could tell, none of them actually did anything. It's difficult for some people to accept that sometimes lost civilizations aren't rife with magic.

The client this time around was a bit odd, which is probably what drew my attention in the first place. She gave her name as Charlotte. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed the flaming half-moon emblem that marked her as a priest of the Black Choir, but my job is to notice things. And if even half the stories about the Choristers were true, she wasn't looking just because she fancied the color. This was something big. A Chorister never involved herself in something that wasn't. So I agreed to meet her in a pub near my tenement, because curiosity is a dangerous thing.

"I was told that you are quite good at this sort of thing, Miss Blackwood."

"It's Elinor. Seems silly to stand on formality, given the nature of our meeting."

"Elinor, then. I hope I don't need to tell you that the artifact I'm asking you to recover is beyond priceless."

"So it's true, then," I said. "The Precursor civilisation had magic."

"No doubt," she told me. "Far beyond what mystics of today are capable of." Her tone and expression suggested that she was likely one of those mystics--no doubt why she was so interested in this artifact. "Will you take the job?"

I hesitated. I had a lot of reasons not to accept. Priests and mystics were generally the sort of people I tried to avoid, and the whole arrangement felt like a trap. The offered price was far too high, and she wasn't using the usual channels, and even if she was, the Black Choir almost certainly had its own people for jobs like this--but curiosity and a high payout can make a girl incautious. "You'll need to tell me what and where," I said.

"It's a book. The Countess of Estwick has it in her keeping."

"What, the old governor's daughter?"

She nodded. "More specifically, it is almost certainly on display at Galewatch."

Galewatch was perhaps the most strategically important port in the colony, and the crown had given it to the estate of the late governor Frederick Martingale, Earl of Estwick, rather than tying it directly to the governor's office. It guarded the mouth of the Firth of Markham, so the king's gift ensured that the governor and his heirs would be integral to the governance of the colony in perpetuity. It was also the childhood home of Elizabeth Martingale, the new Countess, who had famously refused to return to Estwick on the occasion of her father's death. It was generally believed this was out of grief, but I wondered if it wasn't simply prudence: her father, a famous mariner and navigator, had been lost at sea in suspicious circumstances. I always assumed she simply didn't want to meet the same end.

"Have you tried asking?"

"She is not receptive to such overtures."

I nodded. "So, what is it? Some sort of spell?"

"Possibly. The estate is guarded, of course, but we can get you onto the island without trouble. Will you take the job?"

I sighed. "Yes, I'll take it."

"That is very prudent of you." An edge in her tone suggested that unpleasant things were going to happen to me if I had said no. Instead she handed a scroll to me. "This is an invitation to the Baroness Ashvale for the Countess's midsummer feast. You will assume her identity and be welcomed to the estate."

"Supposing the actual Baroness shows up?"

"She will not. You also match her description, and Lady Estwick hasn't seen the Baroness in at least ten years. But it should hardly matter." She handed me a map. "A smuggler will pick you up an hour before dawn on your second night at Galewatch. Your rendezvous point is indicated on the map. You will also be provided with a signal beacon to aid the captain in locating you."

"And if I can't make it that night?"

"We'll look to meet you here, or, failing that, have some of our agents search the island for you. But naturally, we're assuming if you fail to make your rendezvous it is because you have failed in your task."

I nodded again. I felt like I probably should have had more questions, but nothing obvious sprang to mind. So we agreed, and shook hands. I felt a sharp sting in my finger and glanced down to find that it was bleeding. "Just ensuring your loyalty," she said, her expression completely blank. This was a mystic's trick I'd seen before--it was meant to frighten the superstitious into compliance by claiming they could track you down with a few drops of blood, or occasionally that they could control you entirely. I was not superstitious, but I was a little offended she thought the deception was necessary. But she also offered half of the payment up front, so I decided against complaining.

The following day, I was shipped to Galewatch, dressed all in silk. Charlotte had provided me with a great deal of reading material: details of the last time the Baroness and the Countess had met, stories of things the Baroness had been doing in recent years, and so on. They had been childhood friends, though apart from one summer they had spent together they had only seen each other on rare occasions--I was in very little danger of her seeing through my disguise. I was also given detailed plans of the mansion and its environs. I'd never been more well-prepared for a heist in my life. That probably would have been cause for alarm were I not so drawn to the book. I knew some of the stories of the Black Choir, which I'd until now believed to be mostly fictional. This meeting had made me look at them in a new light.

The Black Choir was an arm of the church that accepted no authority but the High Cantor himself. Most of the crowns under the Church of Harmony had long ago signed treaties acknowledging that the any actions taken by the Black Choir were, by definition, God's work. Anyone who hindered a Chorister was therefore hindering the work of God. Most of the famous stories involved a Chorister walking directly up to powerful individuals and executing them in plain view of their guards, and walking away scot free. Other stories talked about Choristers searching for the songs of power that comprised the original Musica Universalis--songs that could shatter mountains and drain the seas.

In practice, of course, the Choir was limited by the willingness of local rulers to actually abide by these ancient treaties, and in places like Markham, where priests held little power and the church's authority was weak, there was not much of that. That was probably why they needed someone like me to do their dirty work for them--but that didn't make me any less uneasy. They clearly had a decent spy network, to provide me with all of this information. I couldn't help the feeling I was chosen because I was expendable.

There was a small dinner the night that I arrived. Lady Estwick seemed pleased to see me, and after dinner entertained on her harp, and kept me up late telling stories--at first they were idle court gossip, but after some wine she started talking about the lost civilization in Markham. "I want to know what their music sounded like," she told me.

"You sound like you think that's likely."

"I've come into possession of an artifact. Come and see."

She led me into the gallery, which displayed several artworks and a number of other curiosities: some old armor and weaponry, heraldic shields, and, seemingly the centerpiece of the collection, a large leather-bound tome in a glass display case. It was to the book that she was leading me. I didn't have to feign excitement: this was why I was here. This was history.

"I don't understand the language, of course, but this is, to my knowledge, the most complete Precursor text yet uncovered. And look." She pointed. "It's in a strange notation, but I'm pretty sure this is some sort of sheet music."

"Where did you find it?"

"It was a gift," she said. "I promised I'd keep it a secret."

"I shall respect your friend's privacy, then." I spent a while admiring it. It seemed almost a shame to take it from her. But a job is a job, and I was never much of a friend of the nobility. We chatted for a while, then she had one of her servants lead me to my rooms. They were easily the grandest rooms I'd ever stayed in, and I had unfettered access to it. I decided that before I went out to steal the book I'd pocket some of the valuables to pawn off later--there was no sense in letting a good opportunity go to waste.

Once a few hours had passed, I crept out of the rooms and spent the evening casing the mansion. Security was heaviest around the gallery and the vaults, which was probably to be expected. There were guards posted near the guest quarters as well, of course, but I suspected they probably wouldn't question anyone who looked as if they belonged sneaking out. The guards at the gallery would be a problem, though. I'd already come up with several plans for them, but none of them seemed particularly elegant.

The following day, more guests arrived. I spent the morning glued to Lady Estwick's side. She seemed grateful that she had someone to shield her from the political machinations of the sorts of nobles who generally accepted her invitations. By midday she was insisting that I call her Elizabeth, and by the evening she actively sought me out when I wandered away for a moment. And the whole evening I'd been quietly encouraging her to drink more than was wise, at the small cost of also drinking somewhat more than was prudent myself--she was tall and curvaceous, and I was average in just about every way. I couldn't just not drink anything while trying to get her drunk. But I'd come up with a plan by now, and I was feeling confident, and I was enjoying myself. What could go wrong?

At my suggestion, she played for her guests in the gallery, and encouraged them to look around and admire her collection. We were both a little drunk at this point, so I made sure I held her attention as I talked to her about the book. "You know, I've been studying ancient languages," I said. "I'm no scholar, but I think it would be fun to look at it together."

She looked at me for a long while. "I think it would be terribly rude of us to spend our time reading while we are entertaining guests," she said.

"Yes, well. In an hour or so, it won't be impolite for us to retire for the evening, will it? And perhaps we can spend the evening somewhere more private with the book, divining its secrets together."

"Oh, very well. But only because I was encouraged not to keep it locked away collecting dust."

An hour or two later, she took the book from its display case, and followed me up to my rooms, where we spent the evening drinking even more wine and attempting to focus on the pages. It was quite fruitless, of course, as neither of us had any training in such things, but it was certainly exciting in its own way. There was a long lull in conversation as I puzzled over one of the pages which bore an illustration of some flowering plants, broken when she said, "You know, it's almost a shame you're not the real Lady Ashvale. I really do like you." I froze, and she laughed. "I'm teasing, of course. But you never responded to any of my father's invitations before. It seems strange that you would now."

I gave her a sheepish smile that was only partly feigned. Her eyes were searching and a lot less drunk than I had expected--she knew. She must have known. Why hadn't she sent for the guards? "Perhaps I shall buy some land in Markham. Then it shall not be such a burden to come and visit."

"What a splendid idea! We'll make a native of you yet."

I poured us another glass of wine, slipping a knock-out drug into hers. "A toast, then!" I said. "To the colonies."

"To Lady Ashvale," she said, and raised her glass, and took a sip small enough that I suspected she hadn't taken anything at all. I dutifully put on a smile and pretended to take a sip, as well. My plan was unravelling in front of me. I tried to change the topic to something besides the book, but she kept steering it back, asking me what I thought of various pages. It was more than just a songbook, evidently. There were illustrations of everything from a man addressing a gathered crowd to flowering plants to the night's sky. And, scattered throughout, pages with the strange musical notation.

"What do you think it really is?" she said, out of nowhere. "I know you haven't really been studying ancient languages, but I'm interested anyway."

"I think the songs are pieces of the Musica Universalis," I said. "Each one a spell. Maybe that one," I indicated a picture of a man ploughing a field, "helps crops grow. Or something."

She laughed. "That's absolute rubbish! Those are only stories. I never knew you were so religious."

"I'm not. Not really. But I don't know why else--" I stopped. I was about to tell her about the Black Choir.

"Why else what?"

"Well, your friend who gave it to you wanted it kept secret," I said uncertainly, hoping this might be a convincing story. "I can't see why unless they thought it was something powerful."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "You're a far better liar when you're sober," she said. "Go on, give me the truth. I know you're not who you say you are and I doubt your interest in my book is entirely innocent. But you've been good company and I still like you."

I hesitated. But she was right. If I didn't do some violence to her just then, I was in her power. I had an escape planned out the window, of course, but I doubted I could incapacitate her without her sounding the alarm--and anyway I was unarmed, and she was considerably taller than me. So she probably had the advantage there. "All right," I said. "You probably won't believe me, though."

"Try me."

"Why aren't you just having me locked up? You're well within your rights."

She shrugged. "You're the closest thing I've had to a friend to talk to since my father was killed. I think it almost helped that you're a fake, really. You're only here to rob me. Everyone else is here because they want to seize my lands and titles. It's nice to have someone I can at least pretend is a very dear childhood friend come to visit." She paused. "So go on, tell me. Why are you really here? I assume you want my book."

I sighed and started telling the story. Perhaps she would just give it to me, or leave to go to the privy, or something. Her face darkened when I mentioned the Black Choir, and a few sentences later she interrupted me. "I should have known you'd be working with them," she said, pronouncing the word 'them' with about as much venom as possible. She picked up her wine glass and drained it. "Listen. You can't trust them. They will destroy your life. They've already destroyed mine." She paused. "Why are you looking at me like that?" We both looked at her glass, and she leapt to her feet and glared at me. "What did you put in it?"

"Just some sleeping herbs," I assured her. "Potent, but harmless."

"I should call the guards," she said, and produced a knife from somewhere in her dress. "Or I could kill you now." I stood and backed towards the window. She advanced towards me, then put the knife away. "But I won't. Do you know why?"

I shook my head.

"I was told that someone would try to take the book from me," she said. "That I'd be angry when I found out. And that I should let them have it when they did." She laughed a bitter laugh. "I guess that's you. Go on, take it." When I didn't move towards the door, she raised her voice. "Take it!"

I picked the book up hesitantly, and looked at her. It looked like the drug was starting to take hold. "Take it," she repeated, sleepily. "I'll be watching you." She staggered into a chair and sank into it, and closed her eyes. I held my breath, not daring to make any noise to wake her. Her breathing fell into a deep, rhythmic pattern, and I breathed a sigh of relief. After taking a moment to calm myself, I began gathering up my things. I started by relieving the room of any particularly obvious valuables, then moved on to relieving the sleeping Countess of her jewellery and the coins in her pockets. Then, very carefully, I wrapped up the book, gathered up my things, and slipped out the window.

I was in no condition to move quietly outside. I was drunk and too shaken to focus. So when I heard a guard shout a challenge at me, I didn't bother sneaking. I just ran, and kept running until I tripped and twisted an ankle. Even then I hobbled as fast as I could, convinced that pursuit was right behind me.

A man with an eyepatch was waiting at the rendezvous point. He looked like a sailor, except for the silver half-moon emblem that marked him as another Chorister. He chuckled as I approached. "You look like hell," he said. "You get it?"

"I got it."

"Then let's get you the hell out of here."

He took me to a little rowboat and rowed me out to his sloop, where he gave orders to head back to Markham City, took me into his cabin, and offered some tea. "My name's Thorne," he said. "You look like you've got quite the story to tell."

I told him. He listened politely for the duration, then, at the end, laughed heartily. "Did she really tell you it was some magical songbook?"

I nodded.

"Well, it's not. I don't think anything like that exists. Or if it does, she wouldn't be stealthy about picking it up. And she definitely wouldn't hire outside help."

"What is it, then?"

He shrugged. "Probably a history book. Captain seems to think it's important. Just think of the stories that book's got to tell."

"So it's all just stories?"

He laughed again. "Stories are the only thing that matter, girl. You came here because of a story. The Black Choir only works because of stories. And you're going to survive because of a story." He leaned in close and whispered in my ear. "Captain means to either kill or convert you when we get into port. But I'm mighty careless sometimes and I reckon you could swim to shore if I steer close enough. I'll tell her you probably drowned, so she won't start looking unless she has a reason to think you're not dead. Even then she might not bother."

"Why?"

"Why not? Captain sometimes forgets there's more to life than the Choir." He grinned broadly. "It's a sad day when a fellow like me has to be your moral compass, but it's a strange world. You'll learn soon enough."

He led me up to the deck and peered out at the shore. "You reckon you can swim out there?"

I nodded.

"Then you'd best try. And if you take my advice, don't stop until you're east of the mountains."

What choice did I have? I jumped overboard, and swam to shore, and limped, freezing and cold and half-drowned, to a fishing village. I stayed in the inn and tried to sleep and wondered what sort of story I'd been trapped in.